Donny

It's Friday.  Which means I treat myself to our local cafe's egg sandwich on the way to work.  I ran in quickly ( I never put money in the meter) and my favorite waitress already had my tea ready as I waited at the counter.  And then, a familiar brown tweed at the counter began to speak.

"Are you a christian? I think you are.  I knew you were when I met you last. I knew you were a sister."

Remember a few posts ago when I outlined how my getting to work on time was deterred by a talkative alcoholic in need of a best friend?  Looks like he found one.  It appears as if I'll be meeting the elderly gentleman on Friday mornings for breakfast (me an egg and cheese sandwich and a black tea with milk, his preference whole wheat, buttered toast and a green tea) in which he will explain his undying affection for the Red Cross woman with the blue hair and I will get to marvel at how quickly he can speak and eat at the same time.

We may over look people and things God puts in our way the first time, but never- never the second.  There's no way around it. Donny and I are fated to be life-long friends.  And, I will never be on time for work ever again.  Especially if he doesn't get up the guts to ask blue-haired lady out this week.  Geesh.

Wanted: My Creativity

I've lost it.  It has officially been consumed by demanding A.P. students needing college recommendations. Squashed by the pile of dishes in the sink that have begun to waft unnatural odors through my living room doors.  Stifled by this growing child within me that seems to need every ounce of nutrition, energy, patience and sleep I come across on a daily basis.

I have no creativity.

I have not written anything that could even resemble a song, a poem, a chapter in one of the two novels that been in progress for two years now- even a haiku.  Nada.

I have alternated chicken and pasta for weeknight meals.  No Indian Biryani that once graced our table.  No homemade bread or almond torte or even hot chocolate from scratch.  Thank you, Swiss Miss.

I have not rearranged furniture.  Redecorated my bedroom.  Thought about patterns for the nursery.

In fact, it took me a disconcerting 20 minutes to write this minuscule, scattered post which is just another dismal reflection of my lack of creative juices.

Someone help me find it.  

Plight of the Pregnant

You know what I'm talking about.  I'm thinking about those beautiful pregnant woman you see in the windows of little yoga studios, barely sweating.  Barely showing.  The ones who have stock piled onesies in every color as soon as two little pink lines showed up on the strip.  The ones who eat fruit and yogurt for breakfast, take a nap and then meander over to the tea shop for a cup of decaffeinated green-jasmine, looking all pink and glowing and stunningly gorgeous and happy.

I hate them.

I hate them as I'm sitting at my desk in my empty classroom trying to cover my green pallor with blush.  I hate them as the cafeteria wafts distinctive smells that signify that it is somehow, yet again, chili-cheese dog day and praying that I will make it to the toilet at the end of the third wing in time to vomit for the umpteenth time in the last few days.  I hate them as my waistline expands into a strange, foreign blob that looks less like its harboring a child than a food baby.  I hate them because no one told me it could be miserable enough to count down the days until delivery...at just 16 weeks.

Well, I'm telling you now.  I hate being pregnant.  I love the idea of raising a family with my husband- the beautiful way God enabled me to provide for my child what I didn't have: a two parent household that is unified.  I love that our kid will be read to and sung to and cooked for and played with. I love that s/he'll have a home to come to, that God's promises are written all over our family.  But I hate this process.  I hate the hormones, I hate the crying, I hate the illness, I hate the weight gain, I hate the fatigue, I hate the pressure.  I also hate that I have the inability to utilize my once coveted tact- and be honest about everything.

So, dear, glowing, beautiful, tea-drinking, yoga participating mama-to-be, please don't take it personally. I just hate you right now.

I'm an Alcoholic

It was Friday morning at 7:04. I just dropped Rich off at the train station and was trying to calculate if I had enough time to run to CVS to get some Halloween candy to appease my students anger at having to write a book report on a Friday and make it to Rays (our favorite little cafe-hole-in-the-wall) for an egg sandwich to make up for my lack of breakfast.  I, bravely deciding that since I now have pregnancy superpowers, should certainly able to do both and still get to work on time.

If I were any other person, this would certainly be the case.  Alas, I am not any other person, thus, the following occurred.

I quickly ran inside, plunked my large bag down on the counter, ordered a small tea and an egg and cheese sandwich to go from my favorite waitress and proceeded to try and wrangle a bobby-pin into my bed-head when I heard a throat clearing right beside me.  I hadn't noticed that I had sat down right next to an older gentleman at the counter, staring at me over his plate of scrambled eggs.  Oh, no.  I thought.  This always happens to me.

For some reason, I am a lonely stranger magnet.  They seek me out wherever I am like infrared detectors. I hoped this morning would be different.  I don't have time this morning.  Please God, I don't have time this morning.

"I'm an alcoholic."

Here we go.

He smoothed his graying hair and fidgeted with his paper napkin.  Maybe he wasn't talking to me?

"I don't want to be one, you know."

Nope. He's looking right at me.  Of course he's looking right at me.

"I don't think anyone really wants to be one." I said gently and smiled.  Green light means go, to lonely strangers.  Hook. Line. Sinker.  I put my bag on the floor and took off my sweater.

I made it to work on time, in case you were wondering, just barely.  But not before I learned all about this man's life, his career, his poor choices, his failed marriage, his new interest in a woman who works at the red cross that he deemed "too wonderful for him" to be with.  Not before he told me all about how he went to church with her once and it made him feel so human he could hardly stand it and how she touched his shoulder with her hair accidently when they were holding the hymnal.  I told him before I left that I hoped it all worked for him, and he called after me that it probably won't.  But, then he smiled a little for the first time in the half hour we sat chatting together and I couldn't help but feel like this meeting was planned just so I could offer a bit of encouragement to a man in a dark place.

Who are you supposed to meet today?

Baby, Baby

I have not left my couch since Thursday evening.  You could make a mold of my butt from the deep indentation.  You'd also probably be able to tell what I've eaten over the last few days by the conspicuous cracker crumbs, tea stains, melted chocolate pieces and flecks of spinach littering the throw pillow.  This is so very unlike me and normally, this confession would make my cheeks burn with embarrassment over the state of my crumbling household.  However, when I was warned that pregnancy changes a person I didn't quite grasp the enormity of the situation.  Not until now.

I am, officially, 14 weeks pregnant.  The last time we spoke, I believe I was outlining parts of the grieving process that follow a miscarriage. I was amazed by God's goodness and that of his people during that time. Rich and I were able to recover so well from that experience, and then were even more surprised to discover that we were pregnant yet again directly after the loss of our first.   It was truly a  reminder that He brings beauty from ashes, joy from mourning.  However, through all of that, each pregnancy is different and thus began our journey with this little sprinkle... (the nickname given after discovering it was roughly the size of an ice cream jimmy when we realized we were pregnant once again).

Let me begin by saying that yes, we are excited but it took quite some time for the shock to wear off.  And then, the sickness came.  And left for a week.  And then came back worse than before.  Have you ever taught a room full of teenagers while trying to suppress the urge to vomit in the nearest garbage can? Every day?  Or having to deal with the feelings of worthlessness when I can't do all of the things I used to enjoy, like make a simple meal for my husband.  Go see a friend.  Read.  (Fine print makes me nauseous.  Awesome.)  It's been more than just a little adjusting on both of our parts.

I'm hoping during this next phase of pregnancy I'll get to experience the beauty, the joy and the energy that's supposed to decorate the second trimester.  Until then, I'll continue my toast and ramen noodle routine (with the occasional steak, cocktail shrimp, mashed potatoes and sauteed spinach I seem to crave when my face isn't in the toilet) and wait patiently for a better tomorrow.

How can I live here?

How can I live here?, originally uploaded by jshannon331.

I know. I've been away for a while. Truth be told, it was a justifiable neglect. However, neglect is still neglect and for that, I apologize. And will have to do so again because, going back to work after having several months off is a pain that my body is just not used to yet and my eyes are starting to blur at quarter after 8. Frightening.

Buuuuut, here is a tidbit of our vacation in Bar Harbor, MN, where my husband and I each took turns longingly staring into the misty ocean spray asking God why he sent us to West Orange, NJ and not to live peacefully in the mountains where we seem to belong. Alright, so I complained, limped and even (cried) a little climbing up said mountain, but the view was sure worth it when I got there. Kinda.

Sigh. For now, I am sitting on my couch planning my lessons for the barrage of teenage-dom about to enter into my life for the next ten months. The good news is, you get lots of funny classroom stories once again.

Bahhhh Hahhhhhbahhhh

Fine, I'll admit it.  I"m a sucker for a New England accent.  I secretly practice it under my breath. I love how New Englanders are so in charge, so secure in who they are, they feel no shame in changing the pronunciation of our language.  They drop "R"'s like a bad habit.  They find "O"'s to be dull, so they add an "AU" instead.  I love the harsh, slightly snooty Bostonian, the gentle rounding of New Hampshire's vowels, Vermont's coaxing of consonants and Maine's sharp stops and starts.  Each true to their state, but with a undercurrent of unity only found in those regions far reaching into our country's northeast.

New England accents made me do crazy things.  Like day-dream of blueberry cobbler for breakfast- with the berries picked along the shoreline during an early morning walk.  Buy only pine-scented candles in a vain attempt to capture the green mountains' scent and infuse it into my New Jersey house- resulting in a sickening smell of a dying Christmas tree sprayed with Pinesol.  Try to imagine how we can add an addition onto the back of the house that looks like a log cabin. Oh, and of course, eat "laubsta" for "dinna" every night.

Perhaps it's because every New Englander I've ever met laughs and talks a lot.  And drinks a lot. And eats a lot.  With a lot of friends and family. A lot. And repeats the process each and every day and I can't really imagine how life could get any "betta" than that.

Bah Hahbah, here I come.