Today I was asked to write about a time when I was launched into adulthood. I had a hard time thinking about when I decided to grow up. Upon reflection I thought about my life experiences and how I was always the youngest kid and I was coddled. When I was old enough to work, I chose to teach summer camp with the Girl Scouts and babysit. Then I chose to teach, in part because I thought it would be a joy to surround myself with children who had a spark for life’s moments, both big and small.

I never feel like a grown up when I teach. Sixth graders are this funny age in which they sometimes act like adults, then like kindergartens and then like emotional teens. Often I feel like they do, wearing my emotions on my sleeve spewing out my excitement or feelings of frustrations that bubble up to the surface, often when things don’t go my way.

I definitely don’t feel like an adult when I get to talk excitedly about the Divergent movie or about a new pop song on the radio. I feel joyful, excited, engaged. Isn’t that what we want from all students? Isn’t that what we hope that they never loose? I hope to always be a kid, if only a kid at heart. 

 

This is the third time I have restarted my blog post tonight. All this fidgeting tells me I can’t quite concentrate, I can’t quite get into the groove.

Type erase repeat.

“Write something, anything!” I tell myself. And so I will write about this moment when I cannot write, when I do not know what to say. And yet I am writing, my fingers clack across the keys. The more I write, the more confident I feel.

Yesterday was easier. The ideas just flowed. Today I feel as though my ideas are stuck in mud, like I have to pull them out slowly, one by one. Like I’m at the dentist with a tooth slowly being pulled. And yet I know the tooth has to come out to feel better, to feel relief.

Afterwards at the dentist I feel better, as though I learned it wasn’t so bad after all. The next time I go back I’m not so afraid, unsure. The next time I put pen to paper or fingers to keys, I will feel more confident. That’s the hope, anyway.

 

 

Tick tick.

The time keeps passing.

Tick tick tick.

Darkness has arrived.

My left eye begins to twitch, telling me to sleep.

Thoughts of my warm bed creep up into my brain.

It would be so nice to cuddle up in my bed.

To dream away the work load.

To dream

To  s   l     e     e    p.

To imagine.

And then I remember.

And then I cannot forget.

The blogs to read.

The comments to make.

The questions.

The need.

Reading and typing, reading and typing.

I read…

A funny phrase

I find…

A snippet, a snapshot.

I did not know…..

the fall on the skateboard, the almost accident, the friendship

I connect…

How similar we are

What needs we all have

to be heard

to be noticed

to matter

how to tell them

how to make them see

it does matter

I do notice

They are special.

 

Most nights I cook at home. Since my roommate and I get veggies from a local CSA there is always plenty to eat in the fridge. Cooking tends to relax me and lets me be a bit more creative. Lately I have been trying out new recipes, trying to use up produce that I don’t know what to do with.

For the second day in a row I have used tried to use lemon zest in a recipe. I did not know that lemon zest required a tool other than a grater. Three graters later and a few layers of freshly peeled skin I had given in. The kitchen tools tore a chunk out of my finger right across the knuckle of my thumb, for the second day in a row. I gave in to the kitchen gods, threw up my hands and finished the meal sans lemon zest. I’ve decided that zest isn’t worth it for me.

I’m not one for useless kitchen tools but this is getting ridiculous! I might need to buy a zester before I do any more damage to my hands. I know kitchens are dangerous places but hopefully I won’t get scarred in the process of making dinner.