I have an absurd number of post ideas bouncing around in my head, but I spent all last week at a training for work and learned so much. So now, there is just plain too much bouncing around in my head. I'm trying to sort and file it all so I can get any of it out coherently.
In the meantime, I wanted to show off my new design courtesy of Katie at Lemon Cherry Blogs. I feel all dressed up...now I just need to write something worthy of the new digs.
Also, within a few days, you should be able to arrive at my site directly through www.instamomblog.com. I am sooooo fancy now.
Until then, feel free to leave compliments on the new awesomeness.
Thursday, July 2, 2009
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Saturday, June 13, 2009
Happy birthday
It was shortly after I had moved home and decided to pursue my teaching credential. We were driving home from dinner. I don't know if it was raining--probably not--but I remember vividly the darkness of the interior of the car the blur of the lights around us as we drove down the freeway in my dad's Explorer.
In the only dream I've had of my father since his death, we were driving in his car, me sitting behind him, talking to each other. It is such a familiar scene, replayed nearly every weekend for most of my youth. I can play it in mind's eye over and over, even as my memories of other things fade.
This particular night, we were talking about my career, my future. At that time, I still had the fleeting hope that my aim in moving home would come to fruition--that I would save enough money to move to San Francisco and re-enter the publishing industry I had left behind in San Diego.
He had other ideas for me. And that night, driving home from dinner, he suggested that when I had finished my credential, I should consider earning my Master's and becoming a school administrator.
I remember my immediate reply to him was no. My father had been a school administrator since before I was born. I knew the time commitment of the job. I knew the stress the job brought with it. And even though I didn't know that only a few months later my father's commitment to ethics in leadership and education would kill him, I knew that I didn't want to follow his path.
Almost five years ago, I changed my mind.
And today, in a perfectly poetic stroke of life's pen, on what would have been my father's 66th birthday, my Master's in Educational Administration is officially being conferred.
It is a degree I will likely not use in the eight years I live in this town. But a degree I earned nonetheless, because seven years ago, my father set me on a path he could not stay to watch me traverse.
Today, it's official. I did it, Dad.
In the only dream I've had of my father since his death, we were driving in his car, me sitting behind him, talking to each other. It is such a familiar scene, replayed nearly every weekend for most of my youth. I can play it in mind's eye over and over, even as my memories of other things fade.
This particular night, we were talking about my career, my future. At that time, I still had the fleeting hope that my aim in moving home would come to fruition--that I would save enough money to move to San Francisco and re-enter the publishing industry I had left behind in San Diego.
He had other ideas for me. And that night, driving home from dinner, he suggested that when I had finished my credential, I should consider earning my Master's and becoming a school administrator.
I remember my immediate reply to him was no. My father had been a school administrator since before I was born. I knew the time commitment of the job. I knew the stress the job brought with it. And even though I didn't know that only a few months later my father's commitment to ethics in leadership and education would kill him, I knew that I didn't want to follow his path.
Almost five years ago, I changed my mind.
And today, in a perfectly poetic stroke of life's pen, on what would have been my father's 66th birthday, my Master's in Educational Administration is officially being conferred.
It is a degree I will likely not use in the eight years I live in this town. But a degree I earned nonetheless, because seven years ago, my father set me on a path he could not stay to watch me traverse.
Today, it's official. I did it, Dad.
Friday, June 12, 2009
Book club makeover
At the last book chat, we had some visitors. Actually, many oddvisitors. Some even with webcams. Sadly, I missed most of the drama, but I did kindly asked a young "French" boy named Evan who was "looking for fun" to leave the room so a bunch of old married hags could play literati.
(Okay, so maybe I didn't quite say that since not all of us are married and I'm told that none of us are old in spite of how much I whine about the wrinkles on my forehead. But you get the general idea.)
We also were somewhat, um, frustrated? that over 20 people voted on the book but only six came to chat. We get that not everyone can make every chat. We're fine with that. But what bugs us is the idea that people who have no intent of participating are influencing the decision-making process.
So the Insta-Book Club is getting a big of a makeover today.
The new process:
I will post the selections for the month here. You can take the time to look over them, read about them, ponder your choice. Then, instead of polling in the side margin, you can email me at instamomblog {at} gmail {dot} com (note that this is a new email).
I will post the winner here, and the chat date. I will not, however, tweet or post the chat location. Far too many odd visitors this week. Instead, I will email anyone who is interested.
So if you want to be in book club, whether you vote on the book or not, please be sure to send me your email address so I can include you in all correspondence.
With that said, here are this month's nominees...
Very Valentine: A Novel
, by Adriana Trigiani
The Abstinence Teacher
, by Tom Perrotta
Rise and Shine: A Novel
, by Anna Quindlan
A Bump in the Road: From Happy Hour to Baby Shower
, by Maureen Lipinski
Take some time to check them out, then email your vote to me. I promise not to cheat in favor of the book I want.
Enjoy your summer reading!
(Okay, so maybe I didn't quite say that since not all of us are married and I'm told that none of us are old in spite of how much I whine about the wrinkles on my forehead. But you get the general idea.)
We also were somewhat, um, frustrated? that over 20 people voted on the book but only six came to chat. We get that not everyone can make every chat. We're fine with that. But what bugs us is the idea that people who have no intent of participating are influencing the decision-making process.
So the Insta-Book Club is getting a big of a makeover today.
The new process:
I will post the selections for the month here. You can take the time to look over them, read about them, ponder your choice. Then, instead of polling in the side margin, you can email me at instamomblog {at} gmail {dot} com (note that this is a new email).
I will post the winner here, and the chat date. I will not, however, tweet or post the chat location. Far too many odd visitors this week. Instead, I will email anyone who is interested.
So if you want to be in book club, whether you vote on the book or not, please be sure to send me your email address so I can include you in all correspondence.
With that said, here are this month's nominees...
Very Valentine: A Novel
, by Adriana TrigianiThe Abstinence Teacher
, by Tom PerrottaRise and Shine: A Novel
, by Anna QuindlanA Bump in the Road: From Happy Hour to Baby Shower
, by Maureen LipinskiTake some time to check them out, then email your vote to me. I promise not to cheat in favor of the book I want.
Enjoy your summer reading!
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Cherry picking
First...don't forget the book club chat tonight at 7PM Pacific time. We'll be chatting here.
Now for pictures...
Now for pictures...
Sunday, June 7, 2009
Heartache
Today was my nephew's birthday, so we met at our favorite orchard with all our kids to go cherry picking. I expected to come home tonight and write about it. Instead, I find myself needing to write about something else.
Because as we were walking through the orchard, I caught sight of a little girl out of the corner of my eye. A little girl being pushed by her mommy in a little pink car.
I looked twice, expecting something that couldn't have been there. But it wasn't until I turned to get a better look that I realized who I was looking for.
I expected to see Heather's hand at the end of that blue handle. I expected to see Maddie's face smile up at me.
But it wasn't them. And my heart broke open again.
I had been thinking about Maddie on my way there. About how the sadness of this never seems to diminish. About the aching pit that comes when I open my heart to this and about knowing that I can't close it. For so many reasons, I have to let myself feel and remember it.
During the summer, I rarely know what the date is. I came home to find out that today is June 7. Two months.
No, the sadness most certainly doesn't diminish. Nor does the number of times each day I think of Mike and Heather and their Maddie.
Keep remembering. Keep holding Maddie in your heart, even if you never met her. Just remember.
Because as we were walking through the orchard, I caught sight of a little girl out of the corner of my eye. A little girl being pushed by her mommy in a little pink car.
I looked twice, expecting something that couldn't have been there. But it wasn't until I turned to get a better look that I realized who I was looking for.
I expected to see Heather's hand at the end of that blue handle. I expected to see Maddie's face smile up at me.
But it wasn't them. And my heart broke open again.
I had been thinking about Maddie on my way there. About how the sadness of this never seems to diminish. About the aching pit that comes when I open my heart to this and about knowing that I can't close it. For so many reasons, I have to let myself feel and remember it.
During the summer, I rarely know what the date is. I came home to find out that today is June 7. Two months.
No, the sadness most certainly doesn't diminish. Nor does the number of times each day I think of Mike and Heather and their Maddie.
Keep remembering. Keep holding Maddie in your heart, even if you never met her. Just remember.
Thursday, June 4, 2009
Rain
Yesterday I made myself get out of bed, forced myself to have breakfast, and faced a day I hate facing every year. I knew I would work my way through the day and let the tears take over after everyone was tucked snugly in bed.
This year it felt different, worse. Perhaps because you expect it to hurt on the first year or fifth year or the tenth year, and not the seventh year. Perhaps because of the profound grief I have been touched by in the last several months.
So I busied myself. The carpet of the classroom I'm moving into for next year is beyond filthy. Our maintenance staff will clean it, but I wanted it "my" clean. My mother-in-law gave us a carpet shampooer for Christmas a few years ago (yeah, read that one over a few times), and J.R. thought it might be a good idea to shampoo the carpet.
I nabbed a sitter and figured cleaning would be exactly the therapy I needed.
I was wrong. I forget sometimes that where I work is filled with memories of my father. We worked for the same school district. I went back to that school to work a week after my world collapsed. I work with people who want to talk about their memories of him, no matter how much I don't want to. I stood outside the classroom two doors down from my own when I got the call that my grandmother, my father's mother, had died--only eight months after his death and largely because after his death she chose to quit living.
Yesterday, I played the music extra loud. And I tried to think of anything else, but I couldn't. His memory was pervasive. I cleaned and cried.
In order to fill up the carpet shampooer, I had to walk about 100 yards to the only faucet left on that side of campus that hadn't been shut off for the summer. On the first three walks back to my classroom, I watched the clouds rolling in.
Of course, I thought to myself, it's going to rain when I have to drag myself across campus every 15 minutes for water. Figures.
On my 17th birthday, my parents asked me what I wanted. I couldn't think of anything. And so I asked my dad to give me rain.
I grew up in the desert. The dry, windy heat wears on me. I have never been happier than when I lived in England where I could count on regular damp and gloom.
I jokingly asked my father to make it rain on my 17th birthday.
And it did. All day it rained in pleasant spurts, letting it soak into us between the showers. The air smelled dirt-sweet and the sky hung low and dark.
It became a joke for the rest of his life. My dad could do anything because he could make it rain.
On my fourth trip for water to fill the shampooer, the rain began. I stepped out of my classroom into a cocoon of clouds and dirt-sweet air, and I remembered.
I let the rain fall on me, took my time walking to the faucet and back, left the door open so the air could fill my classroom.
And I walked with a smile for the rest of the day, as it continued to rain on and off, letting it soak into me between showers, laughing to myself at the shared joy of an inside joke.
Because it was raining. And I know why.
This year it felt different, worse. Perhaps because you expect it to hurt on the first year or fifth year or the tenth year, and not the seventh year. Perhaps because of the profound grief I have been touched by in the last several months.
So I busied myself. The carpet of the classroom I'm moving into for next year is beyond filthy. Our maintenance staff will clean it, but I wanted it "my" clean. My mother-in-law gave us a carpet shampooer for Christmas a few years ago (yeah, read that one over a few times), and J.R. thought it might be a good idea to shampoo the carpet.
I nabbed a sitter and figured cleaning would be exactly the therapy I needed.
I was wrong. I forget sometimes that where I work is filled with memories of my father. We worked for the same school district. I went back to that school to work a week after my world collapsed. I work with people who want to talk about their memories of him, no matter how much I don't want to. I stood outside the classroom two doors down from my own when I got the call that my grandmother, my father's mother, had died--only eight months after his death and largely because after his death she chose to quit living.
Yesterday, I played the music extra loud. And I tried to think of anything else, but I couldn't. His memory was pervasive. I cleaned and cried.
In order to fill up the carpet shampooer, I had to walk about 100 yards to the only faucet left on that side of campus that hadn't been shut off for the summer. On the first three walks back to my classroom, I watched the clouds rolling in.
Of course, I thought to myself, it's going to rain when I have to drag myself across campus every 15 minutes for water. Figures.
On my 17th birthday, my parents asked me what I wanted. I couldn't think of anything. And so I asked my dad to give me rain.
I grew up in the desert. The dry, windy heat wears on me. I have never been happier than when I lived in England where I could count on regular damp and gloom.
I jokingly asked my father to make it rain on my 17th birthday.
And it did. All day it rained in pleasant spurts, letting it soak into us between the showers. The air smelled dirt-sweet and the sky hung low and dark.
It became a joke for the rest of his life. My dad could do anything because he could make it rain.
On my fourth trip for water to fill the shampooer, the rain began. I stepped out of my classroom into a cocoon of clouds and dirt-sweet air, and I remembered.
I let the rain fall on me, took my time walking to the faucet and back, left the door open so the air could fill my classroom.
And I walked with a smile for the rest of the day, as it continued to rain on and off, letting it soak into me between showers, laughing to myself at the shared joy of an inside joke.
Because it was raining. And I know why.
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