Michael Phelps

I signed Jude up for swimming lessons this summer at Maley Swim School. I had heard wonderful things about the instructors and the facility and had read up on the benefits of Water Babies classes, and thought, "Why not?" Plus, I needed something fun to do with Jude this summer. (Ok, ok, chasing around an almost-toddler and watching him play and squeal as he discovers new things is fun in itself, but the idea of bringing all that fun to the water would only elevate the cuteness factor that much more, right?) As it turns out, the swimming pool is not the bath tub, which is Jude's all-time favorite place at home, and well, Jude's no dummy, so he doesn't hesitate to let everyone know this. At the first lesson, he took to the water quite well with only a few minor freak outs. Most of those freak outs occurred when his instructor, Ms. Elizabeth, tried teaching him how to climb out of the pool. (Yes, little babies learn how to hold onto the side of the pool and pull themselves out--insane!)Jude thought that meant time to get out of the pool for good, so he squinted those eyes, balled up his fists, and let out a stealthy holler that almost immediately turned into smiling laughter as soon as he plopped back into the water. (So answer me this--at what age would one consider that sort of behavior manic depressive?) Jude's second lesson took a turn for the worse, though. I don't believe anyone got anything out of that lesson. In fact, I said silent prayers of thanks to God that the other little girl in the class did not show up because all Jude did was holler. Now that time, I did not go in the water with him. Jeffrey did. We figured out that Jude did not recognize Jeffrey without his glasses, so by the time Jeffrey went to put them on, Jude calmed down only a hair. In the meantime, I sat in the observation room (yes, an observation room--like on "Dance Moms"!) hearing these loud sobs with all these other parents crowding the window saying things like "Glad it's not me in there" and "Ooh, he's not happy" while I'm displaying remarkable restraint from bowing up and responding, "Well, no shit!" Anyway, to say the lesson didn't go too well would be the understatement of the week. Then again, I'm sure Olympic gold medalist Michael Phelps has had a bad day before. Normally, lessons happen on Mondays at 4:30; however, Maley's rescheduled this week's lesson to Friday (today) since they closed for Memorial Day. Neither Jeffrey nor I wanted to go into the water with Jude due to last week's fiasco, and the fact that a week and a half had passed since he last got in the pool. Unfortunately, it was my turn, though. As if disrobing to my bathing suit clad almost 12 month post-partum bod--which is pretty much back to pre-pregnancy shape, but still not pretty--in front of the observation windows isn't humbling enough, I also had the very likely chance of dealing with a Category 5 fit from my pint sized, albeit very strong, offspring therefore drawing these various and sundry parents to the windows overlooking the baby pool like moths to the flame. Sure enough, just as I had anticipated, Jude sounded off as soon as we touched the water. Ms. Elizabeth, pro that she is, continued with the singing of silly songs and splashing of water. (Oh, and there was another little kid there too who looked at Jude as if to say "Get it together. Geez!". Great.) Meanwhile, Jude commenced with his screams so loud that I swear I saw some paint on the wall bubble up and start to peel. I remained calm and tried my best to act like I was having the best time of my life in there hoping he would catch my spirit, but no such luck. Finally, I drew my little baby close and held him to my chest, kissed him on the cheek, and whispered in my most soothing "Mom voice", "Now, Jude. Michael Phelps may have had one bad day, and maybe even two, but he didn't have two bad days in a row. You can do this." Then he looked at me with those big tear-stained brown eyes, drew a big breath as if gearing up for one good ear drum splitting scream and broke into hysterical laughter. And that baby laughed the rest of the lesson. He laughed getting out of the pool, he laughed jumping back into my arms, he laughed going down the baby slide (twice), he laughed at the bubbles, he laughed while doing the monkey walk, and he laughed at getting out of the pool for good. He finally found his confidence in the water! I couldn't have been prouder than if he had won Olympic gold--which inevitably is in our future!

Just Barely Made the Cut

Jeffrey and I are applying for life insurance policies as of late. Boy, when did we get to be such adults? Anyway, I've had the staggering fear that I would get turned down because ten and a half years ago, a neurologist diagnosed me with transverse mylitis, a rare neurological disease that causes my immune system to attack itself. In my case, it resulted in me temporarily losing my ability to walk (although three months, plus a year of gimping around is an eternity to a college sophomore, especially one who had just discovered a love of Shakespeare, rum runners, and a late night outing to Chevron on Four Corners). I spent a significant amount of time in the hospital and even more time in physical therapy. I can sum up the entire experience in the simplest of sentences: It sucked. Of course, insurance companies don't take too kindly to folks ailing from that sort of thing. Possibly the only reason I even have health insurance now results from my employment in the public sector. They give it to me because they have to. "Here, Mrs. Brown, because you chose to work for the state of Mississippi rather than fulfill your dream of composing the Great American Novel, we'll award you with this really crappy health insurance policy to which you'll never meet your deductible. Oh, and as the years pass, we'll take a little bit out of your paycheck each month because, really, let's face it. You already make SO much money as it is." So, health insurance, for all its crappiness, I'm covered. However, enter Jude, and Jeffrey and I find ourselves going a step further and planning for the God-I-hope-not event that one or both of us dies before Jude grows up. Let me tell you. You pretty much have to divulge your entire life to these people! I got asked, in this order: Do you have a history of heart disease/diabetes, Have you ever had a DUI, Are you currently on your menstrual cycle, Do you have HIV/AIDS? (And for those inquiring--"no" to all of the questions.) Then the bomb dropped. "Have you been diagnosed with any neurological disorder..." Well, there it is. "...In the last ten years?" Come again? And it turns out, no, I haven't! I was diagnosed ten AND A HALF years ago! I just made the cut! Anyway, we haven't been approved as of yet, but here's hoping we will. And if not, I just have to force myself not to die before Jude and any children after him finish college!

Idiocracy

My sister's favorite movie is "Idiocracy" with Maya Rudolph and Luke Wilson. I say it's her favorite because she always brings it up whenever the conversation leans toward movie talk. This summer, Jeffrey and I finally sat down and watched it, if nothing else but to be able to carry on a conversation with her. While I wouldn't say it's my favorite (though Jeffrey loved it), that film really brought to light some things I'm seeing in my classroom as well as some fears I have about Jude's upcoming school years.

The basic plot of the movie goes like this. The US military freezes one male and one female of perfectly average intelligence. The whole operation is shut down with the two forgotten about until years later. When the two unfreeze, they find themselves in a future where no one thinks for themselves, everything is done by simply pushing a button or scanning in their tatooed IDs, people live in their own filth, and crops are dried up. All of a sudden, this average male and female become the smartest people on earth.

A crappy plot summary done on my part, I realize, but my gist is that I see this every day where I work. No one wants to think for themselves. Everything must be done for them. Oh, and should someone absolutely have to produce something on his own, by God, it better be easy!

My job consists of making sure that these folks become productive citizens, not a bunch of idiots who think watering the Earth with Gatorade and its electrolyte goodness will produce plentiful crops. As a result, I take no crap from my students (or at least I try not to take crap). Therefore, one wouldn't consider me the most popular instructor to grace the halls of Holmes. I would be lying if I said this didn't bother me. It does bother me. It bothers me as much as it bothered me in junior high to wear thick glasses and my sister's hand-me down clothes that were cool when she was in junior high but had run their course by the time my two year early adolescent sentence rolled around. The only difference between now and then--no one teases me relentlessly anymore (that and I am slightly prettier).

Now I could always change. I could accept fragmented answers from students instead of expecting them to answer a question fully. I could just throw out the essay assignments altogether and provide Scantron tests instead. I could overlook any grammatical/spelling/punctuation errors. I could allow texting language. I could not say a word when students show up unprepared.

I could quit caring.

It would be easy.

However, my convictions to produce quality work and never give up trump any desires I ever had to be popular. I did not have an easy life. I don't mean my life sucked; it didn't. However, I have endured some suffering from time to time, and I chose to claw my way back to normalcy rather than dwell in the cesspool of self pity. With a little problem solving, aggression, and creativity, I'm exactly where I want to be now--gainfully employed and happily married with child. I have everything I need and some/most of what I want.

I want the same for anyone who sits in my classroom under my instruction. I want the same for Jude as well. In fact, I want it more for him. He is, after all, an extension of me (bless his heart). Therefore, no crap will I take. Call me mean, difficult, intimidating, and whatever other adjectives I see on student evaluations, but in a few years, I suspect, as it happens now, a few will send me letters thanking me for the alleged hell I'd put them through. It absolutely pains me to think some of my students will never change. Some will never try to think for themselves or appreciate having an opportunity to try. However, I'm not going to give up. This thing I do--it's my calling for two reasons. (1.) This thing I have--the will to challenge and press forward even when it's hard--that's my gift to the whomever comes in contact with me. (2.) My willingness to go into a tough (though one I love) job each day and come out smiling most days is the example I set for my child--my gift to him.

If idiots roam the world, I can assure you it's not because I didn't try my damndest to change the ones who came in my path!

Just a spoonful of maternal guilt

Days like this, I have my doubts about my abilities as a mother. Tonight marks the night for the annual Fine Arts concert here at school. Along with the many students who have sat in my classroom participating in tonight's event, my husband will direct a few of the ensembles as well. Really, in all honesty, I go to these things to support him. I want to do that. I even enjoy doing that.

However, I will undoubtedly be met with the question, "Where's Jude" as I make my way down the aisle to find a seat and sit with face practically glued to program in the hopes that no one will see me and pass judgment.

Of course, that's the curse of the woman with a pseudo-commanding presence. I say "pseudo" because I'm not necessarily afraid to speak my mind, and I do have quite the vibrant personality, especially here at Holmes, but I also have a pretty strong desire to remain unnoticed. Ask any student, though; I'm pretty live. If nothing else, they all remember the day I proclaimed "All of those bitches are lined up to have his baby" during a discussion of an assigned reading about a champion showdog and his breeding capabilities. So my meager efforts to lay low often fail.

So...where is Jude? Jude is with his baby-sitter, Ms. Lily, tonight. She graciously agreed to keep him for me while I attend this concert. In a way, I feel quite badly for leaving him. I miss him. However, this concert allows me two opportunities: a chance to support Jeffrey and all of the hard work he has put into this year along with the possibility of getting caught up on my grading. Lord knows, I need to catch up!

There are some women (maybe even some men) who, if they knew what I was doing tonight, would judge me. Why not just grab the baby and go home for the night? I have actually heard people so arrogantly proclaim,"I just couldn't send my child to a baby-sitter. I don't want anyone else raising him/her." (Give me a break. Using that same logic, I could always say "Well, I choose to work because I don't want my child to grow up and feel its fine to mooch off of someone else while he/she sits at home," so really, we could go tit for tat.)

However, I see the point, but I also believe in being my husband's biggest supporter. Maybe it's part of why he and I have been married nearly eight years yet we still got it. Besides, that's what Jude is going to remember, that his father and I are each other's biggest fans, not that I left him behind for a few hours extra for one night.I do believe mine and Jeffrey's relationship will (and maybe already does) impact our child and provide him stability.

So tonight, when I go pick my baby up, I will bring him home, give him extra kisses, work in an extra story, and hold him for a few more extra minutes before I put him in his crib. Jeffrey will probably do the same.

Somebody's Thinking: A Perspective on My House

Can a house be too big?

One of the biggest complaints I hear people say of their homes always points to space/storage issues. It has recently dawned on me that I do not have that problem.

Don't get me wrong; we do not live in a mansion. We do, however, have a pretty sizeable craftsmen style home with fairly large rooms, lots of cabinets and closets (though the closets are not big themselves), a basement and an attic. It also has two of just about everything--two dens, two eating areas, two full bathrooms, 2x2 bedrooms (really4), 2 points of entry, just lots of 2's.

Whoever built this house back in 1924 was thinking.

Anyway, I've known the house is big since the first time I had to clean it top to bottom. (Also, I have discovered that as I clean, my house actually does this magical trick where it gets bigger and bigger! Feels that way, anyway.)

So too big? You be the judge.

A few weeks ago, I took Jude into the guest bedroom to do some straightening up. That kid's eyes lit up like I had just offered him a bottle, a stroller ride, a light up musical device, and Sophie the Ridiculously Overpriced but Worth Every Penny Teething Giraffe while delivering news that every bit of rice cereal had gone extinct all at once!

Then it dawned on me. Jude had never been in that room before. That's why he was so excited.

So I got to thinking. Jude had never been in the guest bedroom, the purple bathroom, the formal dining room (well, he's be carried through it to get to Jeffrey's Man Cave, but never hung out in it), and has very rarely sat in the formal living room.

So then THAT got me thinking. Disney World? Shoot. Put my money away! We're just going to take this kid to a room in the house each year. That should tie us over for at least four years and and allow us to throw our money towards his Catholic school education that will inevitably leave us eating Ramen noodles and nothing else for the next 22 years (because we also have to factor in college). Am I economical, or what? My sister, with her binders of coupons and sixth sense for locating Double Couplon days, has nothing on this plan of financial ingenuity!

However, it hit me. Just like any vacation spot where a kid can get lost, so too could I lose track of Jude in this house. Shoot, I can't even keep up with Weezy cat most of the time!

Damn those two dens, two eating areas, two full bathrooms, 2x2 bedrooms (really4), 2 points of entry, and lots of other 2's!

What was that builder thinking?!?!?

Resolutions

For the past two years, I vowed to gain 30 pounds for the year. I had good reasons for this. In 2010, my logic behind the weight gain came from how every other year I vowed to lose, I instead ended up gaining. So why not use this reverse psychology (reverse-reverse psychology?)to have my body go the other way? Well, in 2010, I guess I did take the weight gain resolution literally. I got pregnant--no way I was losing weight that year. In 2011, my doctor told me to gain weight--probably the biggest pleasantry of pregnancy.

I actually never gained the full thirty pounds. Instead, I gained 26. But this year, I'm cutting the reverse psychology b.s., facing the truth, and am going to do the darn thing. I'm losing this weight. I want 40 pounds off of my person by the time New Years rolls around next year. Is that too much to ask? Probably. But I have my reasons: keeping up with Jude, being healthy, feeling good about myself, shopping for cuter clothes, and the thrill of a challenge.

I feel I have the makings to do this. I've picked up some insightful work out tips that I plan to implement this upcoming year, and I like eating healthy food. My biggest obstacles in this endeavor are time and energy. After a full day's work, I find it hard to want to do anything besides play with the baby and crash. However, I need to do this. I don't like the way I look now, and I'm a firm believer in making changes if something isn't going right. The first few weeks, maybe months are going to be tough, but I hope to see results that will keep me going.

I can do this. Surely, I can do this.

Working Mom

So I had to think long and hard about the title of this blog entry, and decided I would keep the "Working Mom" title after all, even if it means my husband will proudly link it to the Rush song. (I married Jeffrey for countless number of reasons; his fascination with the band Rush was not one of them.)

Also, it's been a while since my last post. Why? Well, it has to do with the content of this particular post. I am a mama, and I work.

Some may say we timed Jude's birth perfectly. The English teacher and band director had their firstborn in June, just after spring semester final exams and right before putting together a halftime show. The truth is, we would have welcomed a baby any ol' month.

I used to think the summer of 2001 was the best summer of my life. That summer I plunged wholeheartedly into independence. I had just finished my first year of college, moved to Oxford to live with my sister, held a job and took summer classes at Ole Miss. Between Trigonometry and my shift at Abner's, Amanda and I relaxed on the couch watching Springer, drinking rum runners, and smoking cigarettes. Those three vices equalled one perfect life. I put sleep on the backburner many nights in order to enjoy a party, earn a little extra cash for closing the restaurant, or carry on conversations about what my future absolutely did not hold for me (i.e. becoming a teacher like my mother--HA).

Fast forward ten years later, and my summer consisted of learning the ropes of motherhood. Once again, sleep took a hike, but this time, I wasn't going to a party. Instead, I was tending to the every need of the latest and greatest fellow in my life. Those eight weeks of learning Jude's different cries (hunger, wet, or just plain ol' pissed off), trying to keep the house in order (that shipped sailed about two weeks post partum), and bonding with my child were some of the most precious times I will probably ever have. However, just as I couldn't drink the rum-runners and smoke the menthols every day (luckily, those were just habits limited to my nineteen-year-old self. She was about a dumbass, by the way), so too did my glory days spent with Baby Jude have to end.

I have to say, I do not feel guilty about going back to work. When I dropped Jude off at Lilly's for the first time, sure I cried, but I knew what I had to do, and luckily I went back to work because I wanted to go back. I do miss Jude during the day, and I'm always excited to see him when I pick him up from Lilly's house. When I returned to work, I realized just how much I missed my colleagues and my students. This job was never just a paycheck to me but instead a really large part of who I am, something God has called me to do. Of course, I never was one to do something for anything other than the sheer fulfillment of it. For the past five and a half years, with very few setbacks, I have looked forward to coming to Holmes Monday through Friday and facing whatever challenge was in store for me that day.

Whenever I am home with Jude, I truly enjoy my time with him. We read stories, go for walks, hang out in the kitchen, and totally take advantage of learning about the new world he and I have both found ourselves.

Of course, I guess my glory days of staying at home didn't really end. Since I get an extended Christmas holiday and ten weeks off in the summer, I guess we could say the glory days are put on "Pause" for now.