I'm Already Giving Students Nicknames...

Its the first week of school (again) and I'm surrounded with people who soon won't be strangers but for now, they are a little too silent, too serious, too stiff.  


Maybe not all of them.


The first day, in my BIG auditorium class, I gave them a mini lecture on the scope and content of the course. 


 We went through the Civil War and Reconstruction, past the Spanish American War, through the Progressive Era and  WW1, then past Lysol douches and paused in the 1930s where I showed the students a picture of a Hooverville and told them what a Hoover Flag was (an empty pocket, turned inside out), what a Hoover Blanket was (a thin piece of newspaper).


I pause and ask -- knowing most of them won't be able to answer it  -- "What's on a Hoover sandwich?"


Blank faces tinged with fear looked down and away, but one girl -- a beautifully dressed one in the front row blurted out,   "a whole bunch of people, I hope!" 


I shook my head, trying to imagine -- then not imagine -- a sandwich full of people, which looks like a bread orgy in my head.


"No, it's a stale piece of bread, but you're awesome..." I said while pausing lecture to give her a nice hug for being so funny (and sitting in the front row).


In another I class, a student  kept her phone out as I was starting class, then said "But I'm tweeting!" 


aI asked "about me?" and she said "YES" and I said "$20! I can't tweet about you during class, you can't tweet about me during class." 


It killed me to take her $20 because deep down I wanted to show her I was impressed at her initiative in reporting from the field, for writing when she didn't have to write, and having the sense to write something nice about me,  but I couldn't, so instead I gave her a nickname (Tweet) and called on her relentlessly for the rest of the class period.


So far, so good. 

Once, Twice, Three times a Blonde....

After being happily blonde for a few years now, I decided to go darker (redder?) this summer.

Krystal, my hair sorceress, agreed, and through a series of texts we set a date for "the change."

And on the day I was supposed to de-blonde myself (a big deal after coming out of the closet so happily as a blonde, really, a big big deal) pieces of my mental security blanket crumpled when I found out I wouldn't be renting the house I thought I would be moving into in a few days.

 I texted Krystal, begged to reschedule.

She cheerfully agreed.

Weeks later, after finding my dream house and getting packing ready to move, but before going to South Florida to spend a week with Abuelo, I made another appointment with Krystal and also text her a picture of the color I want (which I'm calling "Honey Ginger" and she's calling "Red")

On the way to the hair appointment, a very nice very young guy smashed into my car.

I texted Krystal from the accident scene that I would be detained and I'd reschedule as soon as I knew when I'd be free again.

She understood.

Just now I almost texted Krystal again, about to ask for "that" color, but something made me pause and string the pieces together into a story, 

Every time I try to de-blonde, the universe seems to be saying NO in a most direct, firm and consistent way. 

My Car Lies

Thank you, Allstate, for taking such good care of me in my recent accident. 

Thank you for fixing my car so wonderfully and thank you for hooking me up with the Rav4  rental car. 

It was OK, tolerable, but not especially comfortable or powerful. 

For a moment today, I doubted you. 

As the kids and I ran our first errand today in the "post-crash" Santa Fe, I checked to see if I needed gas (no, not yet) and then noticed something was seriously wrong.

The temperature (outside) was reading 77 degrees.

 It is August in Tallahassee, there is no way this could be right. 

I think (fiercely!) "Damn you, Allstate and your preferred provider! What did you DO to my car's delicate computer system? Teach it to LIE?"

Why is it reading 25 degrees low? 

 (I think briefly, oh Allstate, we are on to something -- can you fix bathroom scales to read 25 pounds lighter? Yes...? call me.... then I remember I'm annoyed and get back to being annoyed)

Then, in a fit of daring, I rolled down my window down a crack and dared to let a bit of August into the car, where her hot breath (I was sure) would quickly fill our car with an uncomfortably thick hot wetness.

No such rush came, so I lowered my window more, then more.  

My car wasn't lying (sorry Allstate) -- so I open all the windows and let today's strangely enchanting dry cool air slip in and dance around, wondering what other magic Allstate can do.

Secret Comfort

In a few hours I'll pick my parents up and end the week-long reign I've held over my childhood and teenage home.  I'm not nostaglic - I left here at 17 and have been on a grand adventure since then.

The only thing I missed - the only thing I'm going to miss - is   shamelessly borrowing my Dad's well worn, long thick soft shirts which I've been wearing without his permission.

The Crying Game

As we are cruising down I-95 home from a day of lots of waterpark and almost but really not enough sunscreen, I call my Mom (who is in "another time zone") to check in with her to see if she's talked to Abuelo and knows how he's doing today since I saw him at 8am.

She tells me she talked to him.

 He's sad. He's lonely. He's crying.

He really doesn't want to move to the "much nicer" place a mile or two away that has "Village" in its name and is often called a "retirement community."

I know he doesn't want to go, and I don't blame him.

It isn't like he's moving to the dorms at Harvard, proud of himself for landing a coveted spot.

It isn't even like when he left Cuba in 1960 for what he expected to be a "short vacation" from Castro's revolution.

He's looking down the barrel at soon leaving the house he's lived in for decades, the one Abuela lived in too.

Moving on to the "next part of his life" doesn't feel so good, and -- more than he can know -- I understand.

When we get out of the car, before I even change out of my bathing suit I march straight through my parents' backyard to Abuelo's door. He answers. 

He doesn't look that sad; more tired and disheveled.

Without much small talk beforehand he straight out  tells me, "I'm sad. I'm depressed. I want to cry. I feel useless..."

I nod my head. "I totally understand. I'm sad and I'm depressed and I cry all the time.  Let's do it together, I bet I can cry longer. Let me in...."

He laughs and stands in the door shaking his head.

Apparently I'm reading off a different script because he doesn't know what to say at first.

"You know what, you're a piece of work" he says, and I can't help but shake my head and laugh too because I know I could have beaten him in both intensity and duration if he really wanted to challenge me to a crying war.

"You're not sad. You're not depressed. You just need some rest" he tells me, like he's now the designated advisor to sad people.

 I say "No, I don't need to sleep, I don't need to rest, I need to work more.  I get sad when no one needs me, like I'm invisible and I might as well disappear... now can I come in and cry?"

He laughs again and says "No crying, lets just dance...." and before I could even start to take him up on his offer,  my kids started shouting for things (I'm sunburnt! I'm hungry! Where is my camera? where is my snake?) and I dance away by myself, leaving him smiling, for now.

Crash Test*

On the way to get my hair done (which I rarely do, because I don't sit still well) someone  - lets call him Driver X -- crashed into my car.

The impact of his Honda on my Santa Fe felt like a head butt by kindergartener.

No airbags went off.

Not bad.  Not something I'd want to do again; not something I've ever done, so today I let go my perfect  no-car-accident 25 year perfect streak that has been running since 1986 -- nine years longer than "Driver X" has been alive. That's fine.

Neither of us were hurt, but our cars looked a bit mangled.

We called the cops and waited.  No injuries, no hurry.

He was shaking (a little) so I got him out of the car for awhile so we could  talk under the canopy of a convenient (like a movie!) old oak tree in front of a huge house off Thomasville Road.

 I drilled him on things I'd seen on Cops and Dog the Bounty Hunter.

"You have a license? You're in America legally? You only have one ID in your wallet, right, not like 10? Any warrants? Any weapons"

(He laughed - he looked like he belonged on the set of Glee or High School Musical).

"Your car is legal? Not stolen? The plates aren't altered? And no one is hiding in the trunk? You're not trafficking humans, seriously, tell me know, pay me off and we'll split it -- also, there is a cap to how much cash you can have on you without looking suspicious..."

After about twenty minutes of my thoughtful interrogation, he still looked off and odd like he'd been in a BIG ACCIDENT and not the minor crash we were blessed with.

 I asked him directly, "What's wrong?"

"I feel guilty, I'm so sorry I hit you."

I laughed. "If you were going to hit someone, I'm glad it was me. This is no big deal in my world."

He nodded.

But I haven't lectured to students or anyone (my kids have headphones and ignore me for fear of hearing more about the intricacies of Jacksonian politics & etc) so I kept talking.

Because I could.

"Don't feel guilty. Guilt is like self-torture and it's so selfish. And pointless. Be sorry. People who are sorry express regret, make things better and move on.  If you're sorry you can come help me move boxes tomorrow...."

Soon enough, the cop was there, the papers were filed and we drove off, a little wiser from afternoon on Thomasville Road.

d

Zack and I

Reporting from at Camp Mommy

It is past noon and I have gotten enough grading done that I can justify turning my attention back to Camp Mommy  - which I am happy to say has past the 50% mark.

Everyone gets dressed and we slide into the car, dancing to nothing I'd admit to in writing.

As I pull down the hill and onto the curb the children gasp and point.

I'm sure I killed a kitten at least, or a fat rabbit or baby deer at the very worst.

But nothing went thump. Still, I stop and exhale, and look where the kids are pointing.

I didn't hit anyone. Our neighbor is standing on his corner, saluting me.

I roll down the window.

He says, "I bet no one has saluted you in a while."

I am speechless.

I'm hungry and I'm happy I won't be washing roadkill off my tires so I laugh, "No. You're right, especially not.. outside in the daylight

The Big Bang (Birth of a Bra Salesman)

I am writing and writing and also packing and then writing (can't you tell?) when a loud BANG explosion from the living room stops me cold.

There are 4 kids out there (two tween girls and two redheads) so I wait a second for the laugh, the cry, the crash that comes after the BANG.

Strangely enough, nothing.

I think to ignore it, but then, I'm the adult.

 I can't wait 30 days to check on my kids.

People hold me to higher standards than that.

So I get off the yoga folded yoga mat and pull myself away from my writing and my Mac and go into the living room unannounced.

There was a Fort in my living room and no apparent casualties.

Zack's friend -- standing over a bicycle airpump that I'd uncovered in my unpacking, repacking and throwing things away --  holds up pieces of limp orange rubber (formerly Zack's favorite basketball)  and calmly explains. "It exploded."

I nod my head and point at the Fort then say nothing and return my room, to the yoga mat, to the floor half- waiting to hear Zack scream out in protest that his favorite ball had been murdered.

I wait.

Nothing.

I wait.

He knocks on the door then enters holding the two halves of  his basketball in his hands, offering it up to me with a big smile. "Here Mami, we made you a bra...."

Emily Remembers

 (From Charming Emily -- the first book a book in a series called "Blowing Sunshine")

Sister Georgina walked around inside the circle of folding chairs in the St. Joan House looking at the ceiling, at the floor, everywhere but in their eyes.

The tale of Snow White – and her sister Rose Red – is a tale of redemption, of faith, of the kind of love we should expect in life. 

The sapphire rosary wrapped around in Sister Georgina’s left hand tinkled joyfully as the gray haired, dimpled woman marched to the cadence of her own lecture. 

And the love, the ultimate love Snow White found was given to her freely, in her sleep. She had not sinned, yet she was punished. She was exiled, yet she found a home. She was cursed, and then redeemed.  A story not from the Bible, yes? But a story of love, divine.  Snow White did not need the Bible, she did not need to wear a cross. She was loved, always and unconditionally because God’s grace does not discriminate.

Last week, Sister had told them the story of Cinderella, again with a happy ending about love and God.

The week before that, it had been Sleeping Beauty, love and God.

And before that, back in December, before final exams, Sister Georgina told the story of Aladdin, only she ended it by telling them that everyone had magic lamps that could bring them great abundance.

Which, Emily particularly knew, was crazy.

And wrong.

And undermined the whole purpose of being Catholic.

Sister Georgina halted her march, exhaled with her palms up, arms open, and asked, “Now my children, what questions do you have for me about God? Or Love? How can I help you find your way a little bit better this week?”

The group clapped politely and dismissively. Without ever discussing it, the core group – all female, all Catholic, all scholarship residents of St. Joan’s House  -- agreed that the mandatory Tuesday prayer circle ended when the questions began.

They each stood slowly, reaching to their neighbors, shaking hands.

Peace. Peace be with you.

And with you.

Peace.

Peace.

Peace.

Mike stood up first, then offered his hand to Emily.

 The gesture felt corny and pressured to her, like he’d mentally rehearsed it then waited for his cue.

She took his hand, stood up, allowed him to kiss her on the cheek.

Peace be with you, he said.

And also with you, she replied, eyes on the door.

A Chapter from *Blowing Sunshine*

 Sister Georgina walked around inside the circle of folding chairs in the St. Joan House looking at the ceiling, at the floor, everywhere but in their eyes.

The tale of Snow White – and her sister Rose Red – is a tale of redemption, of faith, of the kind of love we should expect in life. 

The sapphire rosary wrapped around in Sister Georgina’s left hand tinkled joyfully as the gray haired, dimpled woman marched to the cadence of her own lecture. 

And the love, the ultimate love Snow White found was given to her freely, in her sleep. She had not sinned, yet she was punished. She was exiled, yet she found a home. She was cursed, and then redeemed.  A story not from the Bible, yes? But a story of love, divine.  Snow White did not need the Bible, she did not need to wear a cross. She was loved, always and unconditionally because God’s grace does not discriminate.

Last week, Sister had told them the story of Cinderella, again with a happy ending about love and God.

The week before that, it had been Sleeping Beauty, love and God.

And before that, back in December, before final exams, Sister Georgina told the story of Aladdin, only she ended it by telling them that everyone had magic lamps that could bring them great abundance.

Which, Emily particularly knew, was crazy.

And wrong.

And undermined the whole purpose of being Catholic.

Sister Georgina halted her march, exhaled with her palms up, arms open, and asked, “Now my children, what questions do you have for me about God? Or Love? How can I help you find your way a little bit better this week?”

The group clapped politely and dismissively. Without ever discussing it, the core group – all female, all Catholic, all scholarship residents of St. Joan’s House  -- agreed that the mandatory Tuesday prayer circle ended when the questions began.

They each stood slowly, reaching to their neighbors, shaking hands.

Peace. Peace be with you.

And with you.

Peace.

Peace.

Peace.

Mike stood up first, then offered his hand to Emily.

 The gesture felt corny and pressured to her, like he’d mentally rehearsed it then waited for his cue.

She took his hand, stood up, allowed him to kiss her on the cheek.

Peace be with you, he said.

And also with you, she replied, eyes on the door.

Veteran's Village: Good News and Bad News

I have great, heartwarming news. 

My students came together to assemble and deliver about 50 bags of groceries and $200 in gift certificates for the food closet at Tallahassee Veteran's Village. 

We want them to know they are part of our holiday, that they are remembered and included and that we are thankful for their service. 

I took pictures of the food in my office (below) but my hands were full once we arrived at Veteran's Village. 

A gentleman there offered to show us the Food Closet. 

Kori, Anthony, Zoe, Zack, Margie and I climbed the stairs behind him and peeked into the room, 

That's where the bad news comes in.

The food closet is the size of a large walk-in closet, lined with wire shelves.

The food closet was, for all practical purposes, bare.

There are rows and rows of  creamed  corn. And there are rows of canned regular corn.  The only food in the dark refrigerator was husks of corn, which I was told were expired and would be thrown out. 

Other than a few cans of green beans and about ten boxes of off-brand rice-a-roni, the shelves were bare. 

We brought a lot - PopTarts and cereal and sauces and boxed dinners and  brownies and cookies --  but the Veteran's Village food closet needs more. A lot more. 

They need milk. They need bread. They need eggs. They need a little bit of help from a lot more of us.

Please consider donating to the Veteran's Village, and choose to serve those who have chosen to serve their nation. 

This summer, my AMH 2010 and 2020 students have been putting together supplies to bring to the Veterans Village so the local Heroes there know they are appreciated, honored and included in of *all* of our 4th of July celebrations.

Students have offered to  bring chips, dessert mixes, breakfast foods, and things to stock up the pantries there like sauces and mixes and nonperishable staples.

We will also be bringing "Party Stuff" like paper goods, cups, and decorations for a 4th of July Party, along with 
 gift cards for you to buy the meats and etc for the BBQ.

Besides that -- any special requests? 

Also -- I had asked the students to plan on coordinating our delivery on Friday morning around 11 or so -- does that work for you? If not let me know a better time so I can pass it on.

Thanks for all you do!!
Dr. Melissa Soldani
TCC Dept of History

We have all the paper goods and decorations, cups & plates etc.

WHAT WE NEED:

We need giftcards to Publix or Walmart

4th of July Party:  use your imagination, but nothing cooked/perishable. Chips, cookies...

Breakfasts: poptarts, muffins, grits, cereal, oatmeal

Drinks: coffee, tea, mixes

Bag/Box Meal Mixes: Hamburger Helper, Tacos, stuff like that -- 

Snacks: crackers, popcorn, pretzels, pudding mixes, dessert mixes

You can bring your donation anytime during the working day to the HSS division @ TCC and they will bring it to my office, or just bring it Friday morning. If you come by when I'm no there, take a picture of your bag and mark it with your name to make sure you get credit!

Let's have fun!!! 

Like Teaching a Fish to Ride a Bicycle*

As the football spirals down perfectly into my hands with a delicate amazing accuracy, she cheers. “That’s right Mom, catch it with your hands, not your body. Aren’t I good at this?”

Both of our faces get sweaty and red as we pass the ball between us 15 times without dropping; 26 times without dropping it; 31 times without dropping the ball.  

“You are. Amazing.” 

I can’t talk in full sentences because it’s 101 outside and also because I only recently discovered that my Magic Bullet  (blender) makes the best 100 calorie frozen margaritas in the world and if I talk more I’ll talk myself into going back inside and making one right now.

A little voice (mine) the size of an angry Leprechaun (have you ever seen a female Leprechaun? I haven’t.  I know there is only one girl Smurf, and I was taught to believe Smurfs are communists even though they are blue not red.  Anyway…) says to me, “Throwing a football?! What a waste of time an talent on a girl.  This is like a fish that likes to bicycle. Not natural, no good, no point.  Anyway, why the hell are you teaching her to throw a football? Where’s her Dad? What’s wrong with this world?”

I’ve had bad thoughts like these before.  Like everything else in the entire universe, they pass. I stand out of the storm of thoughts like a pedestrian standing out of the rain, dry, peaceful, observing. 

I let go of wanting anything more than this, here and now, and toss the football ball back to Zoe, trying to look all intimidating and Quarterback-like.

It’s a dead-on spiral. Whoot! She cheers and catches it, spins the ball to get the right grip, then reloads her arm, aims, and throws it back to me.

It goes above my head but I reach up and grab it then strike the Heisman Pose.

We laugh and go in to get ice and ask for nothing better than this, today. 

Camp Mommy: 6 Pack After Lunch

After the shower I walk out with a towel  my head.  Besides that, I'm fully dressed because I know better than to expect privacy once I open the door.

Every time I close my bathroom door the children are pulled towards it and held in some 15 foot hover-zone.

Zoe is editing a video (loudly); Zack is shirtless laying on my floor in sit-up position on my yoga mat, his feet are tucked under my heavy dumbbells.

 His "major goal" this summer is to get a a 6-pack of hard abs and pretty much will do any exercise you tell him will give him a 6-pack (including the very ab-specific carrying of groceries in from the car, try it, no joke).

As he exales, he says "Siiixxxxxxx" then back down, then up again, "sevvvvvennnnnn......"

I cock my head.
My special Mother senses tell me this is wrong, all wrong.
He can do better.
I must show him how.

"Zack, whenever someone walks in on you exercising, you must immediately go to 127. And say it like you're super happy and out of breath at the same time..."

He lays back, and starts to do a sit up but I stop him "WAIT, NO, I have to leave the room!"

First I think to take a step backwards and go back into the bathroom and blowdry my hair in this peaceful eye of the storm.  But it's too hot in the bathroom, so I walked across the room and out the bedroom door and closed it behind me.

I walked in and Zack, perfectly on cue said, "127!" and Zoe and I laughed.

Then he went back down, and on the way back up, said "NNNNNinnnnnnne"

"What? What?" I said, "Do you know what happens to campers who try to outsmart their Camp Director and fitness trainers?" and I threw myself down on the floor and wrestled with him and  tickled him until both our stomachs hurt from laughing.

Churros for Peace

Zack and a neighbor are llYing Mariokart. Zoe is reading. I order delivery Cuban Food and thank God for the USA.

The doorbell rings. I pay.

"Cuban food is here!" I announce.

Zack turns to his friend and says, "We are Cuban. That makes us Hispanic....I hold you don't want to kill us now that you know that.... I read about a lot of murdered Hispanics.."

His friend keeps racing MarioKart and says something like "uhhh ok"

I slip the guy him a still-hot churro (the one that would have been mine...) just for insurance, anyway.

So far, peace reigns.

Memorial Day

On Memorial Day, my student-soldier worked a twelve hour day and finished her Unit #1 essays.

HERO Scholarship*

TALLAHASSEE, Fla. (May 26, 2011) – Tallahassee Community College has established the HERO Scholarship, designed to help students who have overcome heroic odds pay for their college education. The driving force behind this scholarship is TCC professor Dr. Melissa Soldani-Lemon. She has made a significant personal pledge over the next ten years to initiate the launch of the scholarship.

Dr. Soldani-Lemon was inspired by the students in one of her American History classes to create the HERO Scholarship. David Lowe, a triple amputee Vietnam veteran was a student in her class when he tragically broke his femur just weeks before the semester ended and his injury forced him to drop out. He spent 19 months in a Veterans Affairs clinic rehabilitating from his injury. During this time, his classmates assembled care packages for David and other veterans in the clinic to demonstrate their appreciation for the veterans’ service.

Finally healthy, David was ready to return to campus this fall and finish his dream of receiving his college degree, but the financial cost of college was a problem. Seeing the need for additional support for our country’s veterans and the outpouring of support from David’s fellow classmates, Dr. Soldani-Lemon was moved to create the HERO scholarship, to help students that have overcome incredible odds attend TCC.

“Going to college is an act of optimism, and supporting someone else is a courageous act of optimism,” Dr. Soldani-Lemon said. “We cannot do enough for our veterans here at TCC.”

David Lowe is on track to return to TCC in the fall of 2011 with the help of the HERO Scholarship. He intends to finish up his final few classes and graduate in the spring of 2012. David plans to walk across the stage—against all odds—and accept his college degree from TCC next spring.

Dr. Soldani-Lemon believes that, “The HERO Scholarship is a measure of this institution. We want to do more than just help our veterans, we want to welcome them and ensure their success.” The HERO Scholarship and the newly opened TCC Veterans Center exemplify TCC’s commitment to veterans.

Those interested in supporting the scholarship can visit www.tcc.fl.edu/foundation and designate contributions to the HERO Scholarship or learn more about other scholarship opportunities. For more information, contact Ranie Thompson at (850) 201-6064 or thompsor@tcc.fl.edu.

The Best Lunch that Day

It had been too long since I'd seen David Lowe, the Cool Shiny Man. 

For the better part of two years, I brought gifts from the TCC community to ransom him out of the VA and bring him back to campus so he could rejoin the community and -- above all - graduate.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hSK3xYx7IcM

So I invited him to join me and my kids for a very late lunch which happily turned out to be my third lunch that day.

When we arrived at Sonny's before David, I asked the host for a table that would accommodate his wheelchair. They moved a chair out of the space so that he could pull up easily. Zoe and Zack and I were deeply engrossed in an iPhone app that is a pretend friend who is  pretending to text you when Zack shouted "there he is!" and Zoe added "in the HAT! and he's WALKING!"

I jumped up.

I'd forgotten.

I couldn't believe I forgot that he was better, that he could walk, and of course he would walk.

Before he could arrive at our table, we'd slid a chair in for him and the kids never mentioned a word about it.

The conversation was the usual.

What to order, how the kids are, and why he isn't going to summer school.

We sit in shocked disbelief as David explains how new million dollar arm has cool  attachments like hunting knives and fishing poles.  Then the conversation turns to his classmates, mutual friends and then his family.

David's niece, he tells me, is very into genealogy, a secret passion of mine that I've decided not to explore until I finish two books and somehow have someone ask me to leave the country.

I won't leave the US without an invitation, it's my quirk.

David and I fall deeper and deeper into a conversation while passing the bottles of bbq sauce between us.

We both admit to being closet Genealogists and we both watch that awsome series "Who do you think you are" where people like Sarah Jessica Parker, Lionel Ritchie and Rosie O'Donnell traced their family history and uncovered amazing things.

While this is going on, I can't help how quiet Zoe is being. She is across from me, her face in what can't quite be called a scowl, but definitely frozen in disapproval.

This is strange, I tell myself and then silently try to figure out what could be going wrong here.

I know it wasn't David - she loves him.

I know it isn't the food - she cleared her plate.

I know it wasn't my fashion --  she approved my outfit before we arrive.

 I mentally step out of our conversation for a minute and certified there was no cursing.

Finally Zoe can't help herself any longer.

She stands up from her side of the table, walks around behind Mr. David and whispers in my ear, "I do NOT think it's appropriate that you are talking about vaginas."

I look back at her, stunned.

She leans in close to my face, and whispers sternly "Gynecologists are vagina doctors, I know that Mom. Change the subject."

David and I laugh, and then Zoe understands and laughs at herself.

Soon after that, our late lunch ends and we go off our separate ways, me with my kids and David with his freedom and fishing rod.

Small hours, small talk*

It's no secret around my house that I can't sleep.

 I think it started the night President Obama kept us all up with the announcement about Osama bin Laden.  

Really, as a responsible parent himself, I think he might have considered waiting until maybe 10am on Monday -- a SCHOOL DAY --  fter everyone got their kids to school, got themselves a decent cup of coffee and shook the weekend out of their brains. 

But no, since the President decided to keep me up that Sunday night, I pretty much have been waking up in the middle of the night on my own, wondering if maybe the world is passing me by a little.

I write a little, watch tv more than a little, and on more than one occasion I have eaten Pop Tarts.

Anyway, Zack begged me to please wake him up the next time I couldn't sleep so that the two of us could talk.  I agreed.

Last night, it happened again.

I woke up at 1:20am, put away dishes, folded laundry, watched Nurse Jackie, and  ate a bowl of chocolate chip cookies crumbled into Heavenly Hash ice cream.


As 3am was running into 4am, I was still wide awake, but hoping for some rest.

I set my iPhone alarm for as late as I could possibly imagine sleeping and still getting the kids to school,  tucked a pillow under my arm and headed to Zack's bunk bed.

He was sleeping on his back with his arms folded behind his head, looking like an angelic version of Huck Finn.

I slide in the bed next to him and pull the Transformers blanket over us.

I whisper soft enough that if he's in a really deep sleep I won't bother him.  "Zack, Zack, I'm here! Mommy is here! I'm ready to talk!"

He slides one of his arms around mine and moves his face to nuzzle on my arm.

I think he's probably asleep, but I try one more time. "Zack,  I'm here,  It's the middle of the night. What do you want to talk about?"

Zack squeezed my arm in a small hug, then let go. As he rolled over he mumbled, "Turns out I don't have anything to say just right now."

Zack is getting a much needed haircut at a place where the nice woman keeps spritzing his hair. 

She spritzes his hair, his ears, his face.

She apologizes and says

Magic Bullet Chronicles

My kids have been entertaining themselves like angels while I pour my attention into getting ready for online courses that start Monday.  They know there will be pizza at 6, and until then, they're on their own.

Zack wanders around the kitchen deciding to make himself a snack.

"Anything you want," I tell him, "Just make it yourself."

"Even a  chocolate shake?" he asks and I  laugh.


"Sure, but we don't have the ingredients. Sorry," I tell him while writing "interesting" feedback for incorrect answers to a multiple choice question about the Federalist Papers.

While I disappear into my virtual classroom, I don't notice him assemble milk (oh yeah! I bought that!), ice cream (oh, in the freezer, who looks there?) ovaltine (we had that? I'm impressed) and chocolate syrup.

I take a break and join him for the scooping and the pouring part.

Yes, he should be independent, but in my reality I end up cleaning up after that "independence" so it's better to gently join in at the beginning before chaos can ensue.

 "Do you want me to use the blender or the magic bullet?"

He shrugs while I pull out the small hand blender someone gave me for a holiday (Really. Someone gave *me* a kitchen appliance. For a holiday. I guess they had some eggnog before hitting up Walmart. But that's not the point of this story, so read on.)

"That one?" I hold up the magic bullet.

He nods, and asks, "What's it called again?"

I look down at his first grader toothless freckled face and smile, "Just call it whatever you want...." and go back to scooping the ice cream and miss the look on his face while he thought of what he said next.

Zack then announced -- without much consideration, I might add, as though he had been waiting for just this opportunity to name some thing that might need naming and hooray now it arrived -- "Yay! I'm going to call it PENIS!"

It's Time for a Parade (at least)

I found out when I woke up around midnight to check to see if I'd set my alarm for the morning, making sure I'd have enough time to get Zoe to school on crutches and escort her to the rehearsal for her 4th grade play.

Everyone in my world knows not to bother calling me late, that my phone and my brain turn on before dawn and off at dusk.

That's why it was weird to see I had 4 unread texts.


5/1/11 11:05pm Text #1 (K): Don't you wish you had lecture tomorrow?

I blink hard and smile.  How sweet! She was right, I did wish I had lecture tomorrow.  I love teaching history. It's ridiculous how happy I am when I'm lecturing, but the next day was the  Monday after Finals week, the day semester grades were due. so no more lectures until August 29.  I'm not awake enough to reply with more than a smile and yawn.

5/1/11 11:10pm Text #2: (Mom): Are you watching CNN?

I wrinkle my nose and blink.  I'm thinking a Kennedy Special is on. Or maybe more stuff about that wedding over across the sea. It was stranger for her to text me this late - she knew I probably wasn't awake or watching CNN, so I replied to her text with a silent "no."

5/1/11 11:11 Text #3:  (C) Osama bin Laden dead.

Now I'm awake. And a little sleepy so I read it again to make sure it didn't say "Saddam Hussein" or "Franklin D. Roosevelt."

I read it right. I didn't answer, because it wasn't a question.

Then my favorite text popped up, the one that got me up out of bed.

5/1/11 11:11 5/1/11 Text #4: (C) We killed him.

I sprung out of bed, landed in front of the TV and scooped up every bit of good news I could with a big spoon and a bigger smile.

I wanted to know then -- and I want to know again, now, when we can we have the big Parade?

No Argument. No Winner. (But I Won)

I'm sitting quietly in my green writing chair, working on a picture I've been painting.

He walks over and looks at it.
I say nothing.
Maybe he'll go away.

Then he looks at me.
I still say nothing.
Really, maybe he'll go away.

Then he looks in my hand.
I say nothing (brilliantly,  by this point, I might add -)
Really, doesn't he have somewhere to go?

"Is that your new Sharpie?"

"Yes!" I smile and admire (again) the handy chiseled tip that helps me make funky artsy letters.

"Well......that's NOT a Sharpie," he says, and then spins on his heels and walks, clearly away satisfied his message has been fully conveyed. 

Because I don't bother contradicting him with reality (example: the words "Sharpie" on the pen),  I win the argument  and the universe rewards with more time (alone) to draw and to write, happily and quietly. 

Let go. Grow.

For eleven days it lay broken on the floor, a shoe with its heel twisted at an impossibly wrong angle, a crime scene that would make any Jimmy Choo-loving woman wretch.

My favorite shoes suffered this break on a particular day when I was lecturing for another professor. After class, while I was turning off the computer, I leaned back on the heels of my gorgeous high heels and (forgetting they aren't made of steel...) "click" the heel popped off.

So off I hobbled, to my office (no extra shoes there) to my car (nope, no shoes there) then home, where there were shoes... but not the ones I wanted.

That's OK, I told myself.  Be open to new shoes. The universe is full of wonderful things, make room for something new....

I placed my broken shoes in a corner, by my home office, and tried not to look at them.

But despite my best efforts and best intentions, I just couldn't throw those gorgeously carved wooden platform leather topped shoes away.

Then again, I couldn't fix them.

These awesomely perfect shoes were a super amazing sale find of $12.   It would make more sense to buy new (cheap) shoes than to bring these (cheap and broken shoes)  to the dreaded shoe man (with that awful shoe smell) and ask for help.

For almost two weeks, I shopped and shopped but no other shoe had the right heel, the same lift, that exact color and texture that made me smile.

Nothing looked good enough. Nothing looked right.  I didn't even try a single shoe on.

(Note to self: "investigate serial shoe monogamy")

Then yesterday a surge of courage and hope rolled over me.

I picked up the tube of Gorilla glue that normally terrifies me (what if it spills? what if I glue the washing machine closed? wonder what it smells like.....?)  and decided that I would find a way to stick that heel back on.

 At first it didn't work, but I tried again with more glue and a steadier hand until the heel stuck back up against the rest of the shoe, flat, strong and stable like it should be.

So if you see me smiling a little more than I should be today, you'll have to forgive me -- I'm wearing my favorite shoes and thinking about what they taught me.

It's great to let go and grow, but some things are worth fixing.

Camp Mommy: Under Attack*

It is  after lunch and before what would be afterschool if they were in school which they are not because its Spring Break.

Zack is sitting on my lap quietly.

We rock back and forth, silently. He's tired, I'm tired.

No, maybe not tired. Peaceful.

Yes, the two of us both feel calm and peaceful.

The spell is almost broken by  loud metallic crash in the other room, and Zoe almost-cursing (Dannngggrrrrrr...UGH!) in a loud whisper to herself.

She doesn't call for either of us.

She doesn't say she's hurt.

I can hear her breathing heavy, like she's lifting or pulling or fixing something challenging.

Zack and I stay quiet, still slowly rocking back and forth, resting in each other's peaceful company.

Then I hear her a loud dial tone come out of the speakerphone in the other room.

So... it sounds like she hurt herself.... trying to dial the phone?

It seems so, Zack answers quickly, then hugs me, as if I even a little bit had entertained getting up and saving Zoe from the horrible dangerous phone.

We laugh together for a minute, then he slides off my lap and slips away to bug his sister, as if inanimate objects weren't enough for her to battle on this lovely day at Camp Mommy.

Camp Mommy Day #1: Big (Crafty) Love

I leave the house early early and shorten office hours to spend time with my kids who are on their Spring Break (which is never the same as my Spring Break, but I've had Spring Break every year since 1986 so I'm not complaining).

Two  minutes after the sitter leaves the house, both of my normally happy kids are twisting and climbing around me with complaints like sticky thorns... what is there to DO? Where are we going to GO? But I'm BORED!....

So I packed the kids off to Michael's Craft Store, telling them I was going to buy plastic flowers for our yard because Tita said they use them in Cuba and it really works.

They believe me.

So the three of us walked around that store for a good hour while I picked up 50% Daisies (in teal, in white, in orange, in purple, in black, in pink) and then Irises and then Petunias and matched them in bunches and them in rows and considered them and put them down.

Then decided I couldn't live without them and generally pretended that I would really stick plastic flowers outside my house without the supervision of a real Cuban.

In between all of that general wandering around, we find cheap things for the kids to do and make. 

 Of course, I didn't buy the plastic flowers.  In my entire life I have never been seized (more than once or twice) with the urge to buy plastic flowers.  And that was the 1990s.  And I've put that all behind me.

 $11 later and we are home, each kid armed with 50% off craft supplies and happy mood from a nice car drive on a sunny day.

This means one thing. Time off for Mommy.

I know, I know, in real camp, someone would supervise the children.

But I taught the Vietnam War this morning. I shaved my legs, I've had meetings.

My 9-5 is 5-1, and it's already 4pm and I have another shift (dinner, whatever, darkness, sleep) before repeating it all tomorrow. I slip  away from the happy kids to take off my dress, take off my heels and put on my yoga pants.

I cuddle with a pillow and watch to the Series Finale to Big Love, listening every now and then to the chirping happy-craft-day-at-camp kid voices coming from the room.

I get thirsty and push pause, and leave my warm soft TV spot.

Just as I'm turning the corner I hear Zoe telling Zack (in a sugary sweet hushed tone extra nice nice way), "Remember you're not going to tell Mommy..."

So I bang my fist on the wall, causing them both to jump.

"Tell me, what? That you LOVE me?"

And they laugh, because that isn't what they were talking about at all.

We laugh together and suddenly it does feel like camp again, like last summer when we were all rested and relaxed.

I sneak back to my lunch break before the next shift -- dinner, whatever, whatever, darkness -- and watch the end of Big Love, then, because the kids were so happy, I got to write for a little while.

A Castro By Any Other Name...

Before every unit I give a pretest.

This week, as part of the pretest, I put a picture this of Fidel Castro up and asked, "Who is this?"

In one class, two guys in the front blurted the answer out (in a "duh" tone; I think they thought I was really wondering who was in the picture!), so that class found out the answer quickly.

Out of my other two classes, about 50% correctly identified the man in the picture as Fidel Castro (not all spelled it the same way -  there were a few "Kastro" and some "Feedels"  and a "Phedel"  that I decided to count as sorta correct).

• 23 students thought the image was Osama bin Laden 
• 6 thought the man in the picture was Saddam Hussein
• Stalin(3)
• Tom Cruise (2)
• Liam Neeson (2)
• George W. Bush (2)
• Lincoln, LOL
• Middle Eastern Terroriots
• Theodore Roosevelt 
• Kumar from “White Castle” 
• Che
• Jimmy Frimmel
• Hitler’s cousin Jimmy
• Ben Linden
• John Cock
• John Cain
• Jeff Clain
• Jeff Swindell
• Whodumwhosum
• A smoky guy
• Jose Cuba
• Coy Moses
• My Dad
• Chiba
• Rafiki
• Casa Blanca

Faith

In her perfectly still mind, 

as empty and silent as the Grand Canyon, 

she floated along

on the sound of extinct rivers 

still roaring past

her beautifully carved and scarred

landscape

completely ready 

and absolutely certain

of the water's

return.

Lunch Bunch 1: Leaky Princesses

During my Spring Break, I join Zack and Zoe for lunch at their cafeteria, with their friends.


My son apparently has a harem or something like that because the closest boy to him is eight girls down the line of chattering first graders who all sit on the same side of the table facing empty seats where parents would be if they were visiting.

A tiny girl in front of my with angelic blonde hair and impossibly white teeth nibbles a cheese sandwich "with Mayo!" she proclaims, causing the girls and Zack to wince all grossed out.

They compare lunches, take sips and sit awkwardly.

I spy their high-class icepacks enviously. I can't find where they hide those suckers in the store, or/and when I do find them I think "oh, no, we don't really need new ones..." so I give my kids the same  years-old battered and leaky blue packs, mummified in two feeble layers of zipped baggies.

I point it out to them. You have a soccer ball! Your mom rocks! And you have... an insulated sandwich holder! A+ supermom! And you have... a Princess icepack! Cold princesses, cool! 


 Zack and his harem all giggle,  and I sneak my third mini-muffin from my son's lunchbox.

The girl with the soccer pack adds, "I used to have the Princesses! But they leaked...."

You had to throw it away? I ask, making an exaggeratedly sad face. I understand the sentimentality of the six year old heart.

She nodded, giggling and pretending to be sad. That is my cue. I take a carton of chocolate milk and hold it up as a toast.

A line of girls hold their juiceboxes and thermoses up. Zack smiles proudly, impossible to embarrass.

It's a good policy to throw leaky princesses away. We should all agree to that now. It's a good rule to have for life. No leaky princesses. 

We high-5 each other and a cafeteria aid comes to stand near us and do this clapping thing that translates to "stop making noise, pay attention to me" -- and I stifle my frown.  This is America, we are free to laugh, I want to say, but I don't because I know that's a lesson they'll have to learn on their own.

Lunch Bunch: Part #1 Disposable Princesses

Because I didn't have classes during Spring Break, I was able to join my kids for lunch at the cafeteria.  

The first day, I joined my first grader for

Leaky

Out of the Closet & Easy

Last week I dragged myself in for my infrequent eye exam.

I arrive to my appointment compulsively early as usual, check in, and walk along the cases of frames.

 A man in a suit greets me and I tell him what I'm looking for.

"I love the glasses I have on now - I think they are awesomely Tina Fey. But I need another look, something different and something that goes with my blondier hair," I tell him while he appraises the shape of my face and nods.

 I continue,  "Ever since I became a blonde my daughter won't let me wear these glasses to pick her up at school. That hurts me. Deeply."

I feign a sniff of imagined indignity

He shakes his head laughing and asks, "You haven't always been a blonde?"

I lean over the counter, make sure no one is listening and whisper, "I just became one about a year ago but I feel like I've come out of the closet, like I've been a blonde all along and everyone knew it but me."

He chokes back a laugh.

They call my name and I tell him I'll be back.

I follow a cheerful pink-scrub wearing ponytailed 20-something.

I tell her I'm not going to enjoy this, and she doesn't care.  I like that about her.

I tell her that I hate putting my chin on anything and staring into a box.

She says she understands.

I tell her I hate being asked (cheerfully, even worse) "Which is better? One?" "Two?" "Again?" "One?" "Two?" 

And she agrees that it gets annoying.

Then I tell that I especially hate having my pupils dilated.

She tells me it's not that bad, that it's much lighter and gentler, and that I'll be fine.

I ask her, "are you going to use a speculum?" but she doesn't answer.

Or laugh.

When she leaves the room with my chart in her hand, I pick up my iPhone and with dilated eyes compose a tweet about that.

I feel better.

Soon enough, it is over, I survive and  am rewarded with a prescription for new lenses that are "a little" stronger.

I return to my gentleman at the frames counter, who thankfully is not detained by someone trying on every frame in the shop.

I've been that person.  The narrative went something like: Nothing looks right, nothing looks good, or if it does look good, it's too expensive so show me something that looks like the one I love and can't have but I'll never be happy with it...has it been two hours? I'm so sorry I just haven't quite found anything, but OH how about those? Oh? I tried them already? *sigh*

He greets me and asks me if I'd please indulge him and try a particular pair of frames he thought might look good.

Of course I try them on.

He's a professional glasses-picker.

I trust him.

They are red. They are hip. They are different. They are perfect.

"Thanks!" I say, take them off and hand them to him. "What do we do now?"

His eyebrows furrow. He doesn't understand.

"They're perfect.  I know what I like, and I like these. Now what?"

He silently exhales all his sales-pitching and coaxing and coaching that he won'tbe doing.

I imagine he also happily pockets the patience I'm not going to drain from him, not today.

I follow him to a chair and stay on my best (translation: QUIETEST) behavior while he writes up the details of the order.

I think he's waiting for me to suddenly change my mind, or to freak out about money or something along those lines. I wonder if our uneventfully quick transaction disappoints him.

We shake hands when I stand up and he doesn't say it, so I do.

"You didn't think I was going to be this easy did you?"   

He shakes his head, laughs and then waves at me as I happily leave the store and go back into the world,  out of the closet and easy.

To My Students on Spring Break

As you go where you're merrily going, please do me and the universe a great favor.

Be careful.

Wear your sunscreen, wear your helmet,  wear your seatbelt, and wear your condoms [as relevant].

Keep your hands and feet inside the car at all times.

Don't drink and drive, don't drive and text, and don't put your precious life in the hands of someone who does.

We have many more stories to live and to tell, more laughs to have and you have so many more wonderful adventures on your path to becoming who you were imagined to become.

Be careful.

Disconnected, Connected

The last time I saw my Mom we were both sick and coughing.

 It was before Christmas.

Since then we've bridged the 500 miles between us with short (coughing) conversations, short email and even shorter texting.

Then the other night my Mom calls and asks me a question about something she'd emailed me and apparently I'd ignored.

"I didn't see that question," I tell her, unrepentant. "I get so many questions on email.... I feel like they're writing assignments....Or I glance at them and think I read them but I didn't... I'm sorry."

Mom doesn't laugh.

I hear her take a deep breath like she's dealing with a teenager and needs to choose her words carefully.

The silence feels like  she is gathering her courage to say something difficult.

Finally she asks, "Melissa. Please. How can I better communicate with you?"

Now she has my full attention.

No one EVER talks to me that way, at least not since I got tenure.

So I finally push PAUSE and tell her the truth.

"Mom, I just discovered Kitchen Nightmares. I mean, all this time, I never saw it, and now I'm catching up and I'm watching two and three of them a day!"

Now we're communicating.

 She suggests that I'd probably also like Top Chef.

 I admit to watching Teen Mom 2,  Pawn Stars, Hardcore Pawn, American Idol, Jersey Shore, Jerseylicious, Shameless, Boardwalk Empire, Tabitha's Salon Takeover, and as I'm trying to remember other things to make my confession complete, I add "OH! AND there's a new America's Next Top Model! Isn't that AWESOME??"

We giggle together, and then, finally, we talk about Abuelo, about Cuba, about things going on in our family, and we talk and talk until my finger itched so badly I *had* to undo the pause button and see Gordon stick his hand into a box of moldy fruit.

My Mom understood this compulsion, and we got off the phone, happily connected again.

My Other Place ---

http://drsoldani.blogspot.com/