She's gone country...

Today was a lovely day, and we spent much of it outside working on some of our many projects in the yard. Today was primarily devoted to the chickens, while tomorrow will be spent planting and weeding. I "helped" as much as I could, considering my condition. My main contributions were holding a board while my husband drilled (we were adding some roosts to our chicken-coop), filling the chickens' water, and distributing some not-human-but-definitely-chicken-worthy watermelon I found in the back of the fridge. As I wandered around the yard with Aleida, I had the pleasure of watching her pick up a garden hose and pretend to water some of the new trees in our young orchard. Picking up on something Dave said earlier, she said, "Happy trees!" She then tromped over to an anthill and watched the ants with her 2-year-old fascination and said, "Ants happy, too!" I love that. I don't so much love that a bit later she started screaming because one of these happy ants had crawled up her pant leg and bitten her on her upper thigh. But still...she probably learned a valuable lesson that my numerous warnings about anthills had failed to teach her. Now, when I tell her, "They will bite," she will know exactly what I mean.

When we moved to Greeley, CO last summer, we decided that if we were going to live in a cow-town, we wanted to feel like we lived in a cow-town. We bought a house out in the country with about 4 acres of land. Our field abuts a cattle farm where cattle often graze freely. Aleida has taken to going to the window and looking out, often saying, "The cows are out!" Really, it is quite picturesque. Out a different window, I can see a house with a couple of horses (and I need to make friends with these neighbors!). We are contributing to the bucolic scene by planting a vegetable garden, starting a fruit orchard and raising chickens. We converted an old shed into a chicken coop. We have a little chicken door so the chickens can wander down a ramp and peck around outside on nice days. I don't think this qualifies them as "free-range" chickens, but they are certainly cage free. We asked for all females, but apparently, young chicks are extremely hard to sex, even for experts. Consequently, I'm pretty certain we have not one but two roosters in the bunch. I've heard that they will most likely fight it out, possibly to the death or at least demasculization of one of them. I'm allowing myself the fantasy that our two roosters will be an exception to the rule and live in harmony as two male leaders. They can each have 3 hens to themselves as it is...

Anyway, the point is, my family is going country. And though I know Greeley isn't the cultural hub of Colorado, and though as a whole might I prefer the offerings of Denver, the energy of Ft. Collins and the politics of Portland, I am really loving country life. And I love that my daughter(s) will have space to roam and get in touch with nature and land. I love that by the time she goes to kindergarten, Aleida will know first hand where an egg comes from. She will know what a broccoli plant looks like (something I didn't know til I went to a "u-pick-it" farm in Portland when I was 30 years old). I love that she can wander to the back of our field and come face to face with a dairy cow. I love that our milk is delivered and our honey is made from beehives less than half an hour away. I love that we can judge the seasons by the stages of the fields at a real farm just down the street. I love that when Aleida sees a flower (even a dead one or a weed) she will bend over to smell it and mutter, "mmmm...." I love that she's been aggressively pecked in the leg by a chicken and responded by saying, "So funny!"

Maybe I don't love the bug bites or the fact that my dogs have been sprayed by a skunk twice in the last two months or the amount of flies we'll have in our house in July or the strong cow-poop-scented breezes that waft through regularly, but there is much more to love than not. And when I get nostalgic for the city or a more progressive town, I just remember how my car was broken into multiple times, and how we thought our neighbors down the street were running a crack house, or how I could see what my next-door neighbor was doing in her kitchen and eye-contact through our close windows made me feel awkward. No place is perfect, after all. But every place will teach you something and help mold you into a unique person with your own set of knowledge and skills. I'm glad that my skills and my daughters' will include growing vegetables from seeds, gathering our hens' eggs, and knowing better than to stomp on an anthill.

Many Adolescents Turn into Nice Adults

I recently finished my second semester of teaching Community College. At present, I'm doing this part time so that I can spend most of my time with my daughter (soon to be plural). Teaching adults is quite a treat after my 4 years with middle school students. First of all, the end of the semester crept up on me, rather than finally arriving after countdowns and days that felt like they passed in slow motion. I was almost sad to see the semester come to a close, even in my state of being largely pregnant and often tired. I will miss my students. Secondly, my students bombarded me with presents, thank you e-mails, and verbal praise. One woman even referred to my teaching style as "the best". I'm not sharing this to brag, or even because I think I am in any way "the best." On the contrary, I know I have a lot to learn and improve upon.

However, I'm pretty sure I'm not the "worst." I'm also pretty sure I'm not a "huge b#%ch," "f#@kface," or as one middle-school student simply put it, an "a$!hole." I mean, maybe I occasionally exhibit characteristics of these derogatory titles, but I really can't take credit for actually being any of these things. But I have been called them all by adolescents. In contrast, my nicknames from my community college students included "Teach" (by a girl who just couldn't remember my name), "Miss," and "Rascal" (by an older male student who called everyone some form of pet name throughout the course).

I'm not saying that all or even most of my relationships with the middle school students were strained and negative. And I'm not saying that I hated my job teaching middle school. On the contrary, I had touching, tender, amazing moments with my middle schoolers. There were days I absolutely LOVED my job. And even on the days I didn't love it, maybe even hated it a little, I at least really believed in the importance of my job and the need to do it well. Teaching, even when you feel like you're teaching a bunch of ungrateful s@$th#^ds, is a meaningful career, and even the darkest moments have silver linings if you look hard enough.

But going to class at the college and actually teaching (!) was amazing after my years in middle school. The worst discipline issues I had were students who forgot to turn off their cell phones or those who got too involved in a discussion we were having and had to be refocused. I corrected those minor issues with a half-joking stink eye that would usually bring on a quick apology. I never felt the urge to kick anyone out of class. I often finished the evening feeling energized and elated by my students. I felt like I actually taught something most of the time.

Perhaps it is precisely my background that allows me to love the community college setting so much. I'm teaching developmental English and Reading. These are not disciplined students. Most of them are probably my middle school population just a little older and wiser. I have recovering drug addicts, teenage moms, ex-convicts, high school dropouts, and those who do not view education very highly. I have felt the heartbreak of losing promising students mid-semester to a life tragedy or even self-inflicted drama that knocks them off track. I have had a few slackers, those who I know are trying, but just aren't going to make this on this go-round either. I have adults older than myself reading at a 4th grade level. I have students who don't know how to open a Word Document, and are therefore totally overwhelmed by a paragraph-writing assignment. I have non-native English speakers who can barely form a coherent sentence. I have had several students cry in front of me about problems in their personal lives. I have had the occasional case of plagiarism and/or other forms of cheating. All this in just two part-time semesters. My point is that these students' lives often contain just as much drama as those of my thirteen and fourteen year olds.

Perhaps if I didn't have a background in high-needs middle schools, this would all be too disheartening and frustrating. Maybe I'm just learning something about myself: I'm drawn to the needy population. Now that I have college experience, I could probably go get a job teaching at one of the local universities that would surely have a higher caliber of students. However, I don't have the desire to do that. I loved my needy middle schoolers, despite often feeling abused by them. And I love my needy adults. In fact, I think community college might be a great balance for me. These students allow me to feel needed. They inspire me to get better at teaching, to strive to improve upon their often horrendous and spotty past educations. They allow me to feel altruistic, and they challenge and improve my ability to empathize. However, these students also have learned, somewhere between middle school and adulthood, how to be grateful. They have learned the value of education and want to use it to better their lives. They might not be good at school. They might be awkward or lazy or way behind the curve, but they have learned to value themselves enough to try again, to work on self-improvement and to occasionally thank those along the way who lend them a hand when they need it.

Mother's Day glass 3/4 full?

I feel almost obligated to reflect on Mother's Day for several reasons: 1. I had a little shock when I realized my mother has been gone for almost eight years. That's a quarter of my life that I've lived without her. 2. This is only my 2nd Mother's Day as a mother, and sometimes I'm still shocked to find myself in this grown-up role. 3. I'm expecting baby number 2 in just a few weeks, and I can't help but think about how my own role as a mother is about to change in a big way.

I had a wonderful Mother's Day weekend. On Saturday, we went on a hike. I impressed myself by going about 3 miles being 35 weeks pregnant, and I was doubly impressed by my not-yet-2-year-old, who hiked about half of the distance, riding on Daddy's shoulders the rest of the way. The weather was beautiful, and we all enjoyed ourselves.

On Mother's Day, my husband let me sleep in. After waking with Aleida, he fixed me a spectacular breakfast of Eggs Florentine, complete with a made up concoction he called "Pregnant Wife Mimosas," which consisted of sparkling pear juice and orange juice. I think I prefer the taste of this non-alcoholic version to the real thing. We ended the day with a delicious and elaborate dinner made by Dave and his sister in honor of me and my mother-in-law. What a lovely day.

So as I started to reflect on this Mother's Day, I was thinking that if Mother's Day were a pie, or a glass, it would be 3/4 complete. I am almost the mother of two now, which makes up half the pie. The third full piece I attribute to having won the mother-in-law jackpot. I am very close to my mother-in-law. We are good friends, and she has become a strong mother figure to me and an excellent grandmother to Aleida. Celebrating with her was meaningful and special. The only missing piece to my day was, obviously, my own mother. But maybe just giving her a quarter of the pie isn't fair. Her role in my life was so great, maybe she should be represented by at least half.

As I mulled over this metaphor, however, I couldn't quite make it feel right. Perhaps it's because my day didn't feel incomplete. I didn't cry. I thought fondly of my mother, wished for her to be with me, looked at some pictures and desired to share more holidays with her, but the day didn't leave me wanting. I felt a glow in the presence of my loving husband, my entertaining daughter (who is turning into quite a ham), my own growing belly and my husband's family who feel like my own. I was completely happy.

Today, the day after, I have been thinking about this. I have in turn felt guilty, then sad, then content. I think I felt guilty because I didn't feel more of a mom-shaped hole on the day reserved for mothers. I didn't cry for my loss, which for all purposes can be seen as extremely untimely and unfair. Once the guilt passed, I felt sad when I realized my mom has been gone for 8 years and to realize, again, that she is not coming back. It's interesting how after a person dies, you know this fact in your head: Death is final. But it's also interesting how the reality of this hits you at different times. Sometimes death doesn't seem so permanent, or maybe y

ou just don't think about it enough for it to hit you. At other times, the finality of it washes over and paralyzes you, if only for a split second. I had a moment like that today. My daughters will only know my mother in the abstract way that my pictures and stories and memories piece her together. She will never be a complete person to them. Teachers and mothers of friends and characters in books will be more real and meaningful in their lives. I know this because I never knew my mom's mom, and she is just a series of pictures and funny stories I heard throughout my life. She is like abstract art; I know it's special, but I don't fully understand its essence.

These thoughts eventually settled to a kind of contentment. My glass is full. I accept that I can be complete and happy even while missing my mother and feeling the void left by her absence. My daughters, mother-in-law, and the other important women in my life certainly don't replace my own mother. They cannot because they are separate. Without these positive influences,

however, Mother's Day might be full of tears and sadness. But it is hard to imagine any other version of your life. I accept that my mom is gone even though I don't like it. I still grieve for the loss of her in my life. I grieve for what could've been. I grieve that she never got to be

a grandmother and that my kids will not truly know her. Sometimes I feel this so strongly that it is like a ghost passing through me, and I can't quite catch my breath as I think about it. The feeling passes, but the moment of full-blown grief is always overpowering. The moments remind me how I want to celebrate her life and her memory as it lives on in me and in the next generation. I think about how Aleida was born on her birthday. Regardless of what I (or anyone else) believe about the order of the universe, that is a special connection. It means something, and it always will.