Light

There have been several times these last few weeks where I wanted to be anywhere or do anything else but what I've been doing. Many times, I thought it would be easier to lose myself at the bottom of a bottle or crawl into bed and hide under the covers forever. Or just stop. Give up and say that this is beyond my control. Or run away. I dream at night about waking up on a quiet beach or a mountain cabin or a foreign country.

They seem like easy choices on the surface. But if there's anything I've learned in life, it's that "easy" doesn't always equal "better".

Looking back, it's easy to say that I'm ending this year in pain. It's easy to look at myself and find all of the things I hate about myself -- all those things I wish I could change. I'm overly-sensitive and stubbornly proud and terrified of failing. Yes, those are things easy to see about me.

But "easy" doesn't always equal "accurate" either.

I am sensitive. I joke often that when God gave out feelings, I got in line for thirds. It's a part of myself that I've always been ashamed of. It's been scolded by bosses as unprofessional and taken advantage of by others. My sensitivity was a target, a soft spot, a trigger.  All my life, I viewed my mother as the "tough" one. She was the one I was afraid to cry in front of and hid my hurt from. I wanted, more than anything, to shield myself as she could. What I've learned, however, in the last few years (and weeks especially) is that my sensitivity has led me. It guides me in the questions I ask, the battles I choose, the decisions I make. It gives me the understanding and patience to sit bedside and not look away. It reminds me how lucky I am to have had 39  years of my father's love -- so much more than far too many have had, and it gives me the ability to give him permission to leave us when he's ready.  More than anything, it gives my mother an example to follow. This woman -- this wonderful and strong woman -- who held her feelings and fear at bay all of her life to shield her from pain is now defenseless. She is uncomfortable and unsure in her own feelings, but she is not alone in them. I am grateful to have grown up in a family who, while they may not have loved my sensitive nature, never forced me to abandon it.

I am stubbornly proud. To a fault, many times. I detest asking for help and resist accepting it when given. I believe fervently in making my own way, owing nothing to anyone, and standing on my own.  That, to me, is a success. But it's not, really, because when I look at my life, who am I without those around me? From my family to colleagues to friends I see often and those I see rarely and even those I've never even officially met. My stubbornness leads to me being a better teacher and a better competitor, but it also makes me stick and stay. And my pride, well, it forces me to think of others before myself, and for that I'm grateful. I'm grateful to be in a place I can still want more for someone else than need for myself. I'm not alone, however, and even on the days that I do crawl into bed and hide away, I know that I will always have someone to seek me out, take my hand, and pull me back into the world -- whether I ask them to or not because I'm also surrounded by people just as stubborn as me.

It would be so easy to judge myself or this year by only the sadness I feel now, but that's not fair or accurate. This year, I was loved by many friends, traveled to wonderful cities, ate delicious food, drank, danced, and laughed a thousand times more than I cried. I saw my favorite team win a national championship, and I sat court side on their journey. I challenged myself, and I met the challenges of others. I grew. I changed. I reflected. I was knocked down. I kept getting back up.

Yes, things seem dark now. This will not be the last dark day I see, no matter my hopefulness for 2016. But without acknowledging the dark, I cannot see the value of my light.

And I am surrounded by so, so much light.

I wish you light and love and laughter this year, my friends.

The Breakfast Lesson

My #Write30 topic of the day is to list my 3 pet peeves. There are many, but here are the first three I can think of: people who smack their gum, the tearing out of spiral paper, and people who don't follow rules and create more work for me.

But I'm feeling kind of sassy, and I'm going to break the rules and not write about today's topic. And it DOES actually create more work for me because all the way to work this morning, I thought about all the ways people piss me off and all the ways I plot my revenge.

See, each Wednesday, I roll into school for 45 minutes of duty time. Some stations are easy; some are hard. But not many of them try my patience as much as supervising the breakfast tables, and that's where I've been the last 5 weeks. Kids are messy. They don't clean up well after themselves. And they are desperate to stick together, so the thought of having to leave one another for the 7.2 minutes it takes to eat your bacon biscuit and chocolate milk seems sort of like this:

Kids are dramatic.

We also only open up 2.5 tables for breakfast so that messes are more confined and easier to monitor. But because of the pack mentality and the general slowness/obstinacy of junior high kids in general, we get kids nursing their carton of apple juice as if it's the last drop of water on Earth.

They're also going to try to sit wherever they want because this is what kids do. If I taped a $50 bill to the table and Sharpie-markered a personal invitation to sit down in that spot, they'd be all, "Yeah. No thanks" and move on to whatever spot an adult asked them not to sit in.

So, needless to say, cafeteria duty was topping the list of pet peeves this fine morning.

And then, 8:20 happened.

This would be about the time that one of my kids sat down with his older brother and friends who are normally quite the handful. I've worried about my student who's always somewhere between a hug and a strangle for me anyway. He wants to be on the right path, but he has these boys in his ear always, setting some not-so-great examples for him.

So he plops down in the big middle of the table, knowing the rule that I fill up one side of the table and then the other side, not sitting all willy-nilly, leaving tiny holes too intimidating to join.

So I asked him to move.

So he gave me the excuse that an administrator said it was okay.

So I told him I didn't care. These tables are my job on Wednesday, and this was not her decision.

So they wanted to call me out and argue that because she was my boss, my opinion did not matter.

So I weighed the situation. I could dig in and prove a point and possibly make my morning worse. Or I could let it go, pick a different battle, and get out with my soul still slightly unscathed.

I looked at these 8th graders sneer and remind me again that I wasn't "really in charge" and that they'd do as they pleased. And in that instant, I gave up. I decided that I didn't care. That I wouldn't teach them any lesson over a bacon biscuit because they don't care either. I know it and they know that I know it. I took a deep breath and readied myself to walk away.

And that's when my kid stood up. He picked up his plate and walked to the other side where I had asked him to go. And as he did, he told his brother and his friends, "Don't argue with my teacher. I'm going Ms. Naz."

I eked out a "thank you" and a smile, but I felt terrible as I heard them start in on him for being a "school boy", telling him he didn't have to do what I said, encouraging him to go back. To "show" me.

And that's when my kid stood up again -- for me and for him. "That's my favorite teacher. I'm not arguing with her and neither are you."

I didn't know what to do. I wanted to cry. I wanted to yell, "SUCK ON THAT, YOU LITTLE BULLIES!" I wanted to hug him until his guts collapsed and his eyes popped out. But I didn't because his street cred was hanging on by a thread at this point and any of that would've ruined him.

So instead, later in the day, I saw him walking down the hall. I called him over and told him that I appreciated what he had done. How he had followed the rules when it would've been easier not to. How he stood up for me by showing me respect. But most importantly, I told him, "You stood up for yourself when everyone tried to make you feel wrong for trying to do right. For trying to be good. And you are good."

And here is where my voice cracked and the tears welled -- "THAT is why teachers teach. To see you stand up for yourself and know you're worth the effort it takes to fight the crowd." And there is where a few of those tears leaked out. And there is where I didn't care. Not one bit. Not ever. Not at all.

And that's when he said, "Oh, Ms. Naz," and hugged me so hard, I thought my own guts would collapse and my eyes would pop out. And there's when he moved all the way to hug... just as far away from a strangle as one can possibly get.

Did I teach any big lessons over bacon and biscuits this morning? Nope. I sure didn't.

Because someone else did it better than I ever could.

What I Didn't Expect

There is a spot on my teacher evaluation form where my administrator always asks "Where do you see yourself in 5 years? In 10 years?"

I absolutely hate that question. It is a loaded question.

Because, see, there's this idea in schools... and in America, generally... that if you're not headed somewhere different then you're stuck. I just don't ascribe to that philosophy. So when I am asked that question, I typically hem-haw around or throw out some teacher-talk to make the question go away.

(You know what teacher-talk is. It's like mom-talk, where moms talk all around the topic but never really answer your question. But you're not sure if she answered your question because your mind wandered away, and now you can't admit that you weren't listening because you'd get in big trouble. Teacher-talk is the same but with more educational jargon.)

But what I really want to say is this: I'm not done here yet. I don't need to move on up because I'm not finished here. I have more to learn. Just when I think I've got the hang of it, my kids show me otherwise. Kids are good at things like "showing you otherwise".

Today, my school loaded up 650 of our kids and staff, loaded 20 buses, and drove 15 miles to downtown Fort Worth and a visit to Bass Hall. Admittedly, I doubted this trip at first. It was too many kids having to be still and quiet for too long while watching a play they wouldn't understand (Macbeth). But we were going, so we did our best to prepare our kids. We talked about audience etiquette and background of the play and what we were NOT going to do.

What I didn't prepare them for -- what I didn't prepare myself for -- was the moment we stepped off the bus, and they were transfixed, staring up into the clouds, at buildings taller than most had ever seen in person. We were 15 miles away, but we might as well have been in New York City. Our lovely docent tried to hustle us in, but I had to ask her to slow down. "There's a lot to take in." She smiled, understanding. I smiled back, grateful for her understanding.

I had told my crew that this was a fancy place, and we would be fancy accordingly. We are a uniform school, so I told them that if they went for an evening performance, they'd need to dress up a bit. Yet for a matinee with 700 other students, perhaps just wearing your khakis without the mustard stain would do.

What I didn't expect was to walk up to school and see a boy -- an especially challenging boy -- in a tuxedo shirt and black bow tie. Or one of my girls in a flouncy black skirt and heels.  Or boys who tucked in their shirts for, possibly, the first time in history.  Fancy is as fancy dresses.

I had told them that we were representing our schools and our families and ourselves and that others would be watching. Some might even be waiting for us to make a mistake because of their own misconceptions of who we are.

What I didn't expect was a calm morning with little argument or discussion of where to be or what to do. My kids were quiet, and they are never quiet. I could tell they were nervous. I could tell they were ready.

I had asked them to have an open mind about Shakespeare. I had advised them to watch the action and faces for clues to break down such difficult language.

What I didn't expect were kids who not only understood but who even laughed and gasped and tensed at all the right places. What I didn't expect was to watch a student (who was just in my room yesterday for after-school detention) sit three rows up and lean forward intently, taking in each word, each strike of the sword, each expression.

I had asked them to enjoy today for the experience even if they did not or could not enjoy the play itself.

What I didn't expect was to sit next to a favorite student of mine -- a student who has had a difficult adjustment to junior high -- and watch him sit, unblinking, enraptured by the sights and sounds of the actors, lighting, and scene. What I didn't expect was for him to tell me how he wanted his mom to come so she could see all of this too.

I asked my kids to be gracious and thoughtful to those who were working to give this experience to us. What I didn't expect was for my kids to thank the docents and the bus driver without prompting.

I had hoped others would see us as I see my kids -- as kids -- and not as "Nichols" and what those misconceptions that often brings.

What I didn't expect? To overhear another bus driver say, over the radio, "Now these Nichols students have been wonderful. They are a great group of kids."

What I didn't expect? How things like that never fail to make me cry no matter how many times someone might say it.

So where will I be in 7 years? Hopefully still here. Because I've got more things to learn.

And Maybe We Danced a Little...

All my life, I watched my parents work. I can remember asking my dad what kind of job I should have, and he told me that he hoped that one day, I'd have a career, not just a job.

I loved that.

A career meant passion and love and excitement. I pictured myself as Mary Tyler Moore, dancing my way down the street, flinging open the door to my office, greeting my colleagues with a big smile and, perhaps, a laugh track for the day.

A job just meant work. And work doesn't sound very fun. Nobody dances at work. They shuffle. Nobody flings open the door at work unless they're stomping out, middle fingers raised high. Work is gray and dull and accented by the punching of a time clock.

I thought to myself, "Why the heck isn't everyone out there getting themselves a career?" (Snobbish italics, totally intended.)

***

I'm a teacher. It's what I do. I don't really know how to do anything else. I'm not sure if I'd want to do anything else. Sure, there are moments -- daydreams in the middle of chaos where I imagine life in a quiet cubicle, entering data, going to the bathroom anytime I dang well please.

But I'm a teacher. It's what I do. It is my career, and, yes, it is my WORK. It is my life's WORK. (Emphatic bolding and capitalization, totally intended.)

***

The first day in my school district, fifteen years ago, I introduced myself to a teacher from another school. Another school. She was gracious and kind and so very welcoming as I told her this was my very first teaching job. Until I mentioned what school had hired me.

"Oh. Well, you don't have to stay there forever," she advised. Her kind and sympathetic tone did little to cover her face which twisted up as if I had just plopped down a bucket of elephant dung on the table. At every training and meeting we attended until she retired, I made sure to greet her warmly with my very own best elephant dung face.

I never forgot that woman though, even after she retired, because, in a way, she never left. I saw her in every news story, in every public and private rebuke from our former superintendent(s), in every training where I felt my green shirt unwelcome. I saw her in the giant slideshow proclaiming us as UNACCEPTABLE as well as in the slight of the absent giant slide pointing out our recognition the very next year. I saw her in every gym my basketball and volleyball team entered, in every parent's face that registered only the color of my kids' skin and the decibel of their voices, in every bus driver or administrator that was "surprised" by my kids' manners and sportsmanship. I saw her face when kids and parents refused to be a part of us because of what they heard instead of what they knew.

And I saw her in every mistake we brought upon ourselves. Every gang fight. Every failing score. Every angry outburst. Every kid who gave up. Every teacher who gave up. Every decision we didn't follow through on. Believe me, I know and admit that, too often, we put our own panties on the front porch.

We were the underdog, and in the beginning, I did not mind. I have always loved the underdog because, in the movies, everyone cheers for and falls in love with the underdog. 

This is not so in real life. And, after a while, I did mind.

Making my mark 

***

Last Friday, we loaded up all of our students and staff -- every last one of them -- and took our crazy out in public to be a kickoff school for the Souper Bowl of Caring. The night before, I traded dozens of texts with my best life friends about this opportunity and how afraid I was of it going all wrong. Of all the possibilities of shame or bad behavior that could happen. Bad things can happen when you upset the balance of a single teenager. We had 800 teenagers. Away from school. With television cameras. 

I told them that I felt like 15 years of work was at stake.

But here's what else I was afraid of: it could all go right. It could all go right and nothing might change. My green shirt might still get a disapproving look from the cashier at the CVS near our school. Other teachers still might not want to listen because "what could they possibly know?" Kids and teachers and parents might still give up on us and on each other.

All night and all morning, my stomach flip-flopped from anxiety to excitement to nausea and back again. And as we rode over in that yellow school bus caravan, I wondered what Cranky Old Ms. Elephant Dung Face would say about that school getting picked to represent our district, our community, our region. I wondered what face she would make then.

As I watched our alternate curriculum kids wheel and walk out from the same tunnel that the varsity football players run from, that woman's face began to fade. 

As our platinum level scholars ran out behind them, her face began to fade.

As our sweet and generous cafeteria ladies and head custodian got their standing ovation, she faded.

As an NFL legend applauded our $1,500 check to a local shelter and food bank, and as kids received their awards, and as school board members and superintendent high-fived them, her face slipped away completely.

Drew Pearson, y'all.

And as my fellow teachers -- my Mustang family -- cheered and applauded and laughed, I realized that there is no career without a job, and there is no job without work. A lot of work. A big ol' pile of elephant dung kind of work some days. And in 15 years, I have shoveled my share.

Are we where we want to be? No.

Are we where we could be? No.

But are we where we were? No.

And, for the first time in a long time, the only faces that mattered were the faces right in front of me.

Our kids

So last Friday, walking into that gym, my teammates and I flung open that door and greeted everyone with a great big smile. And maybe -- just maybe -- we even danced a little.

My team teachers

Worth It

I love where I work. It's pretty normal for me to say that because there's never been more than just a few hours at a time, in 15 years, where I thought seriously about working anywhere else.

A great deal of my love comes from the fact that I work with some of the greatest, most caring, most fun people ever. I issued the ALS ice bucket challenge to them, knowing full well that they wouldn't let me down. And they didn't.

No matter who leaves or who stays or who arrives, the spirit is there, the kindness present, the love unwavering. I think it's in the brick and mortar. 

But it's one thing to love your co-workers and another thing to love your work. Where I work, things are rarely easy. We fight battles we didn't sign up for. We feed them breakfast and lunch, but it's their soul that sometimes starves. We are someone for a few, and everyone for too many.

It has been 4 days since the start of a new school year. It has been 4 days since I rested well. It has been 4 days since I began seeing 5:30 twice a day. It has been 4 days since I didn't bring home a worry that I turned over and over and rubbed, worn, in my mind. It has been 4 days, and I'm as tired as if it had been 14.

And then, today, this kid came by my room. I can tell you with full confidence that his deodorant application in class was the very least of our problems last year. I worked with him for a full 4 months before he trusted me. And another 5 months, convincing him that I wasn't lying when I said he was smart or tricking him by promising that "today is a new day". We had as many tears as we had laughs and as many failures and breakdowns as successes. Probably far more. His swings between liking me and hating me were rapid and unpredictable and intense. I never knew where I stood with him because I was always waiting for the bottom to drop out.

This was our conversation today as I stood at my doorway, passing out index cards for our warm-up.

Me: Hey, dude! How are you?

Him: Okay, I guess. Can I have a card?

Me: Only if you write on there, "I miss Coach Naz."
Him: I will. Because it's true.

Then he walked away.

And it was worth it, y'all. It was so very worth it all.

Big Kid Stuff

Tomorrow morning, this little guy will head off to Kindergarten.

It sounds so cliche to say that it feels like yesterday that we were all at the hospital, awaiting his arrival into the world. But it does. Cliches may be tired, but that doesn't mean they're false. And it doesn't mean they don't make my heart ache just the tiniest bit.

The first time I became an aunt, I was 16, living 300 miles away. I missed all of this, and I didn't fully understand or appreciate what I was missing. The first words and first steps. The silly songs and scraped knees. The tiny hands around my fingers becoming bigger hands holding mine. Learning to tell a joke, ride a bike, write your name. I couldn't fathom how quickly Baby Stuff becomes Big Kid Stuff, and I couldn't imagine how much we'd miss that Baby Stuff again.

I didn't know how to be Aunt Deana back then, and I never really caught up. Even now, I sometimes feel that I'm just catching on. I'm thankful that I have friends who make me practice.

As I was driving home tonight, I found myself thinking about tomorrow morning. School will be starting for me as well, and even though it's the 15th first day as a teacher, I still get butterflies. Wondering how the day will go, worrying that I will forget something important, curious what my students will think. Seventh graders in my school come to me almost like Elliott will appear to his teacher: nervous but excited, curious but cautious, hopeful for a good day, a good week, a good year.

I would say that I'm worried, but I know my friend, Courtney has the market cornered on that, and rightfully so. But I am claiming "hopeful" for tomorrow as my wish for Ell is the same wish that I have for all of my students.

I hope:

• you are more excited than nervous.
• your dad packs your favorite lunch, maybe even with an extra dessert.
• you like who you are sitting with.
• you don't feel too lost.
• you are kind and others are kind to you.
• you make a friend.
• you make lots of friends.
• you (and your mom) have more smiles than tears.
• you learn a little something.
• your teacher makes you feel appreciated and welcome.
• you go home, bubbling with stories, ready for the next day.

But mostly, Ell, I hope you always know how loved you are -- bigger than the sky and deeper than the ocean -- today, tomorrow, and every day. I can't wait to hear all about this next big adventure.

Forty Reasons We Love Heather

Sometimes, there just aren't enough reasons to love others.

Sometimes, there isn't enough space, or enough words, to tell all the reasons that you do.

Today is our darling friend, Heather's, birthday. It's a big milestone birthday that I'm probably not allowed to tell you. Not because she feels old but rather I'm worried there's some sort of age limit on the acceptability of fart jokes. I hope not. Dinner conversations will never be as funny again.

So instead, I'm using this space to not only share my words about the wonder of Heather, but I'm also sharing the words of some other friends. And I shall reveal the FORTY reasons we all love her.

1. She likes fart jokes.

2. She cackles when she laughs really hard.

3. I love Heather's dry wit and kind heart. She is so very funny and giving. -- Debi Campbell

4. She is adventurous and has traveled the world.

5. The sarcasm. Oh, the sarcasm.

6. Heather will tackle any challenge without fear.

Okay. Maybe a little fear.

7. Heather was the first person that made me feel like part of a team at Nichols.  She made team meetings fun, and I loved that she was just this side of crazy. XLR8Rs 4 life, yo! -- Angela Kaker

8. She's a badass nerd.

9. Loyalty. If she's got your back, she's got your back. Always.

10. She's tough. As nails.

11. My first awkward moment with Heather was during a team potluck lunch.  I brought deviled eggs, with bacon. I had no idea she ate meat-free! She was gracious, even after she took a bite! oh how she loved our Brain Busters. I so appreciated her sensitive way she motivated or mentored all kids, but she sure had a special way to love on a student even at their hard-to-love moments. -- Annie Garza

12. She's a vegetarian who is cool enough to take you out for a steak dinner.

13. Heather can fix anything. I mean, I can fix anything with duct tape, but she can really, really fix it. Like, for real. -- Me

14. She weighs less when she's drunk. Honest. #Science

15. Heather is not intimidated by head lice, broken wells, or pee in a Gatorade bottle. If you're a teenage boy, and you've done something unbelievably stupid, she will own you.

16. I love that she was always unflappable. No matter what the kid did at camp or how much they were bleeding, Heather would stay calm and take care of the situation. I also love her ability to be a kid.... I think that is why the kids loved her so. -- Denis Cranford

 

17. One of only two adult that I know, in real life, that can rock some pigtails. With attitude.

18. Her generosity of time, money, and spirit. There is not an hour of the day you cannot call her. There is not a moment she will not be there.

19. Vegetarian or not, she will hunt down the big daddy rat in your shitty camp apartment and feed him to the snake living in the hall closet. Word.

20. She was always so much fun to be around. Her wit and charm were delightful. One of my favorite memories of her is when she was one of the back-up singers with Sally and me (the de la Vida singers), and we used rubber gloves to make our boobs bigger and we used small stones taped to the gloves to make nipples. Heather was game for anything, and we had so much fun. Heather, you are awesome!!! -- Nurse Barbara

21. Heather is apparently unafraid to have big ol' fake boobs with stony nipples.

22. I guarantee that Heather is laughing so hard she is wheezing and searching for her inhaler right now after 20 and 21.

23. She does not know the meaning of "that's a SIPPIN' shot".

24. One of my favorite Heather stories is when I went with the girls to her graduation in Abilene. It was my first introduction to "Blue Tattoo" (an intensely blue-colored schnapps). We did consume some adult beverages that weekend. It was my first experience of partying with people that could be my kids. There are so many wonderful memories of Heather and camp that are too numerous to mention, but I do clearly remember her 30th birthday party when I learned how much Heather loves PINK! Happy Birthday, precious girl. I love and miss you to pieces!!! -- Nurse Sally

25. Checking the after effects of Blue Tattoo is considered an experiment. #science

26. She is a rockstar teacher and coach. She spends hundreds and thousands of hours raising other people's children because she will love the unlovable. She will teach the unteachable. And she manages the unmanageable. 

27. She is one hell of a mentor.

28. I love Heather's ability to see the silver lining and do so with the most wicked, yet delightful, sense of humour.  -- Jamie Fletcher

29. Whenever I think of Heather, the first thing that comes to mind is her smile. You almost never see her not smiling! She is so encouraging and happy -- she brings light into any room she's in. -- Stephanie Shackelford

30. Heather, you are one of the most loving people I know. Not only are you loving, but you are real! And that is so hard to come by! To let you know just how awesome you are, I created a poem:

Oh Heather, oh Heather,

No matter what the weather

You are always real, 

probably the realest person ever

At Mt. Loma or Fossil Hill

Your friends are close like birds of a feather.

Marcus is so cool,

You're raising a trendsetter.

Happy Birthday to you,

stay awesome and cool

And your years will keep getting better and better.

Love, Jarrett

31. She's a fantastic mom. And she didn't let anything stop her from being a mom to someone who really needed her. They save each other every day. And it's amazing.

32. Heather, you are amazing. You have truly influenced me in the kind of teacher I am today. You have the kindest heart, and watching you raise Marcus really inspires me in my everyday life with my kids who need a hero. -- Katie Krambeer

33. I love that Heather because she is so loving and compassionate. She loves animals, special needs children and people in general. I've also always loved her passion for sports... especially soccer. One of my favorite memories of Heather is being able to joke around with her in ways you couldn't with most girls and seeing her face when someone says something that could be taken a few ways and watching her try to contain herself is priceless. I still have the post card she sent me. :) Heather is one of a kind and will always be special to me. -- Ryan Willey

34. She believes that a dirty mind is a terrible thing to waste.

35. She suffers no fools. And she does not mind telling you if you're acting like one.

This. This is the look you'll get, fools.

36. Heather is crunchy outer shell, soft gooey inside. She is secretly sentimental and delighted by the small things.

37. Heather is one of the smartest people that I know.  Yet she doesn't hold that over anyone's head -- unless they are truly stupid. She has no patience for stupid people. However, she has incredible patience with young children. Especially those that are difficult to deal with. I often turned over a challenging child, saying, "You're going to have to deal with him/her. I don't know what to do!" And she's pretty hilarious too. But most of all, I would say she's loyal, and I know that she always has my back. -- LJ

38. Heather is a firecracker! A tiny but mighty spirit with an engaging, devilish smile that instantly makes you want to join her team. Whether it's her sports team, department team, or team of friends -- she's spunky and vivacious, and forever branded in my NJH "Good Stuff" memory bank. -- Angela Stidham

39. She throws a mean set of dice. There's a one-eyed Pit Boss at the Horseshoe Casino and Hotel who can verify this.

40. Heather, you are steadfast. When the winds are wild, you anchor us. When seas are calm, you push us. You steer the ship. You fix the broken parts. You dive in when any of us go overboard. You are the sturdy life jacket, the whimsical umbrella in our cocktail, and the lighthouse guiding us home. 

--D, C, and L

Happy Birthday, Heather-Feather. We love you fiercely.

Three is a Magic Number

Three is a magic number. It always has been. It always will be.

Our Brooklyn Claire turns 3 today. And she's pretty magic.

In the tradition of 3rd birthdays, a series of haiku poems.

Hair bows and tutus

Pearls, curls, and rowdy, wild girls

This is Brooklyn Claire.

Sunshine and giggles

This is our ladybug wish

Mostly, you comply.

Fierce independence,

The world is too small, I fear

For the likes of you.

Who dares defy you?

Rain your fury upon them,

Little Pink Storm Cloud.

But when there is peace,

There are pouty lips, sweet sighs

The world rights itself.

Such a little girl

Standing in a sea of boys,

steering your own ship.

Blue eyes and big hopes

Guide you on your merry way

Let us come with you.

Today is special.

Three is a magic number,

Just like you, sweet girl.

Happy Birthday, Brooklyn. I hope today is all birthday cake, belly laughs, and beauty. I love you.

*Photo credits, as always, to the Mullaney and Hopkins families who, unlike me, always have their cameras and who cannot stop snapping photos of their gorgeous children, thank goodness.

What Love Is

When I was 5 or 6, I went with my mother for a portrait sitting. A local artist at the rundown Pampa mall created a beautiful portrait in chalk. I don't really remember the actual sitting; I'm sure it felt like it took forever and a day. But I remember my father's reaction when he unwrapped it. It stole his breath, and it is one of the only moments in my childhood I can recall in which I saw my father cry. It is, to this day, his favorite gift.

I thought, "That is what love is." Attention to detail. The element of surprise.

When I was 7, my father bought our family a VCR. We thought it was our big gift until he told us to go outside. There, with snow falling gently, sat a brand new white station wagon with a big red bow. All for my mom. I did not think, "Wow. Who on Earth wants to be surprised with a station wagon?"

I thought, "That is what love is." Big moments. Red bows. Extravagance and newness.

As a child, I loved to watch my mother and father dance. They would twirl around the dance floor of the night club they managed while I roller-skated past them, calling for them to watch me. But when they danced they did not take their eyes from one another.

I thought, "That is what love is." Slow dances. George Jones. Letting the world melt away.

All my life, I would watch my dad come in from working out in the cold. He would take off his work gloves and put his cold hands on the back of my mom's neck to make her jump and squeal. She always knew he would, and she never tried to avoid it. And then, he would stand behind her at the kitchen sink and kiss her.

I thought, "That is what love is." Shared jokes. Cold hands. Warm kisses.

My entire life, my dad would tell jokes. Some were long and complicated. Others were short and corny. A few were downright filthy. But they were all followed with a sharp, surprised laugh. And when it was really good... a short snort. When my mother laughs, her whole face laughs. When my father smiles, his eyes dance. No one can make my mother laugh like my father. And nothing makes him smile like her laugh.

I thought, "That is what love is." More smiles and laughter than shouts and tears.

Sometimes there were shouts and tears and stony silence. But there were apologies and warm kisses and letting go, too.

I thought, "That is what love is." Forgiving. Second chances. Moving on. Making it work.

And now, six days a week, my mother gets into her battered old Buick and drives 60 miles, round trip, to see my father. There are days full of domino games in which she always shuffles and sometimes plays for both him and herself. The only day she misses are Thursday card games with her friends. My dad teases her by calling it her "work day". Thursdays are hardest for him, but he never asks her to miss it. There are no more giant red bows or slow dances or hands freezing from the cold. There are tears some days, but there are also smiles. There are kisses hello but there are now always kisses goodbye. There has been health; there has been sickness. There are unanswered questions and there are unsure futures. There are hardships and heartache, but there is sacrifice and strength as well.

And sometimes, even now -- even through everything -- when they hold hands and look at one another, I think, "No. I was wrong. This is what love is."

Forty-one years worth.

Happy Anniversary, Mom and Dad.

The Smallest Moments

A couple of weeks ago, I wrote about the hardest parts of teaching. It was tough to write because I did not want it to be seen as negative or a complaint; I wanted it to be a love letter to all of the teachers I know who strive and struggle to love those students who don't love themselves. It's rare that I feel I've accomplished my goal in writing, but I did. I knew it from the love I received back from all of you.

What we do is hard -- so very hard -- in ways that a college course or internship or even the world's greatest teacher cannot show you. The struggle is day in, day out, and it can be wearing. The burn out rate for teachers, especially new teachers, is astonishingly, exorbitantly high.

But it is worth it -- so very worth it -- in those small moments that no one else gets to see. Those moments that no camera crew wants to film, that no headline will ever be written about, that no legislator notices.

Today was a benchmark testing day for writing, a practice exam for the big standardized test my students will take in about 6 weeks. Because there are two state tests in my grade level subject (writing and reading), my students get a little worn out with the sheer number of tests (and practice tests) they endure each year. This morning, when I went into the four classrooms where my students were sitting, I tried to remind them of all the things that I expected they could (and would) do.

Today, this was the hardest part for me; instilling confidence in the unsure and unwilling.

I went on about my morning, checking in on all of the classes, relieving teachers and monitoring kids, seeing some small but reassuring work on their test booklets.  In my math teacher's classroom, I noticed one of my students hard at work on the first of his essays. His planning pages were full of charts and maps and... well... planning.

I was legitimately surprised. This is a student who, even on his best day, shies away from intensive work. He can be very sweet for sure. His smile can light up the whole room when he wants. But he gives up. He sulks. He has been known to make a poor decision or two, mainly in anger. He often loses faith in his own abilities, and so he struggles to simply try. Our relationship has lacked consistency and flow, stumbling through the growing pains of a child becoming a young man.

He didn't even look up to see me see him as I walked down the aisle and gave him a pat on the back. I was overjoyed at his effort and focus.

I continued to watch him as I waited for Ms. Doud to come back from her lunch break. Not only did he plan, but I watched him moving his lips as he silently read his essay, orally rehearsing it, inspecting it for missing words or errors and making sure it didn't lack consistency and flow. He still had not noticed me, noticing him.

And then, as he finished, I watched a slow smile spread across his face, and he gave just the slightest little fist pump. Like this:

It wasn't for show. It wasn't to throw me off his track. It wasn't an attempt to make himself feel better. It was simply the smallest celebration of what he felt was a job well done. In fact, when I pulled him out of his last class of the day to tell him how proud I was -- how genuinely thankful I was -- he had no idea he'd even done it.

But I knew. And his math teacher, Ms. Doud, knew because I had to tell someone as soon as it happened. She also knew because he was so proud of his essay, he wanted her to read it right away.

And the history teacher on my team, Mrs. Witt, knew because I took her with me so I could brag on him in front of someone else. I wanted someone he didn't know; someone whose respect and congratulations would be received with sincerity and not the suspicion it was made of simple kindness or empty cheerleading.

And now you all know it too because this is also my love letter to you, my friends. These are the moments that we build together. These are the moments that make the man, so to speak.

It was one of those smallest moments that bring the greatest joy if only we take the time to stop and look around for it. One of those smallest moments that no camera crew or legislator will ever see. But that's okay because those moments aren't for them. They're for him. They're for me. And they're for all of you.

And those are the moments that turn the tables and make the hardest parts, the most dreadful days, the biggest growing pains, seem the smallest indeed.

So, for each of you, for all of you, I'm sending you a slightly bigger, more fantastic, fist pump.

Keep going, y'all.

Now and Then. Then and Now.

My friend, Courtney, has been my friend, Courtney, for 18 years now. Today, she has been my friend, Courtney, for half of her life. We've changed a little but not so much.

Then, we met in a parking lot. We met on a hayride. We met on a bridge. We met at our home away from home -- camp.

Now, we meet for margaritas, trashy tv, shared tears, and healing laughter. We meet when we can which is never often enough.

Then, we taught fishing and archery and how to paddle a canoe.

Now, I teach children to read and write. You teach them to speak. But we both know where the roots of our teaching reside -- Shannah's Lagoon.

Then, we organized cook-outs and all-camps and kitchen raids.

Now, we just try to organize ourselves.

Then, we rode in the backs of pickup trucks.

Now, well, now we still ride in the backs of pickup trucks.

Then, our friendship was built upon painted rocks, daisy chains, and campfire smoke.

Now, our friendship stands upon touchstone memories, new adventures, and half a life of inside jokes.

Then, we were young and stupid and idealistic.

Now, we are young at heart, a little bit wiser and gripping tight our idealism, still.

Then, we raised hundreds of campers to become pretty fantastic adults.

Now, you're raising a cabin of your own, teaching them to be kind and generous and to sing silly songs.

Then and now. Now and then.

Our lives have become a timeline, tied together and marked by celebration and sadness and all of the absurdities in between.

It is full of cold beer and warm sunsets, rocking chairs and porch swings.

It is guitar strums and off-key show tunes, sappy movies, snorts, swears, and aimless stories.

It is full of debate, forgiveness, long talks, and unconditional love.

Then, I thought we might be friends for a while.

Now, I realize how wrong I was. A lifetime won't be long enough.

I love you, my WoHeLo sister, my compass, my cheerleader, my best life friend.

Then, now, always.

Happy Birthday, Court.