I hear "I want..." from Ainsley. A lot.
I guess I was like that as a kid, too. Every commercial for a Glamour Gal or Western Barbie or Space Pets during Saturday morning cartoons had me turning to my mom and saying, "Can I have that?" And just like my mom, when Ainsley turns to me and asks, "Can I have that?", my answer is almost always, "No!"
"Almost always" because sometimes what she wants is pretty cool, and my answer instead becomes "Maybe for your birthday or Christmas." This is how we now have such "as seen on TV" gems as the GloDoodle (seriously, this is a fun toy) and Wikki Sticks (which I am still not sure I get.)
Sometimes, the "I want..." leads to us going to see something cool. That's how we went to see Up! and the stage version of High School Musical 2, each fun and educational in its own way. I try not to spoil our little only child, but occasionally one of her "I want..." requests is an "I want" for her mom, too. I look at it as bonding.
And our next bit of bonding just may be at Ainsley's first grown-up concert.
On our way in to school today, we were listening to our local top-40 station. We heard an ad come on for Daughtry's November concert at our metro area's newest concert stage. During the ad, the song "Home" was playing in the background.
Ainsley let out a gasp.
"Mommy, can we go?"
"Go where?" I was looking around for a sign for some kiddie festival or hayride or pumpkin patch.
"To that concert!" she said. "I love them."
"Do you even know who that is? It's not the Jonas Brothers. It's a band called Daughtry and their concert isn't really for kids your age."
"But I love their songs."
Well. Color me shocked.
What do you think, readers? Should we go? Would a Daughtry concert be a safe step up from Miley and the Jo Bros? Or should we wait for the kitten-like safe lovableness of Taylor Swift?
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Cranky Goes to the ER
Baby, I was not born to run.
I honestly don't know why I bother. When I first started running three years ago, I was sidelined by 6 weeks of physical therapy for Achilles tendonitis that started soon after my very first 5K. The therapist told me then that the tendons and muscles in my left leg are unusually tight and inflexible and could cause me further problems if I kept running. Did I listen? No. I'm stubborn like that.
So it's no surprise that by ignoring the nagging stiffness and tightness I've been having behind my left knee for months now I have been slowly but surely securing my spot in an emergency room.
Tuesday evening was made for running: clear, crisp, and with just a hint of autumn coolness in the hour between dinner and dusk. I laced up my shoes, stretched, and ran my usual 4-mile route with no pain other than the usual ache I get in my arthritic big toe. It was a good run that left me feeling refreshed and stress-free.
Until roughly midnight.
I remember trying to curl up on my side in the middle of the night and feeling a sharp pain in the back of my knee. It woke me up, but I didn't feel like getting out of bed and taking anything for it. I figured that, like most aches and pains, a little rest would take care of it.
Except that that it didn't.
And did I mention I'm stubborn?
I got up and got ready for work, determined not to let a little knee pain stop me. But by the time Ainsley finished her cereal, the mild pain had progressed into something more akin with being stabbed in the back of the knee with every step and a red, hot goose egg began to form above my kneecap.
I made it into work and was resigned to just take Alleve and ice it until I had to climb out of my little compact car. When I bent my knee back to get myself out, the pain was so sharp and sudden that I had to bite down on my knuckle to keep from screaming. By the time I made it downstairs to the library, I had tears in my eyes and my left kneecap was sticking out about an inch further than the right one.
These are not really good signs.
With the swine flu beginning to hit our area pretty hard, there were no appointments to be had at my doctor's office yesterday. The nurse felt I should be seen by someone, so she advised me to go to the ER (also known as "the portal to hell"), where I have not been for myself since I was 14 and left most of the skin from the left side of my face on the concrete outside the school gym after crashing my bike.
It wasn't too bad in there, really. I got in and out in a little over an hour, which may be some kind of family record. I was not overly impressed by the ER doc (who spent a total of 30 seconds in my room) but the diagnosis made sense: a sprain caused from tendonitis in the back of my knee and bursitis in the front of the knee. I was told to stay off my feet the rest of the day and to knock back super-doses of prescription ibuprofen.
It's nice, really, being told to go home and do nothing.
The pain was pretty staggering even at rest yesterday, but something seems to have worked and I am back at work today with only a slight limp and a little swelling giving me away. Of course, ER docs in our area don't do much besides make a tentative diagnosis based on x-rays and throw painkillers at you, so I have to go get a "real" diagnosis today from my regular doctor. I've heard a cortisone shot into the knee may be in my future, so there's that bit of horror to look forward to.
One of these days, I'll learn that we're either born athletic or not. And no matter how hard I may try, I just don't have that symmetrical, naturally strong body that adapts well to pounding the pavement, even at the glacial speeds I run. I have a body that's more suited to non-stressful fitness activities like shallow-water aerobics classes with the grannies, or a recumbent bike (just like a La-Z-Boy recliner, but with pedals!), or maybe a Zumba class. But a runner...that, apparently, I'm not.
I honestly don't know why I bother. When I first started running three years ago, I was sidelined by 6 weeks of physical therapy for Achilles tendonitis that started soon after my very first 5K. The therapist told me then that the tendons and muscles in my left leg are unusually tight and inflexible and could cause me further problems if I kept running. Did I listen? No. I'm stubborn like that.
So it's no surprise that by ignoring the nagging stiffness and tightness I've been having behind my left knee for months now I have been slowly but surely securing my spot in an emergency room.
Tuesday evening was made for running: clear, crisp, and with just a hint of autumn coolness in the hour between dinner and dusk. I laced up my shoes, stretched, and ran my usual 4-mile route with no pain other than the usual ache I get in my arthritic big toe. It was a good run that left me feeling refreshed and stress-free.
Until roughly midnight.
I remember trying to curl up on my side in the middle of the night and feeling a sharp pain in the back of my knee. It woke me up, but I didn't feel like getting out of bed and taking anything for it. I figured that, like most aches and pains, a little rest would take care of it.
Except that that it didn't.
And did I mention I'm stubborn?
I got up and got ready for work, determined not to let a little knee pain stop me. But by the time Ainsley finished her cereal, the mild pain had progressed into something more akin with being stabbed in the back of the knee with every step and a red, hot goose egg began to form above my kneecap.
I made it into work and was resigned to just take Alleve and ice it until I had to climb out of my little compact car. When I bent my knee back to get myself out, the pain was so sharp and sudden that I had to bite down on my knuckle to keep from screaming. By the time I made it downstairs to the library, I had tears in my eyes and my left kneecap was sticking out about an inch further than the right one.
These are not really good signs.
With the swine flu beginning to hit our area pretty hard, there were no appointments to be had at my doctor's office yesterday. The nurse felt I should be seen by someone, so she advised me to go to the ER (also known as "the portal to hell"), where I have not been for myself since I was 14 and left most of the skin from the left side of my face on the concrete outside the school gym after crashing my bike.
It wasn't too bad in there, really. I got in and out in a little over an hour, which may be some kind of family record. I was not overly impressed by the ER doc (who spent a total of 30 seconds in my room) but the diagnosis made sense: a sprain caused from tendonitis in the back of my knee and bursitis in the front of the knee. I was told to stay off my feet the rest of the day and to knock back super-doses of prescription ibuprofen.
It's nice, really, being told to go home and do nothing.
The pain was pretty staggering even at rest yesterday, but something seems to have worked and I am back at work today with only a slight limp and a little swelling giving me away. Of course, ER docs in our area don't do much besides make a tentative diagnosis based on x-rays and throw painkillers at you, so I have to go get a "real" diagnosis today from my regular doctor. I've heard a cortisone shot into the knee may be in my future, so there's that bit of horror to look forward to.
One of these days, I'll learn that we're either born athletic or not. And no matter how hard I may try, I just don't have that symmetrical, naturally strong body that adapts well to pounding the pavement, even at the glacial speeds I run. I have a body that's more suited to non-stressful fitness activities like shallow-water aerobics classes with the grannies, or a recumbent bike (just like a La-Z-Boy recliner, but with pedals!), or maybe a Zumba class. But a runner...that, apparently, I'm not.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
A Return to Civility
There are times when I am overwhelmed by the goodness of people. When tragedy strikes, and communities pull together to save the day, it moves me to tears.
But then there are times that I just wanted to scream, "What is wrong with you people?!" This last week has been one of those times.
Taken separately, any one of the public displays of jerk-holery from the past week would just seem like a random sample of rudeness. But when you mash them all together, it seems more like a sign of the end times of civil discourse.
It started with Joe Wilson shouting at the President (and yes, for the record, I was equally uncomfortable when Bush got booed by members of my party during State of the Union addresses. I have been in education a long time, and I strongly believe that when a person of authority is speaking formally to a group of people, said people should take a big, fat dose of Shut The Hell Up.) Then Serena Williams threatened to shove a racket down a line judge's throat or something along those lines, then Kanye West engaged in what Enterainment Weekly has dubbed "puppy stomping" by robbing sweet little Taylor Swift of her Moment Like This.
Taking all those things together, I just have to wonder what has happened to us. When did rudeness become the norm, and politeness the exception?
I know there are those of you who think, "Joe Wilson--big deal. You should see the British parliament in action." And while that's true of that legislative body, it generally isn't true of ours, particularly during a special televised joint session. And I remember John McEnroe and his infamous tennis outbursts. And I am familiar with Kanye's work; he did, after all, create the most awkward moment I've ever seen on live television during what was supposed to be a warm and fuzzy telethon.
What strikes me about this latest rash of nastiness is that it seems a little sharper and a little more brazen than what we usually see. With Serena, it seemed out of character. I don't follow tennis much, but I've seen the Williams sisters play enough to know that they play fair. And Joe Wilson's outburst seemed a little more shocking than the usual partisan booing simply because it was one lone, angry voice that made even members of his own party look uncomfortable. And Kanye...well, the VMAs are not exactly known for decorum, but there's no precedent for someone grabbing a mic from someone giving an acceptance speech and telling them they don't deserve said award. There are times and places where we expect bad behavior (NFL football games come to mind) but none of these times and places really warranted it.
Some people are saying it's telling of the national climate right now: people are angry. Others are saying that manners have been going downhill for a long time and what we've seen in the past few days is just the inevitable outcome.
I think those are valid, but I also think there's something larger at work. I think we've jbecome incredibly self-centered as a society. I don't even see it a generational trend; it seems to be hitting everyone. It's all about us. We feel we have to express everything we're thinking and feeling as soon as we think it and feel it because we're just that damned important. I blame it on Twitter, and Facebook, and (yes, I am guilty) Blogger. Heaven forbid we wait until it's our turn to talk, or pause and process our response into something polite and appropriate. We think the world turns on our every emoticon. In a world where there were also people in the audience rabidly texting and tweeting during the President's speech and the VMAs, and where some of those comments were just as harsh as what Joe Wilson and Kanye said, are the outbursts themselves really any worse?
But, that's just me. To what do you owe the recent public examples of people behaving badly? Or does it not even register as a blip on your rudeness radar?
But then there are times that I just wanted to scream, "What is wrong with you people?!" This last week has been one of those times.
Taken separately, any one of the public displays of jerk-holery from the past week would just seem like a random sample of rudeness. But when you mash them all together, it seems more like a sign of the end times of civil discourse.
It started with Joe Wilson shouting at the President (and yes, for the record, I was equally uncomfortable when Bush got booed by members of my party during State of the Union addresses. I have been in education a long time, and I strongly believe that when a person of authority is speaking formally to a group of people, said people should take a big, fat dose of Shut The Hell Up.) Then Serena Williams threatened to shove a racket down a line judge's throat or something along those lines, then Kanye West engaged in what Enterainment Weekly has dubbed "puppy stomping" by robbing sweet little Taylor Swift of her Moment Like This.
Taking all those things together, I just have to wonder what has happened to us. When did rudeness become the norm, and politeness the exception?
I know there are those of you who think, "Joe Wilson--big deal. You should see the British parliament in action." And while that's true of that legislative body, it generally isn't true of ours, particularly during a special televised joint session. And I remember John McEnroe and his infamous tennis outbursts. And I am familiar with Kanye's work; he did, after all, create the most awkward moment I've ever seen on live television during what was supposed to be a warm and fuzzy telethon.
What strikes me about this latest rash of nastiness is that it seems a little sharper and a little more brazen than what we usually see. With Serena, it seemed out of character. I don't follow tennis much, but I've seen the Williams sisters play enough to know that they play fair. And Joe Wilson's outburst seemed a little more shocking than the usual partisan booing simply because it was one lone, angry voice that made even members of his own party look uncomfortable. And Kanye...well, the VMAs are not exactly known for decorum, but there's no precedent for someone grabbing a mic from someone giving an acceptance speech and telling them they don't deserve said award. There are times and places where we expect bad behavior (NFL football games come to mind) but none of these times and places really warranted it.
Some people are saying it's telling of the national climate right now: people are angry. Others are saying that manners have been going downhill for a long time and what we've seen in the past few days is just the inevitable outcome.
I think those are valid, but I also think there's something larger at work. I think we've jbecome incredibly self-centered as a society. I don't even see it a generational trend; it seems to be hitting everyone. It's all about us. We feel we have to express everything we're thinking and feeling as soon as we think it and feel it because we're just that damned important. I blame it on Twitter, and Facebook, and (yes, I am guilty) Blogger. Heaven forbid we wait until it's our turn to talk, or pause and process our response into something polite and appropriate. We think the world turns on our every emoticon. In a world where there were also people in the audience rabidly texting and tweeting during the President's speech and the VMAs, and where some of those comments were just as harsh as what Joe Wilson and Kanye said, are the outbursts themselves really any worse?
But, that's just me. To what do you owe the recent public examples of people behaving badly? Or does it not even register as a blip on your rudeness radar?
Friday, September 11, 2009
Words of Wisdom
Overheard just now in a school hallway, wearily spoken, from a teacher who very rarely loses his patience with children:
"I need everyone to just sit down, and do their work...and grow up."
It's been that kind of week around here.
Show of hands (electronically): How many of you who work with "adults" would like to quote the above teacher in a loud voice right now in your workplace?
"I need everyone to just sit down, and do their work...and grow up."
It's been that kind of week around here.
Show of hands (electronically): How many of you who work with "adults" would like to quote the above teacher in a loud voice right now in your workplace?
Thursday, September 10, 2009
My New Home Security System
So, my street is all torn to hell.
The city started repaving my residential street a month ago (thanks, stimulus money!). It certainly needed it, as it had numerous potholes big enough to swallow pets and small children. But with any remodelling project comes a heck of a lot of inconvenience. My street has a circle at both ends and only one way out, so for the past month we've been delayed by lane closures and sometimes complete street closures as the one open lane is being used to hold the truck pouring the concrete.
Good times, good times.
This week it's our turn to bear the largest burden of inconvenience. Until next Thursday, we do not have access to our driveway. The street directly in front of our house is currently torn down to the dirt. Because we are at the bottom of the street and the area being repaired extends about 6 houses up, we have to park on the street a good ways away from our house.
For a family who has always parked both cars in the garage, it's taking some getting used to.
Yesterday Ainsley and I arrived home after a long day at work and school and a long-ish walk down the street. Out of habit, we chose to go in through the garage via the keypad on the outside.
The dead and desiccated insects above the keypad door should have been a warning.
I flipped up the little door, prepared to type in our password, and shrieked:
Guarding the keypad was a large spider that appeared to be in the wolf family of arachnids. He (or she) was stretched out in his comfy lair with his body and legs blocking all the numbers as if to say, "Go ahead. Type in the password. I dare ya."
I couldn't even bring myself to close the little door back.
"Hey, Ainsley, let's go in through the front door for a change. It'll be fun."
I eventually got the itching and shivering to stop. But I did such a bang-up job being scared in front of my daughter that when she went outside to play later in the day, she wouldn't go anywhere near the garage door. I do so love spreading my phobias.
I asked the spider-killer-in-chief of the Cranky house to go out and kill it when he got home, but we got distracted by Beatles Rock Band (that's going to be a whole different post) and forgot about it. But by this morning, when the three of us left the house together through the garage and had to use the keypad to close everything back up, Spidey wasn't there.
Which was almost disappointing, because he/she/it made a most excellent home protection system against anyone who might guess our code and who is also afraid of spiders. I know it would have done a great job keeping away some of you frequent readers (including but not limited to Karen, corycaleb, MelMart, and Mrs. Rob K.), should you ever decide you've had enough of being law-abiding citizens and decide to rob me of my collections of Gap clearance t-shirts, or Garth Brooks CDs, or apple-themed kitchen decor. I could just see a burglar coming up to the house and trying to open the garage with the code and seeing the ginormous spider and saying, "Well, you know, I don't want their PS3 that bad. Maybe I'll try the next house."
Today when I go home I'll probably avoid the keypad altogether. Like most normal Americans, I'll go home through my own front door. Unlike most normal Americans, though, it will be because I'm a huge chicken. My own security system does too good a job keeping me away from the garage door.
The city started repaving my residential street a month ago (thanks, stimulus money!). It certainly needed it, as it had numerous potholes big enough to swallow pets and small children. But with any remodelling project comes a heck of a lot of inconvenience. My street has a circle at both ends and only one way out, so for the past month we've been delayed by lane closures and sometimes complete street closures as the one open lane is being used to hold the truck pouring the concrete.
Good times, good times.
This week it's our turn to bear the largest burden of inconvenience. Until next Thursday, we do not have access to our driveway. The street directly in front of our house is currently torn down to the dirt. Because we are at the bottom of the street and the area being repaired extends about 6 houses up, we have to park on the street a good ways away from our house.
For a family who has always parked both cars in the garage, it's taking some getting used to.
Yesterday Ainsley and I arrived home after a long day at work and school and a long-ish walk down the street. Out of habit, we chose to go in through the garage via the keypad on the outside.
The dead and desiccated insects above the keypad door should have been a warning.
I flipped up the little door, prepared to type in our password, and shrieked:
Guarding the keypad was a large spider that appeared to be in the wolf family of arachnids. He (or she) was stretched out in his comfy lair with his body and legs blocking all the numbers as if to say, "Go ahead. Type in the password. I dare ya."
I couldn't even bring myself to close the little door back.
"Hey, Ainsley, let's go in through the front door for a change. It'll be fun."
I eventually got the itching and shivering to stop. But I did such a bang-up job being scared in front of my daughter that when she went outside to play later in the day, she wouldn't go anywhere near the garage door. I do so love spreading my phobias.
I asked the spider-killer-in-chief of the Cranky house to go out and kill it when he got home, but we got distracted by Beatles Rock Band (that's going to be a whole different post) and forgot about it. But by this morning, when the three of us left the house together through the garage and had to use the keypad to close everything back up, Spidey wasn't there.
Which was almost disappointing, because he/she/it made a most excellent home protection system against anyone who might guess our code and who is also afraid of spiders. I know it would have done a great job keeping away some of you frequent readers (including but not limited to Karen, corycaleb, MelMart, and Mrs. Rob K.), should you ever decide you've had enough of being law-abiding citizens and decide to rob me of my collections of Gap clearance t-shirts, or Garth Brooks CDs, or apple-themed kitchen decor. I could just see a burglar coming up to the house and trying to open the garage with the code and seeing the ginormous spider and saying, "Well, you know, I don't want their PS3 that bad. Maybe I'll try the next house."
Today when I go home I'll probably avoid the keypad altogether. Like most normal Americans, I'll go home through my own front door. Unlike most normal Americans, though, it will be because I'm a huge chicken. My own security system does too good a job keeping me away from the garage door.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
Summer '09
Ahh, Labor Day weekend. The unofficial end of summer. Now that it's over, I'd like to take a look back at summer '09 in all its strange glory.
Summer '09 was a summer of loss. On Memorial Day weekend, we said goodbye to Jason's mom. It took the better part of the summer for our family to get its bearings and adjust to a new normal. I'm still not sure we're there.
Summer '09 was when the world lost the King of Pop, but through that loss my daughter discovered his music and his dancing and became enchanted by his gifts without being put off by his weirdness. I hope it's a comfort for those who loved him that he lives on in a new generation of fans. It was certainly a comfort to me as my CD of his number one songs still gets more requests than the Hannah Montana movie soundtrack from my seven-year-old.
This summer was one of strange weather and strange creatures hopping into my yard. I had a close encounter of the toad kind in my usually dry-as-an-ember front yard and wore long-sleeved t-shirts in July. Hot, sunny days that could be spent at the pool were rare and treasured. Of course, some of our hottest and sunniest days happened after Ainsley and I went back to school and couldn't enjoy them poolside. Mother Nature can be a real bee-otch that way.
It was the summer I finally saw the Dave Matthews Band in concert and understood why my husband loves them so. It wasn't a concert so much as a religious experience that maybe converted me to the cult. When Ainsley was in the car with me, our summer soundtrack was Michael Jackson. On date nights when it was just me and the hubby, it was all about Big Whiskey pouring out of the moon roof.
Ainsley will remember this as the summer she rode in an airplane for the first time and stayed remarkably calmer than her mother. We'll all remember it as the summer we learned that the Caribbean waters really are as blue as they look in the Corona commercials. One of the most treasured memories of my entire life will be from this summer, standing on a white sugar beach, watching my husband and daughter frolicking in still, turquoise waters. No one knows for sure where heaven is, but my money is on Half Moon Cay.
This fall will bring worries and problems of its own. There's swine flu, and the economy, and the fact that Ainsley really, really wants to be Hannah Montana for Halloween. But for now, I'll just enjoy the afterglow of summer '09.
How would you sum up your summer?
Summer '09 was a summer of loss. On Memorial Day weekend, we said goodbye to Jason's mom. It took the better part of the summer for our family to get its bearings and adjust to a new normal. I'm still not sure we're there.
Summer '09 was when the world lost the King of Pop, but through that loss my daughter discovered his music and his dancing and became enchanted by his gifts without being put off by his weirdness. I hope it's a comfort for those who loved him that he lives on in a new generation of fans. It was certainly a comfort to me as my CD of his number one songs still gets more requests than the Hannah Montana movie soundtrack from my seven-year-old.
This summer was one of strange weather and strange creatures hopping into my yard. I had a close encounter of the toad kind in my usually dry-as-an-ember front yard and wore long-sleeved t-shirts in July. Hot, sunny days that could be spent at the pool were rare and treasured. Of course, some of our hottest and sunniest days happened after Ainsley and I went back to school and couldn't enjoy them poolside. Mother Nature can be a real bee-otch that way.
It was the summer I finally saw the Dave Matthews Band in concert and understood why my husband loves them so. It wasn't a concert so much as a religious experience that maybe converted me to the cult. When Ainsley was in the car with me, our summer soundtrack was Michael Jackson. On date nights when it was just me and the hubby, it was all about Big Whiskey pouring out of the moon roof.
Ainsley will remember this as the summer she rode in an airplane for the first time and stayed remarkably calmer than her mother. We'll all remember it as the summer we learned that the Caribbean waters really are as blue as they look in the Corona commercials. One of the most treasured memories of my entire life will be from this summer, standing on a white sugar beach, watching my husband and daughter frolicking in still, turquoise waters. No one knows for sure where heaven is, but my money is on Half Moon Cay.
This fall will bring worries and problems of its own. There's swine flu, and the economy, and the fact that Ainsley really, really wants to be Hannah Montana for Halloween. But for now, I'll just enjoy the afterglow of summer '09.
How would you sum up your summer?
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
What I Want To Be When I Grow Up
Today I have 9th graders coming into the library to do career research.
Their youthful optimism is a joy to behold. They still believe that they can do anything they want to do. No job is out of reach so long as they work hard enough and hold on to their dreams.
Suckers.
No one has told them yet that that is mostly a bunch of crap. Really, it's not our place as educators; these kids have to find this out for themselves. Just as many, many American Idol hopefuls don't realize that they will never be the next Whitney Houston (or even the next William Hung) until Simon Cowell tells them, "That was absolutely dreadful," so must these kids learn on their own that they can't be a pediatrician if they can't pass biology on the first try. At least, not one that I would want as Ainsley's pediatrician. At the freshman level, there are still a lot of kids who want to be singers, or actors, or professional athletes; when seniors come in I still see a few of those (and the ones I see are usually justified), but mostly the kids have gotten a big enough dose of reality that their career choices are more in line with where their true skills and talents lie.
That's why I like career research more with the freshmen than with the seniors; kids that still have dreams are so cute.
It always gets me thinking about what I wanted to be when I was their age. In ninth grade, I wanted to be a lawyer. This was mostly because I watched L.A. Law, but also because I was under the illusion that the only appropriate career choices available to people who were labelled "smart" were doctor or lawyer. Doctor was out because bodily fluids make me gag, so that left lawyer. When my high school had a career day and I got to meet an actual real-life defense attorney, and his answer to the question "What was the most exciting case you ever had?" was, "Well...I got to go to Hawaii for a case once," I changed my mind. I wanted to be the female Atticus Finch, fighting for justice; I was very sad to learn that is not the life of your average Kentucky lawyer.
There was a brief time after that that I wanted to be a botanist simply because I liked caring for the plants in my high school's greenhouse during biology class. When I learned that to do that job I would have to get a Ph.D. and actually study plants, not just water them, I switched gears. To meteorologist.
For over a year, that was my dream. I was informed enough to know that being a meteorologist was not the same as being a weather girl on TV, so I have to give myself some credit there. In fact, I didn't want to be on TV. I saw myself working at the airport for the National Weather Service, drinking coffee and tracking Doppler radar and wind speed. I was so certain that I wanted to me a meterologist that this is what I put down as my area of interest when I took the PSAT, and was alarmed when the only schools that sent me information were from states in the midwest, further away from home than I really wanted to go. It came down to living my dream or facing homesickness. I am sad to say I let my fear of being more than a couple of hours away from home win. I'm still fascinated by weather and think I might have made a good weather scientist (so long as I only had to be mildly proficient and not brilliant in physics and higher math). It's the road not taken, and in moments when I really hate my job, I wonder if it would have made all the difference.
But I was probably born to be a teacher and librarian. Sad, maybe. But true.
That's not to say I don't still have dreams. Some days I think of turning the handful of decent blog posts I have written into a book that will be published and read by (and here's where I'm dreaming big) hundreds of people or at the very least get the attention of some newspaper that would hire me to write a weekly column along the lines of Celia Rivenbark or my idol, Dave Barry.
Though I'd probably have to be a lot funnier for that to happen.
Other days I think of the screenplay idea I've had in my head for a couple of years now, kinda like Office Space but about the ridiculousness of working in education instead of the ridiculousness of working in a cubicle farm. I have some truly hilarious (to me, anyway) scenes in my head and can even see the low-key cast I would want. I dream of my little movie becoming a sleeper hit that survives as a cult classic among anyone who ever tried to be a good teacher.
But I would probably have to know something about writing a screenplay, and then selling said screenplay, for that to happen.
I even had a dream this winter about working for the current presidential administration. For a while there, people were talking about the application up on the White House website where one could apply for the myriad of positions both big and small available in the Obama administration and suggest other jobs that would benefit the President's agenda. A friend of mine, who is known in these parts for her work in organic farming and re-introducing species of heirloom vegetables, applied to be the White House gardener and offered to plant a kitchen garden well before Michelle Obama broke ground for that herself in spring. I thought of applying to be the President's official White House librarian, organizing the first family's personal collection of books, DVDs, and CDs, doing story times for Sasha and Malia, and filing whatever top secret tomes might be lying around. (A binder that contains the truth of what happened at Roswell? Don't mind if I do!)
And yet I would have to pass a thorough vetting process, be seen as necessary, be really good at what I currently do, and pack up the family to move to D.C. for that to happen.
I guess I'll just keep my day job.
What do you want to be when you grow up? Be like the ninth graders, not the seniors. Dream big. Climb every mountain! Even the ones you don't have the snow shoes for.
Their youthful optimism is a joy to behold. They still believe that they can do anything they want to do. No job is out of reach so long as they work hard enough and hold on to their dreams.
Suckers.
No one has told them yet that that is mostly a bunch of crap. Really, it's not our place as educators; these kids have to find this out for themselves. Just as many, many American Idol hopefuls don't realize that they will never be the next Whitney Houston (or even the next William Hung) until Simon Cowell tells them, "That was absolutely dreadful," so must these kids learn on their own that they can't be a pediatrician if they can't pass biology on the first try. At least, not one that I would want as Ainsley's pediatrician. At the freshman level, there are still a lot of kids who want to be singers, or actors, or professional athletes; when seniors come in I still see a few of those (and the ones I see are usually justified), but mostly the kids have gotten a big enough dose of reality that their career choices are more in line with where their true skills and talents lie.
That's why I like career research more with the freshmen than with the seniors; kids that still have dreams are so cute.
It always gets me thinking about what I wanted to be when I was their age. In ninth grade, I wanted to be a lawyer. This was mostly because I watched L.A. Law, but also because I was under the illusion that the only appropriate career choices available to people who were labelled "smart" were doctor or lawyer. Doctor was out because bodily fluids make me gag, so that left lawyer. When my high school had a career day and I got to meet an actual real-life defense attorney, and his answer to the question "What was the most exciting case you ever had?" was, "Well...I got to go to Hawaii for a case once," I changed my mind. I wanted to be the female Atticus Finch, fighting for justice; I was very sad to learn that is not the life of your average Kentucky lawyer.
There was a brief time after that that I wanted to be a botanist simply because I liked caring for the plants in my high school's greenhouse during biology class. When I learned that to do that job I would have to get a Ph.D. and actually study plants, not just water them, I switched gears. To meteorologist.
For over a year, that was my dream. I was informed enough to know that being a meteorologist was not the same as being a weather girl on TV, so I have to give myself some credit there. In fact, I didn't want to be on TV. I saw myself working at the airport for the National Weather Service, drinking coffee and tracking Doppler radar and wind speed. I was so certain that I wanted to me a meterologist that this is what I put down as my area of interest when I took the PSAT, and was alarmed when the only schools that sent me information were from states in the midwest, further away from home than I really wanted to go. It came down to living my dream or facing homesickness. I am sad to say I let my fear of being more than a couple of hours away from home win. I'm still fascinated by weather and think I might have made a good weather scientist (so long as I only had to be mildly proficient and not brilliant in physics and higher math). It's the road not taken, and in moments when I really hate my job, I wonder if it would have made all the difference.
But I was probably born to be a teacher and librarian. Sad, maybe. But true.
That's not to say I don't still have dreams. Some days I think of turning the handful of decent blog posts I have written into a book that will be published and read by (and here's where I'm dreaming big) hundreds of people or at the very least get the attention of some newspaper that would hire me to write a weekly column along the lines of Celia Rivenbark or my idol, Dave Barry.
Though I'd probably have to be a lot funnier for that to happen.
Other days I think of the screenplay idea I've had in my head for a couple of years now, kinda like Office Space but about the ridiculousness of working in education instead of the ridiculousness of working in a cubicle farm. I have some truly hilarious (to me, anyway) scenes in my head and can even see the low-key cast I would want. I dream of my little movie becoming a sleeper hit that survives as a cult classic among anyone who ever tried to be a good teacher.
But I would probably have to know something about writing a screenplay, and then selling said screenplay, for that to happen.
I even had a dream this winter about working for the current presidential administration. For a while there, people were talking about the application up on the White House website where one could apply for the myriad of positions both big and small available in the Obama administration and suggest other jobs that would benefit the President's agenda. A friend of mine, who is known in these parts for her work in organic farming and re-introducing species of heirloom vegetables, applied to be the White House gardener and offered to plant a kitchen garden well before Michelle Obama broke ground for that herself in spring. I thought of applying to be the President's official White House librarian, organizing the first family's personal collection of books, DVDs, and CDs, doing story times for Sasha and Malia, and filing whatever top secret tomes might be lying around. (A binder that contains the truth of what happened at Roswell? Don't mind if I do!)
And yet I would have to pass a thorough vetting process, be seen as necessary, be really good at what I currently do, and pack up the family to move to D.C. for that to happen.
I guess I'll just keep my day job.
What do you want to be when you grow up? Be like the ninth graders, not the seniors. Dream big. Climb every mountain! Even the ones you don't have the snow shoes for.
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