Sometimes, I don't like being a Teacher.

Another school year 'over' - we're full time around here, operating year round, so when I go back on Monday, we'll start up again - and man, am I tired.

It makes me wonder how many people actually consider the emotional turmoil that teachers can go through at the end of the year. I know I certainly didn't before I was working as one.

These are kids that I spend eight hours a day with, five days a week - tying their shoes, icing their owwies, zipping their jackets, and holding them while they wait for their mom and they're sick with a fever of 103 degrees. I do the best I can to give them the best possible start on the world. They spend about a year in my class, and then - even when they move to the next level - I still see them all day (okay, so only 7 out of eight hours), every day, because of the nature of the program that we run.

On average, I spend two years with each kid (from years 3 to 5), and then they disappear off into the world to try to make sense of it with someone else.

It isn't like high school or grade school, where you remember the teachers that made a difference; it isn't like college, where you might write a letter to an old professor to tell them thank you. This is before all of that.

Before most people can even really remember.

The truth is, I miss my kids. I miss them before they're gone - while they're asking questions about kindergarten, and I've got to pretend that I'm so happy for them when really, I want to cry. I miss them when I go on vacation, or when I'm at breakfast with my family and there's a little one blinking at me across the restaurant, or when someone I've just met asks me what I do for work.

I spend all day thinking about the errands I need to run, and what I could be doing if I had the day off, and then I come home and blog about how much I miss my kids.

Its the 'end' of the school year, and I love to watch them grow up; now it's time to send them off into the world and hope that I've given them something useful, and it's really, really hard.

It's hard every year.

I asked another teacher about this, and my dad as well, and they both gave me the same answer about why it's so hard to let them go. They said, "Because you care."

I guess best thing that could ever happen then is that it never gets easier.

"I Keep Dead Rats In The Freezer" Entry #1

Living in close quarters with animals will teach you nothing if not patience. As it currently stands (after a few unexpected losses, and downsizing for the move), I share my bedroom with three Ball Pythons, sixteen Crested Geckos, and one Leopard Gecko. One can only imagine what the room has looked like over the past sixteen years, constantly transforming to accommodate yet another tank when, just after adding the last one, I swore to myself that there was 'absolutely, positively, no more room.'
A light sleeper in general, I have (over time) become much more adept at continuing to snooze straight through the various bumps, thumps, rustles, clicks, chirps, thunks, and other assorted noises in the night. The one thing I have not adjusted to is... snake pee. (Henceforth referred to by its scientific name, 'urates'.)
Currently, my bed is lofted six feet into the air to allow myself some actual living storage space; all said and done, I use the area under my bed for supplies and clothing, and sleep roughly 18" from the ceiling. Sleeping quarters are cramped, with poor air circulation and heat issues - or, as I call it, "cozy".
It is not quite so 'cozy' at two o'clock in the morning, when I have suddenly come from REM sleep to full consciousness at lightning speed, only to discover that my sinuses and lungs are ON FIRE and I can barely breathe.
Between the nocturnal nature of the animals I keep, the natural out-gassing of waste products, and the very poor circulation of air around my head at night, I regularly find myself waking up in just such a manner. There's no polite way to say it - urates STINKS. It is, basically, a waste form of ammonia; ammonia, as you may or may not know, is the main ingredient in smelling salts. It has become no real surprise to the rest of my family to discover me up and scrubbing tanks in my boxer shorts at three a.m., or crashed on the futon in the living room for the night with my bedroom window open until the area becomes 'livable' again. (It also helps explain why all of the animals are in my room - it's tough to make an argument for having any part of the rest of the house smell like that. Maybe we could keep them in the bathroom?)
It also makes it obvious that the only people who keep animals like that are people that love them.
I have heard many people exclaim, "Oh, isn't it darling!" about a newborn baby - and maybe, to some, it is; wrinkly, purple, crying and screaming and smelling of sour-milk-y vomit... Adorable. For the most part, though, I think there's something about that statement that rings most true for the mother and father; the ones that have been up all night feeding it, changing its diapers, burping it, and singing it back to sleep as best as they can - the ones that changed their lives to have it in their homes.
That's how it is for me with my reptiles; where many people look at them and see a scaly representation of evil itself (which is sometimes how I view newborns, so I'll call it an even trade), I see my own version of a kid - the thing I've worked my life around to keep.

"...A wedding is a loaded gun. Don't be the asshole staring down the barrel asking which button makes the boom noise." -ShitMyDadSays (https://twitter.com/shitmydadsays)

I've got to say, the thing I least expected about getting married has got to be how much I've been thinking bout my ex. I'm not even sure that I've been about my ex, per se - it's more like I've been replaying bits of the relationship over inside my head for some strange, unknown reason; I've been excruciatingly mad at him and horrendously disappointed in myself, I've missed the friendship we shared and mortified at the people we were with each other toward the end. I think a lot about how it ended, and what happened between the start and the finish that had things go so horribly, horribly awry the way they did. There are a lot of things that I could say about the person he was, and the person I was, during that entire period of our lives - the great many of them not nice things. There were a lot of things I couldn't see, despite having people beat me over the head with them. There were a lot of things I wouldn't see, too. I guess, maybe, that what I'm hoping is that I've learned a hell of a lot enough since then.

I don't want what happened to my ex and I to ever happen between me and W. I know that I've learned a ton. I know that I've changed dramatically. I know that things between my ex and I were never like they are between me and W. I know now how to stand my ground; how to respect myself, and how to respect others. I know now to be honest, open minded, willing to be vulnerable. I know now that I am a person worthy of loving, and of being loved. I know now not to build walls where windows should be, and that being in a relationship requires the effort of both parties involved.

I'd be lying through my teeth if I said I hadn't received mixed reviews about my getting married to this guy; my parents have been alternatively supportive and concerned - they love W, they love the way I am with him, and at the same time, they don't always see where we are coming from. They've said, "I think you're making a mistake," in the same way their parents did 31 years ago when the two of them got married. 31 years ago, my dad and my mom eloped - one Jew and one Christian, and two families that liked each other, but definitely did not think the two of them should wed. One of my grandparents gave them, "Two years, max."

I often sit down to write these things (the blogs) to work out some sort of internal confusion about what's going on in my life, to figure out why things are happening the way they are, or why I'm behaving the way that I am. I think I've been thinking a lot about the relationship I had with my ex because when they say, "I think you're making a mistake," I hope that it's the kind of 'mistake' they made 31 years ago - the kind of 'mistake' that was exactly the right thing for the both of them. The kind of 'mistake' you make out of humanity and love and hope and trust, out of the willingness to work hard (because you know you will), and to experience both highs and lows (because you know there will be both, no matter what either of you does) - not the 'mistake' you make because life hasn't taught you how to love yourself yet.

I have a lot of hope for the life that I'm starting with my fiance; I have a lot of faith in us, and in our Higher Power, and in the partnership that we're building together. I have a lot of fears, too - most of them around myself, and whether I'm going to be able to be the person I need to be. I guess that's where I've got to look for a little more faith in myself.

I read once a conversation that went, "Is this normal? Are all bride-to-be's this nervous before they get married?" To which the grandmother replied, "Only the ones that are thinking."

I'll take it as a good sign that I'm thinking.

Feeling Young Again

When it comes to memories of my childhood, nothing seems more suiting than the rides on my bicycle on a hot summer day. I would toss on my bathing suit and a pair of jeans (it was as close as I could get to going topless, with the sun beating down on me), grab that well worn work-horse, and blaze down from the top of the hill, stop signs be damned. Other kids could ride their bikes, but when I climbed on mine, I'll swear those wheels grew wings.

The summer that I turned 12, I spent more time along the roads between The Reptile Store (not officially titled, but so named in every conversation I've had since discovered) and my home than I can remember spending on any road since. I would pedal until my legs went numb and my lungs would ache, arrive sweaty and grinning; independent, surrounded by lizards, and utterly, completely, free.

I did nothing of real consequence; I bagged crickets, rang up customers, stacked aspen, harassed the animals... I'm sure that I had plenty that was bothering me (I was twelve years old, what preteen doesnt?) but really, what I remember most, was being happy.

I started this post to talk about my bike; these days I have a newer model - still black, neon green, and entirely 'too' masculine for a lady as small as I am. It weighs 33 lbs - literally a third of my weight - is designed to be used on the mountains and not - as I most frequently use it - on the streets. I started with the intent to talk about my bike, and when I started talking about my bike, my memories spun out on me - I was back at the reptile store; carefree, awkward, 'independent' in the way only a 12 year old with a summer job can feel... I was laughing with Sean (all knees and elbows then, a drop dead gorgeous man these days), sitting on the counter above the pair of water monitors, antagonizing a rattlesnake in the attic... I thought I started this post to talk about my bike, and as it turns out, that wasn't what I wanted to talk about at all.

I started this post to return to freedom; that place that always exists, and we forget how to touch.

I rode my bike tonight; I went for a jog this morning. I brought my snake with me to work, and I had breakfast with my family before we went our separate ways. I sat in the sun on my lunch break, I read about forgiveness, and - for the most part - I brought myself back to the summer of 12; I brought the summer of 12 back to me.

What brings you to 'free'?

...What was I saying?

It's been an emotional few weeks; my kids are getting ready to graduate, W and I are both approaching personal anniversaries that we tend to get squirrelly around, we've been (unexpectedly) house hunting (W has to be out of the old place by Sept. 1st), B is still going in for treatment and doesn't understand why we have to move, and - on top of the rest of it - the two of us are still putting things together and planning for the wedding.

Everyone seems to make a big deal about how hard it is to plan a wedding, and how taxing it is to try to manage everything... I agree halfway. I agree that it can be taxing - in some cases there can be a TON of opinions, a TON of family drama, and (in all of them I would think) a TON of details. As for the level of difficulty, though... I assign that mostly to the emotional aspect of such an incredible life change, not the actual planning of the wedding.

Last night, as posted, W and I signed for a place (thank God) - now we're just finalizing the details of rent and utilities and who is paying what.

...I don't remember where I was going with any of this. Maybe I'll finish it later.

New Home

Well, I am now officially renting a home. Actually, W and I are now renting a home. It's a little three bedroom, two bath place - kinda cute. It's not 'everything I've always wanted and more', but it's definitely a good start. My favorite part is the area around it - this is the view from the back yard:

And, literally across the street from our front porch:
It's kind of funny, in a way; while I'm feeling very strange about moving out of the house that I'm in now - it's the house I grew up in - I was walking around the back yard of the new house today and stumbled upon this little creature:The one thing that frustrated me about the house I grew up in was that there was never any wildlife in our back yard to speak of. Now? We have (at least) lizards. We're also within walking distance of a nice 'wilderness' area with trails and the like.

Go us. :)

Wedding Stuff

Preview

Freedom is more than liberties, it is a state of mind; it is the deep seated sense of serenity, peace, and faith that comes from living toward a greater good. Happy fourth, everyone. Thank you, my ancestors.

Spent yesterday picking up stuff for my bridesmaids. While they'll all have black heels for the ceremony, for the reception we're switching them into 'vivid blue' Chuck Taylors for comfort (and style! ;))A week and a half ago, I ordered everyone's shoes - apparently the shipping center sent one pair in the wrong color (so we reordered it and we're waiting for that one), and then the size list got lost - soooo, I'm hoping that we have everyone's shoes in the appropriate size. If not, well, at least they'll be a size too big rather than a size too small? Oh details, details...

I also ordered their necklaces:And their earrings:

I also ordered a few things for myself, to try on with the dress (which, yes, I realize there are no pictures of yet... patience, patience...).

These are the necklaces:


And here are the earrings:

Both the necklaces and the earrings were ordered through an Ebay seller - Beadscorner - and are Native style, though not necessarily Native made. Their prices were exceptional; more on quality when they arrive.

We also went and got the wallet-sized photos to drop into our invitations, and the custom guest book that I ordered arrived yesterday. I ordered it through Picaboo, and I really could not be happier; the only issue I have is that one of the pictures came out a little lower quality than I would have liked, but that's my own fault for not having a larger/higher resolution photo on that page - they warned me that it might come out that way. Either way, it's still leaps and bounds ahead of the sterility of the traditional ones I've seen; they always make me feel like I'm signing in and out of a hospital.

I hope it's big enough.