Tag: school

Me and My Big Mouth

Winter break 2014 grows steadily smaller in my rearview mirror with each new day.  It’s already the end of February, which shouldn’t be a surprise since it is the shortest month.  Still, how did we get to the 23rd already? Even with Snowpacalypse 2015 and the never ending snow days, we’ve been sprinting towards week-ends and the beginning of the new month with Olympic type speed.

After the break, reminders were sent home with the 4th graders that they would be in charge of a chapel service at school at the end of February. I dutifully noted that on my calendar and kept an eye out for any emails or papers to that effect.  A few weeks ago, M comes home from school and I check her homework journal. Under the heading for Religion, it said, “Chapel Practice”. I asked M about it, to which she replies the 4th grade is working on their presentation, selecting things like music and scripture with the help of their religion teacher.  As I tuck her in that night, her eyeslids ricochet up as she realizes she’s forgotten to get something to bring in for the chapel practice.

“Mom! Mom! Mr. J- wants me to bring in a big ball tomorrow, like a beach ball, for religion class!” she panics, sitting up in bed and casting her eyes about her room for something — anything — resembling a beach ball.

I look at my watch. 8:20pm. I’m already running on fumes, still have to tuck in C and V, and am itching to get off my feet and into my chair so I can cuddle up with the DVR.  “Look,” I say to her, gently pushing her back towards the pillows, “there’s no ball in here. I don’t know where one is, okay? I’m sure we can figure something out tomorrow and you can bring it in the next day or somehting.” I’m already thinking about those big gumball colored rubber balls held captive in a giant cage at Wal-Mart.

“I know where one is! I know where one is!” says M, sitting back up. “In the shed, there are those balls you got us this summer. I’ll just get it in the morning.”

I vaguely remember some rubber balls flying through the air outside, getting stuck under the back deck, and being kicked onto the roof of the shed. If she’s sure it’s there, she’s welcome to it.  I remind her, though, that it’s her responsibility to remember to get it before we leave in the morning.

While I shouldn’t be surprised, I am when M goes out to the shed — without asking for any accompaniment from C or V — and grabs the ball, well in advance of leaving for school. We get to school. They get dropped off amidst well wishes for a great day and before I know it, I’m back in the carpool line to pick them up.  Once buckled in backseat, M says, “Mom! Mom! Mr. J- says I need to bring in another ball if I have one for religion class. It’s for part of the dance routine. There’s another ball in the shed. Can I bring it in tomorrow?”

Hmmm. We just brought in a ball today. Now we need another one? Is this going to be a recurring theme until the actual chapel service? I say to M, as we head back to our house, “Do you have a sheet or something that has a list of the supplies you need so that we aren’t waiting until the last minute for stuff?” She gives me a little speech that begins with, “See, the way my religion class is set up. . .” that has me wondering if she’s been listening to Kevin Hart on Pandora when I’m not paying attention. In any event, there’s no sheet.  Further inspection of her religion folder at home produces a piece of notebook paper with a list in her handwriting that includes balls and not much else. I tell M that she can have the other ball if she can find it, which she did. I make a mental note to follow-up with her homeroom teacher and/or the religion teacher, but get sidetracked by life and forget.

A few days later, as we are in the midst of the bedtime routine, M tells me that her teacher wants her to bring in tutus for the dancers in the chapel program.  When I think back about what happened next, I realize, she caught me at a bad time.  She and C had both just finished plays in their respective grade, which required multiple trips to Target for long sleeved shirts, leggings, and hats, as well as a few panicked calls to Grandma to outfit them in their respective costumes. I’d also picked up supplies for Valentine’s Day for all three of their classes, and set up little reminders for myself for the other volunteering responsibilities that I’d signed up for back in September.  I was maxed out at that point. Sure, I’m not the only parent to take on tasks, volunteer to bring things in and so forth. I know lots of parents who revel in that kind of thing. At that point in time, though, with the addition of a handful of tutus that, no doubt, had to be brought in the following day, I was ready to pass the buck.

I remember sitting at the kitchen table, shoveling my dinner in my face in attempts to eat it while 1) it was hot and 2) M, C, and V were otherwise occupied, therefore not in need of any immediate assistance.  But, I’m like Doc Brown and they’re the Libyans.  Even if I took my plate into the laundry room, shut the door and perched upon the agitator, they’d find me.  And M did, a request for tutus tumbling out of her mouth.

I put down my fork and sighed, probably ran a hand over my face in dramatic fashion.  “Look,” I said, “I haven’t seen any notices or emails from the teacher about what you need to bring in. I think we’ve contributed enough to this project, okay?  You tell Mr. J- that we don’t have any tutus.  It’s not my job to outfit the entire 4th grade for this thing.”

Well, you can guess what happened next.

I’ll give you a hint. Your girl M went to school the following day and when she was asked about the tutus said,

“My mom said that we don’t have any tutus and it’s not her job to outfit the entire 4th grade for this thing.”

Which is what she told me she said when she got in the car that afternoon, to which I replied:

via

I suppose I should be lucky she didn’t embellish it at all. It’s not like I was muttering and mumbling filth-a-flarn-flarn-filth or something.  I didn’t tell her to share the message like that  Kevin Hart bit. I just didn’t specify what she was to share and what she was not. I didn’t realize I needed to.

I used to say, “Mother of Pearl!” and “Crap on toast! ” in place of the four and five letter words best left to the Sopranos for fear of having them sprinkled like confetti during a toddler playdate by one of my own precious gems.   Turns out, it’s not the expletives or inappropriate jokes that you have to be wary of being repeated. It just the run of the mill directions, lacking in clarity, that will get you in trouble.  Turns out, I just need to sandwich everything with a hearty helping of, “Don’t repeat that!” because if I don’t, they will.

 

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IN: ON: February 24, 2015 TAGS: , , , , , BY: Hilary
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recipes

Recipe Friday

Another week in the books. Another week with the boot.  The end is in sight, though.  This time next week, I’ll be bootless!  I’ve almost forgotten what it’s like to wear two shoes at the same time.  Maybe I’ll be putting up pictures of myself in the boot for Throwback Thursday . . .in a few years though.  

Ahhh, #tbt.  The first time I saw that hashtag, I had no idea what it meant.  Yes, I Googled it.  Now, I’m all about it.  But, I’ve always been taking pictures and saving things to pull out for remember when moments.  If you and I did something together, chances are I’ve got a picture of it somewhere.  This week, I threw up a few pictures from college — one from a trip to the Vineyard with some friends and one from that time I got my tongue pierced (yes, really).  I had one from high school left over that I put up today, just because it was a good memory.  That last one got me to thinking about my high school experience, what a really great time that was.  I can’t tell you a single thing I learned, except maybe Congruent Parts of Congruent Triangles are Congruent, my standard answer for all proofs in tenth grade geometry.  Oh, and that I’m “lovable and capable” as Sister Marie Thomas would make us state before she would let us leave typing (do they even call it that anymore? better question, do they even have that class anymore?).

I did learn some things, obviously, but I like revisiting the times spent with my girlfriends and the shenanigans we got up to, in and out of school.  Sledding down the front lawn on cafeteria trays. Lunch at T.G.I.Friday’s on half-day Wednesdays. Eyebrow plucking in the Senior Lounge?  Mrs. Skutnik and her Fallopian Tubes (that one’s an inside joke for sure).  

My friend Erin would host a holiday brunch at her house during Christmas season.  Sometime during the break, you’d get this note with all the details.  The note would be Calvin and Hobbes from the funnies, but their regular dialogue bubbles would have been replaced with Erin’s handwriting asking if you’d heard about the brunch and if you were planning on coming (I’m sure I’ve still got one in one of my scrapbooks).  We’d all pile over to her house, sit around eating, and laughing. We may have even done some Secret Santa Swap, too.  I know one year, we visited a reindeer farm after stuffing ourselves with baked goods and other sweets.

Oh, deer!
I remember thinking that a reindeer farm in our hometown was kind of random (we lived in suburban New Jersey), but it was the holidays, so we went with it.  It also could have been from the copious amounts of Kahlua laced caked we’d eaten just a few hours before.  Yes, I’ll admit it — I engaged in some underage imbibing when I was in high school.  Of cousre, being the goody-two shoes that I am, I never snuck nips from the liquor cabinet or replaced vodka with water.  I used it to cook with.  

I would make a Kahlua Chocolate Trifle Cake every so often and bring it to school for lunch. The nuns would let me store it in the massive cafeteria fridge.  During lunch, the group of us would grab our spoons and attack the mixing bowl full of chocolate cake, chocolate pudding, Cool (huh)Whip, and toffee bars.  I can still hear the girls banging their spoon clenched fists on the table and chanting “Kah-lu-a! Kah-lu-a!” as I walked to the table bearing the dessert to end all desserts.  I’d drop the bowl in the middle of the table and step back. You ever see that reel on Animal Planet or Discovery when the pride of lions demolishes that unassuming wildebeest?  Yeah, it was kind of like that.

Erin’s Christmas Brunch. Note the lack of plates. 
So to complete this trip down memory lane, I leave you with the recipe for Kahlua Chocolate Trifle (and how it’s actually supposed to be presented).  Although, there is something fun and deliciously naughty about eating it out of mixing bowl with a soup spoon. Happy Friday, y’all!

(image)


Kahlua Chocolate Trifle (recipe found here)
Ingredients
1 box chocolate cake mix
1 box chocolate pudding

1 tub of cool whip, light

2 Heath bars crumbled

1 c. Kahlua


Directions

Make the cake in a 9 X 13 pan as directed on the box.  After you pull it out of the oven, pierce the cake all over and pour kahlua on top and allow it to soak into the cake. (YUM)


Make the pudding as directed and let it set and cool.


After the cake has cooled, cut into 1-inch cubes.  Layer half of the cake on the bottom of a trifle bowl.  Layer half of the chocolate pudding on top of the cake, and half of the cool whip on top of the pudding. Top with plenty of heath bar crumbles.  Repeat. 


Best when served chilled, and even better the next day.  Can also make individual servings.





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IN: recipes ON: December 7, 2012 TAGS: , , , , , , , , BY: Hilary
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Back To School: Part 2

It finally arrived.
The first day of first grade for Morgan. 
Look at that smile! She was super excited last night, so going to bed posed a bit of a challenge. She and Coever were talking, singing, and giggling well past their bedtime.  When I went to check on them around 9:30, Coever was face down and drooling onto her Hello Kitty Pillow; Morgan was trying to shove her flashlight and Magic Tree House book under her pillow.  
“You should be asleep,” I gently chided her, withdrawing the literary contraband.
“I’m just too excited to sleep!” she said.  “I’m ready to go. Right now, I’m ready.”  That’s really encouraging to hear.  After all the build-up of back-to-school only to have to wait another week before it can actually start? Talk about taking the wind out of your sails.  Yet, the eve before she crosses the threshold into true grade school, Morgan has an assuredness and calm below her surface excitement that belies her six years.  
I had hoped for a bright, sunny day on which to send her off, but the spatter-pattering of rain on the roof proved to be a more soothing way to get going.  There was no rushing and bustling.   Breakfast was a lackadaisical affair of Special K, fruit and juice.  Her backpack stood sentry at the front door.  Lunch had been made the night before.  Her back to school outfit had been carefully selected and adorned.

Yeah, those boots are killer, and when I first showed them to her, she couldn’t wait to tromp through the house in them.  The clouds and rain prevented us from snapping the first day pics outside, but it didn’t sap Morgan’s sunny disposition as she dropped her backpack to strike a pose.
“Yia-Yia, Pop-Pop!” she called to my parents, who are in town visiting, “Come look at my 1st grade pose!”

Oh yeah, she’s ready to go.

Some moms I know are going to be grappling with tears and nervous tummies (their own, not their kiddos’s) as they navigate carpool.  Other moms will barely bring the car to a rolling stop before kicking Jr. out to the curb (“Tuck your head! Tuck your head!”).   I’d like to think I’m going to fall somewhere in the middle of the two extremes.  I’m looking forward to mornings of uninterrupted time to work, but I’m going to miss the random hugs and kisses the girls pepper me with as they skitter from one room to the next dressed up in all manner of frills and scarves.  I’ll enjoy appreciate running errands where I only have to unbuckle myself and can use a basket,  but I’ll miss the running dialogue that comes with two little imaginations at the helm of the race-car shopping cart.  The begging for fruitsnacks, ice cream, popcorn, free samples from the deli department and of course, multiple trips to the bathroom?  Not gonna miss that, but I digress.

I’d like to think I’ve provided both girls with a pretty awesome summer, one that they’ve thoroughly enjoyed and memories of which will last them well into the school year.  I wouldn’t say that the first day of school snuck up on us — c’mon, we’ve been doing a countdown calendar since the last day of school — but it’s hard to believe it’s already here. My girls are growing up and I’m amazed at who they’ve become in such a short period of time.  I mean, what did I think was going happen if I loved on them, nurtured them, encouraged them, and worked on making them thoughtful, independent, young ladies with strong character?

Two little ladies ready for anything, including the first day of school.
Hold on while I pat myself on the back (kidding, kidding). (no, I’m not). (no, I’m kidding).(sort of).

PS. If you have a chance, check out my friend Libby’s thoughts on sending her little boy off to kindergarten.

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IN: ON: September 6, 2011 TAGS: , , BY: Hilary
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Back to School

It’s that time of year again . . .

I don’t know who’s more excited, me or. . .no, it’s me.

It’s totally me.

I love back to school. I always have. I love a new packet of lined paper, new workbooks.  I love a new Lisa Frank Trapper Keeper with a Sailor Moon spring-loaded pencil case and an Aladdin lunch box.  Yes, I did have all of those things, and yes, I was a high school sophomore at the time.  Ahhh, youth.

The past two weeks have been nothing but the express train to CrazyTown.  As the summer drew to a close, we were inundated with back-to-back Back to School preparation.  The girls will be going to different schools this year, which means, each school has had their own new family orientation,  new student orientation, new school/new buddy program orientation, and all matters of activities to get us all oriented acclimated.  There’s all this build-up and rah-rah leading up to the first day of school.  The girls were literally crackling with excitement and anticipation. I was steadily crossing off calendar days until THE day.

Then Irene happened.

One downed tree and 5 days without power later:  Morgan has missed her originally scheduled first day. She’s on summer vacation for another week.  If I had a little sound bite of that trumpet triplet — you know, waa, waa, waa — I’d definitely insert it here.  The silver lining here is more quality time with my first born before she is fully immersed in the rigors of first grade.  Her enthusiasm, however, is beginning to deflate like a left-over birthday balloon.   She’s gone as far as to remix the They Might Be Giants Song “I Never Go to Work” as “I Never Go to School”.  Wonderful.

Coever, however, was washed, fed and out the door for her scheduled first day, September 1st.

Oh yeah, that’s today. I’m so giddy, I’m floating in my seat a little. 
Just as in other first-day-of-school experiences we’ve had, she was all smiles and “Bye, Mom. Bye!” as we left her in her teacher’s capable hands.  Let’s hope this good cheer carries her well beyond the first day, the first week, even.  

Marking the occasion. 

Afterschool.  Still smiling.

“Whaddya mean I gotta go back tomorrow?”
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IN: ON: September 1, 2011 TAGS: , , BY: Hilary
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Snacky Bites

So this afternoon, I’m going through Morgan’s bookbag, pulling out reams of paper that need signatures, initials, thumbprints, wax seals and the like.  I find a sheet that has designated who in the class will be responsible for bringing in snacks and when.  Blessedly, our day isn’t until next week, but the planner that I am, I’m probably going to get something sooner rather than later.

I see that particular emphasis has been put on a line on the sheet stating that the snacks must be store bought.  Guess I won’t be making banana nut muffins after all.  I don’t think it has to do with allergies, though that might be part of it.  I heard from another elementary school mom something along the lines of “not everyone has the same sanitary upkeep as everyone else”.  Let’s just say, mother’s milk isn’t the milk that should be used when making baked goods for the kindergarten class. **shudder**

Anyway, I asked Morgan what kind of snack would she like for me to bring in to class.

“Potato chips,” she says, firing off a shot at me with her little hand cocked like a mini Beretta.

“Um, how about something a little bit more healthy than that,”  I suggest.

“Cheetos.” She fires off another shot at me, throwing in a wink this time.

I see that we are actually moving backwards on the healthy snack scale here.  Granted, we didn’t start particularly high, but chips to Cheetos is an epic fall. 

I’m thinking we’ll be bringing the pre-school gold standard of snacks — Goldfish, pre-packaged, individually wrapped (and breast-milk free).

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IN: ON: September 13, 2010 TAGS: , BY: Hilary
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What Day Is It?

Upon waking up Saturday mornings, DH likes to announce that the week-end, “is over”.  I used to think that this was a silly thing to say.  It’s Saturday morning! The sun is out! The birds and singing and we have the whole day in front of us.

Then we had children.

Saturday and Sunday became bookends between which we crammed birthday parties, trips to the zoo/museum/the grocery store, family time, various sporting lessons, and household clean-up. By the time we actually heard the birds singing, it was because it was Monday morning.

As an married adult with children, I see that an entire summer is whipping by at a break-neck pace.  Just like how Christmas decorations start rolling out around Columbus Day (second Monday in October, people), the back-to-school paraphernalia appears sooner and sooner.  It’s the end of July, but I’m pretty certain that July 5th saw the red,white and blue replaced with school bus yellow and composition notebook black and white.

I walked into my neighbor-hood Target and was assaulted by the Back-to-School savings I could take advantage of.  The savings were so great, the deals so plentiful, that I actually forgot what I had gone in there for in the first place.  Suffice it to say, the only thing that got saved was the economy due to the generous boost from the Dixon family.

Growing up, I looked forward to back-to-school shopping like it was an early Christmas.  I roamed the aisles of Drug Fair (what you non-Jersey natives would call CVS) and loaded up.  New Trapper Keeper! Lisa Frank notebooks!  Pencils! Sailor Moon pencil case with the hidden compartment for me play with instead of paying attention in math class!  My mom would take me to the Bridgewater Mall (sweet!) for new back-school-clothes. . .well, sort of.  We had uniforms in high school, so new clothes meant choosing between new navy tights or new navy knee socks.  Decisions, decisions.

After bowing out of school last October, I thought the giddiness of back-to-school preparation was behind me.  Then I realized, Morgan is on the cusp of her entrance into the official school system:  KINDERGARTEN.

Wow. 

How did we get here?

And kindergarten now, is way different from when I was in kindergarten.

Can you find me? It’s like “Where’s Waldo”, isn’t it?

First of all, there’s a school supply list.  There’s stuff, beyond a pack of pencils and a bookbag, that we have to get for the classroom.  Like baby-wipes and band-aids.  Like multiple packets of crayons and markers.  I had heard the school budgets had been cut, but wow. 

How about this? Gone are the days of AM and PM classes.  Kindergarten is all day — 9 to 3! Those are banker’s hours!  What am I going to do with myself while Morgan tells all of our family business to her teachers and peers (you know she will; volunteering our personal information is her #1 hobby)? 

And homework!  I hear there’s homework in kindergarten.  Who knows what kind of dittos (do they still even have those?) and worksheets she’ll be bringing home.  I’m about to order up some “Math Made EZ 4 U” off of Amazon because I am russssss-teeee. 

My parents had given me this book when I started school called “School Days.” It’s a little scrapbook that you fill out at the beginning and end of every school year with stuff like the name of  your school, your photo, names of your teachers and friends, what you want to be when you grow up, and so forth.  Mine is busting apart at the seams.  There are little pockets to stick in momentos for each grade and I’ve got Valentines, notes I passed, report cards, all of that junk.  I found the 2010 version for Morgan and I wonder how hers will compare to my own over the years.  

It’s weird, turning the corner from your childhood/ adolescent self and walking down that adult/parent road.  I can already see the first day of school coming: Morgan will slip into the clothes she’s picked out the night before.  She’ll slide into her slightly too-big-backpack.  We’ll take her picture on the front steps, maybe she’ll even let Coever stand next to her for a frame or two.  We’ll walk down to the school and guess what adventures lay ahead. I’ll take her hand from mine to put it into the hand of her teacher, a woman I will eyeball until she understands that I am entrusting her with one of my two greatest treasures.  She should conduct herself accordingly.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.  It’s the last week of July; there’s plenty of summer left!  There are still trips to the beach, to Busch Gardens, to visit the grands.  We’ve got playdates to fill up our mornings, arts & craps ::shudder:: to fill up the afternoons, and trips to the ice cream parlor for our evenings.

Back-to-school can wait.  The sun is shining, the birds are singing, and we are just getting started.

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IN: ON: July 26, 2010 TAGS: , , BY: Hilary
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Say, Aren’t You In School?

I have been spending quite a bit of time writing about the goings on that make up the bulk of how I spend my days. I haven’t talked much about nursing school, and that’s been for good reason. I’m not in nursing school any more.

For those of you who know me well, you probably already heard this story, but for those of you who don’t, let me tell you. This is an abbreviated version, but all the facts are true and recalled to the best of my recollection.

What is comes down to is that I didn’t want to be a nurse. It was never my dream. It was more like something I thought I could do and be good at. I have never doubted my abilities when it comes to trying new things. Want to learn a new language? Why not. Want to try a new instrument? Hand it over. Want to try grad school? Absolutely. See, some folks thought my leaving school was because I couldn’t handle the clinicals. Sure, no one wants to wipe senior citizen ass, but you do it because it’s part of the curriculum and it’s part of being a nurse. Did I want to wipe ass and give sponge baths? Nope, not really. Did I wipe ass and give sponge baths. Yes, I did and I was very good at it, too (toot, toot! beep, beep!).
It was never a question of can I or can’t I do it. I can do anything. It was whether I wanted to do it. When you have a passion for something, it doesn’t matter the peaks and valleys you cross to get there. Whatever your goal is, you are so passionate about it, you can’t see yourself separated from that goal. That goal is who you are, what you know. It’s what you eat, sleep, and breathe. It’s what makes you say, “I have always wanted to be XYZ. I have always known that I am supposed to do XYZ.”

So how did I get here? How did I learn the difference between capability and desire as motivating forces? Let’s start at the beginning. When I was pregnant with Co, I had some fantastic pre-natal nurses at my OB’s office. They were smart, efficient and personable women that had a great camaraderie in this practice. I thought, “That looks pretty cool. I could do this.” I talked to some several of the nurses throughout my pregnancy, culling information about how they had gotten into the field. One in particular woman, Lecia, said that she had been an investment banker before deciding that at age 35, that she wanted to be a nurse. At the time, she was married and had two small children. Still, she went back to school and became a nurse. I thought, “Oh, I could totally do that!”

So from there, I started the process of visiting schools, collecting transcripts, fulfilling pre-requisites, and submitting applications. Throughout my education, teachers always wrote on my report cards that I was a great student, but that I needed to slow down and stop rushing. That is advice that I have had a hard time following and my foray into nursing school was no exception. I see that I completely jumped into the whole thing without fully knowing what I was getting into.
In any event, I went through my pre-requisites, I agonized over A&P, as I’m sure you recall. I found that I still enjoyed being in school. I liked being a student, learning something, talking it over with my peers. I made it through first and second semester and submitted my nursing school application. I got in last spring and opted to take the summer off to have one last family filled summer before giving myself over to two years continuous years of school.
School started and I threw myself into it the way I always do. I completely removed myself from all forms of social interaction. School became all consuming. The grading system in nursing school is pretty brutal. Anything less than a 70% is a failing grade. A 94% is the low end of an A-. My grades, of course, were spot on. I have always been the type that bellyaches about how I totally didn’t study for a test, how I’m going to absolutely fail it, blah, blah, blah. Then I get 105 points on an exam. Yeah, this time was no exception either.

I was a little more way through the semester when three things happened:
1. I had just taken an exam that I went into feeling as though I would do alright. I came out of it thinking, “I completely jacked that test up– and not in a good way.” I left the lecture hall and just thought, “You know what? I don’t even care. I just don’t care.” I had called a friend who is about to graduate nursing school this winter and we commiserated on how stressful our lives had become. She said how she had wanted to quit school every single day the past two years, but “[I] have never wanted anything more badly than to be a nurse.” Hmmmm. I chewed on that the rest of the night, but knew full well that I just didn’t feel the same way.

2. That same week, my instructor, now keenly aware of my school related neuroses, pulls me aside and says, “I graded your exam. You got a 100 out of 105.” Okay. . . . . I mean, seriously, I said, “Okay,” as though he said, “Your shoe’s untied.”

3. That week-end, I went to bed around 10pm and woke up at 1:00am. My mind was cycling at top speed and my stomach was doing a slow, roiling burn. I sat down on the couch in a sleep deprived daze. I started to put some pieces together about school, my attitude, my emotions, my place in the world, and how I saw myself.

And here’s where the Aha! moment kicked in — I didn’t want to be a nurse. There it was. It was like this stone I had been carrying in my stomach and I finally coughed it up. I’m not going to say the clouds parted, the Hallelujah chorus kicked in and angels appeared from on high, because that totally didn’t happen. What happened was, in that moment, I grew up.

When they say growing up is hard to do, they ain’t never lied! What followed from that moment was a number of discussions with God, with myself, with DH about what to do next. Was I really going to walk away? Was I going to stick out the rest of the semester? Was I just needing a break from the stress? What am I going to do next? See, school has always been the one thing I could call myself good at. I’m a marginal dancer, I can kinda-sorta play some sports. I know enough French to get through an afternoon if I ever find myself in Paris (one can hope, right?). But school was where I was the master. To walk away from it? Could I really do that? Yes, I could. So, I did.
I wish it was as easy as I’m making it sound, but this is an abridged version of events and I’ve got to rouse the troops. There’s not much more to tell, anyway. And to answer the question, “What did DH say?” — DH is/was/has been/will continue to be supportive of me, though I think it’s because he subscribes to the “Happy Wife, Happy Life,” theory of relationships (kidding, kidding).

And as for what I’m going to do now? Well firstly, I’m going to slow. . .down. . .and then, I’m going to do a whole lot of nothing. Or as close to nothing as one can do when you’re a wife and mother. There’ll probably a bottle of wine and straw involved. . .
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IN: ON: November 25, 2009 TAGS: , , BY: Hilary
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