Winter pounds can really creep up on you.  My first hint that I’m losing the battle is subtle.  I begin to avoid certain items in my wardrobe, wash my jeans less frequently and embrace leggings and skirts.  Most years things level off at a certain point and then the advent of spring motivates me to eat better, get out and start moving and those pounds recede.  It’s just a yearly cycle.  Not a big deal.

This winter, however, was different.  It could be my new-found conviction that if chocolate has peppermint in it, it doesn’t count as chocolate.  It’s really a breath-freshener or perhaps a digestive aid.  Or perhaps it was peri-menopause or just plain old piggery.  I don’t know.  I do know that I pushed past that first, well-known phase with gusto and moved into a new one.  I call it the “Sausage Stage.”  Certain clothes (Ok, most of them) began to feel like sausage casings, restraining the extra poundage or at least rearranging it. 

“Oh my God,” I told my husband, “I’m getting a muffin top!”

“What’s a muffin top?”  he asked, thoroughly puzzled.

When I explained, he asserted that I was not getting a muffin top.  (Good boy!)  Still, I knew that things were getting out of hand—mostly because I could fill my hand with the newly acquired flesh around my middle!  I began to seriously consider investing in some Spanx.

And then I realized my annual physical was fast approaching.  It was time to pay the piper.

 First I made the necessary call and postponed the physical.  After gaining this few weeks of reprieve, I pulled the dusty non-digital scale out from under a pile of damp towels and stepped on it.  That’s when I saw “The Number”.  I shook the scale a little, set it back down, played with the dial and then stepped back on.  No change.  I had not weighed this much since I was pregnant or postpartum and “The Number” was now emblazoned in my brain.  In neon orange.  Flashing sparkling neon orange.   Drastic changes were in order.

I immediately began considering my food intake and made a huge effort to incorporate more greens, cut out cheese, and limit fat-laden calories.  Blah, blah, blah.  At one particularly low point,  I had a dreadful epiphany when I realized that venti Starbucks lattes, even made with non-fat milk, are not water and hence have calories.  Wine apparently does too.  Sigh. 

Four weeks later, I’d seen some good progress as the scale slowly crept downward and my wardrobe expanded.  And today the day arrived…my physical was this afternoon.  The nurse greeted me and walked me down the hallway and into a small room.  “Time to get weighed,” she said.  I took off every expendable item of clothing I wore.  Then, s-l-o-w-l-y I stepped toward the scale.  I paused, took a deep breath,  exhaled all the air in my lungs, and stepped on.   And…I was one pound less than last year!    I had vanquished “The Number!”

Tonight I think I’ll celebrate with a glass of wine and maybe one of those chocolate peppermint digestive aids.  And I will reset my dusty, non-digital scale as it turns out it was off by about 7 pounds– too heavy.  Cheers!

I am a motherless daughter,

blessed with daughters,

two.

I navigated their early years

with a time-limited blueprint

truncating abruptly

at age 14,

when my own mother died.

Suddenly.

Unexpectedly.

Now with my two daughters

I am chartless,

No guide or mentor,

and yet rewarded

by the journey

by the joy

in small shared moments

and unexpected way-stations.

Bittersweet.

For in the growing bonds

we share

I feel at times

the phantom pain

of what I have never known.

And now I wonder

what blueprint are we crafting

together

in this unchartered territory,

Mother and daughters?

I am a motherless daughter

Blessed with daughters

Two.

Monday morning is our Weekend Share greeting in first grade. Students greets their classmates and then share one thing about their weekend.  With a room full of six and seven year olds, you never know what you might hear.  Conversations in general are unpredictable and often quite entertaining, and especially when initiated by certain students. 

Last week, one of these “certain”  students, “Ben”,  decisively announced, “Good morning, everyone.  This weekend I shot a brown bear with my bb gun.” 

“You did?” I asked. (Now usually I don’t interrupt when students share, but in view of the purported unsupervised bb gun, I felt I needed to clarify a bit.)

“Yes,  my mom and dad weren’t there and I saw the bear.  He looked at me and I looked at him.  Then I shot him.”

“Wow,” I asked, “Is that story fiction or non-fiction?”

“Oh, it’s real,” he said.

“So,” I asked, “if I asked your mom about it, she’d say it was a true story?”

“Oh…..” he said, gazing upward and pausing.  “Oh, yeah, that’s right…I forgot…it was a dream.”

So, this morning as my crew arrived in the classroom, Ben, skipped up to me, beaming.  “Mrs. Hogan,” he said, “I have something really exciting to share today.”  From the bounce in his step and the grin on his face, I knew this should be quite interesting.

“What’s that?” I asked him. 

“Well,” he said, “I finally saw a real live dinosaur.”   

“You did?” 

“Yes,” he said, “My dad and I were ice fishing and my dad went to get some bait.  And then Pop!  up it came through the hole in the ice and then it went back down again.” 

A student overhearing this conversation, said, “Dinosaurs are extinct.” 

“Yeah,” said another nearby student, “They got wiped out by a meteor.” 

“No,” said Ben quite solemnly, “That meteor hit the land…but not the sea!”

A bit later this morning as I commiserated with a different student about the large scratch on his face, Ben chimed in.  “Oh, yeah,” he stated matter-of-factly, “I’ve got scratches on me all the time.  It’s from dealing with the dinosaurs, dragons and iguanas.”

I can only imagine the richness of Ben’s inner world where clearly anything is possible.  For him the delineation between fact and fiction still wavers and he delights in his creative interpretation of his experiences.  While my vision is narrowed to deadlines and due dates, meetings and appointments, housework and homework, he’s embracing his world, with elements both real and imagined.  What would my world be like if I could live as vividly as he does, limited only by my imagination, each day ablaze with wonder and possibility? 

Today I am thankful.  Late on this Sunday morning, I sit surrounded by the flotsam and jetsam of a teacher’s life with report cards fast approaching.  The kettle on the wood stove hisses and simmers emitting a gentle flow of steam.  The windows frame a frosty scene of glistening icicles and snow-laden branches.  My three-legged geriatric cat, draped on the arm of the couch, leans against my back.  Before me rest a bowl of cranberry-studded oatmeal and a steaming cup of coffee. 

My two oldest children are home from college for break and my youngest, heading to college next year, isn’t yet at work.  I listen to the murmurs and stops and starts of their conversation in the adjacent room.  The harmonies of those varied tones warm me on this bitter cold winter’s day.  I try to push aside the stress of unfinished work and relax into this one small moment, banal yet profound. 

Yesterday I heard about the 12 year old daughter of a college acquaintance who has suffered a sudden and frightening lower extremity paralysis.   While I don’t know her, tears well as I read her parent’s blog.  I learn about her calm acceptance of repeated invasive and uncomfortable testing and I imagine her parents’ fear and pride as they watch their 12-year old face adversity with grace.  I imagine them trying to navigate this turn in their lives — this terrifying intimidating medical maze and I ache for them. 

With full awareness of my good fortune, I listen again to those murmuring voices of my children.  At this one small moment all is right with my world.   I am so thankful.

February 3, 2015

I have an addiction.  It’s a relatively new development but it’s crept insidiously into my life.  The symptoms are clear and pathetically stereotypical.  I’m losing chunks of time.  My emotions veer wildly from highs to lows from one moment to the next.  I promise myself I won’t do it again, or maybe only once more, but then I yield to temptation.  I’m neglecting my work.  I find myself wondering when I can get my next fix, and sometimes even sneak one in during snack time at school.  It’s gotten out of control.

It’s not drugs or alcohol, not internet shopping or porn, nor video games.  Instead, I’ve become a winter weather coverage junky.  Every night I find myself searching through the weather channels on line, reading the local forecasts, debating the accuracy of one computer model versus another.  Has the European model really been more accurate this winter?  I surf the internet eagerly consuming a variety of forecasts—wunderground, noaa, wcsh8, Channel 13.  I linger on those that I find most promising, reading and rereading them.  “Winter Storm Warning”  “Hazardous Weather Outlook”  “Heavy snow accumulation”  I wallow in the active verbs—walloped, smacked, blasted, blindsided.   

And then, most shameful of all, in the address bar, I eagerly type in the address for Snow Day calculator.  I feel a slight rush as my computer s-l-o-w-l-y loads the page, extending the frustration but also the anticipatory thrill.  I’m jonesing for a snow day.  Finally the home page appears. 

What’s the percentage chance of a snow day the next day?  It’s like hitting the slots at a casino.  I enter the zip code first.  Ka-ching Next, the number of snow days already taken. Ka-ching Finally I choose my school’s category—-Rural Public.  I click on the tab— “Calculate” —Ka-ching and wait—breath held, envisioning those three cherries sweetly lining up —Jackpot!   99% chance of a snow day!

It doesn’t matter that I don’t even really want a snow day.   Some part of me still revels in the magic of a snow day, feels that 8 year old get-out-of-jail-free euphoria when I see those words appear—that snow day high.  It might happen!  School might be closed!  I suspect it’s the same part of me that still marvels that I can enter a convenience store and buy …all the candy I want. .. At one time.  I mean, no one will stop me.  Pretty heady stuff! 

Of course, it’s not always a 99% chance of a snow day.  Sometimes a sickening 56% appears (like for this Thursday).  I mean that’s slightly better than 50-50 but my heart sinks.  I click on refresh—maybe it was a glitch.  56% appears again.  I head back to the forecasts.  Maybe I can find something more promising out there. And seriously, I don’t even really want a snow day.  Like I said, it’s an addiction. 

“Betsy,” Mandy called, “Go ahead. I’ll catch up in a minute.”

She quickly ducked behind a tree, pulling down her shorts and underwear, squatting as she moved them out of the way. Ah, sweet release! A steady stream of liquid splattered against the leafy ground and Mandy leaned back against the tree, feeling it’s rough bark pressing into her spine. Finally comfortable, she sighed and relaxed.

Betsy’s head popped around the tree, “I see you!” she crowed.

Mandy, startled, jerked, and felt the warm stream of urine run down her leg and soak into her white sock.

“You peed on yourself!” Betsy laughed. Her face glowed with malicious delight.

“No, I didn’t!” Mandy cried.

Betsy turned away. “Yes, you did,” she said smugly. “And, I’m going to tell everyone you peed in the woods and you peed on yourself.”

Mandy’s face flooded with shame. She pulled up her shorts and underwear quickly, yanking as the cotton twisted and dragged on her damp thighs. Panicked, she rushed after Betsy. “Betsy, wait, don’t tell!” she cried desperately. She knew the others would tease her mercilessly if they found out.

Betsy skipped ahead, ignoring her pleas, her blond head shimmering through the veil of tears in Mandy’s eyes.

I’m so excited to be participating in Teachers Write 2014! Here’s what I wrote in response to today’s mini-lesson:

In the golden light of morning I sit on my back porch at the round patio table, considering the day that lies ahead. The luxury of another long summer day–filled with crisp blue skies and sunshine and choice and possibility. I sip my coffee, its rich aroma coating the air, mixing with the scents of freshly mown grass and hints of damp, rich earth from the recent rains. The deep green of varied trees surrounds me, their branches stretching into the brilliant sky.  Bursts of color from the nearby garden dot my peripheral vision.  What will I do today?

Posing that question is a luxurious opportunity only dreamed of in the hurly-burly swirly school days. I say it softly aloud, holding and savoring the words in my mouth like a softly melting chocolate. Decadent and delightful–a guilty pleasure. I shift in the metal chair, feeling the diamond mesh pressing into my thighs, indenting me with a pattern I will carry into the morning when I arise. What other weights, I wonder, less visible or tangible, have impressed their pattern onto me? As I luxuriate in the absence of school pressures, what evidence of them marks me? Do I unknowingly carry their imprint as I meander into seamless summer days?

Birds call, some melodic and others harshly repetitive. A soft breeze stirs the air, mixing scents and brushing gently against my sleep-warm skin. The chickens flap, rustle, coo and cluck in their coop. I breathe deeply and consciously shrug the weight and tension from my shoulders. I imagine rubbing those imprinted lattice marks, smoothing them into my freckled, sun-kissed skin until they fade away like the softest whisper. Again I pause and inhale the aromas of summer.

What will I do today?

Morning Run

I run in the morning mist,

as the avian symphony

saturates the dawn.

The liquid warbling of a song sparrow

streams into my ear. 

I imagine capturing 

those tremulous notes

between cupped hands

and raising them to my lips,

tipping gently

and pouring,

letting each golden drop

slip down my thirsty throat

feeling the effervescence spread 

as my heart sprouts wings 

and my feet 

fly.

Last summer I had an incredible experience participating in Teacher’s College Summer Writing Institute.  At the end of the week, I submitted my writing for the final writing celebration.  It was chosen!  That meant I had to read it to a huge crowd of participants at the final celebration.  What an experience!  At any rate, here’s that piece–part of the experience that has propelled me to write more regularly and led me toward creating this blog.

“Come in!  Come in!”  Her molasses voice beckoned me off the teeming, impersonal streets and into the shaded, scented store.  Bottles and jars with exotic labels gleamed on shiny shelves.  Snake Oil.  Karma. Demon in the Dark.

“What’s your name?” she asked…  And I told her.  She took me by the hand, her own hands warm and strong, yet gentle.  She pulled me further into the store.

“Molly,” she crooned, “We’re gonna do you right.”

Deftly wielding a smooth, thin spatula, she anointed my arm with a thick, fragrant lotion.   Her hands rubbed and massaged, working it into my skin, abrasive yet soothing.  The rich cadences of her voice mixed with the rhythm of the deep, gentle massage.  The occasional blare of a horn, the squeal of brakes, drifted in from the streets as outside the pulse of the city continued unabated.  Inside, exotic scents and phrases drifted over me as I relaxed, letting the stress of the past days–the past year–ease with her touch.  “More than 10,000 rose blossoms.” “Like conditioner for your skin.”

Next, she bathed my arm, dipping it into a burnished silver bowl filled with warm water, rinsing away the soapy residue.  My arm tingled, and as intermittent drops of water sprinkled to the floor, she patted it dry.

Such intimacy in the city.

I had anticipated yet feared this journey to New York.  I came in search of solitude and space.  I desperately needed to step out of my life and gain some perspective.  Surrounded by the needs and voices of others at home, I couldn’t find my own voice, or, perhaps I was avoiding it.  I felt lost in my comfortable, narrowly defined world.

Over the past few days, eyes wide and wondering, I had wandered through the busy streets of Manhattan, marveling at the hurly-burly bustle of people in all shapes and sizes.  My focus shifted from person to person, window to window, lighting upon the new, the unexpected, the dazzling variety.  Yet, gradually, somehow, in the midst of all this stimuli, surrounded by new sounds and voices, I finally slowed down and listened.  I embraced the solitude and allowed an inner change–a tentative emergence.  The sights, crowds and noises didn’t overwhelm–they cocooned and swaddled.  Anonymous, in the midst of the city, I was beginning to hear my own voice, to find my center.

In the recesses of the store, emerging from the caress of the towel, my skin, newly exposed, glowed.  A gentle touch, soft scents and warmth.  New York.  What a city.  In the midst of it all, she touched me gently and she called me by name.  And I began to know myself.

New York City.  You done me right.

I was struck by my siblings’ comments after reading my recent post about jumping off the high diving board.  Whereas my focus was on my fear, they remain, to this day (well over 30 years later!), a bit upset about the two milkshake bribe.  So, I decided to try to write about the diving board event from my sister, Beth’s, perspective.  (She was the most vocal about the unfair milkshake part of things—still no sympathy for my paralyzing fear!)  Here it is:

I plunk down on the reclining lawn chair, drops of water splattering at my feet, freckling the hot concrete.  This is so stupid!  I can’t believe Mom made us get out of the pool to watch.  I keep my eyes stubbornly on the ground watching the water freckles fade in the hot sun, listening as everyone else keeps playing.  “Marco!” “Polo!”

Jamie plops down on the chair next to me, similarly disgusted.  We both glance over to the high board where Molly is.  She’s at the very end but too scared to jump.  What a baby!  Mom had to bribe her with a milkshake to get her to even go up there.  Oh my God!  They even have Dan, the lifeguard, in the water below the board.  Molly is such a wimp!  This is taking soooooo long!  There’s a huge line of kids waiting to use the high dive.  Talk about embarrassing!

“Come on, Molly, you can do it!” I hear Mom and Dan call.  God!  I wish she’d just do it and be done with it.  How long will she stay up there anyway? The slats of the lawn chair stick to the backs of my thighs and I pull them away impatiently.  My hair is practically dry already from the afternoon sun.  “Marco!” “Polo!”  Everyone will probably quit playing while we’re still out here, baking in the sun, forced to watch idiot girl.

I look up again and Molly is still standing up there, bobbing up and down at the end of the board, her arms stiff by her sides.  She looks so stupid.  Mom and Dan continue to baby her, calling out encouraging comments.

“Maybe I can just climb up there and push her off,” I suggest to Jamie and we both laugh.

Mom suddenly calls out.  “Molly, you can have two milkshakes if you jump!”

“What!” Jamie and I turn to each other in disbelief.

“Two milkshakes!” Jamie protests.

“I can’t believe she’s going to get two milkshakes for being an idiot!” I complained.  “This is so unfair!  We’ve been jumping off the high dive forever and no one had to bribe us.”

Splash!

My head turns quickly and I see water arcing upward from the pool, glinting in the sun.  The high diving board quivers above but Molly isn’t there anymore.  I guess she finally jumped.  Thank God!

I leap up and race over to the pool, diving in neatly, calling out “Polo!” just before I hit the water.  Jamie is right behind me.