Thursday, April 22, 2010

Homeless

Every year an Eastern Bluebird has been building her nest outside of my classroom window. It's really incredible actual. With just some dirt and debris and a little bird spit, she builds a home on the completely vertical face of a wall. Of course, if her house plummets a great distance, she is far better equipped to handle this than you or I.

Each year my kids and I spend the weeks after the CRCT watching the progress of the bird and her eggs. There's always one morning when we come in and there aren't eggs anymore but babies. This is my favorite part. I am largely a fan of anything that is miniature.

My kids loved it! We'd talk about the birds and write about them, and we would generally stare at them longer than we should have. I loved it too. It gave us an opportunity to just experience something. I couldn't plan it. I couldn't control when the eggs would hatch or when they would choose to spend hours squawking because they were hungry. As a side note, baby birds are hungry a lot. We just got to be observers, and it became an irreplaceable experience.

Did you notice the past tense of that verb there? Became. A few weeks ago (I've just gotten to the point where I can deal with it), my students and I watched in horror as our birds nest was knocked down. It was then destroyed and the eggs in it. I know people think that middle schoolers are unfeeling monsters, but I can assure you they feel plenty, and they were devastated. I was devastated.

We thought at first that the Mama Bird was going to rebuild. She kept swooping a wide arc and coming back to her homesite. We waited for days, but the nest still hasn't come back. That bird is homeless. She spends her days flying in circles and making random visits to the place where her home once was.

My kids and I still watch her, and we're all secretly hoping that one morning we'll come in, and there will be a nest again. But for now, we'll just sits with her as she visits the place that used to be home.

Tuesday, April 6, 2010

Under Pressure


My dad came over early this morning so we could pressure wash my house. Normal enough, but here's the thing, I had no idea my dad was coming. I had alluded to the fact that I was going to pressure wash my house today, which in Sarah terms means "I am going to think about pressure washing my house all day long while I am doing other things." So imagine my surprise, when I am awoken this morning to the sound of the door bell, and then to the sight of my father knocking on my bedroom window. I was less than excited. At the same time, I was very appreciative of the fact that I had help for this endeavor.

Before I plunge too much further into the day's events, let me give you a little insight into our father/daughter relationship. My dad is probably the nicest guy you'll meet. He'll crack jokes with you and pick on you. Everyone he knows loves him. Now imagine a life in which your dad was this guy, but the 20 or so stock jokes he tells to everyone are also the only source of conversation the two of you have. My dad asks me three questions on a consistent basis, "Are you tired?", "Are you hungry?" and "Are you thirsty?" I'm not lying! He must have asked me these same 3 questions 15 times today. We don't get much further than that.

When I was younger, I thought this was because my dad didn't like me. Honestly, this is what I thought. I was the "accident" kid, and I thought that just meant that I was one more person for my dad to take care of. As an adult, I realize that my dad loves me very much; we just communicate in vastly different ways. I like to spend time with people and have deep conversations with them. This is how I show and receive love. My dad, on the other hand, is a service kind of a guy. My dad likes to do things for others. This is a great way to express love. There's nothing wrong with it. However, as a child, I didn't realize that when my dad did things for me he was really saying, "I love you." It's sort of a Princess Bride "as you wish," situation.

There's another facet to our relationship. My dad has Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. I know people say that they or someone they know have it, but my dad genuinely does. This means that when we undertake a project like this my dad has a way of doing it, and he will not stop until it is done completely in a manner that he sees fitting. I have a ton of problems with that. Largely in that my dad will not listen when I tell him something. It drives me nuts, and I get really upset with him. I've learned to keep my mouth shut, but it eats away at me, and I think all sorts of terrible things while we're together. Our projects usually end up being silent tasks, and I usually cry or rant to Romie after he leaves.

So you see, we started the day with the cards stacked against us. I dragged myself out of bed and threw on some crap clothes all the while thinking about how horrible and awkward today was going to be. We started, and five minutes in I was ready to be done. I was just so frustrated. He wouldn't let me do anything. He was set on using the longest possible process. I was thinking about how I didn't really want to be doing this anyway. Then I stopped, I thought back to being de-cluttered and renewing my mind. I was letting everything I thought about my dad, every painful memory, everything I think my dad should have said or done in the past, every comparison I had made to other fathers completely overshadow the fact that my dad was here today, and that he was showing me love. It didn't matter that it wasn't the way I would have preferred. I was the one who was making the process harder. I was the one who had put up defenses. My dad was doing a really nice thing for me.

I stopped, and I said in my mind "Do not conform any longer to the patterns of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind. Then you will be able to test and approve what God's will is - his good, pleasing, and perfect will." (Romans 12:2). Yes, I know I sound like one of "those women". The ones who are so "holy" that they're just one giant religious cliche. I promise I'm not, but I am learning a lot about myself, and one of the things I've learned is that I'm a super negative thinker. People who know me would be surprised by this because I'm verbally very positive. Trust me though, my thoughts are junk most of the time. In realizing this, I decided to cling to something positive and that verse was it for me.

Back to the story. I'm not saying that verse or that moment was magic, but in that moment, I manned up and made a suggestion. And my dad took it. And we got done a lot quicker. And we talked about sports at lunch. And my dad let me do things my way for most of the day. And for the first time in a really long time, I wasn't mad at my dad when he left. It wasn't because he was really any different. It was because I let go of the things that used to get in our way. I let them float away like a balloon, and now, they're just a tiny speck in the sky.

My house is pretty clean, too. ; )

Thursday, April 1, 2010

Never were there more devoted sisters

I love my sister. She is everything a sister should be. She looks out for me. She picks on me. She puts blankets in the dryer to warm them up when I'm cold. Really, I couldn't have asked for a better one.

Sister and I are pretty different. She is loud and has never met a stranger. I'm quiet until we're good buds, and I'm pretty wary of strangers. She was a cheerleader. I was a theater kid. She grew up with New Kids on the Block (that was my first concert). I grew up with Backstreet Boys (I am shame faced). She's married and has kids. I'm not, and I don't, unless you count 100 7th graders.

Despite all of these things, when we're together, we're connected. We think it's weird that people say we're so different because to us, we're two peas in a pod. We think alike. We have the same twisted sense of humor, although, my sister is much freer in sharing hers. We both love music and reading and being slightly judgmental. We both picked the same profession. We painted our houses the same colors. Mine is admittedly much brighter shades than hers.

I know with such surety that if I needed anything - a kidney, money, a home, a blood transfusion, an alibi for a crime - my sister would be there, and she would give it. I know this because I feel that way about her.