Baby Fat

The pot-belly stomach, the cheeks that droop but in a squeezable way, the scowl, worried about impending events. Where did all that baby fat disappear to? You can see the imp with the childhood intolerance for unfairness. You can see much of this man within the picture of a boy at one. While the baby fat may be gone, his mannerisms continue to invoke childhood habits.

Many people say that you can see how you looked as a child by observing your sleep patterns as an adult. The truth is he burrows and curls his body on the couch before falling asleep like a puppy finding its spot, and will sweetly wake up from a dream to share a little morsel of it (sleep talking). While the drummer boy instruments are gone, two guitars fulfill the need of music even if the tune is off. A little light dances in his eye when he admires his crafty and creative successes. While many times I want to call him an ass, I feel the need to smile softly as he reminds me of the Peter Pan I used to wait for every night to take me to Neverland.

You see, I never wanted to grow up (still trying not to). I like having fun, sleeping on the grass at the park, eating ice cream and swimming with mermaids. Every year I used to read the book Peter Pan by J.M. Barrie to fly back to Neverland with all the strange adventures with the Neverbird, the wolf and the ferocious mermaids (please, never watch the Disney version of Peter Pan). However, now that I met this Peter-like character in 2000, I only read the story to other children, so they too can be inspired to have adventures, make-believe they are eating food when they aren't, and fight each other to only make up in the same day.

Childhood stories often do teach people a lesson. However, childhood stories also teach the power of imagination and creativity. At times, I wander off to Neverland as I see him construct costumes from pillow cases and construction paper, in time for the newspaper photo shoot. He discovers so much beauty in simple objects and moments.

So while the years may be creeping up, his heart, mind and spirit will never lose their baby fat. You hear it in his laugh, the tears in his eyes when he feels like a child, and when his smile has a kiss no one can retrieve. He is my Peter Pan and I am having so many adventures, I never want to go home (only for spring cleaning).

Happy Birthday Darling.

Small Time Frame of Sanity

If I get home by 4:45 pm, then I feel like I achieved something for myself that day...however, most days I get home at 5, 5:30 or sometimes even as late as 7:30 pm. It is amazing how different I feel by getting home before 5 pm. I don't think about the lack of pay I get for those lost hours (I get paid for 7 hours of my work day) because it seems unproductive.

What I feel I lose is my time to be with my mate, to talk and joke around. Even just watching a movie. Many times like tonight I come home late only to spend my time grading papers and trying to make sure I catch a few words of conversation (but I must admit, I don't know what we are talking about sometimes because my mind is on so many other topics).

I also lose time for me. My time to pursue my fading photography hobby..my time to read...my time to think about other things than why "my darlings" cannot seem to pass a quiz (did I teach it well enough?).

So as I finish cleaning up the kitchen, put the leftovers in the fridge for tomorrow and pack up my papers and computer, I cannot help but be a bit grumpy. Teachers spend their career trying to discover two things: the curiosity of children and life beyond school and work.

I miss my mate even though he is just a few feet away snoring softly on the couch. I miss me. I need to find my life...

Small Talk

The process of putting on a dazzling outfit (with help from friends and neighbors) is fun. Walking down the street looking like a magazine shoot is interesting as people walk past wondering what event you are attending. However, upon arrival, I dread the "small talk". I never know what to say and I always pray the other person can start and continue a conversation. I can answer politely and put my two cents in about a topic, but starting...what conversation would I start? My brain gets flustered with thoughts such as: Do people want to know about the lab I am stressing over for Monday? Do people want to know that I am excited to have my laundry finally done after thinking about it for one week? Is my breath okay? Do people really want to know that I probably will not remember them since I have to worry about the lives of 200 students, myself and a husband each day and I cannot handle another life? How do I eat this food? Who are you? Do people really want to know that we prefer to be at home at the moment?

The art teacher has more topics to choose from since he works at the school the fundraiser was addressing, and he could dart in between people discussing kids, golf, and the occasional smoke. Yet even he got caught with a chicken wing in his mouth (to avoid the stomach wrech) as a former teacher wanted his deep intellectual thoughts. Can he really address an issue with a chicken wing in his mouth?

The morning after a surreal experience like last night, I catalog the moments I spoke to someone to make sure I sounded at least a little intelligent. However, I can think of possibly three times I approached the small talk with the wrong topic or the wrong person who also didn't want to talk. I was trying to hide and watch the people as a wanderer is apt at doing, but someone would come up seeking some deep tidbit. Even the wait staff stopped to hear some small talk. What do I say? While chugging coffee to help relieve my wine-induced brain, I believe I repeated myself three times on how coffee does not affect me.

This is why I usually photograph events. Today, my throat is sore from screaming at people who sat 2 feet away from me (the acoustics were terrible), my head is a little sore (from nervously drinking wine), and my brain is tired (from sorting through surreal events such as a Corvette hitting a BMW on the way home with two Georgians and loud mother in a small space). Oh well, I can hide away for another year.

Weekends

Waking up with the cool fog, I pull the covers closer to my chin, snuggle a little closer to the warm body next to me, and pray the morning won't end.

All during the week, I work for the weekend morning, the mornings when I don't have to get up and start thinking. Coffee is more enjoyable on the weekends. The thoughts bound between two covers get read. We don't have children during the weekends to wake us up early like they do during the week. Our bodies can relax from the lifting, conjoling, counseling, peer mediating, and psychoanalyzing we do several hours during the weekdays.

My eyes are opening and my thoughts start to turn to the stack of notebooks needing my analysis--why couldn't they just do their homework?--and the laundry that NEEDS to be done. I shut my eyes and hope the morning can last a little bit longer.

But alas, the morning is almost over and tomorrow is Monday.