Monthly Archives: January 2017

You Can’t Say That At School

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A little girl with bouncing, shiny black curls ran towards me in the hall. It was more like a skip but still, in her current condition, she should’ve been walking. Covering her face was a mixture of glee and concern. Her large eyes met mine as she sort of smiled then sort of frowned. “I’m going home,” she said, immediately wanting a hug. “I don’t feel good.”

I hugged her back as I tried not to breathe in her germs and told her to get better soon.

And then this little voice, very twangy and small, chirped from behind me, “Her’s freakin’ sick.”

In a nano-second, I pushed the girl out of my arms to turn to the boy. “What?!”

“Her’s freakin’ sick!”

For a few seconds I could only gape at this child, only five years old and already spunky. Had he really said freakin’? Oh yes, he had. And did I want to address that first or his use of her instead of she?

I ignored the grammar lesson and proceeded to tell him not to use that word at school or at all.

So I thought I’d heard it all for the day. Not so fast. A few hours later, just as I’d wrangled the attention of three antsy little ones, another small voice demanded, “Who farted?”

Once again I gaped at the child (not the same child as before). I then told him not to say fart at school or ever. He proceeded to tell me that somebody did it and it smelled bad. Minutes later, as I’d moved the children on to other topics, the same fellow spat, “I can’t hear myself think!” He then began to chant as he squeezed his ears from top to bottom, open and closed, “It’s okay…it’s okay…peace, peace, breathe, breathe.”

All I could do was stare…that’s about it. Sometimes you just have to follow their advice or go crazy. So I breathed and then I laughed a little – but not in his face.

Y’all…come visit for a day. Come for a week. I promise you’ll smile.

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Dreams Are Weird

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So last night I had the strangest dream. I was in the White House…not sure why or how…and I was writing intently. Type, type, type. This man moved into the room beside me and sat across a narrow aisle. I looked over and it was Donald Trump. His shoulders were slumped and he seemed weary and tired. I knew who he was immediately, and I finally asked him why he was up in the middle of the night. He shrugged and then asked me why I was doing the same. I told him I could only find time to write when I was away from children. We began to talk, not sure about what, and in the next blink of the dream, we were sitting together in a big chair, shoulders touching. Sitting the way two small children would do in a classroom while reading books…innocently and without a care.

This man was grown but felt needy…he was needing a calm time in the middle of a harried world.

And then we wanted coffee, he regular and me decaf, and I woke up.

Ugh…unfinished dreams! I think if I’d stayed asleep just a little longer I would have gotten up the nerve to tell him in my best teacher voice to stop tweeting immediately, and too, maybe I would have volunteered to take Mrs. Grizzly Bear’s place as nominee for Secretary of Education.

It’s a shame he wasn’t having the same dream as me.

Here’s what I keep remembering from that dream though: this person is a human being. He’s far from perfect, as we all are.

He’s living behind this big bravado, which is a world he created for himself, but he’s just a man. He’s not God, and we all need to be praying for him since he is the leader of this country.

He felt vulnerable. He is whether he acts like it or not. He is not the ruler of the universe or my life…nor is he yours. Only one being holds that position, and when I focus on that, then this change in politics becomes much less scary (and mind you, I would have been just as worried about the change if Hillary had been elected).

God bless you, Mr. Trump, and may God guide every decision you make.

And P.S. – It was mighty strange dreaming about you, DJT. I’m taking it as a sign of too much media. I’ll now return to my books and hide away from you for a while.

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Diablo and His Ladies

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For Christmas, I got a new coop for our chickens. We’ve had the same group for a while now…Diablo, the rooster, and six hens. We all love the eggs we get from them and are now incredibly spoiled to the flavor of fresh eggs. I got the wild hair to bring the chickens closer to the house and mentioned it to Bill. Voila! I was given this beauty on Christmas Eve.

I think the chickens love it. If the amount of poop in the coop is any indication of love, then they are head over heels in love with it. It has become (mostly) my job to feed them daily and gather the eggs. The thing is, I’ve had to become a little braver with this new chore.

 Just like with my dogs, as soon as the chickens hear me approaching with food, they get flustered. Wings started flapping, squawking commences, and by the time I open the top of the cage, they are ready to rumble.

Maybe their instincts tell them to get ready to fly. Maybe they sense that it is their moment to escape. Maybe they just want to scare the crap out of me.

So…when I open the lid, they begin to fly. At first, I backed away and squealed. Now, I’ve figured them out. They only fly up just a little…maybe a few feet, and then they settle back down. Only one has dared escape, and as soon as she hit the ground, she was trying to get back into the pen with the others.

But she didn’t fly back into the pen.

No, I had to pick her up. Pick Her Up with my bare hands! That was a first for me. And I lived through the ordeal just fine.

(A few close family members and friends were awed that I was able to catch the bird and put her back in the pen. I may have awed myself.)