I meant to write a "Year in Review" post sometime this week, but (characteristic for 2015), that really didn't go as planned. So here I am on January 1, dragging a bit of 2015 into the new year with me. You know what, though? Maybe that isn't a bad thing. This is MY blog (and..,you know...MY life), so I can pick which pieces to bring with me into the new year. Those of you who know me well know that I have never been happier to kiss a year goodbye as I was for 2015. Actually, I didn't even kiss the year goodbye. I more said, "Don't let the door hit you on your way out. Heck, who am I kidding? I hope you fall down the stairs on your way out too." But that's just a personal issue between me and 2015. We didn't get along. I don't need to drag you down with our drama.
Despite 2015's insistence on trying to kill me, I came out on top. Look at all the fab things I did in 2015 that I am going to remember, I'm going to smile about, and I'm going to take with me going forward:
1. Traveling. I lost count of how many flights I took this year (somewhere in the area of fifteen) and how many hotel rooms I stayed in (somewhere around twenty). I've never done so much traveling as I did this year. I went to Asia and Europe for FREE with grants I earned to study their education systems. I was treated like an absolute princess on both continents. I learned a lot of things. SO many things. I would say "all the things," but one of the things I learned is that I'll never know all the things (boo!). Traveling is good for people. It should be a prerequisite for adulting. As for domestic travel, I went to North and South Carolina for spring break with my in-laws (let's just pause here for a moment and consider what percentage of people would voluntarily CHOOSE to spend a week straight with their in-laws? Mmmhmm. Not many. Mine are pretty fab). Also, I did a New England trip with my mom at the end of the summer. I went to my cousin's wedding in Wisconsin. It was a travel-heavy year. I am now only missing FOUR states in my quest to complete "50 by 30," seeing all fifty states by my thirtieth birthday. I have just over three years to go...I think I can make it. My mom did it, so I'm hoping I can too. America really is a beautiful country. I'm happy to think of how much of it I've seen. So, so many memories. I'm really lucky when it comes to traveling.
2. Finished my math minor. For the past six years, I've been one class away from finishing my math minor at MSU. This year my school asked me to teach upper-level math in addition to English, so I asked if they would please pay for me to finish the minor. That way I'd be highly qualified in both of my subject areas. They agreed. Therefore I enrolled in Calculus II (eeek!) and buckled up for a wild ride. It was five hours a week of class, plus a few hours a week on homework. Let me tell you, I've studied for a lot of classes, and this one took nothing less than my "A Game." It kicked my butt, but I kicked back harder. My teacher was a bit nutty (correct?), and he didn't particularly like women (all two of us in the class...), but I made it. I also scored higher than most of the men in the class, so HA. Calculus conquered. Minor on my transcript. More job opportunities opened for me. Most importantly (to me), I finished what I started.
3. Writing. I wrote a lot this year. I do a lot of writing here, on this paltry blog that has basically no followers (hello, you three!), but I don't feel like I can abandon it because I've grown to love this little corner of cyberspace. It's not popular, but it's mine. I started a new blog for my international travels and acquired some attention there. I wrote on that blog almost daily, which is great because I'll have those memories forever. I got published in a few other magazines this year, small gigs, and I finished off the year this December by sweeping every category in a community writing competition (not going to lie...that felt pretty good). I'm no J.K. Rowling or Sophie Kinsella (who I met this year!), but I have fun. And really...isn't that the point of a hobby? To have fun?
I also started venturing slowly into poetry as a genre. I've never really loved poetry. I've seen it as something thirteen-year-old girls do when the boy they like talked to another girl and they just have to get out all the feels onto paper. Junior high...so many feels. Turns out, writing poetry can actually be pretty fun. Also turns out, I don't totally suck at it. I don't think. My poem won the grand prize in the aforementioned competition, so there's that. The judges don't think I suck, AND the judge who announced it teared up when announcing how the judges all found the winning piece so "moving and beautiful." That made me feel pretty good. Excuse me while I go write poems about these feels.
4. Finally Made Headway on the Bible. Every year I put on my New Year's Resolution list that I'm going to read the Bible in a year. I never do. I get to about Leviticus and say, "Okay, this is way too confusing to read straight through. I'm out." This year, though, Rex and I decided to hold each other accountable and that we were both going to do it. Accountability makes a big difference. It makes a big difference, that is, until I get behind so I feel like I can't hold him accountable, and he is also behind, so then we sheepishly don't ask each other about it for weeks because we're both ashamed about not doing our readings. Arrrgh! After a few spans like this, I think we're back on track. I didn't actually finish the whole Bible this year, but I'm more than halfway there. I left Leviticus behind loooooong ago. I also learned that some things in life don't need to have deadlines, and that the fact that I didn't finish by midnight last night is OKAY. I'm going to finish by this summer for sure, and I'm okay with that. I think God's okay with that too. I talk to Him a lot more this year than I did last year. This is probably also a good thing. Or definitely a good thing. Because the thing is, He's always listening. He WANTS a relationship with you (and me), but I do a pretty good job of stubbornly ignoring Him sometimes. Newsflash: that never goes well. I've (mostly) given up on doing that.
5. Student Successes. It's not like I'm a great teacher. I'm not. I just REALLY, REALLY love English. If I find a student who also loves English or could potentially love English in the future (so, uh...everyone), then I push them as hard as I can to be as successful as they can. This year I had four students publish novels (full-size novels - around 150 pages each. Look for them on Amazon.com next month). I had two students win prizes in the community literary competition. I had a student win a poetry competition and get published in a young writers' anthology. I know the successes are theirs, not mine, but there's this little piece of me that says, "They wouldn't have known about these opportunities or done these things without me challenging them." And really, their parents and even the students themselves have told me that, so I think I can take a teeny cut of the credit. Like, 2% credit. But that 2% is mine, and it makes me smile.
6. New Life Motto. I've lived a lot of my life for things to build my resume, and here's the thing: I've always had really good resumes. I spent all of high school building a resume for college, I spent all of college building a resume to get a good job, and I've spent all of my professional life building my resume to open even more doors (e.g. free trips to Europe and Asia). Those experiences are great. It's good to have a stellar resume. HOWEVER - my new life motto that occurred to me about a week ago was this: "If it goes on your resume, it's not what really matters in life." And this, my friends, is TRUTH. It's not to say that your professional and academic accomplishments don't matter. They do. They're just not what really matters. Relationships matter. Playing Pugopoly with your husband by the fire matters. Laughing because your new puppy is such a nutter matters. Tackling your sister with tears of joy when she surprises you by coming home for Christmas matters. Sword-fighting students with yardsticks at recess matters (okay fine, I admit that was actually in the middle of math class. But FUN matters!). Praying for God to help you make it through another day matters. Meatloaf on a Sunday afternoon matters. None of that will show up on a resume, but if you're only living for your resume, then you're missing out on your life. Your life cannot be reduced to a piece of paper. If it can, then you aren't living any sort of a life at all.
On that note, I think I'm ready to hit 2016 full-force. I'm not at all sure what this year will bring, what I'll be writing on December 31 for "2016 in Review," but I'm ready to turn the page and see what the next chapter has in store. See you in December, end-of-year me. I hope you have awesome things to say!
Friday, January 1, 2016
Wednesday, December 30, 2015
To Snow or Not To Snow
I'm okay with snow for Christmas. In fact, I would prefer it. I will never forget the time in Vegas when I heard "It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas" on the radio while watching a piece of LITERAL TUMBLEWEED bounce across the road in front of my car. There's something seriously wrong with that. There should be snow on Christmas. It's the perfect picture of families cozied up by the fire while the snow softly falls under the street lights...you get the idea. You've all seen the movies.
This year, December was confused. Poor December...it was having an identity crisis where it was trying so hard to be March or April. Strings of fifty degree days stretched over the entire month, making it difficult to Christmas shop or sing carols because it felt like I should be eating Easter candy.
Dear December,
YOU'RE DECEMBER. WE LIKE YOU THE WAY YOU ARE. PLEASE SNOW.
Love,
Michigan
Unfortunately, December's identity crisis did not end before Christmas. We had a green, fairly warm Christmas (but my sister was home so I didn't care TOO much - please see my previous post). We ate Christmas dinner and then went outside to open presents by a bonfire (so then it felt like September...so many months in one...).
Then a few days after Christmas, just in time for the Christmas hubbub to calm down to the point where I could actually spend some time outside... winter finally woke up, looked at his alarm clock, and realized, "CRAP! I'm LATE!" So he didn't even properly get ready for the season and just dumped a ton of ice on us, like, "Sorry guys...I didn't have time to whip up some nice fluffy snow...you know how it is when you only have five minutes to get ready..." So we had this crazy ice storm where everything was coated in ice. My friends across the country even heard about it: "Southern Michigan Covered in Ice." Airports couldn't send out planes. Tons of cars were crashing. I stayed inside my house and listened to the hail plink against my roof and windows. The dogs went outside, took one look at the sky, and ran back inside. It wasn't great.
When the storm finally ended, I decided to go for a run the next day. I'd been cooped up in my house with nothing to do and, well, I don't do well with that. I put on my new running clothes, stepped outside, and realized that it was still ice raining. I shivered in the cold. Also, the roads and sidewalks were total slush piles spread out around ice patches. There was no place to run except through slush and ice. I was about to head back inside when I saw a man across the street walking his dog while wearing shorts. SHORTS, I tell you. I simultaneously thought two things:
1. Michigan is a very weird state.
2. I'm not about to get beat by THAT guy.
So, in the end, I went on what was probably the slowest run ever. I did run my full two mile loop, but it was like running in sand - I couldn't go fast at all. Running in sand is fun because you're at the beach and the sun is shining and you're listening to the waves and all is generally right with the world. Running through slush up to your shins is cold and miserable and makes your toes go numb while more ice falls from the sky onto your head. Not great. I probably shouldn't have gone, but then I would have been beat by Mr. "I don't care that it's 30 degrees and raining ice. I'm wearing shorts!" I don't do well with getting beat by...well...anyone. Maybe I should work on this in 2016.
It's December 30, almost time for the new year, and NOW - for the first time all season - snow is softly falling outside my window.
Welcome, winter. I hope your late arrival doesn't mean you're going to be staying late as well. White Christmas, green Easter - not the other way around, okay? Okay. So be gone by Easter, and I'll forgive you for missing Christmas. Do we have a deal?
This year, December was confused. Poor December...it was having an identity crisis where it was trying so hard to be March or April. Strings of fifty degree days stretched over the entire month, making it difficult to Christmas shop or sing carols because it felt like I should be eating Easter candy.
Dear December,
YOU'RE DECEMBER. WE LIKE YOU THE WAY YOU ARE. PLEASE SNOW.
Love,
Michigan
Unfortunately, December's identity crisis did not end before Christmas. We had a green, fairly warm Christmas (but my sister was home so I didn't care TOO much - please see my previous post). We ate Christmas dinner and then went outside to open presents by a bonfire (so then it felt like September...so many months in one...).
Then a few days after Christmas, just in time for the Christmas hubbub to calm down to the point where I could actually spend some time outside... winter finally woke up, looked at his alarm clock, and realized, "CRAP! I'm LATE!" So he didn't even properly get ready for the season and just dumped a ton of ice on us, like, "Sorry guys...I didn't have time to whip up some nice fluffy snow...you know how it is when you only have five minutes to get ready..." So we had this crazy ice storm where everything was coated in ice. My friends across the country even heard about it: "Southern Michigan Covered in Ice." Airports couldn't send out planes. Tons of cars were crashing. I stayed inside my house and listened to the hail plink against my roof and windows. The dogs went outside, took one look at the sky, and ran back inside. It wasn't great.
When the storm finally ended, I decided to go for a run the next day. I'd been cooped up in my house with nothing to do and, well, I don't do well with that. I put on my new running clothes, stepped outside, and realized that it was still ice raining. I shivered in the cold. Also, the roads and sidewalks were total slush piles spread out around ice patches. There was no place to run except through slush and ice. I was about to head back inside when I saw a man across the street walking his dog while wearing shorts. SHORTS, I tell you. I simultaneously thought two things:
1. Michigan is a very weird state.
2. I'm not about to get beat by THAT guy.
So, in the end, I went on what was probably the slowest run ever. I did run my full two mile loop, but it was like running in sand - I couldn't go fast at all. Running in sand is fun because you're at the beach and the sun is shining and you're listening to the waves and all is generally right with the world. Running through slush up to your shins is cold and miserable and makes your toes go numb while more ice falls from the sky onto your head. Not great. I probably shouldn't have gone, but then I would have been beat by Mr. "I don't care that it's 30 degrees and raining ice. I'm wearing shorts!" I don't do well with getting beat by...well...anyone. Maybe I should work on this in 2016.
It's December 30, almost time for the new year, and NOW - for the first time all season - snow is softly falling outside my window.
Welcome, winter. I hope your late arrival doesn't mean you're going to be staying late as well. White Christmas, green Easter - not the other way around, okay? Okay. So be gone by Easter, and I'll forgive you for missing Christmas. Do we have a deal?
Sunday, December 27, 2015
I'll Be Home For Christmas
"It's totally dead," my dad said sadly. "We're in trouble now."
We had just attempted to jump our car battery using Uncle Craig's car. It hadn't worked. We were in Chicago visiting family, and I was in the backseat of the car eager to get home to see my husband on Christmas Eve. I was supposed to go to Christmas Eve dinner with his family and then spend Christmas morning with them as well. I furrowed my brow in concern. What were we going to do? What place would be open to fix our car on Christmas Eve?
My family trudged back inside. My dad called around but couldn't find anywhere that would fix our car. He called his insurance company and found out that we could get a rental car, but they wouldn't be available until tomorrow (Christmas Day). I said, "Absolutely not. I am not missing Christmas morning. Two things matter in the world to my in-laws: college football and Christmas morning. Our Christmas lists are due in SEPTEMBER, for goodness' sake! I can't miss it!" I told my dad that I'd call Rex and that Rex would drive to Chicago and get us. There was no way he would let me miss Christmas. My dad said to stop freaking out. I told him to try calling the airport, because of course the airport would have rental cars! He said he would try.
I quickly sent a facebook message to my sister Cara that said, "Wish you were here! Not-so-fun fact: Mom and Dad's car broke, so we're stuck in Chicago. So help me, if I don't get to see you OR Rex for Christmas, imma freak out."
Cara was in Albania teaching for the semester, so this year was my first Christmas without her. She'd been gone since August, and this was the longest I'd gone without seeing her since she was born. The Christmas season had been harder than I expected. I only have one sister, and I couldn't imagine Christmas without her. Now to look at a Christmas with no sister AND no husband? It was shaping up to be the worst Christmas ever.
My dad called the airport, and they said they could have a car available for us to rent by midnight. It wasn't ideal, but it would have me home in time for Christmas morning. I called Rex and broke the news that I would miss Christmas Eve dinner and that I would hopefully be home for Christmas morning, but everyone knows how reliable airports are (*ahem* NOT AT ALL). I was nervous about getting the car they promised us. I told Rex to please apologize to his family, and he promised he would. I prayed that I would make it home for Christmas.
I was supposed to cook an apple pie and some deviled eggs for Christmas dinner, so I figured I would get as much done at my aunt and uncle's house as possible. I could hard boil the eggs, and I could bake the pie and freeze it. I ran out to an open-late-on-Christmas-Eve grocery store and gathered my ingredients. I put them on Aunt Jackie's counter and sighed sadly, feeling totally stressed. Aunt Jackie asked what else I needed for my recipe. I said, "Well, for starters...I'm going to need an apron and a glass of wine." Check.
I did my best to enjoy a night of cooking and and family. Earlier in the day we'd had a great time playing laser tag and eating Chicago deep-dish pizza. I really do love these people. If I had to be stranded on Christmas Eve, I was glad it was with them.
At around 8:00 I decided to take a nap. I knew I would have to help my dad drive through the night once we got our car. I lounged on my aunt and uncle's couch and stared sadly at the Christmas lights on their tree. I thought nostalgically about how my sister and I used to always go to bed excitedly on Christmas Eve, then would wake up early on Christmas morning and bang pots and pans to wake up our parents and terrify the cat. "IT'S CHRISTMAS!" we'd scream happily. No pots and pans this year. No Cara, no Rex...I tried to find some shreds of Christmas cheer, but it was tough. I decided to be thankful to be with family at all, as so many people don't have any people at all with whom they can celebrate. I shouldn't be mopey about the people I was missing. With those thoughts in my head, I drifted off to sleep.
I think the physical and emotional stress of the day must have gotten to me, because I didn't wake up until 10:30. I couldn't believe I had slept so long. When I walked into the living room, only Aunt Jackie was there. My cousins and my mom were sleeping, and my dad and other aunts and uncles had run out to get a couple of last minute things. My dad always does his Christmas shopping Christmas Eve night...he's basically the worst planner ever. Around 11:15 I started to get nervous. We needed to leave soon for the airport to get our car. I texted my dad and asked him to please hurry. A few minutes later, they arrived back at the house. I sighed in relief. I asked how their shopping went, and they said it was good. Suddenly, somewhere in the kitchen, I heard someone banging tentatively on a pot with a spoon. It took a moment to register - what was going on? Was someone trying to bring back my old Christmas tradition? I turned to the kitchen and saw MY SISTER standing there. "Merry Christmas!" she said.
SHE WAS HOME!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I screamed and ran to hug her. In my enthusiasm I actually tackled her to the ground. I was so happy I started crying. I couldn't believe she'd made it home for Christmas. "I knew it!" I said through tears. "I knew you wouldn't miss Christmas!"
"Did you really know?" asked Uncle Craig,
"Absolutely not!" I said, laughing. "I'm totally surprised!" And I was. I had no idea she was coming home, but I also hadn't been able to let go of the hope that MAYBE she would be home for Christmas. I'd said multiple times over the past few weeks, "I can't imagine Christmas without Cara. She'll find a way. She'll make it back." My parents and Rex would always say, "Christine. She's not coming back. You have to come to terms with this." They would look at each other, concerned, as if I was some paranoid delusional crazy person who actually believed something when it obviously wasn't true. I'd told Rex through teary eyes a few days prior, "Listen, I know she's not coming home. I know. I just....there's a part of me that won't 100% believe it until I get to my parents' house Christmas morning and she's not there. Then I'm probably going to cry. Just warning you. I miss her so much, and there is this tiny part of me that still hopes she'll make it back. I know she's not coming, but I can't let it go totally until it's over."
Maybe I am a crazy person, but every once in a while crazy people are right. I've never been so happy to be right - EVER. My dad was the only one who knew about the surprise. Look at my mom's reaction:
My dad had disabled his car battery and made up everything about the car trouble to keep us in Chicago until her flight came in. He'd told Rex that the plan was for us to come back Christmas afternoon, but after he saw how sad I was to miss Christmas with Rex, he decided that we'd drive through the night on Christmas Eve after all. I called Rex and told him we were coming home, and he was so surprised. "Your dad said you were going to miss it," he said, "but I thought you'd be so happy to see Cara that I didn't want to complain about it. Are you really coming home? REALLY? You're not joking?" I could hear how happy he was, and I almost started crying again (dang, holidays are emotional). I'd received this text earlier in the evening from his brother: "Can you please text Rex or come home soon? He's acting all depressed and being a party pooper. It's like his dog died or something." I had been glad to hear he missed me, but it had made me feel even worse about not being able to make it back. Now I would!
We got in the car and headed home. When we were almost back, a swarm of police cars pulled us over. Seriously, at least four and maybe five police cars. I turned to Cara and said, "Um, WHAT DID YOU DO IN ALBANIA?!" Ha ha. Apparently my dad's car matched a description of a car that had been robbing a bunch of places in the area. And really, how many cars are out at 4:30 AM on Christmas Eve? Not many. The police officer took all of our IDs and did whatever policey things they do with those before finally deciding we were innocent. Phew!
The policeman let us go after about fifteen minutes, and we finally got back to my parents' house. I hopped in my car and drove groggily back to my own house, where all of the lights were off except the Christmas lights in our bedroom window. It made me smile to see them. I quietly went inside, put down my luggage, and sneaked upstairs. My handsome husband was sleeping, and the Christmas lights cast a cheerful glow around the room. It was hard to think that just a few hours ago I thought this was going to be the worst Christmas, and now it was the best. I walked over to my husband and gave him a kiss to wake him up. "Merry Christmas," I whispered. He smiled in a way that reached all the way to his eyes, kissed me back, and wished me a Merry Christmas as well. It was 5:00 AM, but I was home. Cara was home. The world was perfect just in time for Christmas.
We had just attempted to jump our car battery using Uncle Craig's car. It hadn't worked. We were in Chicago visiting family, and I was in the backseat of the car eager to get home to see my husband on Christmas Eve. I was supposed to go to Christmas Eve dinner with his family and then spend Christmas morning with them as well. I furrowed my brow in concern. What were we going to do? What place would be open to fix our car on Christmas Eve?
My family trudged back inside. My dad called around but couldn't find anywhere that would fix our car. He called his insurance company and found out that we could get a rental car, but they wouldn't be available until tomorrow (Christmas Day). I said, "Absolutely not. I am not missing Christmas morning. Two things matter in the world to my in-laws: college football and Christmas morning. Our Christmas lists are due in SEPTEMBER, for goodness' sake! I can't miss it!" I told my dad that I'd call Rex and that Rex would drive to Chicago and get us. There was no way he would let me miss Christmas. My dad said to stop freaking out. I told him to try calling the airport, because of course the airport would have rental cars! He said he would try.
I quickly sent a facebook message to my sister Cara that said, "Wish you were here! Not-so-fun fact: Mom and Dad's car broke, so we're stuck in Chicago. So help me, if I don't get to see you OR Rex for Christmas, imma freak out."
Cara was in Albania teaching for the semester, so this year was my first Christmas without her. She'd been gone since August, and this was the longest I'd gone without seeing her since she was born. The Christmas season had been harder than I expected. I only have one sister, and I couldn't imagine Christmas without her. Now to look at a Christmas with no sister AND no husband? It was shaping up to be the worst Christmas ever.
My dad called the airport, and they said they could have a car available for us to rent by midnight. It wasn't ideal, but it would have me home in time for Christmas morning. I called Rex and broke the news that I would miss Christmas Eve dinner and that I would hopefully be home for Christmas morning, but everyone knows how reliable airports are (*ahem* NOT AT ALL). I was nervous about getting the car they promised us. I told Rex to please apologize to his family, and he promised he would. I prayed that I would make it home for Christmas.
I was supposed to cook an apple pie and some deviled eggs for Christmas dinner, so I figured I would get as much done at my aunt and uncle's house as possible. I could hard boil the eggs, and I could bake the pie and freeze it. I ran out to an open-late-on-Christmas-Eve grocery store and gathered my ingredients. I put them on Aunt Jackie's counter and sighed sadly, feeling totally stressed. Aunt Jackie asked what else I needed for my recipe. I said, "Well, for starters...I'm going to need an apron and a glass of wine." Check.
I did my best to enjoy a night of cooking and and family. Earlier in the day we'd had a great time playing laser tag and eating Chicago deep-dish pizza. I really do love these people. If I had to be stranded on Christmas Eve, I was glad it was with them.
At around 8:00 I decided to take a nap. I knew I would have to help my dad drive through the night once we got our car. I lounged on my aunt and uncle's couch and stared sadly at the Christmas lights on their tree. I thought nostalgically about how my sister and I used to always go to bed excitedly on Christmas Eve, then would wake up early on Christmas morning and bang pots and pans to wake up our parents and terrify the cat. "IT'S CHRISTMAS!" we'd scream happily. No pots and pans this year. No Cara, no Rex...I tried to find some shreds of Christmas cheer, but it was tough. I decided to be thankful to be with family at all, as so many people don't have any people at all with whom they can celebrate. I shouldn't be mopey about the people I was missing. With those thoughts in my head, I drifted off to sleep.
I think the physical and emotional stress of the day must have gotten to me, because I didn't wake up until 10:30. I couldn't believe I had slept so long. When I walked into the living room, only Aunt Jackie was there. My cousins and my mom were sleeping, and my dad and other aunts and uncles had run out to get a couple of last minute things. My dad always does his Christmas shopping Christmas Eve night...he's basically the worst planner ever. Around 11:15 I started to get nervous. We needed to leave soon for the airport to get our car. I texted my dad and asked him to please hurry. A few minutes later, they arrived back at the house. I sighed in relief. I asked how their shopping went, and they said it was good. Suddenly, somewhere in the kitchen, I heard someone banging tentatively on a pot with a spoon. It took a moment to register - what was going on? Was someone trying to bring back my old Christmas tradition? I turned to the kitchen and saw MY SISTER standing there. "Merry Christmas!" she said.
SHE WAS HOME!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I screamed and ran to hug her. In my enthusiasm I actually tackled her to the ground. I was so happy I started crying. I couldn't believe she'd made it home for Christmas. "I knew it!" I said through tears. "I knew you wouldn't miss Christmas!"
"Did you really know?" asked Uncle Craig,
"Absolutely not!" I said, laughing. "I'm totally surprised!" And I was. I had no idea she was coming home, but I also hadn't been able to let go of the hope that MAYBE she would be home for Christmas. I'd said multiple times over the past few weeks, "I can't imagine Christmas without Cara. She'll find a way. She'll make it back." My parents and Rex would always say, "Christine. She's not coming back. You have to come to terms with this." They would look at each other, concerned, as if I was some paranoid delusional crazy person who actually believed something when it obviously wasn't true. I'd told Rex through teary eyes a few days prior, "Listen, I know she's not coming home. I know. I just....there's a part of me that won't 100% believe it until I get to my parents' house Christmas morning and she's not there. Then I'm probably going to cry. Just warning you. I miss her so much, and there is this tiny part of me that still hopes she'll make it back. I know she's not coming, but I can't let it go totally until it's over."
Maybe I am a crazy person, but every once in a while crazy people are right. I've never been so happy to be right - EVER. My dad was the only one who knew about the surprise. Look at my mom's reaction:
My dad had disabled his car battery and made up everything about the car trouble to keep us in Chicago until her flight came in. He'd told Rex that the plan was for us to come back Christmas afternoon, but after he saw how sad I was to miss Christmas with Rex, he decided that we'd drive through the night on Christmas Eve after all. I called Rex and told him we were coming home, and he was so surprised. "Your dad said you were going to miss it," he said, "but I thought you'd be so happy to see Cara that I didn't want to complain about it. Are you really coming home? REALLY? You're not joking?" I could hear how happy he was, and I almost started crying again (dang, holidays are emotional). I'd received this text earlier in the evening from his brother: "Can you please text Rex or come home soon? He's acting all depressed and being a party pooper. It's like his dog died or something." I had been glad to hear he missed me, but it had made me feel even worse about not being able to make it back. Now I would!
We got in the car and headed home. When we were almost back, a swarm of police cars pulled us over. Seriously, at least four and maybe five police cars. I turned to Cara and said, "Um, WHAT DID YOU DO IN ALBANIA?!" Ha ha. Apparently my dad's car matched a description of a car that had been robbing a bunch of places in the area. And really, how many cars are out at 4:30 AM on Christmas Eve? Not many. The police officer took all of our IDs and did whatever policey things they do with those before finally deciding we were innocent. Phew!
The policeman let us go after about fifteen minutes, and we finally got back to my parents' house. I hopped in my car and drove groggily back to my own house, where all of the lights were off except the Christmas lights in our bedroom window. It made me smile to see them. I quietly went inside, put down my luggage, and sneaked upstairs. My handsome husband was sleeping, and the Christmas lights cast a cheerful glow around the room. It was hard to think that just a few hours ago I thought this was going to be the worst Christmas, and now it was the best. I walked over to my husband and gave him a kiss to wake him up. "Merry Christmas," I whispered. He smiled in a way that reached all the way to his eyes, kissed me back, and wished me a Merry Christmas as well. It was 5:00 AM, but I was home. Cara was home. The world was perfect just in time for Christmas.
Wednesday, December 2, 2015
Proud
I'm not a mom.
I know.
Still, when someone asks me, "Do you have kids?" I'm always tempted to say, "Yes. Twenty-three of them." I have twenty-three students who I see more hours per week than their parents do. I see them more than I see my husband. Some of them I'm teaching for the third year in a row. So when I say that they are my kids, I really mean it. I love them. Only a fellow teacher can understand this love, and even then I'd say that only a fellow teacher who's looped with a class for three years can really get it. They're my babies. I've helped raise them. I've watched them grow up. And yesterday? Yesterday I was really, really proud of them.
My top class has ten students in it, aged 13-15. This year they all participated in NaNoWriMo ("National Novel Writing Month" for those of you who don't know what that is). It's a challenge to write an entire novel in the month of November. I told my students they could try to write full novels if they wished, but I teamed up with each of them to set a novella word count goal. We're compiling all of their novellas into a self-published anthology once the edits are made. Four of my students told me that they wanted to go for the full novel challenge, which is 30,000 words in a month. That's an average of FOUR PAGES A DAY, EVERY DAY, ALL MONTH LONG. I told them absolutely, that they should go for it, but we set their "official" word count goals as lower, something I saw as more attainable.
I am blown away by these kids. All four who set out to write the full novels accomplished that goal. We're going out for lunch on Friday to celebrate. According to the NaNoWriMo conditions, these four students now get their novels formatted and published for free, so look for them on Amazon.com in the next few months. Even the students who didn't do the full novels wrote fantastic novellas, and the shortest one was thirty pages (no ten-page college paper will look daunting now!). Not only did they hit these word count goals, but they wrote GREAT stories. We had so much fun doing lessons on effective plot diagrams, building believable characters, how to write snappy dialogue, etc. The students had fun, and I obviously love this stuff. Writing is my life. One day I offered to stay after school until six to have a "writing party" with whomever wanted to stay, and nine out of ten decided to stay and write. We conferenced with each other, bounced ideas off of each other, and overall had a great and productive time. It was like we were a writing team and I was the coach. These kids learned so much, accomplished so much, and I could not possibly be prouder of them.
Yesterday, December 1, we decided to have a party because November (and therefore NaNoWriMo) was finally over. The kids brought in some delicious food, we played games, and I kicked off the whole thing with a speech about how I've never felt prouder of a class and how I was blown away by how dedicated and disciplined they were to accomplish these huge things with each other's help and encouragement. Every time I heard someone say, "I don't know if I'm going to make this full goal..." there would be at least five kids saying, "You can do it! You've come this far! I know you can make it to the end!" I mean, it was amazing. A couple of them had tears in their eyes (and I'm not saying I did...but I'm not saying I didn't). After my speech, one of the girls said, "Well...we have something for you too..."
What?
She said, "We wanted to thank you for pushing us and believing in us, so we made you this card." The card below was signed by all of my students (but I'm not posting that part because I can't put their names online). I was so touched. Have YOU ever thanked a teacher for making you write a thirty page paper? Ha ha... me neither. I've got an amazing group of students.
Did I mention how much I love these kids? And how stinking proud I am to have four more published authors to add to the list of students I've taught? Yep. Pretty proud.
I know.
Still, when someone asks me, "Do you have kids?" I'm always tempted to say, "Yes. Twenty-three of them." I have twenty-three students who I see more hours per week than their parents do. I see them more than I see my husband. Some of them I'm teaching for the third year in a row. So when I say that they are my kids, I really mean it. I love them. Only a fellow teacher can understand this love, and even then I'd say that only a fellow teacher who's looped with a class for three years can really get it. They're my babies. I've helped raise them. I've watched them grow up. And yesterday? Yesterday I was really, really proud of them.
My top class has ten students in it, aged 13-15. This year they all participated in NaNoWriMo ("National Novel Writing Month" for those of you who don't know what that is). It's a challenge to write an entire novel in the month of November. I told my students they could try to write full novels if they wished, but I teamed up with each of them to set a novella word count goal. We're compiling all of their novellas into a self-published anthology once the edits are made. Four of my students told me that they wanted to go for the full novel challenge, which is 30,000 words in a month. That's an average of FOUR PAGES A DAY, EVERY DAY, ALL MONTH LONG. I told them absolutely, that they should go for it, but we set their "official" word count goals as lower, something I saw as more attainable.
I am blown away by these kids. All four who set out to write the full novels accomplished that goal. We're going out for lunch on Friday to celebrate. According to the NaNoWriMo conditions, these four students now get their novels formatted and published for free, so look for them on Amazon.com in the next few months. Even the students who didn't do the full novels wrote fantastic novellas, and the shortest one was thirty pages (no ten-page college paper will look daunting now!). Not only did they hit these word count goals, but they wrote GREAT stories. We had so much fun doing lessons on effective plot diagrams, building believable characters, how to write snappy dialogue, etc. The students had fun, and I obviously love this stuff. Writing is my life. One day I offered to stay after school until six to have a "writing party" with whomever wanted to stay, and nine out of ten decided to stay and write. We conferenced with each other, bounced ideas off of each other, and overall had a great and productive time. It was like we were a writing team and I was the coach. These kids learned so much, accomplished so much, and I could not possibly be prouder of them.
Yesterday, December 1, we decided to have a party because November (and therefore NaNoWriMo) was finally over. The kids brought in some delicious food, we played games, and I kicked off the whole thing with a speech about how I've never felt prouder of a class and how I was blown away by how dedicated and disciplined they were to accomplish these huge things with each other's help and encouragement. Every time I heard someone say, "I don't know if I'm going to make this full goal..." there would be at least five kids saying, "You can do it! You've come this far! I know you can make it to the end!" I mean, it was amazing. A couple of them had tears in their eyes (and I'm not saying I did...but I'm not saying I didn't). After my speech, one of the girls said, "Well...we have something for you too..."
What?
She said, "We wanted to thank you for pushing us and believing in us, so we made you this card." The card below was signed by all of my students (but I'm not posting that part because I can't put their names online). I was so touched. Have YOU ever thanked a teacher for making you write a thirty page paper? Ha ha... me neither. I've got an amazing group of students.
Did I mention how much I love these kids? And how stinking proud I am to have four more published authors to add to the list of students I've taught? Yep. Pretty proud.
Monday, November 30, 2015
Sparkles (or "Why I Am Not a Grown-Up")
Here are some phases that many girls go through while they are toddlers or in early elementary school:
1. An affinity for sparkly things
2. A love of playing dress-up
3. Believing that they are a princess
Most girls grow out of these things by middle school, when they start down that long, difficult road called "maturity." Except I think I missed a sign somewhere for that road, because I took a wrong turn and missed it. Like, whoa - totally missed it. I've grown up in a lot of ways this year, but in some ways I think I just never will. The aforementioned three are among those that I'm never going to give up. Just the other day I said to Rex, "One of the things I love about you is that you recognize, acknowledge, and revere the fact that I am always wearing an invisible tiara." And really, we can all blame Rex for that one because if he didn't treat me like such a princess, I probably wouldn't act like one. He buys me flowers so often that sometimes the old ones aren't even dead before I have new ones. Last year he asked me what kind of gemstone he hasn't already bought for me, and I couldn't think of one because he has bought me at least one of every gemstone. A few weeks ago I casually mentioned that I had been feeling stressed out, and the next day - boom - spa gift card waiting for me on the dining room table when I got home. The other day he left a note in our refrigerator on the milk - THE MILK - to tell me that he hoped I would have a great day. This guy is nuts. He acts like I'm a princess. SO. My princess complex I'm blaming on him. The other ones are probably just my fault.
This weekend I got to go to Chicago with my mom, My Aunt Chris, and my cousin Erin. We had a great time Black Friday shopping, but my favorite part was trying on all of the fun clothes that I couldn't afford (playing dress-ups, remember?). Look at this gorgeous sparkly blue dress. Erin's was awesome too. And sparkly. See why we're related? But except ERIN - why didn't you take off your socks? You look like a weirdo. Do you see anyone on the red carpet wearing socks?? We're clearly going to have to prep you more thoroughly before the Oscars. Or, as Nana would say, "I'm only telling you this so that you're ready when you have tea with the queen." The queen wants you to take of your socks, Erin. Don't make her think that is some kind of weird American fashion.
I found the most beautiful and so, so sparkly silver dress, but it was $289. WHAAAAAAAT? I have no money to buy it and nowhere to wear said beautiful dress (the queen has not yet invited me for tea, despite all of my Nana's insistent preparations), so I sadly put it back. BUT LOOK AT HOW SPARKLY IT IS! I was a little bit in love. My heart is a little bit broken to have left this dress in Chicago. Someone pass me some chocolate.
There was a fab teal dress at New York and Company, but my Aunt Chris couldn't get it off of the mannequin. I was laughing so hard at this that I almost peed my pants. I wish you could have seen how awkward this looked in real life (but look at the way the mannequin's arms are positioned - there is no shot that she could get this off. I don't know how they even got that on in the first place). We all tried on dresses at that store, and it was fun to peek out of the dressing room and see some of my favorite people looking back at me. I love these women.
Aunt Chris perfectly matched this rug at IKEA, so she had to sit on it. She could have been an IKEA model (sadly, no sparkles involved at IKEA. Let's just move on from that topic because, hello, it's boring without sparkles).
I rounded out the weekend setting up for Christmas with Rex. We set up the Christmas lights, and I got to hang my favorite ornaments. Can you guess which ones are my favorites? The sparkly ones, of course. The Christmas lights hit them just right and send showers of cheer throughout the whole room. We even put lights on Elsie's cat tree, hoping to inspire some Christmas cheer in her usually Grinchy self, but we're not too hopeful about that one.
Who cares if I never totally grow up? Maybe being me is all I can do, and maybe that's okay. Bring on the glitter.
1. An affinity for sparkly things
2. A love of playing dress-up
3. Believing that they are a princess
Most girls grow out of these things by middle school, when they start down that long, difficult road called "maturity." Except I think I missed a sign somewhere for that road, because I took a wrong turn and missed it. Like, whoa - totally missed it. I've grown up in a lot of ways this year, but in some ways I think I just never will. The aforementioned three are among those that I'm never going to give up. Just the other day I said to Rex, "One of the things I love about you is that you recognize, acknowledge, and revere the fact that I am always wearing an invisible tiara." And really, we can all blame Rex for that one because if he didn't treat me like such a princess, I probably wouldn't act like one. He buys me flowers so often that sometimes the old ones aren't even dead before I have new ones. Last year he asked me what kind of gemstone he hasn't already bought for me, and I couldn't think of one because he has bought me at least one of every gemstone. A few weeks ago I casually mentioned that I had been feeling stressed out, and the next day - boom - spa gift card waiting for me on the dining room table when I got home. The other day he left a note in our refrigerator on the milk - THE MILK - to tell me that he hoped I would have a great day. This guy is nuts. He acts like I'm a princess. SO. My princess complex I'm blaming on him. The other ones are probably just my fault.
This weekend I got to go to Chicago with my mom, My Aunt Chris, and my cousin Erin. We had a great time Black Friday shopping, but my favorite part was trying on all of the fun clothes that I couldn't afford (playing dress-ups, remember?). Look at this gorgeous sparkly blue dress. Erin's was awesome too. And sparkly. See why we're related? But except ERIN - why didn't you take off your socks? You look like a weirdo. Do you see anyone on the red carpet wearing socks?? We're clearly going to have to prep you more thoroughly before the Oscars. Or, as Nana would say, "I'm only telling you this so that you're ready when you have tea with the queen." The queen wants you to take of your socks, Erin. Don't make her think that is some kind of weird American fashion.
I found the most beautiful and so, so sparkly silver dress, but it was $289. WHAAAAAAAT? I have no money to buy it and nowhere to wear said beautiful dress (the queen has not yet invited me for tea, despite all of my Nana's insistent preparations), so I sadly put it back. BUT LOOK AT HOW SPARKLY IT IS! I was a little bit in love. My heart is a little bit broken to have left this dress in Chicago. Someone pass me some chocolate.
There was a fab teal dress at New York and Company, but my Aunt Chris couldn't get it off of the mannequin. I was laughing so hard at this that I almost peed my pants. I wish you could have seen how awkward this looked in real life (but look at the way the mannequin's arms are positioned - there is no shot that she could get this off. I don't know how they even got that on in the first place). We all tried on dresses at that store, and it was fun to peek out of the dressing room and see some of my favorite people looking back at me. I love these women.
I rounded out the weekend setting up for Christmas with Rex. We set up the Christmas lights, and I got to hang my favorite ornaments. Can you guess which ones are my favorites? The sparkly ones, of course. The Christmas lights hit them just right and send showers of cheer throughout the whole room. We even put lights on Elsie's cat tree, hoping to inspire some Christmas cheer in her usually Grinchy self, but we're not too hopeful about that one.
Who cares if I never totally grow up? Maybe being me is all I can do, and maybe that's okay. Bring on the glitter.
Saturday, November 21, 2015
Macaroni and Failure
I'm not a mom, but I wonder if moms ever look at something their kids do wrong and think, "Wow, I have failed you somewhere along the way." That's how I felt about Rex last night. He's my best friend and my hero, but I think I may have spoiled him a bit too much. I do 95% of the cooking at our house, and clearly that has to change. Exhibit A:
I came home from Calculus class, and I was dead tired. It had been another looooong day in the semester-from-somewhere-not-very-nice. I wanted nothing more than to go to bed. Rex mentioned that he hadn't eaten dinner yet (which was a little ridiculous, as it was after 9 PM. Go to Taco Bell or something, you nurkle). He said, "You know what sounds really good right now? Macaroni and cheese." The old Christine would have said, "Okay, no problem. Go put up your feet while I make some for you." But...I was really tired, and the new edging-on-a-somewhat-feminist side of me said, "Okay, cool. Then make some macaroni and cheese." He looked surprised, but then looked at the blue box in his hand as if he were seeing it for the first time. It's only macaroni and cheese. He has a doctorate. He can probably do this himself. It's as if I watched this thought occur to him, which was kind of funny. He finally said, "Yeah, okay. I think I will make this."
This is the part where I've failed him: my brilliant, highly educated husband absolutely CANNOT cook macaroni and cheese.
First, he didn't look at how much water to put in the pan. He"ballparked" it. It was at this point that I decided to stay awake long enough to see how this ended. I figured it could potentially get interesting. I went upstairs to change out of my work clothes, though, and after a few minutes Rex followed me upstairs. We spent about fifteen minutes talking about our days, what happened at work, what happened at class, etc. Suddenly, Rex said, "Oh no! My noodles!" I said, "You already put them in?" I had thought he was waiting for the water to boil. He called back "yes" as he hurried down the stairs to rescue his completely overcooked macaroni.
I came down to find him rinsing the mushy macaroni in a strainer. "Ummm...you're not supposed to rinse that," I told him. "The starch on the noodles is what makes the macaroni sticky."
"WHAT?" he looked a little panicked. He picked up the box and read the side. There it said in bold and italicized print, "DRAIN THE WATER BUT DO NOT RINSE." He looked incredulous. "It really does say that. Why didn't you tell me?!"
Um, because I thought a twenty-seven year old might have done this before? Silly me. I only started making macaroni independently at age SIX. I guess I'm a Kraft prodigy or something.
So he put his rinsed-clean noodle mush back into the pan, and he read the side of the box to see how much milk and butter to add. I noticed that he did not add enough butter (which is fine...butter is bad for you anyway), and when he measured the milk he poured way too fast, The milk splashed over the side of the tablespoon, adding at least twice as much milk as he was supposed to. By this time I was laughing and thinking, "Ah ha. Blog post." When he finally finished his creation, the completed project was a sad looking pile of orange mush that may have dreamed of being macaroni somewhere in a past life. He looked at it, sighed, and said, "Maybe I should start over..." I told him that he was not wasting an entire box of macaroni. That's irresponsible. Then he sighed again and said, "Okay, fine. Anything will taste good if I add enough pepper!" There's that Rex optimism that I love. So he put about two tablespoons of pepper on his orange gruel and proceeded to eat the whole bowl of it. Eeeeeeew.
I laughed while he ate it and asked how on earth he got through two years of college without a meal plan. He said, "Well, I mostly ate a lot of hot dogs." Poor guy - he can fix the delicate, complicated nerves of your spine, but he can't make his own dinner. I'm going to fix this. Team Webb cooking together starts next week. He's up for it. I am too. No more macaroni mush.
I came home from Calculus class, and I was dead tired. It had been another looooong day in the semester-from-somewhere-not-very-nice. I wanted nothing more than to go to bed. Rex mentioned that he hadn't eaten dinner yet (which was a little ridiculous, as it was after 9 PM. Go to Taco Bell or something, you nurkle). He said, "You know what sounds really good right now? Macaroni and cheese." The old Christine would have said, "Okay, no problem. Go put up your feet while I make some for you." But...I was really tired, and the new edging-on-a-somewhat-feminist side of me said, "Okay, cool. Then make some macaroni and cheese." He looked surprised, but then looked at the blue box in his hand as if he were seeing it for the first time. It's only macaroni and cheese. He has a doctorate. He can probably do this himself. It's as if I watched this thought occur to him, which was kind of funny. He finally said, "Yeah, okay. I think I will make this."
This is the part where I've failed him: my brilliant, highly educated husband absolutely CANNOT cook macaroni and cheese.
First, he didn't look at how much water to put in the pan. He"ballparked" it. It was at this point that I decided to stay awake long enough to see how this ended. I figured it could potentially get interesting. I went upstairs to change out of my work clothes, though, and after a few minutes Rex followed me upstairs. We spent about fifteen minutes talking about our days, what happened at work, what happened at class, etc. Suddenly, Rex said, "Oh no! My noodles!" I said, "You already put them in?" I had thought he was waiting for the water to boil. He called back "yes" as he hurried down the stairs to rescue his completely overcooked macaroni.
I came down to find him rinsing the mushy macaroni in a strainer. "Ummm...you're not supposed to rinse that," I told him. "The starch on the noodles is what makes the macaroni sticky."
"WHAT?" he looked a little panicked. He picked up the box and read the side. There it said in bold and italicized print, "DRAIN THE WATER BUT DO NOT RINSE." He looked incredulous. "It really does say that. Why didn't you tell me?!"
Um, because I thought a twenty-seven year old might have done this before? Silly me. I only started making macaroni independently at age SIX. I guess I'm a Kraft prodigy or something.
So he put his rinsed-clean noodle mush back into the pan, and he read the side of the box to see how much milk and butter to add. I noticed that he did not add enough butter (which is fine...butter is bad for you anyway), and when he measured the milk he poured way too fast, The milk splashed over the side of the tablespoon, adding at least twice as much milk as he was supposed to. By this time I was laughing and thinking, "Ah ha. Blog post." When he finally finished his creation, the completed project was a sad looking pile of orange mush that may have dreamed of being macaroni somewhere in a past life. He looked at it, sighed, and said, "Maybe I should start over..." I told him that he was not wasting an entire box of macaroni. That's irresponsible. Then he sighed again and said, "Okay, fine. Anything will taste good if I add enough pepper!" There's that Rex optimism that I love. So he put about two tablespoons of pepper on his orange gruel and proceeded to eat the whole bowl of it. Eeeeeeew.
I laughed while he ate it and asked how on earth he got through two years of college without a meal plan. He said, "Well, I mostly ate a lot of hot dogs." Poor guy - he can fix the delicate, complicated nerves of your spine, but he can't make his own dinner. I'm going to fix this. Team Webb cooking together starts next week. He's up for it. I am too. No more macaroni mush.
Sunday, November 15, 2015
Adulting
Kids talk about how they can't wait to grow up and how being an adult will be "so much fun" because they can "do whatever they want." Then real life happens, and those kids grow up to be adults who have real responsibilities, bills to pay, and not nearly the free time for which they were hoping.
But then - every once in a while - being an adult turns out to be exactly how kids dreamed it would be.
After a really long day on Thursday night, I finally got home at around 9:30. By about 10:00, Rex and I were upstairs in bed, getting ready to go to sleep. I sighed and said, "I'm thirsty. I would really love some juice right now." Rex said, "I was just thinking how I wish we had some ice cream." We were quiet for a minute, then he sat up and said, "Well, come on! Let's go get ice cream and juice!"
I looked at him as if he were nuts. "Um, Rex. It's 10:00. On a school night. We're already ready for bed. We don't need ice cream and juice that badly. We should really just go to sleep." He sighed dejectedly because he knew I was right, and he sank back into his pillow. After another beat of silence, he got the boyish glint in his eye that I fell in love with when I was seventeen. He said, "You know what? I don't care about any of that. WE'RE GOING." Then he got out of bed, threw on sweatpants and a sweatshirt, and really didn't leave me any choice but to get up and follow.
We drove out to Walgreens looking like disheveled weirdos, and Rex whooped with joy when he found the ice cream he wanted. They also had my favorite kind of juice (score!). As we were getting ready to walk out, Rex stopped by one of the refrigerated displays and exclaimed, "Whoa...ROOT BEER?! Do you realize what this MEANS?" I looked confused, clearly not sharing his epiphany. He held up his ice cream and said entirely too loudly, "ROOT BEER FLOATS! YESSSS!!!" The guy in the aisle with us looked at us like we were nuts. You know what? Maybe we are. But I like it.
So obviously the root beer floats were a genius idea, we talked to the cashier lady about how awesome it would be if teachers could turn their eyes on "glitter mode" and look suddenly terrifying if kids were being bad, and then we got in the car to head home.
Basically, that's how I ended up eating ice cream at 10:30 on a school night, and I realized that my eight-year-old self would be very satisfied with how I turned out.
But then - every once in a while - being an adult turns out to be exactly how kids dreamed it would be.
After a really long day on Thursday night, I finally got home at around 9:30. By about 10:00, Rex and I were upstairs in bed, getting ready to go to sleep. I sighed and said, "I'm thirsty. I would really love some juice right now." Rex said, "I was just thinking how I wish we had some ice cream." We were quiet for a minute, then he sat up and said, "Well, come on! Let's go get ice cream and juice!"
I looked at him as if he were nuts. "Um, Rex. It's 10:00. On a school night. We're already ready for bed. We don't need ice cream and juice that badly. We should really just go to sleep." He sighed dejectedly because he knew I was right, and he sank back into his pillow. After another beat of silence, he got the boyish glint in his eye that I fell in love with when I was seventeen. He said, "You know what? I don't care about any of that. WE'RE GOING." Then he got out of bed, threw on sweatpants and a sweatshirt, and really didn't leave me any choice but to get up and follow.
We drove out to Walgreens looking like disheveled weirdos, and Rex whooped with joy when he found the ice cream he wanted. They also had my favorite kind of juice (score!). As we were getting ready to walk out, Rex stopped by one of the refrigerated displays and exclaimed, "Whoa...ROOT BEER?! Do you realize what this MEANS?" I looked confused, clearly not sharing his epiphany. He held up his ice cream and said entirely too loudly, "ROOT BEER FLOATS! YESSSS!!!" The guy in the aisle with us looked at us like we were nuts. You know what? Maybe we are. But I like it.
So obviously the root beer floats were a genius idea, we talked to the cashier lady about how awesome it would be if teachers could turn their eyes on "glitter mode" and look suddenly terrifying if kids were being bad, and then we got in the car to head home.
Basically, that's how I ended up eating ice cream at 10:30 on a school night, and I realized that my eight-year-old self would be very satisfied with how I turned out.
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