Second Verse, Same as the First

I don't talk about my feelings much on here anymore because that's gotten me into trouble. I guess honesty is a tough pill for some people to swallow. But I'm going to take a leap here and revisit an old topic.

Disclaimer: I love my job. I love my students. I don't think I could ever do anything else for a living. I have spent more nights lying awake and trying to think of ways to fix things, fix my students, than I'd like to try and count. I've sat in my assistant principal's office in tears because I hurt for my students and I feel helpless. I forgo my lunch half the time so I can work with my students and help them. I find enormous joy and learning most of the days I spend in the classroom. I love what I do, and I was born to do it.

That said, summer is a bittersweet time for me. I'm pretty sure I could never be a housewife--one of those women who stay at home after the kids are all off at school. I want to teach. But more than that, I want to be home. I want to be with my son. Two years later it still hurts to leave him. He is well cared for and loved, and he will grow up fully functional and attached. But I miss him when I work. So this is my bittersweet summer: I soak in every moment, I drink in the hugs, the kisses, the playtime. Sure, we have rough days. A couple of days ago I opened my door because I heard Brandi outside, and I offered her my child. There are days when (and here's that unfortunate honesty, again--avert your eyes if you can't take it) I don't like being a mom. Careful--I'm not saying I don't love my son. There is never a moment when that's true. But there are days when parenting is work, it feels like an exhausting job, and I'd like to clock out for a bit. So sure, it would be nice to take a little vacation from motherhood at times. But on the whole--this is where my heart is. And I leave a chunk of it behind in September.

For anyone judging me because I yearn for summer during the school year, or because sometimes I say I'd rather be home than listening to adolescent whining, I'd love to remind you that I have yet to meet the person who doesn't get excited about not going to work and going on a vacation for a while. It's fair. We all have bad days at work, and we all have pieces of our jobs that are unpleasant. That's fair. But at the end of the day, I love teaching. And while I'd prefer to not be a working mom, if I'm going to be one, I've got it pretty good. I love what I do, my hours are perfect, and I have a lot of time off throughout the year. I can't imagine leaving my little man behind to go to a job I don't like nine hours a day, five days a week, twelve months a year.

This is clearly diverged into a discussion that I was not intending. Sorry for the treatise. I shouldn't have to defend myself, or make my blog private, or try to avoid the occasional messy emotional rant. But I guess I do it anyway.

But here's what I wanted to say: I'm just about at the halfway point of my summer, and I'm already just about to break down in tears at the thought that it will end. It doesn't have anything to do with the work to which I'm returning--it has everything to do with one of the two greatest loves of my life, and my complete devastation that our Adventure will ever draw to a close. I know, of course, that the Adventure doesn't end in September. And I think I do a pretty good job of sucking the marrow out of my limited McNugget time during the school year. But I will miss him from 7:30-3:30.

Until then, I will drink in every sweet and sour moment I can.

"Life is like playing a violin in public and learning the instrument as one goes on."--Samuel Butler

Winter Song for Spring

There has been a slowly growing ache in my chest. It's an ache that creeps up and recedes like the tide. Sometimes my toes get wet and I shiver; sometimes I don't notice until I'm knee deep.

I need an outlet.

I've been playing the piano since I was very young. I used to take my music home from choir, even though we weren't supposed to, and teach myself the songs. I tried taking actual lessons for the first time in college, but I couldn't stick with it. After just a couple of days I realized that in order to play technically correct I'd have to break the fifteen years of heart I'd developed. It's never been a technical skill for me...just a way for me to close my eyes and pour my heart out onto the keys through my fingers. Because it's forever been a deeply emotional, vulnerable activity for me, more akin to prayer than practice, I've never been really into sharing. I don't play for people...ever...with a few notable exceptions. My immediate family has, of course, heard me play, as has my husband. There are probably a handful of people at my old college that snuck a peak as I took over Needham Chapel and the Forest Room. And David. David, a grandfather- like figure to me while I grew up. David and his wife, Ruth, were family friends. After Ruth passed away we used to go to David's house occasionally to visit, and he pulled out Ruth's old piano music for me to play for him. He loved listening to me play, and I loved playing for him. When he passed away I stopped playing for a while. Until my mom came home with a box filled with Ruth's old music, a check, and a note from David saying those things were for me. Through choked sobs, I poured over the old, yellowed sheet music. That day I started playing again. I also, in the best way my high school self could do, wrote a poem about it.

When I went to college, I obviously couldn't take my piano with me. I got a keyboard for Christmas, but it is absolutly not the same. I stole a few nights at the Needham grand piano, but my fear of anyone hearing was usually more potent than my need for a creative outlet. After college I moved from one apartment to the next. I've been without a piano in my life for eleven years now. And every now and then, I can feel that tide slowly coming in...the ache in my heart that yearns to play.

I also love to sing and dance, although, if I'm honest, I'm not very good at either. I mean, I'm not terrible. But I was always in the ensemble of the musicals. Good enough to get in, occasionally got a short solo, but never the lead. Same with dance.

I recently succumbed to peer pressure and started watching So You Think You Can Dance.

(I promise all of these things are related.)

So I want, need, to do. I need to play, to sing, or to dance. I'm in a little play right now, so that's satiating my creative hunger a bit. But it's technical...I have to memorize lines and perform and be good. I'm comfortable acting...particularly in a comedy. I know I'm funny. I get nervous, but not scared. I played the piano in front of my church once. I was shaking from head to foot, and I don't think I took one breath the entire time. And I was just accompanying the kids who were singing...probably no one was even paying attention to me and my panic attack. And no one knew that that moment was one of the biggest and most important moments of my life...ever.

So last night on SYTYCD two different people did dances to a beautiful song by Ingrid Michaelson and Sara Bareilles that I'd forgotten about. I looked it up, found it, and downloaded it. I listened to it all the way to work and all the way home, continuously thinking and aching and wanting so badly to sing, to dance, to play...and perchance to let others in. But desire once more gave way to fear. And then I thought of this blog. I never would have anticipated it, but it has turned into my new piano of sorts. It's my outlet. I've always enjoyed writing...I've even won a few contests (when I've been brave enough to secretly enter). I thought of the hearty chunk of people who have been telling me that they love reading this blog and think I should be a writer (a secret dream of mine since first grade).

So maybe it's time for my Winter Song. Maybe this summer I try it. Maybe I'll let the creative need triumph over the paralyzing fear. Maybe.

Ambivilent Friday

I would love to be one of those people who fills her blogs with uplifting praise of God and encouragement to the world. I would also love to be one of those moms who not only do it all, but do it all with alacrity. And the woman who writes a blog one day about all the ways she saves the world with her environmentally friendly lifestyle, then the next day blogs about the super hot date she went on with her husband, then the next day gives great organic recipes, then the next day about crafts, then the next day about how she taught her four week old the alphabet, then the next day about how amazing God is and how deep and wonderful her spiritual life is. Or maybe I wouldn't want to be one of those people...that life sounds exhausting. But sometimes I feel like that's what I'm supposed to be--Superwoman. I've discussed this before, probably ad nauseam. But I've omitted one thing...the spiritual part.

My life with God has been, as it has with most, a roller coaster. There are highs, lows, and everything in between. He is my creator, my savior, my everything. There have been many times in my life when I have had a palpable, potent need for him, and I truly believe that I would most assuredly not be the (almost) sane person I am today without him. A lot has happened in my life that would have sent many people down a spiral of out of control and desperate behavior. I don't claim to be a strong person--but I do claim to have a strong God who has given me his strength and the wisdom to make the right decisions when everything around me was crumbling.

And yet here I stand today, with just about everything I've ever wanted: I'm a wife, mother, teacher, sister, daughter, and friend to the most amazing people that God ever made, and I feel empty. I feel like a hollow shell that simply doesn't have the energy or drive to maintain my relationship with God. Or at least maintain it the way I have in the past. This last week was an example of this disconnect.

Ever since I've been at my church, Rock Harbor, I've gone to Good Friday services. In the 10+ years that I've been there, I've experienced Holy Week in ways that I never knew were possible. Before Rock Harbor I'd never actually been to a Good Friday service; I don't think the church I grew up in held them. But now that I've tasted it, I can't imagine celebrating Easter without it. I can't imagine celebrating Jesus's resurrection without first experiencing the pain and reality of his death. And I can't imagine trying to experience both in one 90 minute service. So for the last several years, Holy Week has been a major event for me. Until now. I should also mention that I have been involved in the production of Rock Harbor's Good Friday and Easter services for the last several years as an actress and dancer (and I use the latter term in a very broad sense). This has enabled me to experience Good Friday and Easter in an entirely new depth. Last year was the first year I haven't participated in a long time (which is weird...I offered to be in it, but for some reason they didn't think watching a six-month pregnant whale dance around in front of tens of thousands of people sounded appealing. Whatever.). It was a struggle for me, but it was good. I was able to really sit back and listen and be fed for the first time in a while. This year was much different. I arrived at Good Friday in a much different state of mind. I wanted to read the book of Matthew and spend time thinking about Jesus' life before really reflecting on his death. Instead I cooked three meals, did laundry, cleaned the house, and carried around a fussy, teething, needy eight-month-old who was just having a really rough day. I was going to take some quiet time during his nap, but he woke up from his nap every 15-30 minutes screaming. So by the time we needed to leave, I was exhausted, frazzled, and I'd read up to half of Matthew 2. And since Ben had napped terribly during the day, I was sure I'd get paged 10 minutes into the service to collect my screaming child. I anticipated sitting through the service staring at the pager nervously, unable to concentrate and really listen. This was not the Good Friday, or the spiritual life, to which I'd become accustomed. It rather felt like my spiritual life had completely evolved into me constantly praying for sleep instead of having a loving conversation with my Creator. And my attempt at Bible Study was simply the next in an eight month cycle of the same. I'm constantly "doing," and when I'm not I'm so exhausted I can barely keep my eyes open much less read the Bible.

To add to my already mounting anxiety, the service we attended was immediately following another. So there were literally thousands of people coming and going in a very small hallway. My crippling claustrophobia and anxiety were exacerbated, and I was near tears. But I persevered. I would have my Good Friday if it killed me.

And I did. Moments into the opening worship, I lost myself in prayer. Well, I don't know if it was so much prayer as it was inwardly weeping and whining at God about how empty, disconnected, and tired I was. The message was good, and I was moved as hundreds took their sins and their troubles and nailed them to the crosses. The pager never went off.

Perhaps I did not lose my spiritual life when I gave birth, as I had supposed. Perhaps it just changed. And for now, perhaps it's okay that in the midst of the "doing" and exhaustion, my Bible study is limited to the nightly readings from the Rhyming Bible for Children, and that my prayers are limited to my whispered pleas for my son as I lay him in his crib at night and my desperate cries for rest and peace. Perhaps I have a God that understands, and that some day, hopefully soon, the disconnect will abate and I will once again feel that overwhelming desire to open my Bible and fall on my knees before Him.

The Best Laid Plans of Mice and Men

Christmas has always been, at least until recently, my favorite season. I love everything about it. I love Christmas music, decorations, baking, snow, family, giving...And I love the real Christmas. I love celebrating Jesus' birth. I love (and need) the reminder each year. I wish I didn't, but I do. Because in the chaos that is often life, I lose sight of my savior. It's ridiculous if you think about it. I live, breathe, and move because of a God who loves me so deeply, so passionately, that he was willing to sacrifice his Son for me. Motherhood changes that for me. I see that sacrifice in a light I was never capable of before. And when I think of how much I love my son, and I think of how much more infinitely God loves his, I am astounded. And yet I still sail through my days, often not stopping to really reflect on these truths. Christmas is a beautiful reminder of it.

Up until a few years ago, I really didn't seem to have a problem with celebrating both aspects of Christmas. The social, commercial version and the original, holy version. A few years ago I hit a bit of a bump in this blissful relationship with Christmas. I found that the Christ was being obscured by the world's Christmas. That the simplicity and beauty of Jesus' birth had become lost in the shuffle. I know that this is something that happened many years ago; but for me, it just occurred that year. This was also the first year that I spent Christmas away from my family. I went up north with my new boyfriend, Matt, to spend Christmas with him and his family. I also had a particularly nasty cold (that seems to almost always be the case, though). While I'm quite outgoing and lively around those I know and am comfortable with, I'm painfully shy around those I do not know. So I found myself miles away from my family, my home, the snow, and all that I found warm and comforting on the day of the year that I craved them the most. I was happy to be with Matt, and I was grateful for the kindness of his family. But I was painfully uncomfortable in my unfamiliar surroundings. I felt like for the few days that we were there, I was in performance mode. And in the midst of this awkwardness and discomfort, I lost sight of my Christmas. Matt has this big family, and I was this outsider. They were kind, to be sure. But I didn't feel like I belonged. I remember one night going into the guest room, curling up in the bed, and crying. I wanted my family. I wanted to feel welcome. I wanted to know where Christmas had gone. In all of the anxiety, all of the discomfort, and, for the first time with any kind of potency, all of the consumerism, I felt lost and alone. For the first time in my life, I didn't go to a Christmas service. Surrounded by people and activity, I couldn't find quiet time to think and pray. So that night, crying in that strange bed, I made a decision. I realized that the world's Christmas wasn't a bad thing. A day where people get together, share a meal, and give each other gifts is a wonderful kind of day. But God needs to have his day, too. And for me, in order to fully enjoy both Christmases, I would need to celebrate them separately. And so, for the last three years, I have.

It's now four years later, and somehow I feel infinitely worse. Every year since has been the same. Instead of finding myself amidst warmth, sharing, love, comfort, and "cheer," I find myself amidst angry shoppers (who are probably nice people all year until they turn into fierce demons during the holidays), fighting, guilt trips, and tears. Matt and I try so hard to love on and please our families. But somehow it's never enough. We trade off holidays every year to try to be fair to each of our four families, but no matter what we do people get angry and hurt. Every year I run myself into the ground trying to find thoughtful gifts, often taking hours to make things, and yet still, every Christmas ends with an argument about how Matt and I are bad, selfish people who play favorites. And it doesn't matter which of our four families we're with--the script simply changes. And in the midst of the conflicts, I once again lose sight of where it all started and should always be; with a baby in a manger, destined to save the world. He's still there, I know--I just can't find him quite like I could before.

I know that this is the plight of married life. I know that no matter what we do, because our families live on opposite ends of the state, we have to be with one and not the other. But somehow, what was once my most beloved time of the year, is quickly becoming my most dreaded. And now I have this sweet, wonderful little boy. I want Christmas with him. I want to wake up with him in the morning, make hot chocolate, and open presents. I want to read him Luke 2 and watch Christmas movies with him. I want my Christmas back. The warmth, sharing, love, comfort, and "cheer." I want to make new traditions with my family. Except that once I again I find my little family, now of three, the rope in this seemingly endless tug-of-war, and this year's match has already started.

Dear Santa, Please bless my family this year. Help me to find cheer and lavish wonderful memories of Ben's first Christmas. signed, Shannon

Dear Jesus, I love you, and I'm sorry. I'm sorry I've let myself get caught up in all of these messes. I'm sorry I keep losing you in the midst of the chaos. Please help me find you again. Please bless my family this year. Help me to find peace, joy, and love. Please give me patience and grace. Help me to anticipate this week with hope and faith, not fear and dread. love, Shannon

Twain vs. Kidd

I'm a reader. I have been for as long as I can remember. I'm also a book snob. My favorite book in the eighth grade was The Count of Monte Cristo. I started reading Les Miserables my freshman year of high school. I devoured Dickens, Dumas, Austen, Hemmingway, Shakespeare and Faulkner like they were oxygen. My Christmas lists were comprised of books and miscellaneous random items like tennis skirts (I don't know). I used to play school. Nerd.

And then there was Ben.

I have a half a dozen half-finished books littering my nightstand. Adam Bede and A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court stare me down every time I approach my bed. But I just can't do it. I want to--I do. When I go to the bookstore I drool over the classics display and fantasize about myself curled up on the couch with Gogol and Rushdie, savoring every delectable morsel. And then I try it. I grab that damn Yankee, crack open the deliciously yellowed pages (I'm a used book junkie), and dive in with alacrity. Two paragraphs in, I'm cranky because I don't feel like thinking that hard and I'm falling asleep. Then I toss the book on the nightstand, turn off the light, and bury my face in the pillow, exhausted and guilty, like I'm somehow forsaking my English degrees and disappointing Dr. Walter-Carney, the Rhodes scholar I studied under that helped me get into Columbia.

It's just that I'm tired. I teach middle school English and History all day and come home to a sweet and wonderfully needy three month old. All I want to do after my little peanut goes to bed is curl up in front of the TV and slip into a deep coma, passively ingesting mindless and addicting crap. McDreamy and Michael Scott do not ask me to think. Dostoyevsky does.

But I must read. I spend my days singing the praises of reading to a couple hundred apathetic twelve year olds. If I don't read I'm a hypocrite to them and a disappointment to myself. So I pick the next best thing to The Fountainhead: The Mermaid Chair.

If you know me, you know I'm all judgy about contemporary fiction. Most of it is meaningless crap written by what sounds like fifth graders. The stories are pedestrian and the writing is horrifyingly juvenile. Either the vocabulary and prose are simple (but not the good kind like Hemmingway) or the authors sit there with a thesaurus and try to pack as many lofty, superfluous phrases as they can to make the book longer and "deeper". Yet here I am, in an attempt to avoid George Elliot and Mark Twain, reading what has to be the dumbest book I've ever read (save the Left Behind series).

So here I am, begging you. Please. Give me some titles. Save me from this book. I need something that isn't going to make my brain explode, either from profound depth or sheer stupidity. I need a new A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. This week is the teacher discount week at Barnes and Noble, and I've got birthday gift cards to spend. Help!

Fight or Flight

What do you do when someone questions a pretty big part of your self? What do you do when someone asks you to think about whether or not you're sure you picked the right career?

Instinct #1: Flight. I sound the retreat and put on my sweats, curl up in bed, refuse to speak to anyone out of fear, embarrassment, and heartbreak. I question who I think I am, and I cry and cry, believing that the person I have spent a lifetime becoming isn't good enough.

Instinct #2: Fight. The defenses go up. It's unfair for her to say that. The anger wells up. I'm good at my job, and no one has any right to insinuate that I'm not.

Lather, rinse, repeat.

Happy birthday to me.