Smells Like Teen Spit

I am back in the classroom!

It's temporary, natch. I needed the extra fundage, after the accident. I got a call from my old department chair with the news that one of my former colleagues will be out for a few weeks post-rotater cuff surgery, and would I mind filling in for him while he is sidelined on the proverbial pedagogical bench? I said, "Sure thing," and that was over a week ago now.

It's like riding a bicycle. One naturally falls back into teaching, timing bathroom breaks to fall conveniently into the prep period and lunch, and busting out the old "teacher's stare." I messed up the first few days, and my need for coffee resulted in a mad dash to the little teachers' room in the six minutes allotted between classes. Which is not as easy as it sounds. This is a high school after all, and those seniors are all seven feet tall and four feet wide. You take your life into your own hands when you venture out during a passing period.

All is well. Old colleagues poke their heads through the classroom door to catch up on family news and gossip. Former students turn up out of the woodwork to and share all of their life's ambitions and drudgery. Freshmen are still squirmy and immature. Seniors still think they should not have to do anything the entire spring semester.

Still, I will be happy when I do not have to be up, dressed, in full make-up and properly caffeinated before sunrise.


Nine Years Ago, Today

It's been nine years since I became a mom for the first time. I'm still a bit bewildered at it all; trying to figure out if I am doing things correctly. These kids don't come with a set of instructions, you know. My little chubby baby has turned into a tall, lanky, smarty-pants who is not too big to cuddle with his mommy.

Happy birthday, Connor James!


Normalcy, Interruptus

That not so clear picture, taken with the camera of an old and generally worthless phone, is Hank. I loved Hank. Right now Hank is sitting in a lot somewhere, waiting the appraisal of an insurance adjuster. Lets just call it "life support." I'm pretty sure they are going to tell me that I should pull the plug on Hank. He broke his front axle, after all.

I'm not going to say a lot about the accident, except that it wasn't my fault and it was "scary." It happened less than a quarter mile from my house -- no kidding -- at a four-way stop. Well, I stopped, and I had the right of way. The other guy didn't so much as stop as blow right through the stop sign. And he had a wife and three kids in the car, including an infant who was sitting on his wife's lap, in the front seat, where the airbags deployed.

What happened immediately after the accident was strange. A large group of people had gathered around, seeing as it happened in front of a school, which had just let out. It took me a few moments to figure out, after I had called the police, that the wife and children were fleeing down the street. I'll let you place your own bets on why. Thankfully, the man stayed behind, even though his immigrant status and the fact that he had neither license or proof of insurance guaranteed him a slew of legal issue well beyond the citations he received related to the accident itself.

Ah, well... He admitted fault, both cars were towed away, my back is sore and tight, and I am in the hands of the insurance people now. Oh, and to tide me over, I have this:

I hate to admit it, but I don't miss Hank all that much.
Designed by Lena