15 West Central Street, THE BLACK BOX

This weekend, I saw what can happen when you don't let go of a dream.  No matter what.

This weekend, I saw a community doing what was needed to git 'er done. No matter what.

This weekend, I saw something really cool happen in our town.

And it was good. Real, real good.

"Do"

We just finished up our second week of classes.

I teach a lot of toddlers and, for many of them, my class is the first time that little kiddos attempt to be in a class without their mom or dad. Scary stuff.  (Because I'm wicked scary, I know.)

Today I was teaching a class with four little cutie patootie boys.  (I love our classes because they are, by design, so small and help us really get to know our students).  Two of them were totally fine with the big ol' meany teacher in the room.  The other two had their doubts.  Clearly.

The entire class was all about helping everyone feel comfy cozy and happy in our new space together. 

I was introducing "do" (blue) to them. We were all on our bellies playing with "do" blocks, building "do" towers, playing "do" leapfrog", driving "do" race cars.

Little by little, the sad, unsure, hesitant faces started to smile, sing and laugh. 

And a few minutes in to the "do" extravaganza, it occurred to me.

I. have. the best. job. ever.

Not Quite Fun in the Sun

We spent a LOT of time at the beach (mostly Horseneck Beach) our junior and senior years of high school.  That's funny, considering how self-conscious we were of how we looked - all the time - but especially in bathing suits.

I remember one day in particular during our junior year.  We were going to the beach with, among a bunch of our "regular" beach crew, two girls who were a year older than us.

They both were completely and totally gorg.  In every way.  They were popular.  Funny.  Nice.  Athletic.  Did I mention gorg?

Anyway, I can't imagine how long it took the rest of us to get ready that day.
I'm sure we put on every bathing suit 1,706 times until we found the one that we looked best in. 
I'm sure we EACH went through a can of aqua net to get our bangs just right.
I'm sure we tanned extra long (in the tanning beds - bad, bad, bad) that week before so that we'd be extra tanned.
I'm sure we didn't eat for days in preparation. 
Okay, maybe I was the only one who did all that but I digress.

We got to the beach, slowly took off our champion shorts and laid down our scrunchy ponytailed heads on our towels, just waiting for them to put us to shame.  We surely were feeling uncomfortable in front of the other beach goers (as we always did) but we were also feeling extra uncomfortable because we knew that, no matter how much time we had spent in preparation, next to these two, we'd fail miserably.

They took off their suits and I swear that the entire beach was suddenly in complete and total awe of the beauty that was before us.  It was as if everything started moving in slow motion, the beach got completely quiet and soft music started playing across the sand.   I'm pretty sure that they started riding along the beach on beautiful black stallions but I could have my memories confused.   Anyway, they were tanned to perfection, in white bikinis - who looks good in a white bathing suit??  THEY did!

It was ridiculous.  I'll never forget that moment of complete and total inferiority.   I'm sure we had a great time although I don't remember much more of that day.  I think I probably blocked it from my memory to avoid depression setting in.

Incidentally, a few years ago, I met up with one of the Gorg Girls for dinner.  And a few nights ago, I bumped in to the other Gorg Girl. Both still lovely.  Both still gorg. 


It made me think that, regardless of how much I loved high school (oh my GAWD did I love high school), I'd not want to go back to 1989 if you paid me. ... unless I could look like one of them in a white bikini.  If I could, well then, obviously game on.

One Step At A Time

The girls were, maybe one and a half.  

They had recently taken over the entire house and were in to EVERYTHING.  Not coincidentally, it's just about the time that I started to develop gray hairs.  

I was in the kitchen.  They were in the playroom.  

I heard hustle and bustle of two one-year-olds. And then I heard silence. 

I walked in to the playroom, not knowing what I'd find.  

What I found was M, all askew, diaper bum stuck in the air, with her head stuck between two bannisters in the stairway going upstairs.  

H just stared at her knowing, I think, that something was quite wrong but clearly couldn't articulate that things had gone awry. They had been having such a great time only moments ago.  Things had been going so well.

I ran downstairs and grabbed the saw and sawed the child out of the bannister. 

This was just one of the many times that I realized that parenting was really not possible without a good stash of wine readily available. 

It WAS almost noon.

Mea Culpa

When hanging up the phone with the girls, G or my parents, I ALWAYS say "'K.  Love you.  'Bye."  I don't even think about it.  I just do it. It's not that I don't mean it - it's just something I've always done. 

This past weekend, over dinner, I was reminded of this story.  It makes me laugh. 

I was on the phone with a FSPA dad.  His son and daughter have been students forEVER.  He's super nice. His wife is super nice.  His kids are super nice.  

I was on the phone with him and - yep, you guessed it.  As we hung up, I said to him, under no uncertain terms, "'K.  Love you.  'Bye." 

I nearly died. 

I called him right back and told him that, while I did (and still do) think he's great - I don't like him in THAT way.    Thankfully, he has a great sense of humor.  He said that he wished I could have see his face as we hung up the phone.  

I wish he could have seen mine. 

That's one way to get more students, I suppose...

Reality

M and H have finished up their first full week of middle school. They both got 10/10 on their first grade.
I think they think they are Harvard-bound.
In a few minutes, they will finish up their first (nearly full) week of FSPA.
They have been staring at their feet, waiting for the pointe shoe blisters to appear since Monday.
(They are weird. And yet, I understand).

This week was great.  Everything went as well as we could have possibly hoped for.  Phew.
But I missed them.
I get so used to seeing them over the summer-even while I was at work. (Have I mentioned that I love my job?)
But because of this, the first few weeks of September are always a culture shock for me.

We will head down the cape as soon as they finish up class. Yes, please.
I can't wait to have an entire uninterrupted hour to chat and re-connect as we head over the bridge.

Until they start bugging me and I turn up the radio so that I can't hear them anymore.

Reading and Writing and 'Rithmetic

I don't consider myself a runner.  But I've run a marathon.  Well, two, actually. 
I don't consider myself a runner.  But I started to write a book.
Today.

I had no idea I was going to start to write a book when I woke up this morning.
In fact, I emailed G and told him about it this afternoon.  He asked what it was about - and I never responded (work's busy - first week of school...)

Yup.  I'm going to do it.
I have no idea how to go about writing a book.  Tonight, I wrote the forward and the credits - and a little bit more.  (It took about 30 minutes and I jotted down a lot of ideas while I was waiting to pick up the girls from school.  Being a mother = multi-tasking.)

My book may end up only consisting of 8 1/2 x 11 sheets of paper bound by one of these:

that my closest friends and family read at a birthday party or Saturday night hang.

But I think it's fun to think that it may end up being something more.  

Who knows?

To be continued...