Rude? Or fed up?

I was called rude yesterday. Not straight up to my face. No, it was after a (somewhat ranting) frustrated response I made to a former student's post about the "unspoken hazards" of vaccines, and that measles isn't actually a deadly disease. The meme stated that unreasonable fear was generated to promote vaccination.

Like, vaccines are some kind of mind-control conspiracy implemented by the government so they can come take your guns, or something.

I'll admit it, seeing people blatantly disregard good science for anecdotal evidence in the face of "it's your decision what to do with your kids" really ticks me off. Not just with respect to vaccines, but anything. Good parenting doesn't mean we sit around in a "Kumbayah" campfire circle trying to reach our inner voice that will speak to us in some sort of magical, enlightened moment, imparting to us centuries of wisdom.

Good parenting means we take the experience of others who have come before us, couple that with good, sound, scientific evidence, and do the best we can to make good choices for our kids' future. It means teaching our kids to make good choices for themselves, but not only just for themselves; we need to teach our children to think outwardly, making good choices for the people around them and society in general. In short, my parents never were so intelligent as the weeks, months, and years following my first child's birth.

So imagine my absolute shock and dismay when one of my former peeps, as I affectionately call my students, was actually considering not vaccinating his children! I mean, I'm a science teacher!! So I explained in a not-so-calm manner that vaccinations protect not only those vaccinated, but those around who cannot, for whatever reason, be vaccinated themselves. I then went on to say I can't believe I have to assert this in 2018.

I think that was the point that was interpreted as rude, but my assertion remains - in this age of presumed enlightenment, having to rehash points that have been argued over and played out in society for decades is absolutely ridiculous.

With apologies to my own children, who are not arrogant, when did 20-somethings become so crazily self-assured, and decide that us Gen X'ers are a bunch of idiots who've effed everything up? Did we do that to our parents? I do remember thinking my parents didn't get it, but I cannot recall a time when their advice and experience as parents, and overall positive members of society, was so dismissively discounted.

I remember when my cousin was visiting with her infant child, and I was playing with him. I tickled his feet and he laughed with delight. My grandmother, who was so well meaning and loving, quickly chastised me, telling me I would make him stutter if I tickled his feet. I was in college and knew there were exactly zero cases of tickling causing stuttering. But I didn't smugly tell my grandmother how stupid she was and that she was rude to say so, and I didn't tell her to stop bullying me to make choices I didn't want to make. I just stopped tickling his feet, and later played with the baby away from my grandmother.

Tickling is not vaccinating. To tickle or not to tickle is something that each parent can decide with little to no consequence beyond the family itself. Vaccinations have a much greater reach.

Absolutely nothing is safe in this world. Nothing. I jokingly say that we'd live a lot longer if it weren't for oxygen and gravity. Gravity tugs on our tissues and pulls them apart, while oxygen attacks different kinds of chemical bonds within cells, breaking them apart and wreaking havoc. However, few doctors would recommend living in a oxygen-free or gravity-free environment. Reality is that every thing we do is a calculated risk. No medical procedure or treatment is completely risk-free. The trash truck just emptied our trash bin, and when I go outside to retrieve it there's a risk I could fall in my driveway and hit my head, or a car could jump the curb and kill me. Why will I retrieve the trash bin? The risk of death or serious injury is very small, almost non-existent. If I had balance or coordination issues, I would probably not retrieve the trash bin and allow my husband or one of the kids to get it.

Vaccinations are the same. There is a very, very small risk of a reaction. It's true. Some people have a greater risk than others. I'm not smart enough to tell you who they are, but your doctor can. We as a society have decided to vaccinate against serious diseases because the risks involved with treatment outweigh the risk of contracting the disease.

Millennials, you are blessed to be far removed from the ravages of most of these diseases. You probably don't really know anyone who had polio, or if you do you're not aware of it. Smallpox, diptheria, pertussis, mumps, measles, and now chicken pox, are all not a thing for kids born today. I had rubella as a baby. That's gone. I had chicken pox as a 7-year-old, and passed it on to my sister and my dad. While my sister and I didn't suffer much, my dad did suffer greatly. He was a very sick man and it worried my mom.

My mom got hepatitis A following a church dinner - several others also got sick with the same illness. Mom had to be hospitalized and my sister, my dad, and I were vaccinated. It was scary to see my mom lying so ill on the sofa while Dad frantically tried to arrange care for my sister and me and get my mom to the hospital.

My dad had polio as a young boy. My grandparents sat up all night, massaging his muscles as they contracted, hoping to avert permanent disfigurement. Their efforts were successful. I worked with a man while in college who knew almost to the day when the polio vaccine was available, because it came just a few weeks too late - he was unable to walk and support his weight without crutches, and used a wheelchair most of the time.

Is this what we want to revert back to? Because that's where we're headed. If you younger parents think for a moment you know better than decades of experience and a whole lot of really, really smart people working tirelessly on medical treatments, do us all a favor and go hole up in a cave somewhere. Don't come out. Stay there with your unvaccinated selves and your increased risk of spreading serious illness. I hope to have grandchildren some day, and I don't want you ruining it for them.

If that's rude, deal with it. This "personal choice" nonsense is ridiculous, selfish, and needs to end.

The Soap Chronicles

In case you're wondering what I've been doing now that the kids are all in school....

A little background, first. I travel quite a bit for work, staying in a hotel one or two nights at a time. There are some weeks I'm gone 6 nights and have 6 different hotel rooms. It's a little exhausting. I always pick up the shampoo, conditioner, etc. to distribute to a homeless shelter or the high school guidance office, and I (used to) always unwrap a bar of soap to use to wash my hands.

It was bothering me to just waste a mostly perfectly good bar of soap, so i was bringing them home. I eventually had the epiphany (that should have been unnecessary) to just find a bar of soap I like, tuck it in my travel bag, and re-use it from one hotel to the next. But until that (DUH!) moment I had been bringing little bars of soap home. "I'll melt them down, cut them back into bars, and they can go to the shelter, or we can tuck a couple in the camping stuff."

Jeff would just look at me and say ok. It's like he knew.

Anyway, I finally took all those little bars of soap and decided to melt them. I put about half into my 6 qt stock pot and the other half in my glass measuring/mixing bowl. The ones in the pot, I turned on the heat, and the others, I microwaved. I reasoned that there must be one better way to melt the soup, and being scientifically minded I did a side-by-side comparison.

Neither is a good way.

The microwaved bars softened, then started to both darken and foam. The stovetop bars didn't do much but get hot.

So, I Googled it. Watched a YouTube video. OH. Ok. Put *all* the soap in my biggest stock pot, covered it with water, let it sit for two days to soften. Today I cooked it down.

You know, soap kind of gels with water. I'd forgotten about that. Also, if you cook soap, your whole house smells like hotel soap. I guess there are worse smells...

Anyway I now have a muffin pan and a large baking sheet full of cooling soap muck and I poured the other half down the drain with a LOT of hot water. What a mess. I'll never do that again.

Dear Teachers...

I was born into education. My dad was a lifelong educator. My mom, had she gone to college, would have been a GREAT elementary teacher. My grandmother always wanted to go to college, maybe to be a teacher, just like her younger sister did. My stepmom was a teacher. You get the idea. Teaching isn't just what I did (and still do), it's in my DNA.

When teaching began to be stressful and I thought about leaving the classroom, I didn't feel I could talk to anyone. When the discussion and interviewing process started for the job I now have, I kept the whole thing a secret from all my teaching colleagues. I didn't feel like I could tell any of my teaching friends, except one, how I was feeling. I didn't have a much-needed ally to help me through what I was experiencing, and who told me it was perfectly fine to regroup and leave the classroom.

These last few weeks I've been visiting schools, teaching the children about energy use in their school buildings. I met one teacher who is so discouraged, she let slip to me, a total stranger, how discouraged she is and that she's looking for something else. It was the first day I'd met her, and yet here she was, opening up to me. She told me how careful she had to be to not say something in front of anyone from her building, especially the district official who was with us for the first part of the lesson. And she looked like she might cry if we discussed it any further.

REALLY you guys? Really? If anyone should be able to relate to how she was feeling, it's the teachers in her building. If anyone should want to help her develop her potential as an employee, it should be the administrators in her building and district.

First of all, can we get something straight? Teachers who leave the classroom don't "bail."  Teaching is a job - a thankless, wonderful, stressful, low-paying, rewarding, irritating job. It's not a mission. It's not a calling. It's not a profession that will be given extra rewards for perseverance in Heaven. It's a JOB. When I left my position, the department chair and administrators were able to find a good teacher fairly quickly. I was not irreplaceable. I was replaced rather quickly and easily.

Second, how wonderful would it be that instead of berating younger teachers, and those who are struggling, if the veteran teachers voluntarily spent time with the less-experienced colleagues just talking to them? I know districts used to pay veteran teachers to do this, and I know your time is already stretched thin. Trust me, I know. It's a very difficult, thankless job and your time is precious, when you actually get some.

But think about it. That new teacher who seems to be struggling - couldn't she benefit from your wisdom? Do you have a great activity that might fit in with what she's trying to do in her class? Can you imagine how much better the school would become if every veteran teacher spent time with every new teacher? Just in conversation. Just letting them know you remember questioning whether teaching was the right decision - and that you understand that some teachers will realize they made the wrong choice, and you won't think less of them if that's the case.

New teachers often leave the classroom within five years. Why is that? For one, they're dumped on with the most difficult students, the least interesting classes to teach, and are never given a chance to really show what they can do because they spend the day putting out fires. They start their careers all eager to learn and do such great things, and wind up in tears because that child did that thing one more time. We snuff the fire right out of them and then put them down for not being excited to teach. DUH.

I had been teaching 4 or 5 years when I was walking down the hall late one evening. I had stayed late because my daughter had swim practice, not because I was any kind of uber-dedicated teacher. I walked by this teacher's room, and poked my head in to ask her why she was still there. She was startled by me, wiped her cheeks, and told me she had to get her finals written because the principal was requiring they be done a week earlier than she'd planned. I told her to go home, that no one in my department had them finished. She looked surprised, then smiled. She later sent me a quick e-mail with a simple thank you for the encouragement. (She DID get the finals written in time, just not that day.) That cost me NOTHING. I don't want to be a self-horn-tooter, I just want to illustrate how a simple word of encouragement, and a little extra time, can make a big difference.

There are articles upon articles "out there" that discuss what teachers can do to make it better for new teachers. Give them some of the honors-level courses. Spread out the troubled students. Provide mentorship programs from veteran teachers. Etc. etc. etc. I'm not about to parrot those, nor am I about to propose anything new.

I just want my teaching friends to think about it. Is there a teacher who was doing well, but seems to have lost his drive? I'm willing to bet that person is rethinking his career choice. Teaching isn't something we can do with any less than 100% commitment. It just won't work. If you have a colleague who might be thinking about a career change, be a friend. Tell him that it's ok. Let her know that you don't think any less of her. Encourage these people. You want the best people in your building working beside you. Berating or belittling people who aren't sure of themselves won't magically turn them into better teachers. If your goal is to help your students realize their full potential, shouldn't it also be your goal with regard to your colleagues?

Leaving the classroom turned out to be the right decision in spite of my angst. I'm now in a position that better suits my strengths. I do miss my students - but not enough to go back into the classroom. I wasn't as good a wife and mother as I could have been, and I like me better not being a classroom teacher. And yet, there's this stigma that surrounds me about having "bailed." If I had been in an environment where I felt comfortable discussing the possibility of leaving without fear of negative consequences, the whole transition may have gone better. I still support the school where I taught - they really are good people - but I can't help but feel that some of them look at me differently even now, several years later. I think it's time that stopped, don't you?

Grandma's House

I put the unopened pack of cigarettes to my nose and sniffed. Suddenly, unexpectedly, a lump welled up in my throat and my eyes filled with tears. The scent was not tobacco, as I had thought it would be, but rather the smell of a house – my Grandma’s house.

Grandma’s house did not smell like an old person’s house. It didn’t smell particularly clean, but not dirty, either. It wasn’t musty unless we were in the basement. It smelled old even though it was built in 1964, probably owing to the old stuff moved from one old house to another through the years. Great-grandpa, who all of us kids called “the Old Grandpa,” lived with Grandma and Grandpa in the years preceding his death, and his old stuff was there, too.

I think these cigarettes must have belonged to the Old Grandpa, because to the best of my knowledge neither of my grandparents smoked after they moved into their retirement home – their dream home. They were in a woven cigarette case seemingly made especially to hold that particular pack of cigarettes. They had been placed in the case with the expectation of smoking them later, but clearly that expectation had never been fulfilled by the owner, whoever he or she may have been.

It's strange how things can take one by surprise. The smell of Grandma’s house swept me immediately back to my childhood, and the days spent walking around her house, getting into all kinds of things, some of them mischievously, and never hearing a sharp word from my Grandma. Grandpa sometimes scolded us, but he never raised his voice. I guess it’s different with grandkids.

Grandma didn’t keep house very well. She was an excellent cook, loved to garden, sew, crochet, and make things. She was always making at least 10 different things, all at the same time, and her back room was literally crammed with project materials of every kind. Hobby Lobby could have opened a satellite store in her house. My sister and I frequently made things. Christmas ornaments, book marks, all kinds of things – and whenever we asked, Grandma’s response was always, “Sure.”

Grandma’s house was a happy place to be for me. It was like another home because we were there so often. As a teenager and young adult I didn’t go there as often as I should have, and I regret that. Don’t most people regret some of the choices of their youth? When we moved Grandma out of her house and were readying it, so we thought, for sale, I felt sad. Mom said it was because it felt like another home, and in many ways she was right. It was a place I could always be whenever I wanted to. During my parents’ health food kick that lasted maybe a month, I asked to go to Grandma’s house a lot.

My uncle lives there now. I’d love to go to what is now his house, and look around the basement for other things that I might like to have, but I don’t want to intrude. It just seems weird to say “Hey, I know we’ve hardly talked in several years, but can I come into your house and wander around the basement?” So instead, I will keep Grandma’s house locked in my memory, to be opened unexpectedly by things as unusual as a pack of cigarettes.

I miss you, Grandma.

My Kid Has This Big Swim Meet Today

Two days ago she came home from swim practice and was feeling exceptionally nervous. Her coach had talked to the team as a whole, stating the times he has for the girls tonight at the sectional swim. (It's kind of like the first round of playoffs for swimmers.) So, like I said, she was nervous. Telling my kid what is expected based on her ability and past performance makes her really nervous and under pressure. I don't do much to shield her from this because let's face it, the world works this way much of the time. Anyway, back to today...

Well yesterday actually. I was thinking yesterday about how nervous she was two days ago. So, I decided to try and encourage her today. The problem is, she had morning swim practice, which the husband drives her to, and I intended to sleep in this morning. Thus, I wouldn't be able to talk to her unless I call her cell phone during class. The administration at her school tends to frown on this sort of thing.

I wrote a series of letters, one for each class, and sealed them in envelopes, with instructions on which envelope to open in which class. So I give you, my letters to my kid.  I hope they make you laugh and inspire you to try to encourage your own kid.

Good morning, Daughter,

I know that you’re maybe a little nervous about tonight’s swim meet. That’s ok. A little nervousness gives us a little adrenaline, and that can help us do things we ordinarily couldn’t.

Right now, I want you to just think about being relaxed, maybe sitting alongside a stream in a nice woods, breathing fresh crisp air, letting the oxygen go to all your muscles and relaxing them…

WAKE UP!  I know, it’s first period, and I probably shouldn’t have told you to relax.

Now tell your teacher what’s so funny. She will laugh, too.

Try to relax this morning, think about your blood flowing to all your muscles, massaging them with good oxygen and food, taking away all the crappy junk, and breathing it out into the atmosphere.

I hope you brushed your teeth.

I love you,

Mommy

_______________________________________

Hello, it’s me…

And no, I’m not going to sing. Ick. Who wants to hear that?

I just wanted to remind you how hard you work and how awesome and amazing you are, just as you are.

That is all.

We now return you to your regularly scheduled class already in progress.

Xoxo

Mommy

_______________________________________

Fourscore and seven years ago,

I’m sad to have to admit that’s all I really know. There are some forefathers in there, and “of the people, by the people, and for the people, shall not perish from this earth” is the ending, which in my opinion is the best part.

Anyway…

Did you eat a little protein before history class?  If not, maybe he’ll let you sneak a few almonds. You know, so your muscles can begin to prepare.

As for your brain, occupy it with history right now. Sink in deep, girl, because President Roosevelt was the SHIT. Ok don’t tell your teacher that. Not out loud, not in front of the whole class. Tell him privately later. If you want.

You’re going to do great tonight. I promise you. How can I promise this? You’re my kid, and I know you, sometimes better than you know yourself. It’s ok you don’t have to admit that to me.

Love you,

Mommy

_______________________________________

If it’s appropriate, give your physics teacher a hug from me. If it’s not, give him a virtual hug. Although I don’t think he’d mind a real one. I think he misses some people.

Can you think of a physics problem calculating the rotational momentum of your arm in the water as you swim fly?

Me neither. But I bet your physics teacher can if he tries hard enough.

In the meantime, make sure you eat some good complex carbs, not a crapton of sugar right now. Maybe some granola, or something starchy but not white starchy, like whole wheat bread. Or some peanut butter.

Envision yourself gliding, slicing, moving through the water as effortlessly as a great white shark. You ARE the shark, stalking your prey, which is that stuckup girl from that school we don't like in the lane next to you.

BITE HER!!! EAT HER FOR LUNCH!

Love,

Mommy

_______________________________________

Hello little one. Are you reading this in study hall or at lunch? If it’s lunch, tell your lunch table I say hi, and ask your best friend when she’s going to come over again. I miss her. If it’s not… oh it doesn’t matter.

I hope you’re having a good day at school.  You do a lot with your time, you know? Don’t think you don’t. You study hard, learn a lot, keep up decent grades, and work out 8 times or more a week. That’s a lot. So be proud. Heck, you even got your room looking AMAZING and we both know that was no small feat.

You. Are. WONDERWOMAN. Except don’t wear the outfit, it’s so 70s.

Tonight is going to be so B.A. And I don’t mean Bachelor of Arts, either.

Xoxo

Mommy

_______________________________________

I hope you’re not reading this during a math lesson. Math is hard. Put it away until your teacher is done. Well, tell him I say hello and THEN put it away.

Ok. What are you working on in math? I liked math, and was good at it until they added three variables to calculus. I’d be a genius if the world was 2-dimensional.

I’m not going to talk about the thing that’s probably making you a little nervous.  Just remember what you told me Tuesday night.

You can only control you. You can’t control what anybody else does. You can only put out what you have in y--

STOP PUTTING THAT JUNK FOOD IN YOUR MOUTH WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU HAVEN’T YOU LEARNED A SINGLE THING FROM ME

Sorry…. Where was I? Oh yeah. You can only put out what you’ve put in, and that is a LOT. You’ve worked so hard. You’ve prepared. You’ve controlled what you can control.

Now give the rest to God.

Is it a sin for me to pray the other swimmers have a crappy meet and you win? Ok yeah you’re probably right.  But still….

Love,

Mommy

_______________________________________

It’s the best class of the day – MEDIA ART, a.k.a. photography. The art teachers can say whatever they want, you and I both know that photography is where it’s AT.  (Artists apparently don’t know proper grammar, either.)

Enjoy your time with your friends. Get your stuff done but don’t be antisocial. Acknowledge that maybe you’re nervous but don’t let it control you. It’s kind of like a zit. Ok, you’re there, I see that you’re there, and other people might, too, but there’s a whole lot more to me than this one zit being nervous.

Like how smart you are. And how independent you are. And how strong you are. And how hard you work. And how every time you get on that starting block, you make me so, so, so damn proud.

You really are my hero, Daughter.

Damn I need a tissue.

Love,

Mommy

My oasis

Apparently, when one reaches a certain age, one loses the luxury of "sleeping in."  My body has reached that age, apparently, and insistently awakens me every morning at 6:00.  Oh, the joy. Not.

However, early weekend mornings in my back yard are very restful and relaxing.  Few people in my neighborhood are awake before 9:00, and those who are show consideration by not firing up their power tools until at least 9:30.  Hence, aside from the occasional semi tractor-trailer that I can hear from the highway a mile away, my back yard resembles a quiet country estate.

The crickets are chirping - and this year there are so many crickets! - and even Nemo, our cat, seems reluctant to disturb the quiet.  I can choose to sit outside at our picnic table in the cool grass and enjoy my coffee.  This morning I am not, because it is raining gently, but the windows on the back of the house have been thrown wide open and it's just me, my coffee and my oatmeal with cranberries and brown sugar.

Thank you, Lord, for this quiet oasis in a suburban beehive that seems to be constantly buzzing with activity most of the time.  The quietness will soon be interrupted by birds, cars, and trucks as the world begins a new day going about its business.  But for a few sweet moments, it's just me, my breakfast, my yard, and my God, enjoying each others' company.

Remembering is a Moral Imperative

It's been a really busy year for me - obviously, given that I haven't written since January - full of school, college preparation, graduation, swimming, working, traveling, and just plain living this typical suburbanite life that we love so much.

A few days ago, after exhausting myself by first ripping up an old ruined floor and then starting to lay down porcelain tile in our kitchen, I sat down with my tablet and began looking for something interesting to watch that wouldn't require much concentration or energy.  I landed on the Smithsonian Channel app, and chose "9/11: Day That Changed the World".  It described the events of the day in the words of the participants themselves.

I think my husband has decided I like depressing myself.  He walked in the room as I was watching the program and gave me a puzzled expression. I'm sure I had a pained look on my face, and tears welled up in my eyes on more than one occasion.  It's the kind of thing you don't want to see, but need to see.  I place documentaries on the September 11 attacks in the same category as Schindler's List and The Passion of the Christ.  They're painful to watch, difficult to see, yet important to remember.

My children are too young to really remember 9/11.  My older daughter, now a freshman in college, has vague memories of what we did that day.  She was 7 years old, in second grade.  I chose to pick her up from school early, as did so many parents that day.  We got in the car and she asked me why all the adults were so sad.  I told her what had happened in simple terms, and she asked, "Why would anyone want to do that?"  Why indeed, sweetie.

We picked up my younger daughter, who was a couple weeks shy of her third birthday, and we went home.  The neighborhood we lived in was a tight-knit community of friends, and we all gathered out in the street to talk as we trickled home.  I had left the television on to ABC and at one point Peter Jennings announced to those of us in the Indianapolis area that we would soon be hearing fighter jets from Grissom Air Base that were being sent to accompany Air Force One back to Washington.  My older daughter heard it and thought it meant a jet was headed to downtown Indianapolis, and her daddy worked downtown!  The panic she felt made me realize that while the youngest of children were largely unaware of what was going on, they weren't completely isolated from it.

Today my girls have little to no recollection of that day.  An entire generation of young people, now emerging into adulthood, does not have the first-hand experience of shock, horror, pain, agony, and anger we experienced.  When I went home to Michigan for a visit with my family shortly after 9/11, I chatted about it with my grandmother.  We compared this attack to the Pearl Harbor attack, and she very wisely pointed out that the big difference was in 1941 we knew whom to blame, and against whom to defend ourselves.  With 9/11, we just didn't know.  There wasn't a single country to point to.  There wasn't an evil, seeking-to-rule-the-world dictator wanting to spread his brand of oppression across the land.  The participants were nameless, faceless, unknown, and for all practical intents and purposes, homeless.  We couldn't point to one single country and say "They are to blame!"  It was several countries, some of whom knowingly and willingly harbored these animals, and even trained them.

We stand at the brink of another war, with the Iraq and Afghanistan wars winding down.  Do we want to get involved in Syria?  Is it our responsibility? Do we have the moral imperative to intervene?  These are questions to be answered by people smarter than me.

What we must do, what we absolutely cannot fail to do, is remember.  Remember how we felt that day.  Remember our resolve.  Remember how unified behind a common purpose we became.  We are AMERICANS.  We FIGHT to defend ourselves and our ideals.  We are like an overly indulged family of Waltons on this Walton Mountain we call the United States.  We bicker amongst ourselves, and do things to each other we shouldn't.  But like a family, in times of crisis we pull together, unify, and strengthen our resolve to continue our way of life and the deeply rooted conviction that all men are created equal, and are endowed by their Creator certain inalienable rights.

We cannot fail to remember.  We do ourselves and those innocent victims a great disservice if we do.  Remembering is a Moral Imperative.