The Fridge From, Well, YOU KNOW

Originally published in the Cheboygan Daily Tribune...

When I was about 4 years old, my mom bought a brand new, avocado green refrigerator to go with our newly decorated orange and gold kitchen. There was nothing special to this fridge--just a freezer on top and fridge on the bottom. This fridge went with us when we sold the house, moving 235 miles from our old house to our cottage, where it went nicely with the avocado kitchen cupboards. Honestly, I don’t think the thing ever actually died. My parents replaced it with a white fridge from their home, years after my mother had stripped and restained the cupboards, after we had the green shag carpeting torn up and replaced with a light berber. I’m pretty sure it was about 35 years old.

See, that’s how a fridge should be. You should have a fridge so long, you just plain get sick of looking at it. It should be moved to a cottage, then sold at a shockingly low rate, then bequeathed to a young couple who are just thrilled to have enough money to put food into it. A fridge shouldn’t DIE. Especially after five years.

Apparently, our fridge missed the memo. It was a horror from the get-go. I’m beginning to wonder if, when our priest lived down the street, we should’ve had him perform an exorcism on it. That thing never liked us and, truthfully, we never like it, either.

When we selected this particular fridge, it wasn’t because we were so excited about its style or interior design or the amount of storage. We picked it because it was black, it had a water/ice dispenser on the front, and it fit in the space in our kitchen. So, maybe it was us. Maybe we made the fridge feel bad, and that’s why it lashed out at us.

One or possibly two days after the warranty on this fridge expired, it stopped dispensing ice. It still made ice--in fact we couldn’t get it to stop and it overflowed the freezer--but refused to dispense any. A very nice repairman, Chris, came out not once, not twice, but THREE TIMES, trying to figure out what in the world was going on. We became friends, but he couldn’t fix the ice problem. We could have crushed ice--when we pushed the “cube” button--or we could open the freezer, slide out the bin (spilling ice everywhere in the process) and get cubes. This we could live with.

A year or so later, the freezer door started popping. Every time we shut the refrigerator side (it was a side-by-side), the freezer door would just slightly pop open. This was not a handy development, since our Littles were just beginning to use the fridge by themselves. “Shut the freezer!” could be heard screamed across the house many a time, but we also lost several beloved and expensive frozen items (meat, ice cream, Outshine Bars) to the stupid door. We tried adjusting the doors, to no avail. We gave up. With yelling, we could live with this, too.

Then, some shelves broke. One was a side-door shelf, which we ordered on-line and it basically fit. Another was the shelf which held the meat drawer. Hello, duct tape. Apparently, as the Clampetts, we could live with this, too.

The last straw in any affection we had left for the fridge was when, in a freak of nature, the freezer walls began expanding and the drawers no longer fit. We’d be sitting at the dinner table and--“BAM!--a drawer would drop down. Whenever we’d try to slide a drawer out, it would turn into a magic trick attempt, where we’d try to balance the sides just so in order to get the drawer back in. It rarely worked.

Thus, this summer, we really hated this fridge. We would call it bad names. We’d slam the freezer door. We said, “If you were a horse, I’d put you out of your misery.” Our nephew made some suggestions about how to improve the fridge and I made some suggestions about where he could sleep that night. We were not on speaking terms with the fridge. And so--on the summer where my paychecks were significantly docked due to sick leave AND we had a three-week no paycheck due to a weird pay schedule--the fridge quit. Caput. Done. Be careful what you wish for, you just might get it.

The Hubby went to buy a new fridge, financed out as far as it could go, including the new “special order black” color (really? BLACK is special order?). I think we should’ve gone looking for the avocado fridge. I bet it could teach this new one a thing or two about keeping a family cool.

Biological Family

The Littles asked me about "Dave" today. Dave, my biological father. They know a lot about his parents, Grams and Pa. I wish they could've met my grandpa; I wish they remembered my grandma. I am not particularly upset that they don't remember Dave.

Maybe you think this makes me sound heartless. If you do, feel free to stop reading. Maybe you understand, if only a little. If you do, please keep reading.

My parents were divorced when I was an infant. I explained to Ben and Becca today that I don't remember EVER living with Dave. I know I did once, as a tiny infant, but I certainly have no memories of it. I have memories of visiting with him throughout my life--at his home or my grandparents' home--but never really feeling the same way that I feel about my Dad.

Throughout my life, Dave and I had a roller coaster relationship. At times, I would try very hard to keep in touch with him, to make a relationship with him, to act in ways that would make me feel like he actually liked me. At other times, I really believe he tried hard to create a bond and make our relationship work. But, it was always a strained thing, a large effort for both of us, and I'm not sure I even one time acted like my real, actual self around him. I accept some of the blame for this, and I hope he would, too.

In the end, as I told The Littles today, Dave hurt me too much for me to repair our relationship. At the time, my grandmother had recently passed away, and I began to see that she was the glue that had always held us together. If I'd ever thought about ending any contact with Dave, I would remember that it would mean I'd have no way to know what was going on with Grams, and I just couldn't do it. But, once she was gone, I feel like our true feelings came out. He hurt me, and I was finally unwilling to excuse it and move forward.

My priest at the time gave a sermon on forgiveness, and it caused me a lot of strife. Was I being a true Christian? Should I keep trying and trying to make this relationship work? Fortunately, I talked to my priest about it, and he helped me to understand the difference between forgiveness and being a doormat. I could forgive Dave for what he had done, but it didn't mean I had to keep going back for more. It was okay to let the anger go, but not continue allowing him to hurt me.

My current priest has given a sermon saying the exact same thing. It's been validating and comforting. It is still hard to explain to an 8- and 10-year-old why we don't have contact with someone who is related to them and is still alive. Did he hit me? Did he yell at me? No. Did he hit or yell at them? No. Then why wouldn't we see him anymore?

The way Dave hurt me the most, and my mother the most, was in not truly seeing me, and not seeing her. I remember being places with him and he would say, "This is my daughter, Laura. She's on the Dean's List at Western" or fill in some other accomplishment. I feel like, right now, he would tell people I write an article for the local newspaper. In my head, I would think, "What does that have to do with you?" My mom and dad were the ones who made sure I got to school every day. They were the ones who went to parent-teacher conferences. They were the ones who helped me with homework (My dad would, of course, bring up a project we did together on the Appalachian Mountains when I was in fourth grade. We got an A. He was super proud of us. Lol.) They grounded me and spanked me and lectured me, all when needed. They congratulated me and encouraged me and celebrated me, all when needed. They knew me as a smart, strong-headed, smart-mouthed kid. They know me as a smart, strong-headed, smart-mouthed wife/mother/teacher who puts her family above everything else in this world. Dave did not see that.

The final straw was that Dave told lies about me. He told his family that I wanted his mother's money. He told me one thing for years, and told them something else entirely. Then, when I acted confused, he made me look like a gold-digger.

I didn't care about my grandmother's money. I wanted every cent spent on her happiness, since I certainly never had to milk the cows or feed the calves or scoop manure or drive a tractor or any of the millions of other chores she and Pa performed daily as dairy farmers. It was never my money. When my grandma wanted to move into senior housing, I wanted her to use her money to live in a palace. When my grandma bought a bright blue Ford Fiesta "because it was cute," I said "Good for you!" When she was in a nursing room and she wanted a single room, I went to the front desk and said, "She wants a single room. Do it."  The only thing I wanted when my grandmother passed away was the necklace I saw her wear daily, because it was a piece of her. I also wanted her wedding rings, because I wanted to give them to my daughters and I didn't want them to be sold, not because I wanted to sell them. I never got them, though. What I got was accusatory emails about how I was selfish in expecting the money Dave had said for years I would inherit when my grandmother passed away. Apparently, he had only told me that, not anyone else in his family.

There's a lot of he said/she said. It's not even anything I care to think about anymore. It's irrelevant to my life now. Except for when my children ask why they don't know him. Why they don't know what he looks like. Why they don't remember him at all.

Here's how I handled it. I tried to find a photo of him, but all of our photo albums are packed into a closet. I finally found one on Facebook, and showed them the photo. Then I told them about what Fr. Greg had told me, that forgiving someone is not the same as letting someone continue to hurt you. And we talked about my dad, how he is my DAD, not my "step-dad," and he is their grandfather, and that's all they really need to worry about. I hope my explanation kept the thought, "Why doesn't he want to see us?" out of their minds. I spent 41 years thinking that. That's more than enough wasted anxiety on a situation I could never change.

Teacher Nightmares

Originally published in the Cheboygan Daily Tribune...

Da dum. School supplies at the store. Da dum. Flipping the calendar to August. Da dum. Thinking of classroom themes, buying unnecessary but adorable stuff at The Teacher Store. Da dum. Going into the classroom, opening cupboards, and asking, “What is this junk and why did I think I needed it?” Da dum, da dum, da dum, da dum, ahhhhhh! Bring on the Teacher Nightmares.

I knew a retired teacher who STILL had teacher nightmares every August. In his 90s. That doesn’t make me feel happy. I have teacher nightmares all school year--about conferences, the Christmas Program, my principal observing me… But the worst ones are always in August.

My August dreams stem from this essential concern: Will it be a good school year? Thousands of questions run through my mind each night. Don’t even get me started on the night before school starts. Basically, I don’t sleep.

Over the past 20 Augusts, some dreams are a constant--I know I’m going to have them at some point. First, there’s the dream where the first day of school is moved up by a few days...and no one bothers to tell me. So, I wander in around 10:30am on the actual first day--in flip flops, old shorts, and a stained T-shirt--to find my principal in my chair and my students huddled together in the center of the room. I have yet to take down my desks and put them in groups, or move my bookshelves, or set up my classroom AT ALL. I stop in my tracks and the principal whispers through gritted teeth, “Where have you been? School started hours ago!” I have this dream repeatedly, until I get my classroom set-up. The only real variation is that, sometimes, I’m not wearing a shirt. That really adds to the mortification when I find my principal. “And where is your SHIRT?”

The second repetitive dream is the “huge, horrible class” dream. In this one, I’m teaching in some GIGANTIC space, like a pole barn, an auditorium, or in the hallway of a mall. I usually have around 200 students. I go to the front and try to get their attention--I never have a working microphone--and call their names for attendance. They’re running around, laughing, smacking each other with their backpacks, and ALL completely ignoring me. I end up standing on a table and SCREAMING at them at the top of my lungs. For the record, I have never gotten on a table to SCREAM at children. I don’t know why I dream it every single time, like that’s my go-to move. Also, I’ve always had a working microphone, and never more than 56 kids in my room at a time.

Those are my two main nightmares, but every August my anxieties like to throw in some new ones. Let’s see...

I’m ready for school, but my car doesn’t work, so I have to walk to work, and suddenly I can’t walk anymore, I have to crawl.

I’m watching a show while eating breakfast and I want to see the ending, so I don’t go to school until around 9:30. On purpose. I just think no one will notice.

I can’t find my classroom. I walk down long, dark, hallways and peek into cavelike entrances of classrooms, but none of them are mine. This is generally when I’ve had to move classrooms.

The funniest teacher nightmare wasn’t a First Day of School Nightmare, but I want to include it, because it’s hilarious. I was team teaching, and we met together with parents for conferences. We sat down across from the first set of parents and I saw my partner was wearing a very pretty, red blouse. I looked down, and I was topless. I grabbed a piece of paper, tried to cover myself up, and whispered, “Geez! You didn’t tell me we were wearing SHIRTS!”

This year, I don’t have a classroom of students; I’m a Reading Specialist. I was looking forward to no nightmares. Ha! Who was I kidding? I had my first nightmare the other night. I couldn’t find my classroom, I didn’t know what I was supposed to be doing, AND I was late. When I woke up, I thought, “Well, at least I was wearing a shirt.”

The Gall of My Gall Bladder

Originally published in the Cheboygan Daily Tribune...

It started in the fall, six years ago, after my youngest was born. I distinctly remember going Trick-Or-Treating downtown, walking with a kind of weird limp, holding my right side and pressing in. I didn’t want to ruin the night, so I was trying to just waddle along, staying quiet, but my bestie said, “What in the world is wrong with you?” I shrugged. I really didn’t know.

By the time we got home, the pain was excruciating. We put the kids to bed and The Hubby went downstairs to his office. I lay down on the floor in his office, curled in a ball, holding my side, crying. “It hurts!” I yelled.

“Go to the ER, for crying out loud,” The Very Rational Hubby replied.

“I can’t! I’ll have to get ready for a sub and I’m not ready for a sub! I can’t go to the hospital AND get ready for a sub! What if they want me to spend the night? Who’s going to get ready for a sub? Huh?” I spewed truth.

“Then stay home and whine.”

“It HUUUU-UUUURTS! I think it’s my appendix! What if it’s bursting, like my Grams’ did?”

“Then go to the hospital. You have two choices: go to the hospital and get this checked out, or lie here and whine. There’s nothing I can do for you.”

I hate it when he’s logical.

So, I went to the ER. My mom met me and held my hand while the doctors prodded and poked and questioned. They did a CAT scan, and discovered that most of my colon was inflamed. They couldn’t see my appendix, due to the swollen colon, but they were fairly certain it was something called Diverticulitis. The doctors gave me some paperwork, told me to schedule a colonoscopy, and sent me home.

I had an old person’s disease.

Diverticulitis generally emerges in one’s 60s or 70s. It’s pockets that develop in the interior of one’s colon, in which small food particles--such as seeds and nut pieces--get trapped. This causes infection and inflammation. The doctors prescribed two antibiotics, which then caused very painful swelling and aching in my legs. I ended up with three days off work. And my side still hurt.

I faithfully adopted the Diverticulitis Diet, avoiding nuts, seeds, legumes, peas, corn, rice… basically food. I increased my fiber. I had three more episodes of excruciating pain before my colonoscopy. Despite the lovely diet.

My colonoscopy showed a beautiful, clear colon without ONE SINGLE DIVERTICULA. Nothin’.

I did NOT have an old person’s disease. “So, what could it be?” I asked the doctor who gave me the results.

“I don’t know. It’s definitely not diverticulitis, though.”

Wow. Thanks. That’s SUPER helpful.

Being me, I took matters into my own hands. I got a book called The Virgin Diet, and put myself on a food elimination diet. I figured I had to be eating something that was doing this to me. My mother had “suddenly” developed lactose intolerance at age 40, and I’d always joked I better enjoy my dairy products because I’d be lactose intolerant by 40. Mom had gone to see a gastroenterologist, had a gazillion tests done, lost an insane amount of weight (she looked like a skeleton), and then did a food elimination diet on her own. The doctors wanted her to have more tests, to go on Valium for stress, all kinds of ridiculous things. All she needed to do was avoid milk.

So, since I was the ripe old age of 38, I rationalized this HAD to be some kind of food my body had decided was toxic. As I reintroduced foods, I found it was not eggs, not corn, not soy, a little bit milk and, much to my dismay, DEFINITELY GLUTEN.

When I’d joked about the lactose intolerance, I’d always said, “I can do without milk. There are plenty of milk replacements. But, oh, man, I’d KILL MYSELF if I was gluten intolerant!” I loved bread. And donuts. And cake. And cookies. And dinner rolls. And pizza. And pie. And honey wheat pretzels. And, did I mention bread?

But, when I had been OFF gluten for a significant amount of time, and I ate one tiny break-and-bake cookie I’d made for my class, I had the side pain for FOUR DAYS. Yup, FOUR. Pretty significant indicator that gluten was a big no-no. The Hubby put me on suicide watch.

After discovering gluten was THE ISSUE, I slowly figured out things I could eat. If you’re going through this, let me save you: don’t eat most of the “gluten free products” on the market. ESPECIALLY gluten-free bread. After I’d been gluten free for a few years, The Hubby figured out a recipe for flour, and he’s made bread, brownies, donuts, rolls, pancakes… Pretty much anything I’d want. And they’re delicious. Just don’t buy that stuff. I know it says delicious. It’s NOT.

After about two years of “happy” gluten free eating, I started getting what my family calls “glutened” again. This means that about half an hour after eating I would get really cold--cold INSIDE my bones--and fatigued--I’d fall sound asleep--and my bones would hurt. Oh, and of course I’d have side pain. Now the pain would sometimes be on my left side, or gurgle back and forth. The Hubby began watching my face after I’d eat and he’d say, “Oh, geez. Did you get glutened?” Sometimes we’d be out somewhere and we’d have to go home. Okay, lots of times.

The super frustrating part was that I wasn’t eating gluten. At least, I didn’t THINK I was. I started using an app on my phone that scanned ingredients and we discovered this about gluten: IT’S EVERYWHERE. It’s in Simply Lemonade (preservative), Vitamin Water (vitamin D), deli meat (holds the meat together), cheese, gum… It was ridiculous. I also realized that my body was beginning to identify other non-gluten “foods” as gluten: artificial sweeteners, soy, MSG, and carrageenan (“Wheat of the Sea”). I also had to be careful how much sugar I consumed. My doctor--who I think is a genius--sent me to a Functional Medical Practitioner--a more holistic doctor--to try and deal with all of this. My poor body was attacking everything I’d eat, as well as parts of itself.

This would go on for several years. I’d get “better,” where I’d go months and months without getting sick, and then I’d get to a point where I couldn’t eat anything. This past February, I hit my lowest low. I was getting sick every day, no matter what I ate. Getting through the work day was exhausting and excruciating. My in-laws encouraged me to go to U of M, to see a specialist, and take care of this once and for all.

So, I did. Now, some people have excellent experiences at U of M. I was not one of those people. I was put through a series of humiliating, uncomfortable, sometimes incredibly painful procedures, both in Ann Arbor and locally. Nothing ever showed anything wrong with me. Eventually, I ran out of sick days, and I went on medical leave, hoping I could take a loan of sick days from other staff members. I stayed in bed, I drank bone broth, I ate farm fresh eggs, and I waited to figure something out.

Finally, my friend, Katie, listened to the story and said, “Girl, it’s your gall bladder.”

“No,” I said. “I’ve had every test. I passed them all. That’s not it.”

“Me, too.” Katie replied knowingly. “I’m telling you, it’s your gall bladder. You don’t need it anyway. Just get it out.”

I talked to my doctor, talked to a surgeon, talked to my mother (“Your grandmother had hers out at 45!”), and was harassed daily by The Hubby (“Get the stupid thing out!”). I scheduled a surgery. I was not convinced.

In fact, as the hospital staff was wheeling me into the operating room, I was trying to think of a way to escape. Just before they’d shown up, I’d developed a terrifying paranoia, and I said to The Hubby, “We have to get out of here! Let’s go. C’mon! Help me up!”

Luckily, he didn’t help me up, I didn’t escape, and the gall bladder came out. Later THAT DAY, I felt something I hadn’t felt in months: I felt like ME. Five days later, I got to the Tigers game with my son. Seven days later, I was completely convinced, and I was running errands and raising kids like nothing had ever happened. It’s amazing.

Here’s the craziest part: I’ve had some gluten. Yeah, you heard me. GLUTEN. I was never diagnosed with Celiac Disease, so there wasn’t really a reason that gluten should be a problem. I’ve actually tried a little, and I’m not even dead or anything.

So, the moral of this story is: if you still have your gall bladder, just get it out. You don’t even need it! Those things are evil, I tell ya. They have a lot of gall!

I Have One of Those Husbands

Originally published in the Cheboygan Daily Tribune...

So I have one of THOSE husbands. You know the kind. He does all of our laundry. He plans our meals and cooks dinner every night. He does the dishes without complaining. He reads with the kids and plays endless games of catch with our hyper son. He pays all our bills. He gets our groceries while I take the kids to swim lessons. He mows the lawn, and all the "common areas" in our subdivision. He vacuums and cleans bathrooms and reads teacher newsletters and fills out permission slips and checks homework. He buys me presents I didn’t even realize I wanted, exposes me to information I didn’t even realize I wanted to know, gets me to laugh when I feel like sobbing, and makes the best gluten free baked goods on the planet. Yeah, one of THOSE guys.

Now, some women are probably saying, “How did you do this? How did you get him to be like that?” All I can respond is that he came this way. He really has not changed much in the thirteen years I’ve known him. Like, he still takes the hand towel off the hanging rack, dries his hands, and leaves the towel on the counter. I don’t think he’s ever going to change that. Although, let’s be real, how big a deal is that?

You see, people don’t change a lot from when you first meet them, or, at least, not in any of the ways YOU try to change THEM. For example, I brought to this marriage forgetfulness, the ability to stretch a 200 word story into 1,000 words, and a bleeding heart that wants to take home every child whose home is not ideal. None of these have changed. In fact, they’ve probably gotten worse over time. But The Hubby has accepted these flaws, because with them I’ve brought my passionate love for our family, my laughter at his EVERY joke--no matter how bad, my work ethic, and my tenacity to be a ferocious advocate for our kids. These are things I believe he loves about me and, when I’m droning on and on, maybe he thinks about one of those qualities to get him through the moment.

I have been really sick this spring, like lie-in-my-bed-and-moan sick, and I’ve been absolutely useless. Generally, The Hubby and I work together as a team. My mother-in-law has often remarked about what a well-oiled machine our morning routine is. This spring, everything has fallen into The Hubby’s lap, and he’s had to do my jobs as well as his own, all the while worrying about what he can do to help me. I hate it. I hate not helping. I hate hearing the sounds of my family going on around me and not being able to take part. I hate seeing him get more and more stressed, and there’s nothing I can do to help. More than being sick, I hate not being one of THOSE wives, who is an excellent partner to her husband in this career we call life. And, I’m sure you can guess his response, “You just worry about getting yourself better.”

So I have one of THOSE husbands. One of those excellent, superhuman, generous, fabulous husbands you rarely actually hear about. I have one of those. And I thank God every day that I do.

The Halls Are Not Handy

Originally published in the Cheboygan Daily Tribune...

Once when I was doing dishes at my in-laws’ house, their garbage disposal splash guard came off. Eric and I ran to Lowe’s, got a new one, and put it in with no trouble. So, when our guard began shedding chunks of itself, I thought the fix would be a slam dunk. I mean, I don’t want to brag, but Eric and I have replaced the ‘boot’ to our washing machine TWICE (by watching a YouTube video). I truly believed it would be a five minute deal.

That was my first mistake. I literally thought, “Oh, I’ll just slip this in here real quick before I clean the sink.” I have never, in my 43 years of life, had a home improvement project take five minutes. I’m not sure what possessed me to believe it this day, when we were both working like fiends to get the house cleaned for company. Stupid. I know that now. But, on this day, I was just going to “pop it in there” really quick. I pulled and pushed on the old guard. Not budging. I skimmed the box of the new one--who READS directions when you can skim?--and it said just shove it into the hole in the sink. I did that, but thought, “Hhmm, that doesn’t seem right.” It wasn’t tight enough to stay put, and came out easily when I pulled up.

At this point, I decided the problem was the old ring. I put on rubber gloves, grabbed, pulled, tried to shove a bread knife between the rubber ring and the metal of the sink... that sucker wasn’t going anywhere. Eric came into the kitchen to grab something and said, “What, are you doing that right NOW?” I chose not to respond. “Look it up on YouTube,” he told my mind-your-own-business face.

So, I looked it up on YouTube. Seriously, you can find EVERYTHING on there. I found a short video, which involved removing the actual disposal. Nope, not doing that. I went back to pushing, pulling and prying. By now, I had pulled off just about every sliver of “guard”. Staring down into the gaping hole, I realized Bob the Handyman had a point: I needed to remove the disposal.

Bob showed how you could easily loosen the disposal, slip off the old ring, slide on the new one, and reattach. He forgot to mention the thing weighs about the same as a toddler elephant. In addition, maybe there are plumbing fixtures more difficult to reach and maneuver than a garbage disposal, but I have never worked on any of them. This project seemed to require removable body limbs. I was all arms and knees and feet, but nothing could get at the splash guard while holding the disposal up at the same time. So, I did what any amatuer handyman idiot does when he/she has made a stupid move--called for reinforcements.

To say Eric wasn’t happy would be an understatement. I’m fairly certain explicatives were exchanged on both sides. The actual conversation need not be repeated. Just please realize that I WAS wrong, and stupid, and I KNEW that, but it was a little too late to go there. Because the thing was heavy, and it was already disassembled, and now pipes from its side were completely OUT and they smelled like rotting flesh and three-day-old vomit. I’m pretty sure that creepy goo-stuff from “Stranger Things” was in there. Anyway, I digress.

Eric pretzeled himself around me and the cupboards and held the disposal, while I removed the ring, realized the new ring would NEVER IN A MILLION YEARS fit the spot because it was considerably smaller, reattached the old crappy ring, and tried to put the disposal back on. Again, our exact conversation need not be repeated. One or the other of us may have passed out from the smell. And, we could NOT get it back on.

Generally, at this point, the Halls contact our good friend, Jim. He comes to save us in times of desperation like changing a tricky halogen light bulb and putting a folding closet door back into its groove. The good news is he doesn’t charge $75 for coming out, like the plumber who showed us there’s a switch on the garbage disposal if you ‘blow its fuse’. So, we contacted Jim with our Batsignal (he’s off the grid, people; don’t bother trying to look him up). No response. We were in serious trouble.

Finally, we did what we Halls do best in situations like these: we shoved it REALLY HARD. Believe it or not, it actually worked. We got that sucker up there and I twisted and it was back in place! I put the new splash guard in from the top, like it was supposed to go (even though I still don’t think it looks right), and we were in business! Until we weren’t.

After washing the sink, I noticed we had a drip. Okay, a leak. A big leak. A going-to-rot-the- cupboard-if-left-alone leak. We repeated the explicative-blame argument and tried pushing and pulling some more. Then we watched Bob the Handyman together and noticed, “Hey, that metal thingy there is way closer to this metal thingy here in Bob’s video.” Eric grabbed the screwdriver, I pushed up with my pinkies (nothing else could reach), and we tightened that baby until it’s metal thingies touched.

A week later, still no leak. Sure, our splash guard has to be pulled out each time you want food in the disposal, but no flaps of plastic are going in, and no water is shooting from the bottom. Progress. But if you need a home project done, I wouldn’t summon us with your Batsignal.

Teacher Snapshots

Originally published in the Cheboygan Daily Tribune...

In my twenty years of teaching, I’ve taken lots of pictures. But the best ones are inside my head, where I can review them whenever I need inspiration or a really good laugh. (*Kids’ names are changed.)

On the last day, Casey comes out the bus doors and schwicks to me like a magnet. She wraps her skinny arms around my waist, her legs around my leg, and buries her face into my stomach. “Casey, honey, you have to get on the bus. I love you, too. Now, sweetie, let go.”

“NOOOOO! I don’t WANT to go to SECOND GRADE!” she wails. “I want you to be my teacher FOOOOR EEEEEVER!”

Click.

Me: “Okay, when you want to add a suffix to a word with a common vowel sound, you have to double the consonant.” Kids watch very seriously as I write on the whiteboard. “See, like at the end of swim. I have to put two m’s for swimming. Okay? And if I want to change clap. I have to double the consonant. So, when I change it to clapped, I can’t forget THE PP. Got it? Don’t forget THE PP. That’s very important.”

Five years later… Katelyn: “Hey, Mrs. Hall, don’t forget THE PP. Ha!”

Click.

In the hallway with Brian. “What’s wrong, buddy? You’re so sad today. What can I do, huh?”

Brian pulls me to the ground, climbs in my lap, encircles my neck with his arm and pulls me very close. “They don’t want me. My mom’s gonna live with her boyfriend from the computer and my dad is gonna stay home and they don’t want me. They were fighting over who had to keep me. She says her boyfriend doesn’t like kids and he says my face will make him think of her dumb face. They don’t want me. Can I come live with you?”

Click.

Me: “Ladies and gentlemen, I was so impressed at that assembly. I watched kids MUCH OLDER than you who were being disrespectful and rude. YOU kept your hands to yourselves, your eyes on the speaker and your lips zipped, unless the guy was funny, which he really was. I was so proud of you. I feel like, uh oh, it’s coming, there’s nothing I can do…” (I climb on top of my teacher table) “DANCE OF JOY!” (I dance with ridiculous arm flailing, leg kicking, and booty shaking.)

Click.

Me: “Okay, does anyone know the story of these underwear on the floor? No, seriously, these underwear right here by my table. Anybody? Is everyone still wearing underwear? Just do a little check. Anyone? Hhmmm. I wonder why these underwear decided to come to OUR classroom after they grew legs…”

Click.

I’m at my teacher table with a small group. Hayden puts his hand on my shoulder, waiting for my attention. When I turn to talk to him, he absentmindedly rubs his hand up and down my arm. Just petting me with love. He has told me that, when he becomes a professional baseball player, he will buy me a lime green convertible VW bug. What a great kid.

Click.

Crystal is crying her eyes out, because someone said her shirt was too short. Me: “Now, we’ve discussed this. You only get a certain amount of tears in your life. Are you SURE this is worth it? You may need those later in life when you find out your 2nd grade teacher has been moved to a nursing home. Don’t you want to save those tears?”

Crystal wipes her face on her sleeve, takes a deep breath and says, “Yes. I will need them for that. Thank you.”

Click.

Me: (finishing up directions for writing workshop) “Okay, peeps, a-one, a-two, a-you know what to do! Write!” Alexis comes straight to me and looks at me with sparkling eyes and an open face. “Yes, ma’am, how can I help you?” I ask.

Alexis squeezes my middle until I think I’ll burst. “I just needed to hug you some more. I’m good now.”

Click.