School and More School

Did I mention that I was inside studying yesterday as the children played in the snow and Dave hottubbed with neighbor? Oh, I did mention that - really? Well, if you're up for a pity party, keep reading. If you'd rather forgo my self indulgence, feel free to skip to another blog. I really don't mind. But here goes...

My transcript, if I must say so myself, is a bit full. It starts with a Bachelors of Education Degree in Elementary Education/Special Education, then has a Masters of Science in Education, and a Ph.D. in Teaching and Learning. Last year I tacked on another 15 credits for a Librarian's Credential and this year I am adding more classes in Special Education. And that's not counting any credits provided by the Red River Valley Writing Project or numerous other professional development classes I've taken.

So why am I taking Special Education classes you ask? In all honesty, I find myself asking that same questions over and over again lately. I'm all about learning more - and that's certainly what I've been doing this fall. Yet I'm a bit fed up with my transript and all my education and my teaching license. It all started 22 years ago when I was student teaching in Elementary and Special Education. That semester I discovered I could graduate early with an Elementary Education Degree. I had one class left to finish my Special Education Degree and knew I could take it by correspondence. So, I graduated in December, moved to Minneapolis in January, finished the class by May, and got my first teaching job in Farmington, MN in June. It all worked out perfectly. My MN teaching license showed I had special education so I didn't think I needed to do anything else for that part of my teaching license. Fast forward to 2010 and my frantic job search in late July/early August. I was offered a job as a special educator but my teaching license didn't show a special education endorsement. In essence, because I didn't go back and check on my college degree after finishing the correspondence class, I now have five, perhaps six, graduate classes I need to take. Each to the tune of about $1,000. Compare that to my undergraduate degree where I could take 21 credits for $650.00. This was a pretty costly mistake. The good news about it is that I was still able to accept the job and am enjoying it. I am remembering what it was about special education I loved - the kids, the kids, the kids.

Now I realize with No Child Left Behind and the fact I actually never taught in special education, I would probably have needed to take some classes. It's just that for once in my life, I am not excited about taking classes. In fact, I'm a bit resentful. Not at the institution, not at the professors, not at the classes themselves - just at life. I'm feeling the need for a little bit of a break. Any time now would be just fine... any time.


P.S. As I posted this entry to check for formatting, up came a pop-up window - for a graduate degree at one of those online universities. I about screamed.

Heights

I'm a bit afraid of heights. Perhaps it's because I grew up in North Dakota where the spring ritual for our track team was to run two miles just to find a small incline on which to run "hills." And then, even that hill was not much more than a dip in the gravel road. Or maybe it's because I have some distant childhood memory of traveling in a Winnebago and making our way around windy mountain roads. I'm not sure why I'm afraid of heights but I'm reminded of it every time we're in Arizona.

This year I told myself I wasn't going to climb right outside Mom and Dad's backyard (the red rock in the above picture). Last spring I climbed higher than I ever had before and well, I guess I thought that was high enough. This year the kids and Dave knocked off that same climb before lunch the other day - they came back happy and exhilerated and I was just as happy that I'd stayed on the ground. On another day I talked them into going for a hike, not a climb. There was lots of complaining going on during that four mile walk (too much walking, not enough climbing) but I was loving every minute of it.

Then came our last day in Sedona. John wanted to make to climb again - not hike - and I couldn't talk anybody into going for a hike around Bell Rock - or even a small jaunt to Cathedral Rock. So while Sophie and Lucy stayed back and made cookies with Mom, I went for a climb with Dad, Dave and John - with every intent of coming back on my own once I felt that familiar stomach tightening.

It started out wonderfully - I was amazed at John's climbing and his enthusiasm for leading us up the wash. He reminded me of Dad with the way he just scrabbled up the rocks. Here's a pic I took right after one of our water breaks.

We kept going and I was feeling great - beauty surrounded us everywhere I looked and the rocks in the wash were solid and strong. We kept climbing and climbing and I started kicking myself for not doing this the previous days.

Then came some loose rock that involved some hunching over and maneuvering sideways on all fours. Dave stuck with John but I could see the look of concern on his face - he knows me well enough to know that I had just reached my limit. But unfortunately, there was no going back down the way we had just come. So I sat, took a drink, and talked to myself. I looked over at Dave, with his smile and his shorts and hiking boots full of red dust and took this picture of the view. I told myself I've come this far and I'm fine - and I can keep going. So I did - slowly and carefully trying to breathe and willing my legs to keep moving.

By the time we all stopped for another water break Dad knew I wasn't doing so well. He came over to me and talked me through a narrow pass full of loose rock, "Hug the rock Marc, hug the rock. Get down on all fours, face it. If you fall you're not going anywhere. Hug the rock, hug the rock. Great job Marci Miller!"

I was less than reassured. By then I knew I had to make it to the top - we could try to find a different way back down but they knew, from past experience, that there was an easier way down on the other side of the rock. So, up we climbed.

John was starting to get a bit nervous - I'm sure I wasn't helping him feel any more comfortable on the rock even though the only thing I said was "Dave, stay with him. I can't watch him climb." Meaning - it was all I could do to worry about myself and worrying about him was making me even more stressed overall...

During this last stretch, Dad was climbing around like a mountain goat above us - back and forth, back and forth, trying to find the best way to get to the top. He called out, "Oh I don't know, we may need to go back down." My heart skipped a beat. Dave whispered, "What do you think?" and I replied, "There's no way I can go back down there." So we kept climbing to where Dad's voice was. John was chattering saying he wanted to go back down when suddenly he came to a complete standstill and exclaimed, "Holy Moly!" I looked up from my position on all fours and reiterated John's words, with a bit more emphasis.

Dad was sitting on the other side of a twenty foot drop - as calm as could be. But it was clear to us we'd have to walk across a ledge less than a foot wide and about eight feet long to reach him.

John was all for it. If he would have had a harness and a rope and been at the climbing wall in Grand Forks, I would have been fine. And although he didn't have those things, he had Dave and Dad and no fear. And he made it look so darn easy - he grabbed the rock, shuffled his feet and made it across without any problem. Then it was my turn. I certainly didn't make it look easy to anybody who might have been watching. The first shuffle step or two were all right but when I felt I couldn't get a good handhold I started to sweat. I willed my right leg to move but it didn't. I felt like my 94-year-old Grandma who has Parkinsons and tells her legs to move but they just won't listen. Dave reached over to it and said, "Move it on 3... 1,2,3." It moved on four... or maybe five.

I made it across and tried not to watch as Dave made his way. From there it was a relatively easy climb the next twenty feet or so to the top. Once we got there and I saw long distances of flat land I sank to the ground and gave a silent prayer. And thought, I don't care if I ever do this again - for the rest of my life.


We rested up a bit and then had a leisurely walk down the back side and around the hill...and I've made up my mind. I'll stick to regular old hiking from here on out.

Saga of the Crowns

I am not one for dentist visits. Even a little 30 minute visit makes me nervous - the xrays, the foreign objects in my mouth, the dentist asking questions when all you can do is nod your head or move your eyebrows up and down. But the worst is when I know I will have to have my mouth open for an extended period of time. Our dentist is wonderful - he plays classical music for me or lets me watch movies while he works on my teeth but I still leave feeling stiff and sore. No matter what he does or how I try to relax, I just can't.

I suppose it has something to do with me always wanting to be in control. And seriously, as an adult, there aren't many places I allow myself to go when I don't feel like I'm in control. But, at times, the dentist office simply cannot be avoided.

I knew a visit was on the horizon a few weeks ago when I bit down on a leftover Christmas candycane and suddenly felt a large jagged edge on my back molar. I gave a silent prayer that it was just a piece of candy cane that was stuck to my tooth - but to no avail. It was a broken tooth. And based on the size of the jaggedness, I knew it meant yet another crown for me.

The saga of the crowns all started when I was pregnant with Lucy and had a craving for Milk Duds - every single day. Until part of a tooth broke off right in a milk dud. Our dentist was able to patch it up with a temporary until after she was born and then he did the real work - but that crown turned into an emergency root canal as well as a crown. As did the next one. By the time I needed a third crown two years ago I suggested we just book an appointment with the endodontist right away. We didn't but I did need a root canal. Finally, on the last crown I made it through without a root canal. My mouth, and our pocketbook, were both pretty happy about that.

And here I am - day five post dental work for my fifth crown and all is well. Here's hoping it stays that way until the permanent crown is in place. If you have any connections with the tooth fairy, please put in a good word for me.

Why I Stay Home

There’s a new commercial on television – I think it’s either TLC or HGTV – featuring a woman entering her office and going straight to her computer. We can see the pictures of her kids on her desk but her eyes are on the 300 messages in her inbox while her ears are focused on listening to her voicemail messages. We see her go throughout her day – being frustrated with the copy machine, walking the halls with blueprints, and thanking her assistants as they drop off more blueprints and files at her desk. Finally, in the last few seconds we see her home all lit up in the evening hours and she walks through the door and is encompassed by her children who eagerly hug her and show off their homework. For the first time all day she looks relaxed and happy. The message – come home to your comfort.

I’m all about home and comfort but when I watched the commercial I felt sad. It reminded too much of when I was teaching at UND and was constantly questioning myself. “Am I doing right by our kids?” “Am I doing right by my students?” I was like the woman in the commercial in many ways – I had pictures of the kids on my desk, their artwork was posted on my office door, under my desk was a Rubbermaid container full of toys and books for when they visited, and when they were babies there was even a pack-n-play in my office right next to all the books about literacy. But when I was at work, I was at work.

And I liked to think that when I was at home, I was at home. I dropped the kids off and picked them up from school each day. We had a wonderful young woman, Dana, who came to our house each day for a few years so we didn’t have to take them out to daycare. One day a week, usually when I taught my night class or met with grad students, she came after lunch and stayed late. That meant the kids and I got to hang out for the entire morning. And I tried not to think about cleaning the bathrooms or doing laundry during that time.

But when I decided to “retire” from teaching at age 38 I was, frankly, relieved. It meant I no longer had to put the kids in bed and then stay up until 2 am grading papers. Or else get up at the ungodly hour of 3 am to grade those papers. It meant I no longer had to choose between raising our children and trying to be a teacher, mentor, and parent to twenty year old college students who often needed the same kind of parenting as our young children.

I was, and am lucky, that Dave was supportive of my decision. Even though it meant we weren’t stacking away money into my retirement account and even though it means we pay for health insurance out of our own pockets.

And it meant I could take over the household – something I hadn’t done much since we’d had kids. As I write this I realize I’m not sure the last time Dave cleaned a bathroom, vacuumed or did a load of laundry. That doesn’t mean things are perfect – after all when he left for his last business trip he didn’t have any clean white shirts because I’d done all the laundry, except for that particular load. Oops. Dave certainly still does his share of the cooking and some of the grocery shopping – but I blame that on him being so darn picky – not that I can’t cook.

And my professional ego is OK with all this – perhaps in part because, as my Theresa is quick to point out, I still have my foot in the professional world. With my work with the Red River Valley Writing Project I get a salary, am able to work with teachers and students, and get to do most of this from home.

All these points were brought home to me yesterday when Mike, a friend and incredible handyman, was irritated with me that I didn’t take him to Lowe’s to get insulation for 817’s attic. In his snit he even went so far as to say all I did was hang out all day long. Let’s just say I was a little peeved at that comment.

Yesterday, for instance, was Day 5 of Dave being gone for 7 days. Our bed had been a revolving door the night before with Sophie in with me at 3 because of a nightmare and John with me at 4:30 because his tummy hurt. When he threw up an hour later I knew he’d be staying home with me. And that was just fine – because I didn’t have to resent the fact that Dave was at a business meeting and I was the one who would have to miss work. So yes, John and I sat on the couch and snuggled and watched movies all day long. I drank a lot of coffee, made a lot of soup, and got the gazillion pictures on the computer organized – something I’d been meaning to do for over a year. But no, I didn’t get to take Mike to Lowe’s to get insulation. But that’s because my kids come first.

It isn’t that I wouldn’t like the thrill of teaching again. It isn’t that I don’t long for stimulating conversation during the day. But I am home because emotionally it was too hard for me to do it all – and do it all well. As you can probably tell from many of my blog entries I’m somewhat of a perfectionist. So when I didn’t feel I was doing a good job at any of my jobs – wife, mother, professor – it was time to stop. And most days, I don’t regret it. But yesterday I found myself going over Mike’s comment again and again and rationalizing what I do.

And what I cam up with was pretty darn important – I stay home with my kids. Going back to the TV commercial – how much do you want to bet that woman has someone right there at home with her kids, taking care of them and helping her be who she is. And aren’t those kids what is so very important in our lives?

Sunday Morning Coffee

A photo essay by John - the title being "My mom likes every drop of her morning coffee.

And Dave, if he were here instead of Acapulco, would say with a smile, "Open up those eyes Marci."