To Teach or Not to Teach, That is The Question!

With each school year comes challenges that leave me questioning my purpose: "Are my students learning?" "Am I a good teacher?" "Is it time to move on in my own personal quests?" "Am I ready for the helicopter parents and the bull dozer parents?" "Can I keep up with this spiraling technology mandate and the constantly changing school board initiatives?" It can be a mentally and physically exhaustive job where the rewards are small. As the students move on, your only measure of success comes from tests created by a company that measures their own success by the number of your students' failures. (ie: If too many of your students actually understand the middle school grade level questions, it has nothing to do with your ability to teach, it means the test must have been too easy! So the company then changes it to be a test of endurance with 12 year olds either giving up or sitting there for four to five hours.) However, just when I decide that I can't take much more bureaucracy and "parentacracy ;-)," and decide it's time to go, God hears me and sends a little angel with a direct message.

I found this in my inbox today :-) ...

"Hi Mrs. Smith! You probably don't remember me but I was one of your students 3 years ago! Today I was working on my AP Lang summer assignment where we had to use and define rhetorical devices...it made me think of you because I already learned all of these in your class. I just wanted to let you know because it meant a lot to me to have a teacher who really cared if I understood the material. Also, R----- ------ was in that class...we are still friends and we always reminisce on how great your class was. Thank you, so much."

Message heard loud and clear: Teach!

Gas at a Premium

So I finally needed to feed my brand new baby. I had noticed I was low, but was not expecting the gas pump icon to pop up and stay there at a little less than 1/4 tank. My cool graphics were replaced with a consistent message first urging me to fill up, and then asking if I needed "her" to find me a gas station nearby -- over and over again. I would return to my cool satelite graphics screen and, two minutes later, it wanted to help me find "food."

I must admit, it felt a little like being nagged by your mom or a loved one who was annoyed that I didn't do something fast enough. I wanted to shout back, "Alright! I heard you, and no I don't need your help. I know where the gas stations are."

I pulled into the next station I saw, a small Sunoco that was cramped, packed and awkward to manuver around. One island was completely taped off with yellow caution police-like tape leaving everyone jockeying for position at the other four. a man in a mail truck gave me the evil eye because I beat him to a pump. Great, I thought, I will be in and out in no time or so I thought.

First I could not figure out how to open the little door to my gas tank. Then I got out and found myself standing in thick coarse gravel that covered the entire area. Next, an attendant came over and told me to wait a moment because he had just reset the pumps, or I could move over to the taped off pumps which had been just cleared for use, which I did.

I swiped my card and it was declined, then accepted, then declined, then accepted. The oh so helpful attendant got it working, but next the hose wouldn't readily go in, he played with it a little and got it in. (I guess she was still a virgin.) I then proceeded to select my fuel when, "AHH!!!" I realized $3.00 too late that he had started the pump already... with low grade gas in my premium only tank. We immediately stopped it and canceled the transaction. I swiped my card again to add to appropriate fuel,,, and it said declined.

At that point he added how he had had a crazy day. The gravel on the ground was covering a huge gas spill from someone who drove away with the pump still in their tank. I looked at my tires  now embedded with gas gravel and knew that I would be also tracking it inside on my shoes. So, when he offered to go inside and reset it for me, I said no thank you, I couldn't wait anymore, I had a meeting to get to, and I was sure I had enough in my tank to get me there.

As I peeled out of that horrid little station all the while praying it takes more than three dollars worth to start an engine knocking, I watched as my cool graphics disappeared only to be replaced with a message, "Your gas is low. Do you want me to find a station nearby?"

Jumper Cables and S.M.A.R.T. Goals

Happy New Year! Three simple words that we shout at the drop of a ball. We celebrate next by hugging, kissing, and toasting because in a mere 10 seconds the world has changed for the better and we will now have a new lease on life that will irradicate at the wrongs of the past year or years. Or, will it?

The reality is that New Year's Day is a time of reflection, and a time for renewal which is why we get excited when the ball drops. We each have our own demons plaquing us and have decided what we need to do to change and we cannot wait until December 31st when the last year will be wiped from our slate and we can begin again. because New Year's Eve, more specifically, the Countdown, is this big gigantic symbolic celebratory Jumper Cable that will kick start us on our journeys to self realization.

As for the resolution themselves, the biggest reason for consistent failure year in and year out is the lack of a plan. Thus, this year, I am being "smart" about it - literally. I am using the same system that we use at my job. I will be treating my 2016 resolutions as S.M.A.R.T. goals: Specific, Measurable, Attainable, Realistic, and Timely. They will be specific enough to guide me to my success, but broad and without unrealistic daily expectations. Maybe this time they will last past January... and by the way, returning to my writing is one of them, so I guess I am off to a good start.

Resolutions

1. This year, I resolve to be a more patient, compassionate and caring person who is thoughtful of others, my community, and the environment (by more volunteering, donating, recycling, and gardening.)

2. I resolve to take better care of my body in regards to what I put in it (by eating more non-gmo food and using more single ingredient products in my house and on my body.)

3. I resolve to enrich my mind by reading more, doing more crosswords, and engaging in more intellectual activities (which includes less mindless time wasting websurfing.)

4. I resolve to make time to love myself so that I can truly be a better selfless person. I will do so by making time for the things I used to love to do: traveling, photography, painting, reading, writing, going to the museum, working out, and getting spa treatments.

5. Lastly and most importantly, I resolve to be an even better wife, mother, daughter, sister, and friend by continuing to bestow love upon my family.

Critical Crustacean Crisis

Maine lobster? Nope, it's the elusive Northern Virginia Pond Mud lobster.

You see, I was walking my dog on the trail near the pond before work yesterday (while second guessing my decision to wear my favorite half-leather half-quilted over-the-knee riding boots, when I thought I saw a giant brown leaf. Much to my surprise, it was not a leaf but a soon to be extinct Aldie pond lobster. Immediately I hurried my dog on to her business so that I could run home and get a camera b/c surely no one would have believed me.

Back at the house I decided I also needed to save the poor thing from his soon to be extinction 10 feet away on the busy street. I grabbed my phone camera, a red bucket ('cause you know I wasn't touching it, and a yellow shovel ('cause you know I wasn't getting close). I am sure I was quite a sight for my neighbors in my thigh high leather and quilted boots with that big red bucket and yellow shovel running across the street.

As I neared the displaced creature, I pondered my rescue method. First I tried to scoop him (or her) up with the shovel, but he (or she) stood up and clawed at me. I then tried to shovel it into the bucket, and it turned its tail under and snapped his claws fighting for dear life -- or so it thought. Finally, after many attempts, I used the bucket and shovel together and got him in. Then I ran to the pond to throw it in before it tried to climb out. That’s when something small, black, furry, and fast shot across the grass just a few inches in front of me. I screamed, the bucket went flying into the pond, and I skidded across the grass. The heel flew off of my leather and quilted black knee high boots, the red bucket lay in the pond and Virginia Mud Lobster lay in the grass facing the wrong direction again. I hobbled back up the hill the retrieve my shovel while thinking about “survival of the fittest.”

My soft heart won and I decided to go back using the shovel now to fish out my bucket and scoop up the crustacean to throw into the murky water --  all while looking over my shoulder for the furry running beast. As I hobbled home with my heel in my hand, yellow shovel over my shoulder, and little red bucket in my other hand, I couldn't help but think that if it were any bigger, it would have been in my pot instead!

A Pedagog's Less Than Perfect Pedicure

As the start of the school year quickly approached, I made a mental note to "get my toes done" the week before class was to begin. That week arrived and departed before I could even fathom a free moment to even call for an appointment, let alone actually go.

Two weeks out: "I'll get them done next week."

Seven days out: "I'll get them done tomorrow."

Six days out: "I'll get them done tomorrow."

Five days out: "I'll get them done tomorrow."

Two days out: "I'll get them done tomorrow."

One day out: "They are not that bad, no one will notice that tiny chip. "I'll get them done next weekend."

The morning of: "Oh no! Three of them have chips! Must have happend in the shower. I'll just do a quick one coat over them. Oh no! it's the wrong color! It looked the same til I put it on. Is it close enough of a match? No, I will just cover all of them in that color."

Ten minutes later: "Oh no! My pants have smeared them! I will have to take the bottle and do them in my classroom before the students arrive. I hope no one sees me."

Thirty minutes and 12 miles later I ran to my teacher teamate to say I need five minutes. I found her with her leg in the air reapplying polish on her own toes. We then hobbled off together all stiff legged to our morning duty.

That night after I removed the tacky, smeared, but dry mess, I applied cuticle cream which needs to soak, so I jumped in the tub were I was able to both read the 6th grade book I was using for class and soak my tootsies at the same time. I was always good at mulititasking; I just hope cuticle cream does no harm to the tushy. Once out, there was still no time for polish, so the next day I had to go naked toes to class. Finally the following day (about two weeks after the initial intent, I slapped on another messy coat of polish on my way out the door and prayed I did not bump into anything with my less than perfect pedicure. After all, it would be another two weeks till I had time to do them again.

Throw-Back Memory Jarred by a South Carolina Death

Every Thursday is considered Throwback Thursday on Facebook. People find old pictures of themselves or family members and post them for fun. However, yesterday's video of an unarmed man who had been stopped for a routine traffic ticket fleeing for his life and shot in the back and then framed with a relocated taser, brought back memories of my own scary traffic stop late one night on a wooded Fairfax County back road. In lieu of a twenty year old picture of my self I chose to post a throw back Memory:

It was 1992 and very late, perhaps after 11:00 o'clock at night. I had just returned from a full and tiring day flying across America and wanted only to go to bed. As I neared my rented room in a friend's apartment I saw a Fairfax police car pass me going in the other direction. I knew I was going to be stopped.

I was young and broke and had just been hired as a flight attendant. They based me away from my home state leaving me with $2000 to move, pay first and last months rent, and buy a car. I was thrilled to find one for $400. It was clean-- inside anyway-- with low mileage, but had a smashed driver's door.

He saw me pass, immediately made a U-turn and followed me for about a half a mile until I tapped on my brakes. That's when he saw my brake light was out. Suddenly it was red lights in my rear view mirror and then a bright white in my face. I showed him my credentials. I showed him my insurance. I showed him the receipt and the new bulb that I had tried to put in but found did not fit. I explained that I did not live here and that it was an airport car. I told him how I tried to fix it two days earlier when I had arrived from Cleveland for my trip and that I was going back to find someone else to replace it tomorrow.

He sneered and snarled. He did a walk around barking at me to turn on this blinker and that blinker, turn on my wipers and step on my brakes. The only thing that did not work was the light bulb which I had a receipt and new bulb for. I told him I did not live here and that my transfer had finally gone thru so this was truly my last week. He said "Not my problem! Take it up with the magistrate!" By then I was crying as I silently took the ticket and rolled up my window.

The worse part was that he trailed me slowly for three miles all the way into my commuter pad parking lot. He stopped with me and sat there with his lights on me as I got my suitcase out, and walked across the lot to enter my commuter pad apartment where I was renting a small basement bedroom to be used twice a month. He did not leave until I closed the door behind me.

My only crime was that the light bulb post was rusted, and the bulb would not come out. I had the dated receipt, and proof that I was moving the next week, but I was still trailed and intimidated. As a single black female on a lonely unlit back wooded area road, I was left feeling alone and terrified. I wonder what he would have done if I were male.

The Clothing Clash Wars

        My mother would buy us school clothes in August and again for Christmas. Never in between nor after the holiday, and certainly not because a growth spurt had sent the hem lines soaring above our ankles like a plane above the horizon. Mamma would simply remove the stitching and let the hem hang low -- if she did anything at all. Most of the time, she didn't seem to notice, though other people did.

       There was once  the school counselor who offered me a bag of someone's second hand donations. She called me into the office and closed the door tightly behind me.

       Softly, gently, she began, "Someone gave me a bag of clothes, and I was trying to determine who to give them to." She said this while slowly opening the black trash bag treasure trove of woolen skirts, ruffled blouses, and 4 inch wide belts. 

        I had hoped my face did not betray me and give away my revulsion to the old faded linens. 

       "I hope you don't mind me asking you," she continued.  "You don't have to take these if you don't like them."

       Yes, I thought,... I was off the hook.

       "Do you want them?" she plied.

       Ever so slowly I shook my head left and then right, while squeaking out an embarrassed, "No thank You."

       Once home I was immediately greeted at the door by my mother.

       "Where are the clothes they gave you?" 

       You see, Mrs. Marlie had called my mom early in the day to get permission to give them to me, so I really did not have the choice that I thought I did. My mother, livid, went on a rampage about me being inconsiderate.  I was to never turn down anything offered to us. "Money don't grow on trees!" 

       I was ashamed for the second time that day.

       A week later, I saw my best friend wearing one of the skirts.

       After that incident, I had become rather adept at accepting these gifts and was learning to pair them quite stylishly, or so I thought.

      About a year later, Mrs. Sharpley's daughter gave me some thick beige leather square-toe boots. I never owned leather before, so I could not wait to wear them. And though they were a little big, I happily stuffed the toes. Next I paired it with a beautiful burgundy 3/4 leather coat with buttons as big as fifty cent pieces and lapels that stretched all the way to the middle of my shoulders. I was finally in style and was wearing designer quality gear. I dreamed of the compliments that would be hurled my way.

       However, instead of shout-outs and compliments, I began to notice smiles behind hands and hushed toned whispering. Instead of fighting the usual crowded hallway to get to my locker, the kids seemed to part before me like the red sea.  I did understand quality clothing, but I had no concept of the term "out of style." Though it was close to 1980, my boots were from the early 70's, and my coat looked like something from the Black Panther era of the late 1960's.

        By the time I had made it to 10th grade, I was working every summer and used my money to buy the appropriate gear -- clothes that coincided with my era. But even that was not enough to save me from being the center -- think bullseye-- of attraction. 

        I spotted the suede belted boots from aisles away and could not believe my luck. The one inch crepe sole boots that were filled with beige faux shirling (crushed pile) would be perfect to keep my feet warm while walking around the school's campus. My favorite part was the belt that kinda half tightened them around my calf yet was loose enough to leave the top part flopping down just below the knee. I loved those boots.... Until that day when I realized the chanting I had been hearing coming from every window of the male dorm was aimed at me in a tone and rhythm much like a cow mooing, "Boots! Boots!" 

       You see, I was by then attending a boarding school and the only thing remotely stylish had to come from a magazine called L.L. Bean (which I had never heard of, and once I caught a glimpse of, I realized that I could have never afforded it anyway.) It was the magazine of the rich filled with preppy gear. and since I was attending a prepatory boarding school (on a scholarship of course) everyone else was wearing those hideous rubber and leather duck shoes and boots. Not faux suede from Zayres.

     Needless to say, from that day forward I rode out the rest of the harsh Ohio winter in weathered beat down penny loafers. Even those were black, with a nickel in the slot instead the customary burgundy, with a penny, because I thought silver looked better in my pleather knock-offs.

       I suppose this is why I was so upset with my son this morning. Unlike my mother, I buy clothes at the first sight of ankle or tight thighs. I watch the male students to see how they dress making note of the cool outfits. I buy Addidas, Nike, and elite socks. I make sure each shirt has matching shorts. Yet,  at 6:30 in the morning after I have spent time digging out the correct pant to match the colored coded shirt, and ironed and hung them on his door, my son arrived downstairs wearing  wrinkled clothing with odd patterns of mismatched colors: lime green and black striped shorts with a red and blue crumpled top.

       So, yes I was frustrated. I demanded that he switch back because he clashed.  He, on the other hand was angry that I would not let him pick his own clothing. He actually claimed that he hated to match because matching was "not cool."  He wanted nothing more than to trade his color coded outfit for one that vaguely resembled a brightly colored rainbow after a storm. But our storm had not passed, it was raging right there in our living room. And I knew in my heart that I needed to let him win. So, I did. 

       In hindsight, I suppose the real conflict was not in mismatched clothing, nor was it in his fight for independence.  It was in me wanting to protect my son from the harsh words and taunts of his peers. Mean words of a childhood long passed -- that still haunt me to this day.

Good for Ten Years? (A Clean "Colonosco-me" Tale)

Today was the day I was dreading for quite a few years... ever since I learned it was the next "routine" exam to add to my list: a colonoscopy.

When I was first advised during my routine exam this year that I need to schedule one, I made light of it. I have a cruise coming up, and since I was told one could lose about five pounds with this procedure, I scheduled it three before my ship set sail. Hey, a girl's got to do what a girl's got to do get into a swimming suit, right? 

All jokes aside, I was extremely apprehensive and nervous to say least and my husband tried to comfort me by saying, "Don't worry, the prep is the worse part, and then you are good for ten years."

He was right.  The prep was truly a nightmare. For starters, seven days out, I had to stop taking fish oil pills and my beloved Aleve which I personally pop like candy for my herniated discs. But, of course they said Tylenol was an acceptable substitute.

WELL, HELLO! If Tylenol worked to reduce the swelling causing the pinched nerve, I would have been popping it all along, instead.

Next, five days out, I had to give up seeds, anything with red and purple dyes, and popcorn. Unfortunately for me that was as bad as the Aleve. I am one of those quasi health fanatics with just enough bad habits to prevent me from being a hippie. For starters, I eat chia seeds every morning in my yogurt. (It keeps me, well, I guess I can go there - regular). I put flax seeds in my smoothies. And, I eat sunflower seeds and other nuts on my salads. Not to mention, in light of my newly self diagnosed fructose malabsorption, the majority of the only fruits that I can eat safely is berries: raspberries, strawberries, and kiwi. All filled with seeds. (On a side note, I am allowed kumquat and jackfruit; however, I have no clue what they are.)

Next went my homemade juice complete with bright orange carrots for my middle age failing eye-sight and deep purple-red beets to clean my liver from the evening bad habits.

Lastly, there was the popcorn ban. Popcorn is my main chip replacement salt-satisfier for my Weight Watcher regiment. How was I supposed to watch a movie without popcorn! I went to my cupboard, and all I could find were my hemp seed tortilla chips. No seeds allowed so no snacks for me. It was the hardest hour and half in my life especially with my selfish son snacking away on his hot buttery popcorn, smelling up the place. It was a cruel and unusual punishment.

Finally, the "day before" arrived. The liquid only day. Clear liquids such as chicken broth, Jell-O, and clear sodas were on the menu, but I am not a soda drinker and was fearful of the salt content of the broths. So I was a water drinking fool.

It started out pretty good. The Jell-O was so tasty, I made another batch for the afternoon. I initially thought I would just lay still all day to conserve energy, but reality set in, and I ran my normal mile and half, took my hubbie to work and my son to day camp, I shopped for groceries, and went to the cleaners. I also did some gardening and washed a load of laundry. Needless to say I was exhausted and ravenous by 2:00 and wanted to throw the bowl of Jell-O out the window, but it was time to pick-up my husband to take him in for his procedure, (a different one.) By the time we got home that evening, a headache was setting in, I was sleepy and... Oh Joy! I still had the worse part to initiate: the "Moviprep" drink.

The box was big and looming. I had to mix a giant pitcher of stuff that they strongly suggested I add Crystal lite to just to get down. Next, I had to drink 8 ounces every 15 minute for an hour followed by 16 ounces of water which left me felling like a water ballon, all bloated and full of liquid. And to make matters worse, I had to repeat it four hours later. Each time I drank it I sat still, near the restroom that was stocked with extra soft Charmin, ready to make a mad dash. But for some reason, I was left somewhat surprised at the lack of, well, urgency. I guess I really won't mind having to do it again in ten years; it was not as bad as my husband said. Men can be such babies sometimes.

The next morning I was very tired and the headache was still there, but it was almost over. Unfortunatelty for me all the morning slots were filled, so I had to starve myelf (including no water) until noon. But at least I would be done with it for ten years, so I was glad to get it over with.

"Mrs. Smith!"

This is it I thought. I almost couldn't wait to see my new flat belly. Bring it on!

They took my vitals, inserted an IV, and five minutes later, so it seemed, my husband was standing by my side and they were waking me up. I had no memory of the procedure. Though the prep days were a nuisance... okay, more than a nuisance, the procedure itself was not that bad at all. I would not be so nervous in ten years, I thought.

While waiting for the doctor, I dressed.The world began to spin as I bent to tie my shoe, but James caught me and steadied me so I could finish. That's when the doctor came in with my results.

"Everything looked good," (if such statement makes sense under the circunstances) "up to a certain point."

That is when she dropped the bomb on me, "The "MoviPrep" did not completely work.

"Huh! What does this mean?" I already knew before she answered.

"The results are considered inconclusive. You'll have to do it again. Call the the receptionist to set a date as soon as possible. Next time we'll have to give you the larger kit. It's double the size. Don't worry this happens sometimes."

And just like that, all non-chalantly, she turned and left the little curtained cubicle, leaving my husband and me dumbfounded and in disbelief. It was inconceivable. First of all, I only lost one pound, and secondly, I have to go through that horrific prep again in a couple of months. So much for once every ten years!

We're not in Kansas Anymore!

A weird alarm on James' phone awoke us around 3:30 am this morning. "It's a tornado warning," he said, "we've got to get in the basement!" The mommy in me ran for my son and dog, the ex-flight attendant grabbed him a t-shirt, socks, and a blanket as we all rushed to the basement with James. I ran back for our wallets, cell phones, and some clothes and shoes for me. It would be wet and cold outside.

Once settled in the basement, we sat by the TV and heard a play-by-play in minute increments: "It is 5 minutes from route 15 and 50!" "It is 4 minutes from route 15 and 50." "It is 3 minutes from route 15 and 50." The picture on the weather map showed a trapezoid shape that encompassed our area. "It is two minutes from route 15 and 50!"

Wow, it was two miles from my home. We headed into the bathroom -- the inner most room with no windows. That is when I kicked myself for not grabbing a flashlight.  I should have known better from my years of practicing airplane evacuations. The first thing we grabbed was the flashlight, even if the lights were on because they might go out at any time.

 "It is one minute from Watson Rd!"

Huh, what did they say? I think it has passed us. The funnel cloud was already moving further away. After a few more minutes, we felt safe to come out and go back to bed... as if that was going to happen!

In the morning, I talked to some other neighbors and they too heard it and hid in the basement with their children. Some of my neighbors ignored it, thinking it was nothing and went back to bed, while others, still, had their phones off and never got the alert. Please take these serious. The GPS on the phone made it alert us for a reason. It did not alert the whole county, just those in its path. Please, do not ignore the warnings. Also, if your phone did not come with it, download a weather alert system. Lastly, keep a bag with batteries, a flashlight, water, and a first aid kit in your safe spot and consider adding clothing and shoes. It was real -- very scary --and I found out it had actually touched down in the town right next to ours before it passed over us. So never second guess, just take cover and pray you are wrong.

Limerick Lines

I was teaching a unit on poetry and to show the students that anyone can write, I decided to pen my own as proof. Now as a teacher, I truly could not pass up the opportunity to remind the students just how important learning is to their future. On a side note, the term Cashburn in the poem rhymes with the actual suburban area where I teach. It is a term that they coined themselves in reference to the perceived affluence of the area. It is a place where midlle to upper middle class family work extremely hard in order to spoil their children with everything that they could possibly give them. The children in turn have learned, unfortunately, that they are entitled to absolutely everything and for no particular reason other than want.

Burning Burgers

There once was a kid from Cashburn,
Who thought there no reason to learn.
Since he had his way,
All day he would play,
And now he has burgers to turn.


For another limerick, a friend of mine from work had a birthday recently, and I forgot to buy a card. I decided to have a little fun and write her personal limerick to make up for my forgetfulness. Since I got a few giggles out of it, I have decided to share... especially since I have not had time to write anything else lately:

Que Sarah Sarah

There once was a Girl with a class
Who also was known for her sass.
When you didn’t learn
Quite mean she would turn
And kick you right straight in the …

Assss,... I was saying she was really quite tough
The students would scream that’s enough!
Though we are inspired
Our brains are too tired!
“But I haven’t even given hard stuff.

Hell and the Homework Demon

My son spent the evening being as nasty as he possibly could to me (without being disrespectful enough to be reprimanded, that is.) And it pissed me off to no end. Why was I so bothered by his unsurprising antics? Because I just spent my entire last week up to today celebrating his 8th birthday, and all I asked him to do was a simple task that he already knew he had to complete, his homework. Yet he acted as if I had made him dig 8 ditches. Heck, I did not even make him shovel today. I am completely baffled and perplexed and cannot figure out why he jumps up and cheerfully completes any and all work for his dad without complaint yet fights me tooth and nail.

I slaved over invitation designs, shopped for decorations and ballons, chased all over town for the right cupcake holders that no one even noticed, baked all night Saturday with him (cleaning up his mess for him) only to finish baking without him on Sunday morning. I answered all the email and made the goodie bags -- including laser keychains I had to hunt down all over town for everyone. I even made a last minute stop for extra food for the parents. Heck, I went so far as to actually play one game of laser tag with him and his friends.

Dad, on the other hand, showed up, sat in the corner, chit chatted, ... and paid the bill.

So why, this morning, after I was left alone with our offspring for three days, and after I decided to let him enjoy his birthday gifts with a marathon play day, did he lose his sanity?  As the sky darkened and day turned into night, I asked the child to sit down and and finish the fifteen minutes worth of homework and hell opened its doors unleashing a demon in all its fury.

He sassed, and he grumbled; he scribbled out wrong answers. He sucked his teeth and sighed a breath that could power a sailboat. He was downright beligerant and nasty. But, because I know my child, I felt it might come to this, so I had steeled myself with a pre-emptive glass of wine. And just because I expected it does not mean that I minded it. Thus, I was angry; I just didn't let it show.

After the 45 minutes of agonizing completion of a 15 minute assignment. I sent him to dress for bed. And I can only guess that the doors of hell re-opened and reclaimed its demon because 5 minutes later that little booger had the audacity to come running around the corner pleading, "Mommy, will you read me a book!" as if nothing ever happened.

Can the thought of homework really change him that much? I wonder what the future will bring once he has two hours of homework. At any rate, I took one look at him and said, "Oh, now you need me?" His response showed that he got the message -- sort of. He said,"Sorry, Mom for not listening to you! I will read to you instead."

Are you there, Margaret?

Happy New Year! Well, sort of! I almost feel wrong for saying it because it feels so darn disingenuous. Yes, I mean it, but considering the fact that it is January 9th, AND, the fact that I have not written since August, well, I probably should be starting instead by re-introducing myself. Oh well, such is life, and life has a funny habit of getting in the way these days.

For starters, I am now the SALT for my school. SALT stands for Subject Area Lead Teacher  -- basically the chairperson for my department. It is a position that steals one late night a month as well as a few required meetings at my home school in addition to a few other time eating responsibilities to boot. And why is this important? It leaves me less free time to write.

Another time stealer would be my son. Just shy of eight, he requires even more time now than when he was in diapers. When he isn't looking for a playmate in me, we are working on his homework, and if we are done with homework, then we are off to swimming practice.

And let's not forget the hubby who needs almost as much of my time as my son, though his time stealing is not as obvious since we rarely get to enjoy one another's company. His comes in the form of expectations. You know, -- he expects dinner done when he walks in the door. He expects the beds to have been made. He expects the dog to be walked, and he expects a clean house. No, he is not one of those miserly old farts bossing his wife around, I just know what he likes and I spend a lot of time trying to get it just right. Besides, he will help in the chores at times, so I won't complain too much. I am just saying that I just don't have much time to write.

But just like last year, I made a promise to myself to post my blogs more regularly. I have got to start back because quite frankly I miss it. So why did I stop for real? Well, I had to ask myself why did I start? And I realized that I stopped because I felt it was useless. I wanted an audience. I wanted to make some women laugh and commiserate and realize that they were not alone. But after months of writing, I got to a following of 10 and half were from a class. And as far as comments, they were next to none. I had one person I could count on to write something. I began to feel like it was done out of pity. But I have realized that even if I never got another comment, I was winning by writing my blogs. It was therapeutic and fun. And if all I ever get is that one comment, then I appreciate her taking the time to do that.

There used to be a popular book in fifth grade called Are You there God, It's me Margaret, well, since that is her name, I fell like shouting, " Are you there Margaret, it's me, Tina, and I have missed you so."

Son-I-Care

Today my son shared the most horrifying bit of information that he could have ever told me. We were in the bathroom trying to get him ready for the day. As I rolled the tube of toothpaste against the side of the counter to try to squeeze a 1/4 size dab out of the flat tube, he looked up and sheepishly, yet proudly admitted, "Mom, sometimes I use your toothbrush."

What!!! My head was reeling. I know this little dirt dauber, candy eating off of the floor when no one is looking, fingernail biter, yet never washing hands unless told to, nose picking little imp, did not just say he had my toothbrush in his mouth.

My own mother wouldn't even share a glass of water with us on a 100 degree hot summer's day. "I don't know where your mouths have been!"she repeated over and over like a parrot throughout our entire childhood years.

"Why?" I demanded of him incredulously as my mind wondered where my own mouth had been.

"Because your's spins. I want one that spins, too," he said matter-of-factly as if that made it okay.

Well, it may not have been okay, but it was my fault. Stupid me. He had had a cheesy spinning brush with a Spiderman head, and he once had another with the Hulk. Spongebob even made an appearance, as did Thomas the Train and others. They all came and went with the batteries. But most importantly he has been using a spinning brush for over three years.

That is until the day I forgot. The batteries had gone out in his, and for convenience sake, I dug out the dentist freebie and gave it to him. I replaced it a couple of months later with another dentist small head freebie. It must have gone on like that for six to eight months.

Completely forgetting that he had been using quasi high tech brushes (no, it was not the Sonicare that I used, but it did spin), I had done the equivalent of replacing a child's xBox with an Atari pong game. And instead of telling me about it, he simply resolved the issue himself. I typically love his resourcefulness, but I am not quite feeling it this time for some reason.

But I will admit one thing, it got me going... straight to the store for a new toothbrush for him (and me) and you better believe they both spin.

Hobby Dropping

As I was sitting here for hours yesterday  finding wonderful ideas on pinterest to pin for later use, I began to realize that I spend so much time researching new ideas that I never have time to actually do one. And as I thought about it even more, I realized that I have a history of doing that. I find a new interest, I throw myself into it head first and then spend hours upon hours reading about it and shopping for supplies.

I have boxes of paints, canvases, and brushes for the paintings I never created. There is another box somewhere with suede upholsory material and stitchwitchery for seat cushions I never covered. I have empty scrapbooks, photographs, stickers, and hundreds of empty sleeves. (I think I did two pages.) It is sad to say, but I even have a box of grinning doll heads and body parts worthy of its own scary movie.

No matter what the hobby is, or was, it literally always engulfs my life with such an urgency and need that it supercedes all things sensible in my world -- for just about two months. Then I discover a year later in hindsight when I stumble across a paintbrush or doll head, that I have commited Hobby Dropping.

For example, in 2009, I was asked to join the knitting club at school after admitting that I used to crochet as a child.

I went to my first club meeting. There were young girls experianced enough to teach, and others awkwardly holding their needles. But all were filled with such enthusiasm, and were asking questions and showing off beautiful works of art that I began to feel the yarn calling out to me.

Hours later I was in the Michaels' checkout line with over eighty dollars worth of yarn, kntting needles, and pattern books. My evenings were spent on Ravelry.com looking for patterns and saving them to my "future" projects box. I even had to buy a four drawer storage unit to keep it organized. And I, who never watch television was propped in front of one because my friend said that is how she finds time to finish hers. So there I sat splitting my tv time between crocheting 120 granny squares for my mom's blanket and knitting my first scarf for my husband for Christmas.

Well, it's 2013, and I believe the storage unit is in the back of the closet of the guest room wedged behind some paintings we took down, and beside an old vacuum cleaner.  The needles are still in the scarf where I left off, and the five completed granny squares should be in the bottom drawer.

Hmm, I wonder how long does it take for material to dry rot? I could always donate it to the knitting club, (which I dropped after one year, btw.)

Nah! I will get to it one day. It is, afterall, a hobby!

The Workbook Blues

He sits beside me hiding beneath a blanket while doing his workbook as slowly as he possibly can. I have screamed, punished, threatened, and more. He was even begging for time-out at one point, which I refused. Why would I remove him from the very workbook I want him to complete?

"Vacation Station" they called it. Just 15 to 20 minutes of simple reading and math to keep them from forgetting everything they learned all year.

So why does it take us over two hours and a ton of stress!

Then again , maybe it is my fault. Maybe I should not have given him the bowl of cereal first?

Oh, who am I kidding, he would act like this without the sugar. 

As we are coming up on one hour and twenty minutes. My breathing has become shallow and I am feeling horribly anxious. Maybe it's from the third cup of coffee that I consumed to replace the yearning for a shot of Jack Daniels. But at least the tide has turned and he is now speaking to me again. The last thing he had said earlier as he scooted his chair as far away as possible was, "I do not like you!" I guess I am on the friends list again.

"Mommy, if I blow in your ear, will it come out the other side?"

"No, baby!"

"Can we try?"

I smiled at him and tapped the book as if to say let's get back to work.

"Please!"

"Okay." Maybe if I let him, he will  finish his work which should take five more minutes.

Not so gently, he blew. I stiffened and cringed beneath the spew of damp, spittled breath. Fun, I thought and then wondered how much more I would have to tolerate before he wouold get back on task.

It worked. After ten more minutes of playing "Blow Hot Wet Air in Each Other's Ears," he became bored and finally began to slowly complete the rest taking all of 1 hour and 45 minutes. Yeah! We kept it under two today!

Now it's time to start his minimum 10 minutes of daily reading. I wonder how long that is going to take?

First Twenty-Five in Fifty

The simple email mentioned that the last day of swimming practice would be filled with fun and games and that the parents should wear suits to participate in a family relay. It was, in fact, very innocuous at best. It actually sounded like something I would not mind doing.

I knew only a small amount of the mothers had bodies suitable for the bathing suit competition in Miss U.S.A., so I had no shame in being in the larger percentage that did not. I also knew from conversations that a lot of them could not swim, either. And since they told us we would be wearing weights, I did not mind playing along for the children's sake. Lastly, the children had been told by their coach to make sure all of their parents remembered their suits, so there was little wiggle room for getting out of it, anyway.  Surely, I could participate where the parents had to run across with anklets while the children swam.

The morning of the big event, I awoke at 6:30a.m. as usual, threw on my shorts and a tank top, and headed out to walk my dog. I opened the front door and I was immediately assaulted by a burst of cold air.  The temperature had dropped 30 degrees. Instead of the 95 degree days we had been experiancing for the entire swimming season, the thermometer read sixty-four. Talk about an omen.

I quickly ran upstairs and threw on my sweats, and I do mean long pants and a jacket. This was going to be a probelm. If I couldn't even walk the dog without being bundled up, how was I supposed to strip down to a tiny swimsuit and then get into an unheated pool? It was just not going to happen. I was also sure that the children would not be forced to endure this. I hurried to check my email for the cancellation notice. 

There was none. 

That's when a tiny little voice in the back of my head reminded me of the rules: "They will swim every day rain or shine unless we hear thunder or see lightening." The rules book never mentioned temperature. And as much I was wanting to find a big black cloud off in the distance, I saw only a clear blue sky. We would be swimming. 

"Parents who are swimming, line up behind your child!" the voice commanded.

I moved to the other side of the pool and slowly began to realize something, First of all, there were very few participating parents... and secondly, most of them were men. I overheard one dad telling another how he thought it odd that his wife asked him to bring her today and then added "be sure to pack your swimsuit."

That is when it hit me, the other moms knew what was involved and had gotten out of it. The two men laughed at his joke, but they may as well have been laughing at me. I secretly cursed the fact that my husband was out of town. But I knew he could not have taken off anyway.

Next, I heard the coach announce jokingly, that the kids had voted for parents to do the breast stroke. Oh my gosh, I am actually supposed to really swim. And any stroke for me to attempt was going to be a joke. I told my son, I thought it was a mistake for me to be there and that I did not belong because I am not a real swimmer. But he looked at me and said "Uh-uh! You going in!"

Had he not noticed, I only play with him in the 4 feet, and  he has never seen me swim the length of a pool. In fact, he had to talk me into going down the waterslide for the first time last year. Somehow I feel as though those little facts escaped him. Unfortunately, he would have been heartbroken if I backed out of it now. (I know because I tried.)

I looked around again and noticed that the two other lady swimmers that I did see were wearing competition style speedo suits. The boring one piece suits that are ugly but extremely functional. I was in a two piece halter just waiting for my boobs to pop out. 

Just then my chest tightened and my breathing became very shallow. I  looked down into my proud son's face who was beaming and hugging and hanging off of me because he was so happy to have his mother one of the few participating. The was no escape. 

The whistle blew and the children swam the first leg, donning what I found out were the weights -- t-shirts that we would have to peel off of them and then place on our cold dry bodies before taking the next leg of the race.

As I fought to get into the twisted wet mess, I saw the two men on either side of me dive in like Michael Phelps. I, then, sat down shamelessly on the edge, slid into the water and proceeded to do the worst version of freestyle anyone had ever seen.

Everything I ever chastised my son for doing, was done, including keeping my head above the water. I stopped three or four times. I finally gave up on the stroke and did some crazy under water streamline the last 1/4 of the way. I stopped short of the wall because I was out of air and I couldn't find the energy to do one more stroke. It brought back images of my son struggling and stopping just shy of the wall while I screamed, "Keep going, you got to touch the wall!" Now I know what he was feeling.

As I mustered the last bit of strength to come up and lunge for it, someone grabbed my hand.  No, not to help me, but instead to get the wet T-shirt off of me while not understanding that I was fighting and pulling back under the water to keep my halter top from lifting with it.

Finally, it was on the next kid, and all eyes were off of me.

I had to stand there a moment longer to catch my breath and then it hit me, I am almost 50 years old had just swam my first 25 meters.

On the outside I may have been wheezing, and gasping for air with no energy to even climb out, on the inside I was beaming. Once again, I had conquered another fear. But for now, I guess I will finally listen to my husband and take those swimming lessons I had been avoiding like the plaque.

Jumping in the Pool with Both Eyes Closed

There we were sitting by the swimming pool of an aquaintance, watching my son play in the water alone (her boys had just left for ten days in Hawaii with their dad); meanwhile the guys grilled in her outside kitchen.

There were three of us. The other two ladies were discussing pool "stuff" while I (mildy bored) was trying desperately to listen intently without yawning:

"So who is your pool service company?"

"Pool Professionals."

"I use Acme Pool."

"Oh, I have been using mine a few years and he is pretty good."

They seem to be belting out one liners of  information just to fill the silence because there was no real discussion or reason to the statements.

"I have a new guy. I have had him for two years and he is really good.

Did she just say she has used him "for two years?" News flash: He is not new anymore.

"Really?"

"Yes, he is Hispanic, but he really knows his stuff"

Did she just say that? Why does it matter what his ethnicity is? Because he is Hispanic is he not supposed to know anything about pools. Now if she said he was young, but he really knows his stuff, that would be acceptable.

"Have you heard of the new resurfacing material? It's supposed to be great on the bottom."

"Oh yes. I am having it applied next month."

"I am so glad that I have the electronic cover."

"Me too. It really helps."

Helps what? I wondered because neither finished that thought?

Finally, I chimed in, "Wow, that blue tarp rolls out by itself? I thought you had to pull it across."

"Oh no!" they sang together.

"It keeps all the leaves out and you wouldn't have to get a fence if you didn't want to," one said.

Wait, what did she say? I think I heard something I could actually comment on; I could finally join the conversation. Or, so I thought.

"I definitely can understand and relate. Even though all I have is a cheeesy blow-up pool from Big Lots for my son, I still need to take into consideration the two year old next door since we do not have a fence. So much to my son's dismay, I have to deflate it or drain it every night for fear of him wondering onto my property and crawling in. So imagine the water bill to constantly fill it. It's crazy."

I waited. No response.

I went on, "Because all it takes is a couple of inches of water to drown a little one."

Still no response.

"We all share one expansive yard without a fence; the kids just run from one yard to another."

Uncomfortable silience.

"So that pool cover unwinds and covers it automatically, huh?"

"Oh yes, you just push a button."

"That's great," I said with a big Vanna White smile that was probably just as genuine (not) as hers. The only difference was that she got paid to put hers on while I was trying to hide behind mine.

All Things Possible!

Yes, one and a half months ago I ran my first 5K. That was huge to me. But it cannot touch Saturday's feat. I completed a 1/2 marathon.

Anyone who knows me, knows that I have a bad back and knees. They also know that I signed up for this run back in December when I had not so much as run a 1/4 mile in two years. But Anita asked and I said yes.

Well, I honestly admit that I did not practice like I was supposed to for the race. I was either too cold, too late, or I was too tired, so I did not start practicing until February. I had my first 5K scheduled in March and had a big fall two days before the 3 mile run. But, I did it anyway and was fine. In fact I was proud of myself. I had run my first race. But the next day I was tingling and numb all over. I had to hang upside down on an inversion machine just to stop the pain and then lay on the floor for twenty minutes. I was a mess.

Over the course of the month, I was taking Motrin and/or Naproxin around the clock. I had all but stopped running and had told everyone that I would not be running in the race in June.

Before I knew it, it was June -- my girfriend arrived bringing along with her stories from her last few races of other women who were ill prepared but yet still tried. She also offered me other walk/run ideas. I listened. I heard. I thought about how much that race meant to me. It was a bucket list item. And on top of that, I loved seeing the pride on my husband’s face when he told others that I was going to attempt it. Needless to say, I easily took the bait (it did not help that the race cost me over 100 dollars). I was going to at least start. Since I had sore knees and a stiff neck, I told myself I would play it safe and run a mile, maybe even three, just to say I ran in it. I suited up -- pinned on my number and got in line with 3000 other overzealous people. 

It was a wine country event so I figured I could run a mile or two and then go back and drown myself in my sorrows until my friend crossed the finish line. 

I lined up, the gun went off and we ran. 

I felt okay. I was listening to my body, and I heard nothing. But I listened to my head and was told to stop before I do hurt something. I thought about a little more and decided that I had to take care of myself because my family needed me. I would stop at the second mile marker.

That’s when a lady ran passed and got in front of me. Her shirt was not covered in endorsements, but a message instead: I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me (Phil. 4:13).

Whoa! Is that message for me, I thought. I continued to question my abilities, my sanity, and whether or not I should even be trying. But the message kept coming into my mind.  I quickly realized that that message was absolutely for me.

I had been hurting so bad the week before that I was popping pain pills like candy. But that shirt was a sign to keep pressing on. Though I have herniated discs, bad knees, and a chronic achy back, I felt nothing that day. I took my time and was surrounded by the angels in the back: women half my height and double my width, men with limps, people way older than me both walking and running. How can you stop with them for inspiration? So I didn't.

I ran 11 of the 13 miles and walked two. And yes I finished the 1/2 Marathon. I eventually realized that it was not so I could gloat, but so I could stand as a testament to the power of the Lord. And I believe that I was allowed to do so to inspire someone else that if you believe and put your trust in the Lord, all things are possible!

More than 11 MInute Mile Pokey People

Wow! I had no idea what head games I would have to deal with in a simple 5K run. It was my first, and being a virgin, I was truly naive. I thought we would all line up in our proper places and pleasantly run at the pace we had accustomed ourselves to, enjoying the scenery and urging each other along.

What I was not prepared for was the onslaught of verbal abuse that would plague me the entire race from begining to end. There was name calling, bereting language, and put downs. Any support and urging given was all from a negative point of view (ie: Is that the best you can do?) I was truly not aware of what to expect. And the most surprising part of it all was that it all came from within.

The whistle blew, gun shot, or someone yelled. I still am not sure how we knew to start, I just moved with the crowd. Two minutes into it, I was out of breath. I was unintentionally running with a 10 minute miler friend. I did not mean too, but I was standing beside her chatting when everyone surged forward. And when that happens you move together like cattle on a stampede. That is when I understood the purpose of the 11 mile sign lady standing on the side of the road. I thought she was just standing there to watch the show, and would later drive over to mark the eleventh mile. But what the sign really meant was that the people standing in that area can all run a mile in under 11 minutes. Hence, the gun goes off, they move together -- no problem. Except, I was right in the middle of the pack. And that is exactly when the yelling began: What in the world were you thinking? You are a 16 minute miler. Slow down you idiot, or you will not make it to the first mile. 11 Mile Marker, huh? THIS IS A 5K AND 10K RACE! THERE ARE ONLY 6 MILES IN IT!

I had to slow up, but how to do it was another issue. There were people shoulder to shoulder, and to do so would have tripped someone else up. (Or maybe me, again.--see last blog.) Soon, the pack began to thin out after we reached the open road, and I was able to slow down to my normal pace... just in time before  passing out from over-exertion.

After I caught my breath and found my pace, I could finally relax and enjoy the scenery. And what did I see?Dog walker/runners passing me. People with strollers passing me. Little children passing me. My old students passing me. Why, even slightly obese people were passing me. Wow! I thought I was prepared. Well, obviously not, the little voice snipped.

But I kept chugging along.

Watching a dog runner/walker made me feel guilty.  I was thinking I should have brought my own Daisy, except I knew she would have pooped at least three times; that is exactly when their dog stopped to poop. Hah! I made the right choice I thought as I ran pass them. I guess the joke was on me though, because each time their dog stopped... and they stopped, they still caught up and passed me, eventually disappearing up ahead.

I was watching yet another stroller person bombard and run through us "slower than 11 mile a minute pokey people" like we were an obstacle course.  I soon realized that I should not have been upset with the stroller runner people for passing me because most of them were young stay-at-home moms who have nothing better to do than run every morning to bring back their youthful figures (that were not gone away to begin with.) They were forced by the rules to start in the back of the pack, but must of them (and some were men) belonged up with the sprinting "less than 10 mile a minute" runners.

Up ahead, my old favorite student who had sprinted passed me ealier had slowed to a walk. Yeah! I thought, I can run to catch up and say hello. Wrong! I was able to catch up just before she took off again, but was too tired to do more than squeak out a breathy, "Good..gasp gasp... to see...gasp... you. I... gasp...would hug you,... gasp, gasp... but it would... take...gasp... too... much...gasp... energy." I then mustered enough energy to run on a bit, so I could hide in a small pack to catch my breath out of her sight.

Are you crazy? Please don't do that again! You know that you cannot run and talk at the same time! And you had the nerve to run ahead like Flo-Jo to save face? Puh-leeze!

It was about that time that I had passed the first mile marker and was feeling pretty good about myself -- until I looked over my shoulder and became painfully aware of how many... or should I say few, people were behind me. The name calling began again. Is this the best you can do? You have old people passing you. I looked back again and saw about thirty  stragglers. I looked ahead and saw small children. I was in the back of the pack. Eighty percent of the runners were ahead. What was I doing wrong?

That is when I began to notice the helpers in their bright orange vests would always call out to me to "hang in there." You must look like the walking dead for every one of them to single you out for support, she said. Leave me alone, I screamed back -- in my head. But was this truly the best I could do? I had been practicing for a couple of weeks. Surely my pace was not this slow. I then remembered something my track coach used to yell thirty-something years ago (when I last ran for a real meet). "Open your legs!" Yes, I know that is normally not what you want to yell to a lady, but keeping them closed was exactly my problem. My 5'7" frame had the stride of a 4 year old. My husband would be proud to hear the women inside my head screaming, Open your legs! Quit being such a stingy strider! Wider,wider!  So I did.

Suddenly, I began passing others. I kept my same slow pace and passed my student, again. I then passed the two cheerleader mean girls who I saw making fun of my favorite student behind her back (the teacher in me wanted to chastise them, but the jogger me did not have the strength to do it properly).

I passed a few of the elderly and overweight folk who had passed me earlier. They were all walking now. I had a childish urge to tease "Naa, naa, na-naa, naa!" but didn't. Instead, I had an epiphany, they did not have a pace, they ran fast short distances and then would stop and walk long ways. I was doing it the right way.

As I neared the end of the race, we came upon a huge hill. Well, more like a slight upward grade that you would not normally notice if walking, but one that would seem like Mount Everest at the end of a run. I saw people falling by the wayside as I ran passed them and started feeling real good about myself. Yes! All that running on a hill in my neighborhood was paying off. Oh, don't you get too cocky missy, she reared her ugly head again, if that were the case, you would not be breathing like someone having an asthma attack. 

She was right. By the time I got to the top, I was panting hard and the finish line seem to be moving backwards as I moved forward. The orange vest people were really pouring it on thick now. You must look like you are going to die. The balloons that framed the finish line beckoned and teased. A lady beside me kept saying come on Mom you can do it! You must look so tired and ragged that people are referring to you as an old mother dragging down the home stretch. Yeah, she was not talking to me. Her mother was literally right behind me. Up ahead, even at fifty yards away, I could spot my 6'4" husband above the crowd.

Yes, you are fiinihing but what a sight you are going to be crawling across that line. 

NO! I will not! I can do this and I will do it in style.

No, you can't!

YES I WILL!

I suddenly felt a strength from deep down inside rise up and take over. I felt my legs lift higher. My body went upright. My back straightened and my legs kept lifting higher and higher. I could not believe it. Even the voice inside my head quieted. I felt her attitude change.

I began to sprint! The voice inside began to cheer!

You can do it! Faster, faster!

I sprinted the last 40 yards to cross the finish line in front of my proud, beaming husband and son.

And my time? I came in at 36 minutes and 34 seconds. I was not a 16 minute a mile runner afterall. I was now a 12 minute a mile runner.

First Things First

It was a day of "firsts." I completed my first 45 minute run. As I rounded the bend I was especially happy to see my husband had come outside to watch me, and my son had run to the end of the driveway to join me on the last three minutes. He was so excited about running with me that he got too close, whereby I proceeded to trip myself up and had...my "first" fall. Embarrassed at my lack of coordination in front of my cheering audience, I did what any wannabe athelete would do, I jumped up and yelled, "I am okay!" And, just like the Olympians who continue on after a big spill when they know they have lost, I checked my timer to see how much time I had and continued on as if all was well -- while silently grimacing at my sore hip and scrapped palms, and simultaneously planning a long hot bubble bath, glass of wine, and Naproxen.