jsmith’s blog

I am a busy knitter. I don't do well when I'm sitting for periods of time: waiting at the doctor's office, riding in the car, watching TV, listening to boring trainings. My husband tells me I have "busy fingers" and I've always got something in my hands. True, this all is. I need to keep my hands busy. Busy hands help me stay alert. As such, i've knitted in strange places and in front of strange people. But no matter, I'm a knitter. I knit. It's one of the things I do.

I am also a teacher. And today we took a field trip to watch a movie about Coral Reefs. I had enough parent volunteers that I suddenly found myself no LONGER completely responsible for my little munchkins. "Found time!" I exclaimed to myself and packed my "carpool" knitting into my bag.

We boarded the school bus. I sat with another adult. The bus left the parking lot and I, possibly irresponsible teacher, whipped out my knitting. 15 miles is a lot of garter stitch when you're working in the round. Suddenly, my class started noticing that I was knitting. (They know I am a knitter, but have not seen me knit. [I talk about going to the yarn store and hte coffee shop incessantly, it seems.]) Little by little I heard it, "Mrs. Smith is knitting..." It spread through the bus and then died down. "Phew," I thought. "I dodged that bullet." However, I couldn't stop. I knitted all the way through the Omnimax movie. Yes it was mostly dark and yes I was sitting by three 8-year olds, but I couldn't help myself. I didn't have to teach, I only had to supervise. And THAT I can do while knitting.

So I knitted. And knitted. We boarded the bus back. I scored a seat all to myself. Relieved not to be sitting by a small child for fear of bus sickness, I pulled my knitting out again. Suddenly two girls had crammed themselves in with me. One of them later retreated to her original seat, but Sarah sat next to me all the way back to school incessantly asking me questions about my knitting. I knitted, she questioned. I knitted more, she questioned again.

This afternoon as I thought about my field trip knitting, I wondered what the parents thought (i'm sure they already thought I was off my rocker). Yeah, it was probably inappropriate, but I couldn't help myself. I wanted to knit. I needed to knit. So I knit. And I knit. And I knit. I might need a 12-step program.

that I am a knitter with a blog who rarely blogs about knitting.  I'm involved in Sockapalooza 4 (Whoop Whoop) and I've realized that lots and lots of knitters blog (lots and lots of blogging) about their knitting.

Strange, I say. I'm rather new to the blogging thing, having been reluctant to join one more piece of technology to my life. I'm already dependent on my laptop (and that damn wireless. Otherwise I wouldn't be sitting outside blogging on a beautiful warm and sunny evening).

I digress. I shall post about knitting. So, the socks. I'm new to sock knitting. I thought I would sockapalooza because it would force me to get over my fear of socks (which it has; Lorna's Lace's Shepherd on the needles!) and maybe meet some other folks in my predicament (yup, done that, too).

On the knitting front, in the past two weeks I have finished two felted purses, started a pair of socks and taught a friend to knit and gotten her through the creation of a felted bag. I'm searching for an organization locally that I can do some charity knititng for, and I'm trying to find a way to teach my class of second graders how to knit.  I'm obsessed with yarn, and have been trying to knit from my stash, though I just ordered a bunch of Cascade 220 from yarn.com. I got to bill some extra time to my paycheck so I am going to order a set of Knit Picks Options.

I can't stand knitting stores where the people are uppity/rude and I choose not to frequent places where you are expected to pay for help. This is my favorite LYS, though I have several others I frequent. It's hard to find a good yarn selection and GOOD people.

So back to the knitting. I think I picked a sock pattern for my sockpal, but I am stumped on the yarn. The two places I've been to shop for sock yarn haven't been very well-stocked. I bought myself some (of course) but not THE yarn for THE pal. I'm hoping that when I find THE yarn it will jump out at me, and I'll KNOW. Just like I KNEW my husband was the man for me. Just like I KNEW i had to have the red leather Mary Jane's and the bright green crocs.

How have other people decided what to use?

Here's a slogan from my childhood: "Bring out the Best Foods and bring out the best." Yup, it's a mayonnaise slogan. Nope, it's not even a particularly good slogan. It's not even the mayonnaise I grew up with. But damn it, I'd have to say it's the last surviving mayonnaise I like.

We try to eat healthy: organic produce, vegetables at most meals, no trans fat, avoid MSG and high fructose corn syrup, lots of fiber, etc. But when it comes to tuna on crackers I want Nabisco premium saltines and Best Foods Mayo. Oh, i've tried all those "healthier" mayonnaises: Trader Joe's, Nayonaise, expeller pressed flaxseed oil "mayo," light mayo from various people, but it really comes down to Best Foods*. Mind you, I rarely eat mayo. I typically use mayo only for tuna fish, and that's not really that often. But when I sit down to have tuna and crackers, I want the BEST FOODS.

I got a jar of mayo for Christmas from someone else in my predicament. Our husbands (and her daughter) thought it was an incredibly odd gift. But it was perfect. See, I probably wouldn't buy myself a big jar of Best Foods. I'd keep eating my Spectrum Foods "all natural" mayo. But I wouldn't really like it. I'd tolerate it and I'd wish it were Best Foods, but I probably wouldn't buy it. I'd go to the store and read the label and be horrified and walk away.

BUt now, it's sitting in my fridge. It's a guilty pleasure. I had tuna yesterday with THE mayo. And it was good. I enjoyed every bite. I'm the only one using it. My husband is staying away from MY mayo. Just thinking about it makes me want to have more tuna. I never thought that mayonnaise would be one of those foods I would be so picky about. I certainly didn't expect it to be one of the things for which i'd reject all "healthy" alternatives (if that can be the case with a mayo). But as the slogan says, bring out the Best Foods and bring out the best.

*I grew up on Nalley mayo from Tacoma, but it's very difficult to find these days.

Tomorrow is May 1st. Wasn't it just April 1st? I'm not entirely sure where this month has gone!

May Day was always a special day when I was a child. We would make paper baskets, fill them with flowers from our yard and leave them on people's door steps. We'd knock and then hide while they came out to find a flower surprise.

I always thought May Day was about spreading goodwill. (Then in third grade I thought it was about spreading goodwill and the Maypole dance. I wonder what happened to my third grade teacher...) I didn't learn until high school that in the US, May Day is strongly associated with the Hay Market Riots in Chicago.

I think about my childhood tradition of leaving baskets of flowers (probably adorned with the likeness of the Virgin Mary, as it was Catholic school), and I am saddened that I don't have the time to pass that legacy on. My students don't even know many of their neighbors and I don't know know that many parents would let them run around the neighborhood spreading flowers. My students go off to gymnastics, baseball, soccer, Kumon, Taekwondo after school, but over the beatifully sunny weekend less than 1/3 of my class rode their bicycles. It's a shame we don't take more time to connect with our neighbors and to indulge in spontaneous acts of goodwill.

I'm feeling well connected tonight. Tomorrow my class will go on an imaginary flight to Australia. We've packed our paper suitcases and will put together our passports in the morning. I've got the in-flight movie and even the PEANUTS! My friend is a pilot for Southwest Airlines and due to his gracious nature, my students will have peanuts as though our classroom were a plane. Some of them are a wee bit worried that we're actually traveling to Australia, but no such luck.

Thanks go to the pelican for providing us with the peanuts. The children will thank you handsomely as well.

I feel like a turtle who has retreated into his shell. After  three weeks of unexpected tragedy, expected and unexpected guests, complications from surgery and on and on... our house is finally back to normal. My husband and I had a weekend alone together, though we were both too tired to do much with it.

My brother is recovering from the surgery, paralysis, hallucinations and the like. He has returned home to Southern Oregon, as has my mom. All the rest of the family and friends have gone off to their respective homes. It leaves my husband, myself and our "wife" as we like to call our lodger. Three people living in one house has never seemed so quiet. I spent yesterday afternoon sewing and listening to an audio book. It was glorious. I did yard work before the rain started today and didn't have anyone to answer to. I truly feel like a turtle who is hiding in her shell. I'm not answering the phone, and I haven't responsded to emails I ought to have. I've ignored my schoolwork (who needs to know what they are teaching....), and haven't finished the laundry.  However, I'm finally starting to feel recharged.

Our lives have been absolutely crazy since St. Patrick's day and it's nice to regain normalcy.  I never thought it would be so welcome. Nothing exciting, nothing bad, just life. Everyday life, with everyday chores: shopping for groceries, cooking dinner, playing with the cats. I hope everyone has a chance to appreciate the calmness of everyday life. I certainly have a new perspective.

A week ago my family was preparing for my older brother's open heart surgery. We knew it would be risky, as did he, but it was the best option for him at this stage in his life. He's been living with a congenital heart defect that was slowly but surely taking away his quality of life. Moving his pulmonary valve to his aorta and replacing the pulmonary valve with a cadaver valve was going to give him back some quality of life. It was going to allow him to camp and fish again, to regain his life as a logger.

Fast forward to last Thursday morning. We were informed my brother had had a stroke and was paralyzed on his left side. They didn't know, but sometime between when the surgery started and that morning. By Saturday, it no longer seemed like a stroke, but he was having seizures and were worried those would cause lasting brain damage.

Now it's Tuesday night. The seizures seem to be under control, the paralysis has mostly resolved itself, but the hallucinations have begun. Out of control hallucinations. Hallucinations requiring restraint and Haldol. Nope, he's never had these before, and no one seems sure what the hell they're from. Could be "injury during surgery" or "drug interaction," might be "anxiety" or even possibly "allergic reaction." No one knows, and there seem to be no answers. But as the walls collapse and the bed moves, and the next thing you know you're naked in the hospital elevator, answers seem necessary. We want to know why and what can be done. He's humiliated and embarassed because these hallucinations are his reality. He doesn't see why he should stay at the hospital and we're terrified he'll be released. It's his "right" after all.

I never expected to need four days of emergency leave from work. Now it's not seeming like four days will be enough.The stress is high, the sleep is low. Eating habits are in the toilet and there is no time for exercise. There are many doctors, new nurses every three days, and yet still no answers. In this world of "modern medicine" how can that be?

We face each day, not knowing what will happen when the sun goes down. A missed phone call that results in a voicemail sends a shiver up my spine: will it be good news or bad? I see people I haven't seen in years roaming the halls of the hospital, a college roommate, the mother of one of my students, all wondering what I'm doing there. There doesn't seem to be any easy way to explain my presence.

I hope for resolution and fear for the unknown. I can't imagine my life without the brother I know and I'm terrified that this might be our new reality.

A week ago our phone rang early in the morning. Normally a 7 am phone call would just be about to wake me from slumber, but this one roused me from quite a deep sleep. It was, indeed, THAT type of a phone call. The phone call you never want to get. My friend's father-in-law had been presumed dead after a small plane crash.

The news stung. It took my breath away. Larry wasn't my father-in-law nor my father, but my heart was crushed. I spent the week watching my friend, her husband (the only child) and their families grieve, all the while bits of the story were all over the media. Headlines read: "Pair Presumed Dead," "Body found on coast," and "2nd victim likely located." Each time I read an article, the hurt felt deeper.

Death is wretched. When it happens unexpectedly to someone so filled with life it seems unjust. When the deceased is grandfather to three of your favorite children and a wonderful role model to their father, death is horrible. When the media gets involved it becomes a nightmare. Grief should be dealt with on one's own terms; our media doesn't allow that to be the case if there might be an interesting story behind it.

I've grieved for Larry just as his family has. Along with  my own grief, though, I've had to watch my friend grieve. I've listened to her talk about telling her daughter about her grandfather's death. I've held her as she cried and tried to comfort as I can. There is something awful about seeing someone else's pain and knowing there is nothing I can do to salve the hurt.

Death stings. You know it will hurt but you wish it didn't. You feel the pain of those left behind and you wish for an answer to the questions of why. You know life isn't fair, but that doesn't make the pain easier to swallow.

We went to the memorial service yesterday and I was stunned by the amazing turnout. Larry was loved by people he worked with, flew with, prayed with and lived with. I stood with the twins by the  bulletin board of photos and listened to them babble about their grandpa. My heart grew even heavier with grief. The boys' father loved his maternal grandfather. I never knew Grandpa Newton but I know how much he meant. As I stood there thinking about the boys and knowing they would never have this kind of relationship with their grandpa, I snuggled them closer to me. I fought back  tears. They will go to the farm they associate with their grandfather, which is, in fact, Grandpa Newton's farm, but grandpa won't be there. I think the boys know  Larry is gone; at least they are too young to understand what they'll be missing out on.

Dirty little secret #1: Elementary Teachers do not like report cards. We do not like writing comments. We do not like having to judge children. It's no fun to determine whether a child is developing or meeting minus. We dread the day report cards go home, cringing when we check our email for fear of scathing comments from parents. We worry that we've been too easy, too hard, too whatever...  We think and rethink the marks we've given.

Dirty Little Secret #2: No one will ever look at your child's elementary report card once they have gone to middle school (unless you want your child to go to a private elementary school.). Her high school transcript will not be impacted because she got an S- in attentive listening. Harvard will not care that your son received an M+ instead of an E in writing in the winter trimester of his second grade year.

Report Card writing is similar to purgatory. I have 22 report cards to complete: grades in every subject, including effort; 20 different student behaviors to assess and comments to write for each one. My contract affords me 8 hours to do this. Can I complete this in 8 hours? Nope. Not even close. Report card writing is a long process. We're not talking hours, we're talking days. Nights of me saying "I'll eat whatever you make honey. I'm working on report cards." It's agonzing. It's full of self-doubt. There's a healthy dose of fear, as well.We try to find creative ways to say things that we can't just blurt out. We don't want to offend but we want information passed along. Needless to say, I've got to get back to it.

I've sat down to actually finish a blog entry more times than I count on both hands. I'm determined to do it today. Really. To finish it, to post it. Really.

    I wore my pajamas to work today. Yep. Pajamas. Not "weekend clothes" that could be construed as pajamas, but full on pajamas. They are blue and have barbecuing dogs on them. I know, it's weird, but... I used to work in an office. It was an office where I could have worn my pajamas and not a soul would have noticed. I didn't wear them because that would have been EVEN more unprofessional than the shorts and t-shirt I wore most summer days. But I've changed careers, and today 15 other people came to work in their pajamas, too. Teaching is full of absurdities like this. Several years ago, I walked away from a life in high-tech and into the world of little people. Now, I spend my days with twenty-some second graders. I check my email a lot less, but I have a lot more personal interactions. I don't get to drink beer at work and there's no swearing, but I get things like "The land of Dr. Seuss" lovingly crafted from a waffle box and lots of tape. And some days, I get to wear my pajamas to work.
    Today is the anniversary of Dr. Seuss's birth. He's dead, so I guess it's not technically a day to celebrate his birthday anymore. When you work in a building that houses 600 children five days a week, Dr. Seuss is an important figure. To honor him, those of us who teach K-2 spent the day engaged in literacy activities and having guest readers in our classrooms. (Note to self: when firetruck arrives to bring hulky firemen readers, blue barbecuing dog pajamas maybe not the best.... Nor is tripping over green IKEA stool.) Mostly, though I spent the day in my pajamas. And so did 20 of my students. Periodically I would look down and shake my head. "I'm wearing my pajamas." My carpool stopped for coffee this morning and the woman at the counter (not the owner who refers to us as "the ham bun gang) inquired about where we worked that we could go in dressed as we were. "We're teachers." "Oh. That explains it."
    Yup, that explains it all right. I go to great lengths each day to engage my students. I'm searching constantly for the hook that will motivate each of them. Some days I hit it right. Other days I don't. It's absurd to wear pajamas to work (especially on a cold rainy day), but to see all the smiling faces this morning when my students realized I was actually IN my pajamas makes it worth it. School isn't always as fun as I remember it being when I was young. There's lots to teach and high expectations of students and staff. Every once in a while it's nice to engage in the activities that memories are made of. And to wear my pajamas to work.