Reading and The Brain

Why do women and girls prefer fiction? Is there a difference in the brains of men and women that lead to reading material preferences? I have to think there must be. The most-emailed article in the New York Times http://www.nytimes.com/2010/04/01/books/01lit.html?pagewanted=2&ref=homepage&src=me describes a new area of study in literature departments: fiction and the brain. Scholars are now mapping how our minds respond to literature and what this love, or hatred, of storytelling can tell us about evolution. I think that the differences between male and female reading habits must also be linked to our brains and evolution.

This has a major impact on my IR program next year. I cannot force students who don't like to read novels to read novels. My ultimate goal is to instill a love of reading because it exposes you to aspects of life and the world you didn't know about before. Reading, in any guise, expands your knowledge. The IR program needs to allow students to read magazines, newspapers, comics, poetry, blogs, and fiction. I hope this is one way to help the boys feel more comfortable with the program and even embrace it.

A slight detour

My challenge changed direction today. 316 pages into Pickwick - 200 more than my cut off - I gave up. There were just too many words; a lengthy paragraph was devoted to every gesture, movement or event . Some were beautifully written, but it was too much. It makes me feel bad to write this - Dickens is one of Britain's finest authors and here I am complaining about his wordiness. Apparently, to keep my attention, the writer needs to get to the point quickly. Has my uncultured inner-self been exposed? Here I am trying to read the top 100 novels and I have slogged through two and given up on the third. But, is it me or is it the novels? I have struggled to find any point of contact with any of the characters and plots of the books. The books have been about men, by men in a time and place I do not inhabit. I tell my students again and again the joy of reading comes with the connections you can make with the story. I have no connections so I have had no joy.

So, a new direction. Firstly, I have changed my list. I am now reading the Modern Library's top 100 novels of the 20th Century. (Marginally closer to the time I am living in). Scanning the list, it again is almost devoid of female authors; Virginia Woolfe is the lone lady in the top 20. This may be another disaster, but I'm going to give it a go. In at 100 is The Magnificent Ambertons, a realist novel about a rich American family losing it all in the wake of the Industrial Revolution. I fear a struggle for connections on this one too and I haven't opened it. Must think positive. And must stick to my 100 page rule. I'd prefer my challenge not to make me feel bad about myself.

cut down so early in life

For my mummy book club I am reading "What Our Mother's Didn't Tell Us" by Danielle Crittenden. The first paragraph of chapter two, titled "Love", included the following quote: "- if such a young woman decides to get married, say, before she is twenty-five - she risks being regarded by her friends as a tragic figure, spoken of the way wartime generations once mourned the young men killed in battle "How unfortunate, with all that promise, to be cut down so early in life."" (p. 60) That's me. I have never before thought of myself as a tragic figure, but I wonder how many others have thought of me that way.

I am the only wife and mother in my circle of friends. I am an anomaly. Maybe this explains why it has been so hard for me to find close girl-friends. I have made choices that alienated me from everyone else; such as, a long-term relationship with a man living in a different country, a wedding at 23, a new life in a foreign country, a baby at 27. I'm certainly not a stereotypical profile for the pages of Cosmopolitan. But, have I got it all wrong or has everyone else got it all wrong?

The choices I have made have led me to a life where I am in love, happy, financially stable and secure. I don't think I can say the same about any of my friends. Some people would accuse me of taking the easy route; they may say I found a man to look after me and avoided any of the real work that comes with making it alone, or surviving independently by securing a good job and home on your own merit. There is a part of me that would agree, but why do we now have to prove our womanhood by "making it alone". I do not think that this is making women happier or more fulfilled. Of course some women thrive on independence and drive, while others require support and status-quo. I, without any premeditation, have managed to end up with the best of both worlds - support and personal success. I am not a soldier cut down in his or her prime.

Ultimately, I am happy that Rose will grow up a world where she will have the choice to become a modern independent woman or a more traditional codependent woman or anywhere in between. But, I hope, when she is making he decisions, nobody is judging her choices and comparing her to dead soldiers.

http://www.nytimes.com/2010/03/28/magazine/28FOB-WWLN-t.html

thoughts on parenting

We came to some big parenting conclusions tonight. We want Rose to be a happy, confident, lucky-in -love young lady. I think the first two are controllable, the third, unfortunately, is not. As parents, we are in control of our child's happiness. We can provide a stable loving home, a dysfunctional, abusive home or anything in between. Whatever we provide for here is going to go a long way in determining the person our little girl will become. Of course nurture and nature interact together - but we are in charge of the nurture side and I determined to make it as happy and stable as possible.
For me that doesn't mean she will be receiving the best toys or clothes, going to the best private school. We don;t want those things and cannot afford them. Instead I am going to focus on my marriage and myself so I am happy. She may only have clothes from Target in her wardrobe, but she will have all the support, love and attention we can offer. But, she will have to get used to Mum and Dad's date nights.
I went to a mummy book club tonight. The other women there were all new mothers and back at work full-time as lawyers, landscape architects and school psychologists. The discussion was about finding that elusive balance between work and motherhood. Society seems to look down on motherhood; instead, a prestigious career is the ultimate goal of the modern women, children, if they do happen, come after the job. You have made it when you are successful in your career. Obviously, every woman is different, but I came away feeling that my job doesn't give me the sense of fulfillment I get from motherhood. I'm sure that I would be looked down on by some because of that. But, ultimately, it doesn't matter what a passing acquaintance or even a close friend thinks about your life choices - if you have found personal happiness in whatever guise it may be you have made it.

Skeleton of spokes

It has been raining all day. On four different occasions I found myself desperately trying to right an inside out umbrella and its ugly skeleton of spokes with a bundled baby strapped to my chest and a dripping dog lunging to eat some street crap. I screamed "fuck" the fourth time.
At these moments I catch myself envying people seemingly unburdened by responsibilities like students riding bikes or women with only a handbag to carry. Drivers must have watched me struggle today and thought glad that's not me. At more less frazzled moments I know I love having the responsibilty of caring for a baby (the dog not so much), but I do miss the freedom to just leave the house and go somewhere, anywhere with just a handbag.

The Pickwick Papers

I'm on p. 112 of The Pickwick Papers. The jovial title man has just been involved in a high speed horse and "chaise" chase. No one - man or beast - was hurt. A couple of times during the action Dickens referred to the carriage traveling at an unsettling speed of 15 miles per hour. I imagine the same scene today as the equivalent of two Cadillacs racing over mud at 100 miles per hour. Someone - or something - would have died in the updated version. While reading, this is one example that illustrates how the material aspects of life have completely changed since Pickwick's time, but human interactions, human idiosyncrasies and human idiocy remain exactly the same.

I love the premise of the book; four men travel around the country and record their observations of British life. Simple and something I would quiet happily spend my time doing. As Dickens first book, I like to imagine that he turned a love of people watching into the entry point to his writing career. So far the antics of the characters in Pickwick, like Scoop and Lucky Jim, are annoyingly juvenile, but the description is sumptuous. Dicken's characterization is like portraiture; he shows you every angle of every person. For example, Sam's first impression of Wardle's lawyer Mr. Perker of Grey's Inn: "He was a little high dried man with a dark squeezed up face, and small, restless black eyes, that kept winking and twinkling on each side of his little inquisitive nose, as if they were playing a perpetual game of peep-bo with that feature..." (p. 118) We know immediately that we are to dislike this man (there is something very unsettling about small dark eyes). Dickens doesn't like lawyers and makes this very clear with those few withering lines.

with work still comes stress

I had a knot of anxiety in my chest all day yesterday. Two of my five classes on Tuesday did not go well; they had a combination of poor lesson planning and defiant attention grabbing students. I spent hours reading, thinking and planning about classroom management, regaining control and improving the lessons. I also spent all that time being angry with myself. Why was I letting it get to me? Why could I not forget about school and concentrate on my daughter? At one point I found reading a management book while sitting next to Rose. Not good. My focus needs to be on her.

I know that wanting to be a success is not a bad thing. I just don't want my work life to encroach on my family life in the way it did yesterday. This is probably the impossible balance that so many mothers are striving for. How can you juggle being a Mum and being a working woman? I want to be a good role model for Rose. I want her to know that playtime is just that, work time happens at another time. I need to get better at this. No more working while Rose is up, no more checking email while Rose it up. Really, there is nothing to check.

I do need to make sure we get out and do something each day - being in the house all day long is difficult. There is a good network of Mums in the neighborhood - we are all going through the same conflicts with work and motherhood and it is so helpful to hear other people's stories. This is what makes me so angry with myself. I am in a fabulous position - 2 days of work a week. I need to get some perspective and get out of my head. There are much more important things to think about than a couple of defiant teenagers - I have a daughter now.

Creativity void

I watched a fascinating talk about creativity given by Sir Ken Robinson. He argues that the current education system kills creativity. The whole system, in his view, is a "12 year preparation course" for university; it, therefore, stymies any talents or skills that are useless for a university career - dance, drama, art, music, anything with your hands. As I am in the early stages of teaching a SAT prep class, his theory is particularly interesting. I'm teaching these kids how to pass a test that gets them into university. My lessons are filled with "top tips" and "triggers" that the kids are meant to memorize to become "smart test takers". I'm teaching a class devoid of any smidgen of creativity. It's depressing to write this, let alone deal with the actual reality of it. Needless to say, I'm struggling with the class. But, to go to college the kids need to take this test. I want them to do well, but I'd much prefer a system where they can shine with their natural skills not shine with their ability to take a test well.

Obviously, this leads me to think about Rose and her future education. I'm already investigating all the different options and am intrigued by the Montessori model. From what I can gather so far, a student's learning is guided by self-discovery and personal interests, rather than teacher mandated assignments. I'm going to do a lot more research, but I like the sound of it so far.

Pickwick paper is started and it is BIG. There may need to be a renewel on this one.

99 bottles sitting on the wall

Scoop is finished. "Uproariously funny" "ingenious" "hilarious" are a sample of the back cover reviews, I'm not so convinced. It was silly, but filled with overt racism that made my stomach turn. Not so easy to belly laugh when the ugly words of my grandfather's generation pepper the pages. Scoop satirized the newspaper business. He ridiculed its controllers and its methods by creating bumbling characters like William and Theodore Boot and powerful idiots like Lord Copper. Women didn't come out very well either; Katchen was a gold-digging cheat and William's female relatives never left their house. Mrs. Stitch, however, was a high point in the novel. Her power over the male characters was an unexpected and happy plot element and ultimately, the cause of all the ensuing trouble.

My rankings:

1. Scoop by Evelyn Waugh (a silly account of mistaken identity and disquieting racism)
2. Lucky Jim by Kingsley Amis (a tedious journey into university faculty)

Next up....Pickwick Papers by Charles Dickens (I'm excited about this one.)

Evelyn is a man

We are in the midst of Philadelphia's biggest snowstorm. I have never seen anything like it. Total accumulation could be 38 inches. Larchwood Avenue looks like a ski resort; vague figures wield snow shovels in swirling snow, cars crawl by hauling high-hats of snow on their roofs, and off-lead dogs bound through drifts. It could be horribly dangerous if we actually had to go anywhere, but we are home, in the warm and have netflix for entertainment - though the milk levels are getting low.

I finished book two of "Scoop" and seem to have lost interest. I am, therefore, a little confused about the action. Book two deals with William's adventures in Ishmealia. In a nutshell, journalists are sent there because of potential civil conflict. A story of a Russian incursion is broken by one of the newspaper men, but disproved by some wrangling by other newspaper men. All the jouranlists are tricked into going to a imaginary town called "laku" or "I don't know" except for the hero William. Mr. Benito, a revolutionary front man, attempts to get William out of the city, but William is too interested in staying and wooing a gold-digging, married Polish girl. Mr. Benito and his Russian compadres overthrow the Jackson government and William is the only press to witness the events. In the meantime, the husband of the Polish girl returns and the couple leave in William's canoe. Left in the capital, William reconnects with a rich Brit, Mr. Baldwin, who turns out to own the mineral interests of the country. A swede on a motorbike crashes into a bar, discovers, via William and Mr. Baldwin, that a revolution has taken place, storms the palace and kills Benito and his gang. Again, William is the only one to report the events, except he is so inept Mr. Baldwin writes the piece for him. Remember, Mr. Baldwin seems to own the country.

It seems ridiculous, but is "Scoop" really that far from reality. Journalists are given the responsibility to report the facts about the story they are covering. Clueless William is the only voice covering a story of world importance and he is being manipulated by every side. How can we trust the news that we read? Is it possible to report facts without some opinion or bias seeping in? It's entirely possible for all newspaper stories to be complete fabrications, but we believe it because it is all we have. Scoop was written in the 1930s. Now technology has advanced to the point that the truth should be easier to attain; we have live blogging, twitter, video, cell phones that let the public see, hear and read about events practically in real time. Does this remove the bias? Or does this just clog up the news? Instead of having just one voice (however unreliable), the public now has hundreds of different voices to listen to.

Back to work

Today, I went back to work. It was an intense day filled with high points and low points. I'm teaching 125 students how to take the SAT test; not the most riveting if subjects. I'm, also, a little rusty and a new face for a lot of the kids. But let's start with positive. I arrived at 8.00am and got hugs and smiles from every teacher I passed. I got to my room and two students from last year presented me with a vase of orange lilies. I had a couple of classes filled with kids I taught last year and they were fabulous. I have a great team teacher who supported me all day. On the negative side, the classes I did not know decided to test the new teacher. The first class was a train wreck; constant talking, disruption, requests for bathroom. There were moments when I was looking at them all ignoring me and thinking what the hell am I doing. My principle came into my room during that class. The other two classes were a lot better, but I was a hell of a lot firmer. I have some challenges waiting for me at work. But, I got to come home to my beautiful family, feed my little girl, share dinner with my husband and cuddle on a couch. Life is good. The odd challenge just makes you stronger!

Scooping

For the past few months I have been feeding Rose once a night (approx. 3 am), but we have been getting out of bed at least 4 more times and responding to cries. At each hint of a cry, we would stumble into the pitch-black nursery. Leaning over the crib, we would search the crib for the expelled pacifier, search for Rose's mouth and replace the pacifier. Her crying would stop and we would stumble back to bed. Obviously there were two major problems: Rose is getting a horrible nights sleep because she has become attached to sleeping with the pacifier and we are getting a horrible nights sleep because of the frequent replacement trips.

In the last few weeks, I started to feel conflicted about how non-attachment parenting we are. I think I may have been slowly brainwashed by the birth center groupies. How natural is it for a baby to sleep alone? Should Rose be alone in her nursery for so long? This nagging thoughts kept entering my mind. On Friday it all came to a head. We had a vigorous debate about what we should do about the nighttime yo-yo hall walking. It slowly became clear to me that now at 6 months she needs to learn to sleep and self-sooth. My nagging thoughts were a little late. So we waded into crying it out. At 2 am that night, we fought through 45 minutes of crying - soothing every 5 minutes, and eventually she slept. Last night she slept until 5.30am, with middle of the night whimpers.

It seems successful, but is incredibly hard. The crying physically hurts. I'm on my own today and she is having her lunchtime nap right now. 30 minutes into it she started to cry. I went to sooth after 5 minutes and made things so much worse. It took another 15 minutes for her to sleep - crying the whole time. She woke up again 20 minutes later and we did the whole thing again. While the monitor wails I look longingly at the pacifiers in the kitchen; if I gave her the dummy there would be silence in a second. But, I have to be strong. This is the beginning of a lifetime of setting boundaries. Just like teaching, consistency is key and unbelievably difficult.

I've just finished the first part of "Scoop" and it is kicking "Lucky Jims" arse. It is still populated by wealthy, pompous British folk doing ridiculous things, but this time is actually funny. An episode of mistaken identity led to William Boot, a reclusive, nature-loving, part time columnist, being sent to cover the civil war in Ishmealia, a north African country "difficult to get to from every direction" instead of the popular writer John Boot. Poor William is out of his depth. His publisher has given him instructions on how to report on the war, regardless of the actual truth. Scoop is all about the power of the media. I imagine William is going to get into all kinds of trouble and have an enormous impact on the British public's view of Ishmelia and possibly the outcome of the war itself. Does this happen all the time?

1 down 99 to go

Well, Lucky Jim is finished. Desperate for the thing to be finished, I skimmed over the last few pages, happily closed it and threw it, a little hard, away the other end of our overly huge couch. I needed it to be away from me. It was like a Morecombe and Wise sketch; funny 50 years ago, but just bemusing now.
Dixon, the nail-scrapingly painful hero, floundered through one slapstick situation to the next. One minute burning holes in bed clothes, the next fighting the absurdly named Bertrand like a teenage girl, then finally fainting on stage after drunkenly bumbling his way through a "Merrie England" lecture. After all of this, he somehow ended up with the prized job and the pretty girl. He didn't deserve the happy ending.
It was a story about questioning the status quo. This must be the reason it's included in the 100. Dixon represents a "new" man who fails miserably to fit in with the old-boy world of the university. The problem is he doesn't have any desire to be part of that world; it is like he was blindfolded and dropped into his life against his will. Grow a pair Dixon.
I did giggle at the lecture scene but Lucky Jim annoyed the crap out of me. I'm hopeful things will look up with book 99.

Next up: Scoop by Evelyn Waugh. Thanks to "Lost in Translation" the only thing I know is Evelyn is a man. Those were some funny parents.

Sunday brunch

We had a wonderful brunch today; a three courses banquet of mango and sweet potato soup, banana and bacon french toast, and chicken fried chicken eggs benedict. It was a pleasure to be out with my family. We really haven't been doing it enough. We have been trying so hard to get a regular schedule going with Rose and I finally feel that we are have achieved it. The problem now is that interrupting the schedule with outings etc. means Rose is cranky for the remainder of the day. But a little crankiness is much more preferable than staying in every weekend.

I've been spending so much time in the house it has become stale in my eyes, but I have little desire to spruce it up. I think going back to work part-time will be a very good thing. I'll get some space from home me, while getting back into work me. I miss the act of work - bringing in money, being relied on, planning and preparing for a new day. I do not want the demands of last year, but there is a part of me that has missed it. Being a mother brings immense responsibility, yet I want the responsibilities of work as well. Do I want too much? Is the balance that everyone gripes about ever really attainable?

Not such a Lucky Jem

The challenge is off to a halting start. This week has been hampered by a pain in the arse cold/flu thing that will not give in. I have spent the last five days trapped in a lethargic, depressed, stir crazy state that really needs to end. I keep thinking that it has, and then it hits again. I'm now resorting to wine - tea just isn't comforting me anymore. It's a slippery slope!

Anyway, Lucky Jim is being read, but in five minute bursts before falling into cough wracked sleep. I then pick up the book again and have to reread everything from the previous night. Needless to say there are good and bad points so far. On the positive side, the book has a lighthearted colloquial style. Faulkner at this point may have killed the challenge before it had even begun. Jim, a recent University hire, has, so far, been stuck in situations with people he doesn't want to be with - a baboon-like boss, bosses son he already started a fight with and girlfriend (?) who has recently tried to kill herself. He spends a lot of time making fun of these people and doing supposed hilarious faces behind their backs. This has not endeared me to Jim. Knowing a lot of university professors, Jim really doesn't seem like a successful candidate. He seems to hate his subject (Medieval history), hate teaching and cannot stand schmoozing with his colleagues. I predict he will have changed jobs and girlfriends by the end of the book.

Why is this in the top 100? Maybe because it shows academia in a negative light? It's a groundbreaking 1960s attack on the establishment. For me it's a man who doesn't really know what he wants getting drunk and ruining bed sheets.

My Challenge

I'm inspired by Julie and Julia. Watching the film on the flight from England to Philly with a cranky baby, I came up with my own challenge. Instead of cooking my way through a cookbook, I am going to read my way through "Penguins Classic's 100 Classic Books You Must Read Before You Die" . This challenge has a thrifty budget - I plan to check out each book from Philadelphia Free Library. This means I have three weeks to read each book, so I'll be done in 300 weeks or 6 years. Crap, now I have written that this seems like a bit of a extreme undertaking.

Challenge Rules (because I am an anal teacher)

1. Books must be checked out of the Free Library of Philadelphia.
2. Books must be read in the three weeks allowed by the library.
3. There must be at least two blog entries per book.
4. I can only give up on books after reading the first 100 pages.

First up is Lucky Jim by Kinsley Amis. I thought it would be a Conradesque novel (probably because of Lord Jim), but after reading the blurb it is about 1950s university professors in England. Judging the book by its cover. the chances of me reading this outside of the challenge would be zero. But, happily I have no choice in the reading materials. All I have to do is read and opine.

Four episodes of tears

Rose is four months and one day old. At 7.36 this morning I was woken by gurgling and cooing. I untangled myself from our new ugly striped flannel sheets and followed the noise. She was lying skewed in her crib, legs in the air, with an enormous gummy smile. It was, undoubtedly, the best way to wake up in the morning.

In a few hours, B will be home from New Zealand and my odyssey into single parenthood will be over for the time being. It has been quite a roller coaster. I have cried four times; one, writing a miss you email to Brent, two, Rose wouldn't go down (but I quickly realized because she needed to burp), three, top chef finale, and four, I can;t remember but I know there was another time. This emotion obviously means I've been living close to the edge these past nine days. But, I did it. I have been able to look after an infant, dog and house alone simultaneously without causing pain or destruction to any of them. Except the scorch mark on the coffee table that is currently hidden by a coaster.

Together is definitely better than alone. I'm ready for a weekend of the three of us and less nappy changing.

On Thursday, President Obama accepted his Nobel Peace Prize in Oslo. The speech reminded me that he is a leader worth following. His considered view of humanity rings true for me. Here'e one example from the speech that I would have highlighted:

"But we do not have to think that human nature is perfect for us to still believe that the human condition can be perfected. We do not have to live in an idealized world to still reach for those ideals that will make it a better place. The non-violence practiced by men like Gandhi and King may not have been practical or possible in every circumstance, but the love that they preached -- their fundamental faith in human progress -- that must always be the North Star that guides us on our journey."

Of course we will make mistakes. The important thing, as Obama is saying, is to not repeat then again and again, but to learn from them and become better. You can forgive yourself if you learn from your mistakes. You can't forgive yourself if you make mistakes and fail to change.

Many different hats

I'm pretty pleased with myself. Seven days of being a solo mum down, three more to go. So far I have stuck to my plan of at least one social interaction a day. I have been to breast-feeding group mum and dad group, book club, explored Whole Foods, had brunch, made wreaths at the biology department. Having Rose has really pushed me to get out and do stuff. I suppose I can't stay hidden inside anymore, she will become socially inept. No more backing out of invites. Thing is, I'm really enjoying myself. It is lovely to be with a group of new mums and it is lovely to go into school and be a teacher. I'm enjoying my different hats, but I still do like my alone time too.

Article about marriage that has me thinking these past few days

I miss you

I really miss you. My man is not here. There are no trident wrappers on tables or dishes in the sink. There are no warm hands reaching out to hug me when I get back into bed in the middle of the night. There are no lips asking for smooches or lips to give smooches to. There is no one to listen to Rose laugh or scream. There are no cheeky giggles after farts. There is no body for me to wrap my legs around. But, there are cashmere sweaters that I can get lost in and sock I can wear without you knowing. There is Skype and photographs. There is your smell. But you are not hear and I miss you.

Dear Santa

Today I learned about "Operation Santa Claus." It was started in the 1920s by workers in a New York post office. Every year the post office would receive hundreds of letters to Santa from poor children. The workers began to put their money together to send presents to the children. Now, members of the public are able to go to post offices and look through "Dear Santa" letters, choose up to ten and send gifts to the children described in them.
I went to the post office and chose two letters today. The first is from a single mother who lost her job this year; she has a four year old girl and a nine year old boy. The second is written by a friend of a single father with a one year old and a three year old; the father does not know the friend has written the letter for him. The cynical part of me wants to think that these folks may just be lobbying for some free stuff. But the Christmas loving sentimental side of me is thinking that buying these kids some gifts ($10 limit) and sending them with a note from "Santa" is a pretty simple and wonderful thing to do. So I am off to amazon to buy Rose some stuff and spend $40 on some kids I will never know, but may be able to make smile.

congo gold

Democratic Republic of Congo and its civil war was highighted on 60 minutes today. The country is rich in natural minerals such as copper, some metal needed for computer chips and gold. The gold is causing war. Men, women and children dig into mountains for less than two dollars a day to find minuscule nuggets of gold. They are managed by various militia that fund a war with the mined minerals. The gold is sent to Uganda, who sends it to Dubai where it becomes jewlery, is sent to the US and ends up packaged in plush boxes and opened on Christmas morning.
5 million people have died in the Congo.

STTN

She has done it twice. From 10.30pm until 7.00am. The first night I woke, looked at the clock and registered the red numbers - 6.47. "She's done it" "You didn't have to get up?" "No. she's done it." And there she was askew in her crib, sleepy grins with red rimmed eyes. I felt fantastic. She had been waking up once or twice a night. I would feed her and she would easily return to sleep, but the interrupted sleep had a greater effect on me than I thought. It was my first full nights sleep since August 9th. She is, without doubt, the greatest squidge. I don't know if it will continue, but I'm thrilled that it happened.

On my plate

On my plate today was:

Slices of organic chicken breast meat
An organic chicken leg
Three roast potatoes
Two brussel sprouts
Two roasted carrots
Hominy
Stuffin (Stuffing cooked in a muffin tin)
Green bean casserole (not so good)
Sweet potato mash
Cranberry sauce
Poultry gravy

All homemade over two days. It was followed a couple of hours later with a slice of apple pie and cream. A couple of hours after that I returned for another small plate of all the above and another slice of pie.

A quiet Thanksgiving

It is the day before Thanksgiving and we are not with family. It is just the three of us, at home in Philadelphia, thousands of miles from anyone who shares the same genes as us. We did go to Kansas a couple of weeks ago and shared turkey and Keith's incredibly sweet sweet potatoes with family. Now it is just us and it seems too quiet.

The Road

We finished reading the road tonight. It ended on an image of mountain trout. Fish that had the history of the world marked on their backs, including the tiny portion that included man. The boy does not represent God, he represents hope, innocent hope. That is why the man continued, to save the boy, to save hope. Without hope for something better or something more then life is extremely difficult to live. Everyone hopes for something more, something better, something to stay the same. The woman had lost hope and she couldn't continue living.

The writing was so beautifully raw. The dialogue consisted of one or two word mutterings back and forth - lots of "okay" and "i don't know". It was conversations of two real people, the bulk of the dialogue being left in the spaces around the words, the things not said. The image of the road - always present and always leading them on. The idea that they had to keep going as long as the road kept going, as long as hope kept going.

Winter walk

It felt like winter today. On the afternoon walk, I power walked through cold rain and nasty gusts of wind. But I was cosy. Rose was nestled against me in the carrier and we were both cocooned in B's enormous red raincoat. I probably look a little frightening; hooded and strangely obese. Occasionally I hear sweet sighs from my little girl and I cannot help but lay my hand on her back. Gus still tries to take advantage as I do not have a clear view down to him. He gets yanked more these days, our baby days. He manages to find morsels of god-knows-what in the decaying leaves. We return home quickly - the walks understandably shorter than their summer counterparts- and enter the artificial heat. A winter bonus.

Routines to make you go crazy

You have a baby and you receive a lot of advice about raising said baby. Breast is best. Formula feed babies sleep though the night earlier. Vaccinations lead to autism. Not vaccinating leads to outbeaks of long defeated diseases like whooping cough. Feed your baby when you baby demands to be fed. Put your baby on a routine from birth. On and on and on.

It's clear that there is advice out there for everyone and you choose to listen to the help that suits the type of person you are. The bottom line of it all is that the end-result is a happy and healthy baby - except from the crazy ass non-vaccination advice. I am very clearly someone who thrives on a schedule. We have, therefore, attempted to put Rose on a schedule. We have a book by a British child care author Gina Ford. Ford subscribes to a Nazi-like regime about the baby sleeping, feeding and playing times and also when Mum should eat, sleep, and "drink a large glass of water." Obviously there are a lot of people who would throw her in the bin immediately. I, however, am appreciating having my day organized - the stress is coming for Rose having not read the book.

As Rose is a baby she sleeps when she should be awake and is awake when she should sleep. It has made me crazy. But I have taken a deep breath and tried to gain some perspective. On the whole Rose is doing beautifully. She has one stretch of 5 - 6 hours each night. I get up for one feed and Brent does another so we both get a good chunk of sleep. I'll keep working with the routine because to me it makes sense - ensure that day is very different than night, feed when the baby wakes up (our biggest problem I think is that Rose doesn't seem to feed for long enough and need topping up before naps - a bad sleep association), start daily rituals early like bath and massage, make sure the baby isn't awake for too long.

I like the routine, but it leaves me little space to go on any real outings because she just falls asleep. As she gets older I'm sure she'll be able to stay awake for longer. We have visitors for the next three weeks so I am concerned the routine will be difficult to maintain. But she is our daughter and I need to make sure she is the priority and not entertaining guests by guiding them around the sights of Pennsylvania. Be strong Mummy!

The first month

This is my first day alone with Rose. I'm holding it together, but there is a simmering queasiness in my stomach. For the last six weeks I have had my Mum to help me with everything from endless cups of tea to burping duty. I have had it easy. Reality begins today. Not that it has been difficult so far, though it is only 12.48. She is down for her lunchtime nap, I have managed to take us all out for Gus's lunchtime walk and I've even emptied the dishwasher. I'm still just waiting for to all to crumble. Hopefully, I will become more confident as the time goes by.

So not only am I officially a mother, I am also officially a stay-at-home mother (until February anyway.) After a summer of complaining about being bored, I now feel very comfortable with my lack of work responsibility. There is not one ounce of me that misses working. The social side definitely, but the graft absolutely not! Time, however, is flying. February will be here before I know it so I'm making an attempt to record the best bits.

The six weeks with Mum allowed me to watch and learn an expert. I have gleaned so many indispensable bits of advice. The bath and massage was a highlight. They recommend that you give newborns only one or two baths a week as their skin can dry out very easily. Rose's first bath was unforgettably fantastic. We filled the kitchen with the essential bath time equipment - bath, infant insert, baby wash, wash clothes - two for body, one for face, two hooded towels, changing mat, clean onesie, two nappies, massage lotion and baby. It amazes me how much stuff is needed. We strip Rose down. I'm completely clueless about how it is going to work, Brent is armed with camera and staying out of the way and Mum takes control. We all hold our breath as Mum lowers a pink naked Rose into the bubbles. We wait for the wail. And wait. She absolutely loves it. Sitting like a queen, she takes everything in as Mum confidently and I nervously pour water over her little legs, tummy and arms. The crying starts when we take her out. It has been the same for every bath time since. We now pour jugs of water on her head and she just looks at us with her huge eyes. She's a superstar and we're are getting more confident thanks to Mum.

A review of the first month has to unfortunately include our hospital stay. I don't really want to write about it. Rose came home on day three and was straight back in the hospital on day four because of bad jaundice. We were in CHOP NICU for five days and it sucked. The care was too good - the jaundice was cleared up in two days, but we were kept in because of a concern with her blood oxygen level. She was connected to beeping machines, pricked and prodded constantly, covered in wires so each time I looked at her I wanted to cry. She was absolutely fine, but the last thing I wanted to see was my brand new daughter in a ICU. A tough week. We were finally sent home with a heart rate monitor that has been a royal pain. We are meant to have it on constantly, but that means more wires. We now only put the thing on at night and Rose is wire free during the day. It makes cuddling so much easier and we are convinced that the whole thing is unnecessary anyway. Hopefully, they will free us from the monitor and it's wires soon!

Rose is now almost 10 pounds and looks chubby. Her cheeks and chin are downright flabby! She is giving Dad the occasional smile - none for Mum yet. I think that means that she doesn't love me. I'm feel content and a little smug that my beautiful little girl is asleep upstairs and I get to look after her. But we'll see how the rest of today goes.

Birth Story

Sixteen day old Rose is asleep in her bassinet and life has completely changed for the best possible reason. Being a mother is an absolute joy, but before I get too caught up in it I wanted to record the birth story before it all becomes a blur.

Sixteen days ago (Sunday August 9th) I had spent the morning tidying and feeling very pregnant. My bump was making it difficult to sleep and I kept waking myself up because I was on my back. On the Saturday, we had enjoyed a walk along the river and spent the evening clearing and organizing the basement. I apparently wasn't happy to just sit on the couch. (I was planing to do that in the last two weeks of my pregnancy!) Sunday rolled around. Lunchtime rolled around and I saw an afternoon was lazing ahead of me, lay down on the couch and felt liquid coming out of me - liquid I apparently couldn't control. I sprang up. Running up the stairs, desperately clenching my pelvic floor, Brent called out "there's some on the couch." I immediately thought - or wanted to believe - that it was just pee. More kept coming and I made a hilarious attempt to collect it in a new contact lens case.

We both sat in the bedroom and nervously discussed our choices. Both of us were sure it was just pee - though I was pretty sue it was coming out of the wrong hole. The doc also was sure it was just pee, but sent us to the hospital anyway. Just in case. Cue some desperate bag packing and deep breathes. At the hospital, I was examined and immediately told I was in labour. What. My mind just kept repeating oh shit oh shit oh shit. There's no way you can be ready, but I certainly wasn't ready.

Because my water had broken, or membrane had ruptured in doctor speak, it was important to get things moving quickly. My doc gave me three options for induction which I couldn't really take in. I ended up with the drug pitocin and a catheter I was sure they were calling a volleyball - turned out to be a Folley Bulb. Five hours in and nothing was hurting too badly. My doc arrived andchecked me - I think I was three cm. He upped the pitocin and removed the bulb, things began to hurt. They kept asking me one scale of 1 - 10 where is your pain. I had no idea as I hadn't really experienced much pain before. The contractions felt like period pain intensified. I found bending over, warm rice on my lower back and my darling husband counting one thousand and one one thousand and two, one thousand and three helped a lot. It got pretty bad - I wanted to get a taste of what it could feel like - and I asked for the epidural. That magical thing came and for the next 10 hours I read and slept. Nobody had told me that was possible. Our calm nurse, Vanessa, kept coming in and checking vitals, moving the monitors, asking if I wanted anything. I was calm and happy, something I really did not expect.

At 4. 45am on August 10th 2009, the beautiful resident came in checked me. She could not feel my cervix, my doc came to double check and confirmed. It was time to push. I started to shake. This was real. There were some tears. The pushing scared me, with the epidural I could feel a growing sensation of the contraction, but struggled to know exactly when to push. Pushing itself was hard because I really wasn't sure where I was pushing. I felt relieved when I was told that was an "awesome push, whatever you did there do it again" or "great job". I was lying there clueless. Unfortunately this experience went on for three hours. About two hours in I was told another 15 minutes. That gave me a goal that quickly went and I started to get frustrated and tired. Turns out that the baby was the wrong way up and had got stuck on my pelvic bone. I don;t know how close I was to being taken for a C Section. There was a lot of discussions happening out in the hallway. Finally, however, a few huge pushes and some help from the vacuum, Rose popped out.

She was immediately laid out on my stomach. She was slimy with white and red liquid, but I started stroking and talking to my little girl. She started to cry and for a few moments the whole family was crying. At the moment of her birth four or five extra people entered the room and she was whisked away for her tests and tidy. She came back bundled and beautiful. We had a perfect, healthy daughter.

I look back on my labour with fond memories! The pushing was, without doubt, the most uncomfortable, frustrating part, but I certainly didn't hate any moment of the nineteen hour epic. The following two days were spent on the post-partum floor. Breastfeeding was tough, but we had a super nurse who got us going - at least while in the hospital. It is clear that labour is really not the difficult part - the hard stuff comes after. You have a baby to look after.

Health-care La La Land

The Obama administration is attempting to reform America's health care system. How they plan to do this is highly complex and downright confusing. No matter how many articles, charts, and graphics I attempt to understand, I still emerged perplexed. I'm pretty sure that the bottom line is to provide insurance to all Americans though a number of convoluted programs. This costs money and threatens the health insurance tsars in charge of the current ridiculous system. An elderly lady was turned away because the doctor's office this week because the practice did not accept her insurance. If she has insurance, she should to have access to see a doctor at any office - isn't that a fundamental right?

Now, however, the debate has gone completely into la-la land. Instead of focusing on getting the reform passed, the media is filled with stories and videos of protesters heckling politicians in health-care reform town hall meetings. The protesters appear to be republican-backed citizens focused on stopping any kind of reform. Why they don't want the reform is very difficult to determine. The news paper articles don't seem to be explaining the protesters motives, instead they detail the shouting and fighting. Great. Many people are claiming that the protesters are being controlled by republican lobbying firms. So it is all, again, political bullshit and the media is playing into there hands. Why give these people any press? Why can't we focus on what is important - educating people on what the reform is actually trying to do and not sensationalize the actions of a few emotionally charged republicans? It would be a depressing if the reform fails because of these dirty tactics. Surely the Obama administration and the politicians driving the reform is strong enough to resist these attacks. Why are the important bottom lines always lost in the bullshit and why do people listen to the bullshit?

Some commentators are saying the motives driving the protesters is racism. The protesters are predominantly white and the people set to gain the most from the reform (the uninsured) are not white. If this is true then the whole situation dives even deeper into la-la land. Who, in their right mind, would begrudge anyone having access to medical care whatever color their skin happens to be? But again this gets back to the fact that it is so difficult to actually discover the real motives of these folks in the media. Maybe I just need to look harder - but why should I have to do that? Shouldn't their motives be clear?

Back to things I can actually control. Our interaction with the health care system has been equally as complex this week. I have seen my doctor twice this week and had my fifth ultrasound. On Monday, my check-up showed me to be measuring slightly small again (but my sneaking suspicion is my doctors had the wrong dates in his head) and I was advised to have 5 - 6 hours of rest a day and avoid unnecessary activity. I had planned to go to the zoo the next day and stupidly told him so. He advised me not to go. I went anyway - I think my doctor is being a little too careful. On Thursday, I went to the ultrasound. It showed her to be in the 57% percentile for size (7 pounds and 1 ounce for 37 weeks and 5 days). She is absolutely fine.

Finally, yesterday we met with the doctor again to discuss labour and delivery. He is a proponent of early induction to reduce the risk of C-section. A wonderful idea that means a very long, painful and highly medicated labour. We talked it though and our bottom line is not before Mum arrives. I would not be forgiven if we scheduled the birth before her arrival. We did, however, discuss August 25th as a potential induction date if she is still hanging out in there. I would be happy for that to happen. However, for the past 24 hours my BH contractions have been increasingly more frequent and powerful. I have had some cramping and a definite increase in discomfort. I don't know whether she is going to be happy to stay put until the 25th! Whatever happens I can't wait - though considering the tiny level of discomfort I'm feeling right now, this birth thing is going to hurt like a mother f****r.

The Male is Away

My husband left this morning for a three day trip to New Mexico. A few weeks ago I flipped at the thought of him leaving this close to D-day, which was incredibly unfair as I was supportive when he booked it. You have to love these hormones. Chances of my going into labour in the next two days are minimal. I am, however, feeling incredibly big and increasingly uncomfortable and doing normal things like walking the dog is like being asked to run 5K without training. I have a bowling ball in my belly. My swollen feet are doing an excellent impersonation of two flat-fish. My rings are stuck. Emotionally, though, I am still pretty upbeat.

Against doctor's orders, I went to the zoo this morning. They supply teachers with free passes in the summer months - apparently 34,000 teachers signed up for the program. Somehow I don't think the zoo will be getting 34,000 field trip bookings. I thoroughly enjoyed every minute of it and felt a particular connection to the pregnant/new mother animals. Firstly, the female orangutan had decided she was not coming out today - they believe she may be pregnant. I know how she feels. Also, the natural instinct to keep the little ones free from germs was on view at the otter enclosure. A new sea otter Mum was furiously cleaning the bums of her four newborns as we went passed. That will be me, but with nappy cream and not my tongue!

I got home, though, and crashed out. There was a half-hour nap on one couch, a move to another room, and then a half-hour nap on the other couch. Pregnant women are just like the animals at the zoo, an average of 20 hours of sleep is needed for us to function. I'm embracing my inner animal, especially while the male is away.

Skyping and big reading

Skype is something I am not yet comfortable with yet. Today, there have been two grandmother-to-be sykpe conversations. Well, less conversations and more belly showings. There is something very off putting at going from the comfortable faceless world of phone calls to the all-out-there-to-view Skype call. You really shouldn't feel you have to brush your hair before you ring your brother, should you? I find it hard to talk to the person while there I am staring back at me on a little screen. The conversation is always so stilted and frequently comes to a complete standstill as the monitor is adjusted and heads are centered. Also, my family haven't quite been able to get the sound to work on their end so we both have mobile phones to our ears anyway, or have been known to resort to writing notes to each other, some of them backwards, and holding them up to the screen. But, I'm sure as I use it I will learn to love it. There is something lovely about being able to see my familia - I haven;t been home since Christmas so I'm feeling a little England-homesick. Plus, with the baby coming it will be perfect we can stick her up to the camera and everyone can coo. I don't have to be on screen at all.

I have taken it upon myself to read the BBC's list of top 100 books by the time I am 35. I have read 27 of them so far and about 8 of those are Roald Dahl books. (It is a very British list.) I'm quite disappointed at my starting number, though I guess I got into this reading game late. I am currently in the final act of The Woman in White. Who killed Anne Catherick? What is Glyde's secret? Will Laura survive? I'm wallowing in the intricateness nature of the plot and the differing narrative voices. Mr. Fairlie is the most poisonous character I've come across in a long time. It is refreshing to be taken on such a convuluted, lengthy story. It is also perfect for my pining for all things British. I'm going to get back to it right now, while my dearest husband fixes a decidedly non-British dinner of ribs, corn bread, corn and beans.

Midday musing

The neighborhood in the middle of the day is a quiet place. It's almost spooky. People walk the streets on their own. Plumbers and Fed-Ex vans populate the road. Where are all the kids? Surely they can't all be at camp, can they? I wonder how many people are actually home. You have pregnant women who are cleaning everything in preparation for their babies. Mums at home with babies. People working from home. I'm impressed that those folks get anything done. Maybe they are the folks walking the pavement alone at the middle of the day - going to a cafe for coffee and company. People who are sick. People who are on vacation. People who do not have a job. People who work at night. There must be a surprising amount of people home right now at 12.27 on a Friday afternoon.

I imagine that most of the at home people are on their own. Lots of houses with one lone person working, thinking. Is the TV on in these houses? These are the people buying those small soap magazines you find at the supermarket checkout. The ones that are dedicated to one soap. How many people are napping? Why does a nap always happen on the days that you are not really doing much, instead of the crazy busy work days. I guess because you have time to nap. Naps always make me feel worse. I wake up disorientated and annoyed. I'd love to master the 10 minute power nap - mine always seem to stretch to 30 minutes or more. If you add that to the 9 hours I get every night, I'm a lazy bones. Oh, sleep how I will miss thee.

Selfish writing

I am thinking about how I want my classroom and lessons to improve and doing a lot of teacher book reading for inspiration. I just started a book about keeping a writing notebook. The premise seems to be regular writing nurtures a love and comfort of the craft that in turn leads to deeper, more significant final pieces. Certainly, after a year of painful five paragraph essays this sounds highly appealing. The book starts out by explaining how to launch a notebook and how to stop the inevitable comment "I have nothing to write about." This hit home with me. I think about this blog and that thought goes through my head each and every time. What about me and my life is important enough to write down here - a place where anyone can access it? But, as the book explains, just the process of writing helps you to see significance where you couldn't see it before. The more you do it, the more worthwhile an activity it becomes for you, and maybe at some point, for your reader as well. Writing is a selfish activity, in whatever form it describes something about the author.

So, back to thinking about teaching, a major motivation for me is to join the students in the activities I assign them. If daily free writing is one of those activities then I need to start keeping my own writing notebook. I think I already have right here. And it feels good.

July is slipping away and the baby is growing. I just updated the whiteboard and we have 28 days until D-Day. Four weeks left of being a young woman. Four weeks until I become a young mother. I'm spending my days waiting - filling in time with lovely activities like reading 19th Century British literature (I'm halfway through A Woman in White"), starting a book club at school, pre-natal yoga, seeing friends for lunch, watching TV shows via Netflix online streaming, walking Gus in the humid Philly weather, napping, watching my belly shake and stretch with each little movement. There is no pressure on me right now. It still makes me feel guilty and I list things I could be doing in my head, but then I stop myself with the thought that in a few weeks this freedom is going to be gone. I should enjoy it while it lasts.

It's fascinating how my brain works with all this freedom. I may have a day with nothing specific planned, but in my head I have to break the hours up into various activities - if it is just going to the store or cleaning. I obviously need a routine. I think free time scares me, doing nothing scares me. I need a schedule - almost so if anyone asked how I filled my day I would never have to say "I did nothing".

Wow, this is a lot of rambling free thoughts. I have already gone to delete a lot of it. But I'm not going to want my students to delete, so I can't delete either.

Who's in control?

I was walking Gus in the park yesterday. I hear the jingling of a collar coming up behind us and I brace myself for what happens next. A medium boxer attempts to sniff Gus. Gus's hackles are up immediately, he yanks on the lead and lets out three low growling barks and goes for the boxer's throat. I pull on the lead, desperately try to move Gus away. End up being under low lying branches of a tree, bending down and trying to get Gus under some kind of control, saying "sit". All is pointless, because the boxer keeps coming back for more and Gus repeats his growling and lunging. I walk away and I assume the boxer's owner eventually collected his/her dog. I have no idea, I didn't look round, just walked away and burst into tears. I cried all the way home.

Being 8 months pregnant and having to deal with dog aggression is not really how I wanted my Sunday morning to go. It really shook me up and made me think about how safe I'd feel with Gus and baby out walking. Something that will happen in a few weeks time. I don't want to give Gus up, but I really don't think it will take many more experiences like that before B takes him back to the pound. So, I've launched a take back control project with our little dog. All the books, TV shows, advice websites say again and again you have to be the leader. So my mantra with Gus is "I am the leader". I've started to be a Nazi on walks with him and we are doing leadership activities at home (he lies next to me without moving for 30 minutes, every time he pops up, I put him down without saying anything). He is being a little stubborn - which tells me I am not the leader in his eyes - but we will get there.

I've been too soft and it is not good for him or me. It is the same way with teaching - and I assume going to be exactly the same way with parenting. With all three I have to be a leader - firm and consistent. However, there is always a little voice that is prone to bending the rules. I need to stop that little voice. I think of how often I have done it in the classroom and it has resulted in so much pain and stress for me dealing with the negative consequences.

I have four weeks to develop my leader persona to help me be a dog owner, teacher and a parent! I am the leader. I am the leader. I am the leader.

Crazy in the Summertime

Two experiences over the past week have made me question where I live.

First, I was doing my normal lunchtime dog walk and my dog was doing his usual act of peeing on any other dog pee laden leaf, bush or plant. I stopped at one unkempt garden to wait for his territory marking to finish, quietly munching on an apple and thinking about going for a swim. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a figure stand up on the front porch of the house we were standing at. It was an African American man in his 40s - 50s with messy hair and he started yelling at me. "Hey lady, are you going to clean that up?" I gave him a quizzical look and started to explain that my dog had just peed. I didn't get out two words before he got louder. "You need to pick that up, this is my property, you think you can come by here and leave it. Bitch. You think your dog can crap. Bitch." I tried to take a deep breath and again explain his misunderstanding. My talking angered him more and he got louder. "Bitch. Fuck you. Bitch." I told the man to have a nice day and walked away. I had to hold back the tears.
I have walked past the house another two times and find myself crossing the street. The man has been sitting on the porch both times.

Second, I was running some errands and leaving a car park. Another man, African-American late 40s - 50s, came up to the car gesturing for me to wind down the window. I drove on. In the rea view mirror I saw him get money from another woman. Ten minutes later, I'm reversing out of another car-park, looking over my shoulder and then out of my side mirror and take a big gasp. The window is filled with the same man. Again his is gesturing for me to stop and open the window. I wait for him to move around the side of the car so I can drive away.

I live in a huge city and I have felt safe. Moments like these burst the bubble that I have created. Am I safe? Is it safe to bring a baby into this neighborhood? I walk around the streets and there are clearly two worlds existing side by side. The slow gentrification of the neighborhood means richer white people are moving into traditionally black blocks. There is a new "fair-trade" cafe or sushi restaurant opening up pretty much every week. On the surface the neighborhood looks like a wonderful, up and coming place to live. But it's not real. Take two more blocks west and people are living much poorer lives. The two worlds don't often mix, so the bubble of safety is created. This week those two encounters burst my bubble. I felt unsafe here this week and it has shaken me. I realize that a lot worse can/could have happened to me and I may be over-reacting. But just those tiny glimpses of what could happen make me question our choice of home.

The joys and woes of pregnancy

Before this moment in my life spins past and I'm consumed with being a mother, I want to remember some of the high and low points of having this baby growing inside of me.

Joy #1

There is a growing baby in my belly. It amazes me each time I look down at my ever-expanding mid-section. Only a few layers of skin and muscles and there is a little girl who has grown from nothing into a person complete with fingernails, eyelashes and taste buds. I imagine her enjoying rocking from side to side as I walk the dog and listening to me talk to her during the day. I cannot wait for her to arrive, but having her in-utero is consistently wonderful and while she is in there she is all mine!

Woe #1

I can no longer find a comfortable position. Sitting up can last for about 20 minutes and then it feels like someone has lodged a brick underneath my ribs and keeps moving it further and further up. Shifting position can help for a little while and then the brick-layer returns. Last week's road trip to North Carolina was not much fun. Standing up isn't so hot either. When I stand the magic comfortable 20 minutes passes quickly and then the skin over my stomach begins to feel like an elastic band that's been stretched and is about to be twanged.

Joy #2

The first homework assignment from the birthing class was to count kicks. You are meant to feel 10 kicks in a 2 hour period. I have been counting kicks for about two weeks and each night I have counted 10 in about 5 minutes. She is one active bambino and I love it. I place my hand on my belly and I get a welcome kick/punch/hip bump who knows. Some people have said they can tell what body part is making which movement but I have no idea. I'd like to think that the "bricks" in my ribs are her feet - but that might be me wishful thinking on my part. When I'm on my side in bed, my belly can resemble a bag of popping corn. There are moments were she makes me flinch her movements are so intense.

Woe # 2
The noises from my bottom that I now produce are unbelievable. Juicy, loud, full-bodied. I have to laugh at myself everytime a new one makes its debut. Amazingly and thankfully there is no smell. I'm hoping that this lady-like attribute stops after she is born.

Joy #3
My stupidly thin hair tends to be incredibly greasy. I have to wash it daily to avoid the fried chip look. But now, thanks to this baby, my hair is looking great. It is thicker and I don;t look like I'm drowning after 24 hours. I realize that this is defnitely not going to continue, but I am loving every dry, glossy folicled minute of it.

Woe #3
In the first trimester, I would be in bed at 7.00pm. There was no choice, I was done and needed every minute of sleep I could get. Now in third trimester, the tiredness is back and I'm not giving in to it so easily. I am annoyed at how little I seem to be able to do without needing to sit or lie down. Walking the dog can be a struggle! But I'm trying to stay active so when I step on the scale at the doctor's office I don't have to gasp at my weight gain. I have gained 22 pounds so far...right on track, but it needs to be managed. My doctors has said that I won't be a member of the 80 pound club! But I do have to see a line graph that tracks my weight gain and get a mild scolding if it is too steep. The problem is that food is just tasting too good right now - especially the dreaded crisp.

Third year done

On Thursday, I taught my last class for six months. The excitement is yet to hit me, instead I feel a little lost. Last Monday, I had four different lesson plans to prepare and sixty essays to grade. Today, I am trying to decide between picking up a book or watching another re-run of The Office. This is not a terrible situation, there is just a lot of nothing. So far I have filled the nothing with this blog, sketching, cleaning, cooking for four hours, reading, ordering stuff on Amazon. I wouldn't switch this week for last week - not having to deal with 801 ever again is delicious - I just obviously need to keep myself busy.

Also, I have only nine weeks until female A makes her entrance. The doctor told me today that my "safe date" is July 21st, meaning if I was to go into that labour after that we are good to go. Maybe that is why I am finding it a little difficult to celebrate the end of the school year. Summer equals baby. Baby equals scared mummy to be and the end of my life as I know it. I've found that I am even avoiding reading all the baby books, thinking in some way if I don't read them then I am somehow delaying the inevitable. Daddy A is a little further along the road to accepting our young married couple life is ending and being responsible for a child is beginning. I will get there, and as Daddy A has just reminded me, I don't really do that much now anyway. This is true, but I like just hanging out and worry female A will not.

The Calm Before the Storm

Apart from the 60 essays to grade and the materials to make for next week, I have a day of nothing stretching ahead of me. Thank God. It has been a hectic week; field trip, exhibition night, dinner dance, spring cleaning. I'm the tired that bring tears to your eyes and my feet have started to swell.

Five more days of school and then I will not stand infront of a classroom of students for 6 months. The prospect of having to go through a "first year" again is terrifying, so I'm going to continue creating "The System part deux" this summer just like I was going back as normal. I fear that if I don't I'll repeat some of the hell of this year again. For example, for some reason it took me until January to implement a really successful bathroom policy I had started the year before. I found myself having to play the bathroom game with kids for a few months. Why? I think I lost my mind a little at the beginning.

I'm excited to think about school and a little sad to not be going back full time and starting all over again. Amazing what a little time and an easier last couple of months can do. These thoughts go through my head and I feel guilty - remind myself I have a baby coming and should be thinking about her. But school seems more real right now. Also, when she arrives I doubt I'll have time to think about hallway procedures and assessment reflection forms.

Welcome to thrid trimester

I think I'm having one of those sickeningly perfect pregnancies. Yes, for the first three months I struggled to keep my eyes open past 7.00pm and I was a little trying to live with at times, but overall, the experience has been wonderfully warm and fuzzy. I have spent the last three months feeling invincible; not even needy 8th graders have managed to tear down my glowing demeanor. Most of the time, I have wandered around with my hand on my miniscule bump imagining the little girl growing inside. 

Sunday was my baby shower. The experience was lovely, but I'm a little concerned my pregnancy perfection is beginning to crack. I have spent the past two days fighting to stop tears. Emotions are rocketing out of nowhere and I have little if any control. I was leaving Kansas yesterday and struggled to get into the car in time for the floodgates to open. I'm starting to find myself cursing our choice to live so far from family...the thought of it brings instant tears. I'm terrified how close the due date is looming, espeically whe I peek my head around the door of the empty, unfurnished, half-painted nursery. I'm scared about my general ability to do this thing. And I keep having vivid frightening nightmares, last night my brother had no face. 

I feel I am being welcomed into the third trimester. I'm taking a deep breath. 

Two and a half years later

A short summary of the events of the last two and a half years (in chronological order): survived my first year of teaching, bought a house, bought a dog, completed a second year of teaching at the Philadelphia public school, got a job at charter school in Philadelphia, went to Mongolia for a month, started at the charter school and felt like I was right back in first year again, got pregnant, bought maternity clothes, started to see success at charter school, revisited blog, began new post on blog called "two and a half years later"....

Discovering this blog again has been like an surprise gift. I think I have blocked a lot of the trauma from the first year out of my mind; to reread just the few snippets I managed to put on here have been humbling and motivational. I am now nearing the end of my third year of teaching in Philadelphia. Each and everyday I complain about the sheer amount of work required to feel marginally prepared, but deep down, deep deep down, there is an element of enjoyment to the job. Needless to say, this year has had it's moments of uncontrollable crying, mental health days and the desire to quit and beg at the door of Barnes and Noble for a quiet booksellers life. I'm proud of myself; I am now a teacher. I even have a student teacher in my classroom for two weeks. If they are sending students to me something must to going right.

So as one thing starts to become more manageable, a whole other side of my life erupts. Around August 25th this year, our little girl will be arriving. Each time she moves, I smile and my hand automatically goes to my growing belly. She's coming and she is coming soon. I cannot wait. I am in KCK for my baby shower tomorrow. An American tradition that I am fascinated by; an all female affair (B is heading to the bar with his brothers and friends) celebrating this little baby and probably scaring me to death with painful labour stories and tales of colic.

Parents

I have experienced the parent conference. And it really was nowhere near as bad as I thought it would be.

For four hours I have seen a series of parents, grandmothers, brothers and sisters. Out of 120 students, I gave out 30 Fs and not one A. I have enjoyed handing the parents the bad report cards almost as much as the good ones. There are so many kids in my classes who need a huge kick up the arse; I’m really hoping a card of circled Fs might do the trick. A good example is Deyonta. The degree of laziness and insolence he reaches in class is mind boggling (unfortunately he is not alone). He doesn't bother to take out his notebook; he fails to read anything let alone finish assignment and has never participated in whole group or small group discussions. He might as well not be there. His father came in today and after taking in the plethora of Fs informed me that in 5th grade Deyonta had been classed as gifted. Well BULL SHIT.

On a happier note, I also had a parent began to cry when she saw her son's good report card.

Her son, Dasaahn, is a very interesting child. In class, he will work hard, but the minute he doesn't understand something, or something goes slightly wrong he will seriously lose it.
He has screamed in my face "I don't get it?” "I can't do it" "You are not making any sense", " I haven't finished"
He has thrown his work on the floor. He has stormed out of the room.
Every time he does this he comes to me the next day and apologizes. One day I asked him privately about his temper and without missing a beat he answered, "Oh I think I'm bipolar."

What do you say to that? He's 13. Maybe there's something in the genes.

One more day until I get to go home and spend some time with my beautiful family.

No voice no power

I took my second day off last Friday. I did feel slightly ill, but really I just wanted a day off. I'm calling tghem mental health days. Sods law is that now I;m really ill and have to go to work. Today I pretty much lost my voice. Not good when your trying to control 36 kids. But. the kids seemed really concerned "Ms. Lloyd are you sick?" "Ms. Lloyd I'm going to buy you some medicine.", "Ms. lloyd, I'll get you a get well soon card."

Unfortunately not a lot of work was done. But that is always the case.

I learned today that my classes will be reduced from 41 to 35. I'm scared that I have been leaning on the fact things are so bad because the classes are so big. If the class becomes smaller and it is still bad, then what is the reason????? Me?

Bad blogger

Over the past few months I have pushed myself further than ever before. It is pretty obvious that up before September 7th 2006 my life was ridiculously easy. Little stress, worry, responsibility. Things have changed. I became a teacher. Eighth grade English, 120 students in three classes, 85% reading below grade level. A challenge in anyone’s book, but added to that is the fact I had, and still have, no idea what I am doing.

I have failed to write down any of the numerous stories of craziness and trauma that I have struggled through in the past three months, but I am hoping to change that. I feel it is incredibly important for me to record what I am going through every day to both help me improve in the short term and reminisce in the long term. Right now I am terrible. The class is completely out of control and I feel learning does not happen. I face kids who seem to just not want/care if they learn to read. Read. I face others who are plain crazy. I face disrespect. I face some complete sweethearts who really try. I will write about them all and my responses as honestly as I possibly can.

It's natural to be terrified...right?

In 30 days I will have completed my first real day of teaching. 120 students will have come in the door, sat in the seats, made judgments about me, and filed out again. I'm a little scared.

My practice teaching ended on Friday and I have three more days of training. It was called practice teaching, but its worthiness is debatable. We taught, but to eight kids in one of the best schools in Philly. Not exactly what I'm going to face in ONE MONTHS time.

Two fellows were placed in a classroom with the cooperating teacher (CT). Our CT, Ms. Finkel or The Fink as she became known, was a 50ish year old veteran special Ed teacher. She was exactly the teacher I do not want to be.

Here's a quick list of her misdemeanors:
1. She constantly humiliated the kids in front of class. Her choice of humiliation was usually calling their parents in the middle of class. For me, this is completely unacceptable. But this was her only form of management, so a week into summer school the calling lost any power it may have had and became a constant nuisance.
2.She gave us absolutely no feedback on our teaching, but was heard bitching about the fellows program and us personally to other teachers.
3. She made her terrible opinions known to all. A class on immigration was a great example. In Philly recently a scandal broke out when Geno of the famous Geno's stakes posted a "speak English only" sign in his restaurant. Ms. Finkel used this as a jumping off point to launch into a tirade about how everyone in America should speak English and how when she went to Florida she thinks it’s unacceptable to be surrounded by Spanish speakers. There was a Hispanic girl and a boy from Puerto Rico in the class.
4. She pronounced water "wooder". (This is a Philly thing but coming from her it was grating.)
5. She constantly moved the class from room to room because SHE was too hot.
6. She was unable to listen to anyone without cutting him or her off and inserting some completely irrelevant fact about her life.
7. She called one student "crazy" to his face and constantly repeated how she deserved a medal for putting up with him.

The list can go on and on, but I feel so much better for getting all that out! So happy I will never work with the fink again.

Apart from that joy, training has been great. The people on my course are seriously fantastic. I'm coming around to thinking the training doesn't really prepare you for what is about to happen, but it does give you a huge network of like-minded friends that are all in the same boat.

Love you all

Listening to: a clicking fan
Thinking: water doesn't have any o's or d's damn it.
Feeling: annoyed the fink bothered me so much.

P.S. Ooo, I drove in the city for the first time today. No crashes, sideswipes or freak-outs. I feel very proud!

And it begins

My journey towards teaching has begun. I have successfully completed three days of training. Icebreakers are over, the role-plays have started and my nerves are not going away. I still feel equally terrified and excited about the whole thing. My fellow fellows are great so far – I am in a group of 20 people from all walks of life; a university lecturer, a wannabe MTV VJ, a policeman, a food cart owner to name a few. I suppose I feel a little out of my depth right now, which is natural as I have only four weeks to learn the basics of teaching.
I have also not secured a placement yet. Two interviews down and two nos. Obviously this is only the beginning, but I can’t help feeling I would feel so much better if I had a job sorted out. I will have a teaching position in September, that is guaranteed, I would just much rather choose it than be given it. But it is still very early days. Watch this space.

Changing the subject completely. I have an only in America moment. On Friday night while innocently chowing down a “Carne Enchilada”, I saw a sight I hope I had to share. A van drove past advertising its owners “blood and blood component “ cleaning business.
I am living in a city where someone was watching the umpteenth report of a Philly murder on the local news and had a revelation – starting a cleaning business specifically for blood. The blood I can just about handle, but blood components – the mind comes up with some pretty Tarantinoesque

Yo, teach!

This week has been a life-changing week for me -how dramatic is that. It has involved nerves, waiting, talking to myself, email checking, postman harassing, waiting, and waiting. Months ago – because I’m so lax at updating this – I mentioned I had decided to try my hand at teaching. After much research I knew I had 2 choices: firstly, was the traditional grad school route where I would earn a masters and certification in around 10 months at either Penn or Temple (2 Unis in Philly), and secondly, an alternative program call the Philadelphia Teaching Fellows, which gives you 5-6 weeks of intensive training in the summer and places you in a full time teaching position in September with full pay. Which would you pick? I applied for both.

In the beginning I was Penn all the way until I went to an open day and discovered the fees had gone up to a huge $43,000 for 10 months. The minute they let that slip I think everyone mentally crossed Penn off. How can they charge that much? Doctors and lawyers I can understand, but teachers. I wouldn’t make that much in a year.
The choices were down to Temple (at a much more respectable $12,000) and the Teaching Fellows.

I had been umming and ahhing about the Teaching Fellows and finally decided to apply one drunken night. Grad school was the way I was going, but things started to change when I went along to a Fellows information session. I learnt that it’s a program run by Philly’s school district and basically recruits new graduates or professional people to work in “high needs’ schools in Philly. “High needs” is code for the lowest performing, poorest, blackest schools in the city; the one I tutor in is a high needs school. The idea being that the secret to improving the schools is to put better teachers in them. While teaching, the “fellows” would attend a grad school at a reduced rate and earn their masters and certification – with up to 3 years to finish.

The other attendees were a motley crew – young uns like me, people who looked stereotypically teachery, the occasional power suit, and a few older folks. The staff was extremely enthusiastic and it was infectious - I quickly started warming to the idea. The pros: you get paid, you are ensured a job, you get the masters, and you are actually teaching and not talking about it. The cons: you get thrown into a classroom with minimal training, and the classrooms are some of the worst in Philly. Big cons. I left feeling very happy about my drunken decision and really wanting an interview. They told us out of the 1000 applicants they were expecting they would interview around 500 and choose 80 – 100 to become fellows.

So I waited. They would let me know within two weeks if I had an interview. Two weeks went by. I was so upset. I hadn’t given this thing any thought a few weeks ago and now I was gutted I hadn’t got an interview. So I pinned my hopes on Temple. Then an email arrived, “Congratulations you have been invited to attend an interview day for the Philadelphia Teaching Fellows”. Huh. Holy shit. I got an interview. Oh my God. I quickly signed up for the only day they had left – 5 days away.

The interview was 4 hour long. I arrived at the brand new Philadelphia School District building, signed in, and join the other interviewees in a tension stuffed waiting room. There were maybe 50 people there, men women, young, old, but everyone with a slight look of terror in their faces. I tried to eat some of the free energy bars and chatted to the girl next to me for a painful ten minutes. Finally we were split up into groups of twelve. First hurdle was a five-minute teaching sample for any subject or any grade (the cause of much of the terror). I had planned a five-minute introduction to haiku poetry – those tiny 17-syllable Japanese poems. I shook and croaked my way through; asking them about syllables -“how many syllables in “cat”? How many syllables in “catapult”? talking about the origins, going through an example, making them close there eyes and describe the image the words made in their heads. I thought it went really well. Especially as so many other people just lectured and didn’t ask any questions,
Then came a group discussion. Thirty minutes of disjointed hypothetical chat, and I was amazed but some people didn’t speak. Hello - you’re in an interview! That was followed by a writing sample, and finally the day ended with a thirty minute one on one interview. My interviewer had grandparents in Dorset so that killed a few minutes, and then I was fired questions such as: what would you do if you had no textbooks on your first day/ first few months; when was the last time you failed at something – God bless algebra; what would you do if you didn’t get into the fellows; how do you think your teaching sample went; what did you think of everyone else’s teaching samples? And on and on.

They would be in touch within two weeks. Now I really wanted it. It just made sense. Yes it would be terrifying, going into a school with 6 weeks of training and into a challenging school. But I would be teaching, really teaching. By September. And if I absolutely hated it I could leave and try something else, without having paid $43,000 for the training.

Waiting is excruciatingly painful. Days ticked by with me checking my email every ten minutes. Nothing. Then after 13 days of pain I had an answer. I had been selected. I think the noise I made was “Arghug”, and then the tears came. I had been selected. In five months I will be standing in front of my own class.

Now, a few days later, I feel great –I am so happy and only slightly terrified. My acceptance letter was posted today; I am officially a Summer 2006 Philadelphia Teaching Fellow. I told you it has been a life-changing week. I know it’s going to be exhausting, wonderful, emotional, scary, frightening, soul-breaking, sickening, and rewarding. I have been dying for a challenge, waiting for my life to begin properly over here, and now its finally happening. Wish me luck, I have a feeling I will need it.

www.philadelphiateachingfellows.org

Let it snow let it snow let it snow

I woke up this morning and there were 18 inches of snow on the ground. 18 INCHES. Six in the UK is more than enough to cause traffic chaos and days off for everyone. And it’s the cool powdery, perfect-snowball type snow - not any wet, sludgy pretender snow. I have felt like a child all day, it’s impossible to fight that urge to try to throw a hard ball of snow into someone’s face or get it down the back of their clothes. And you have to make a snowman. Frosty is now proudly standing guard in our back garden, complete with half limes for eyes and beer cans for buttons – but now it’s dark I keep scaring myself thinking someone is standing out there. But, I’m guessing tomorrow, when I actually have to leave the house, the snow isn’t going to be that much fun.

Tomorrow morning I get the results of my second math test in 7 years. I am taking two maths courses, algebra and statistics at a community college (to qualify to teach in Philly you have to have two Uni maths courses). Last week I took an algebra test and I failed. A serious wake up call – I was thinking that it would be easy. I don't fail!!!!!!! Luckily statistics seems to be easier. My teacher is a man called Dr. Bumble, he’s at least 92 and totally lives up to his name. For the first 10 minutes of every class he tells us about all the companies he worked for in the 1960s – his apparent heyday and how to succeed in getting a job.

The whole thing has reminded me of how much I hate maths. There is a switch in my head that turns off the intelligence when I look at an equation. Alongside this I'm taking the Graduate Exam (GRE) in a couple of weeks that comes complete with a juicy maths section. Has the world gone mad!!! The humanities are just so much kinder - you can say whatever you want and as long as you do it in legible English your going to pass.

OK, it's so cold upstairs that I can't feel my toes. Love you all.

Listening to: Kanye West rage

Thinking: how the hell do you work out if 15 men and 12 women are in a room and an equal number of men and women enter the ratio becomes 7:6. How many women have entered the room?

Padding, wings, and puffs

The Super Bowl – the biggest sports event in the world. Right? 211 million people are expected to watch it so it’s got to be good...right? I hate to say it but I’m excited about seeing this thing. I have got into American football so there is a slight interest in the sport but it’s the hype, wardrobe malfunctions, glitz and advertisements I’m really looking forward to. I have my cold beer, cheesy puffs open and wings are in the fridge. I’m ready.

It has just opened with Stevie Wonder, joined by his family (including young child on drums) John Legend, Joss Stone and India Erie. Stevie Wonder is FANTASTIC but why is he there? And Joss Stone…how, why?

Classic commenter comment no. 1: “Motown is ready for some football” – yeah baby! John Motson just wouldn’t say this stuff.

This year it’s in the Detroit superdome, just like the now infamous one in New Orleans. It’s a climate-controlled, fake-grassed wonderland where the Pittsburgh Steelers are about to play the Seattle Seahawks. United, Rovers and even Wednesday just can’t compete with names like that - especially when compared to my personal favorites, the Pennsylvania Quakers, the St Louis Billikins, the North Carolina Tar Heels – what is their mascot, a big boot? My super bowl prediction: Seahawks 34 Steelers 28.

American football seems to be rugby with extra padding. Both teams have a defensive team and an offensive team (pronounced De-fence and Off-fence). So there are around 40 people on a team. One offense starts with the ball and tries to get it down the field to score a touchdown, the opposite teams defense tries to stop them. Then they switch. Each team also has a kicker whose job is to kick off and score field goals– he doesn’t do anything else. Why one of the umpteen defense or offense can’t kick is known only to the American football Gods.

Classic commenter comment no. 2: “Well what do you know a game is about to break out.” – genius.

We’re off. 10 minutes in and Bud Light is dominating the ads, the game is scoreless. The players introduce themselves on this talking head type graphic and football players just aren’t very pretty. But some of the arses are wonderful – beautifully cocooned in their tight tight trousers.
Seahawks have scored a field goal and half of the wings have gone. I’m feeling a little sick and unimpressed with the game so far. 1st quarter over.

2nd quarter. Someone just got injured.
Classic commentator comment no 3: “You don’t know if that’s an ankle a head or something in between.”
Bud is still winning the advert competition. To have a 30 second ad in the super bowl it costs 5 or 6 million dollars. Companies will start a new campaign with their super bowl advert so I’m hoping for good things because so far the ads over here have been terrible. There are more adverts for prescription medicine than anything else. Everyone’s a doctor over here. You get looked down on if you ask for an aspirin and don’t specify which brand.

Half time. No boobs just a 63 year old gyrating with no satisfaction.

It’s now the forth quarter and I have lost interest in the Super Bowl. Pittsburgh is winning 21 – 10 and I have reorganized my wardrobe and the furniture in our bedroom, read some of the paper, done the washing, and drank some more beer. 4 hours is just too long for a game, except Monopoly of course.

My first Super Bowl has just finished and Pittsburgh won 21 –10. I wonder how many of the 211 million made it to the end? Roll on the World Cup.

Are girls and boys really that different?

At Charles Drew Elementary School, 65% of the students are 2 or more grades below the level expected for their age group for reading and maths. Some cannot read at all. Last Tuesday I started tutoring at Drew.

Last Monday was a hard day. I was frightened, nervous, unprepared, kept thinking about the film “Dangerous Minds” and drank way too much tea. A couple of weeks ago, I had found a tutoring program on Penn’s website called America Reads, America Counts. It’s a national program that recruits uni. students to go into inner city schools and help the kids with their reading and maths. Even though I’m not a student, Penn was happy for me to join the program but not be paid. Typical. I would go to Drew on Tuesdays and Thursdays until the Christmas break and work with the grade 6 – 8 (12 –14 year olds) special education teacher, Ms. DePaul. I kept asking if I needed to attend training sessions and kept being told no, instead I was handed a 4-page guide to tutoring and a pass to get into the school. I was now a tutor.

On Tuesday I got to the school way to early and circled it a few times, probably looking pretty dodgy. All inner-city American schools seem to have the same grim look. Four or five stories with many barred windows, a cement playground and enclosed by fencing. They have such a grey look about them I was honestly surprised that it wasn’t monochromatic inside.

Instead, it was colourful, lively and welcoming. I signed in and made my way to Ms. DePaul’s room. We had a really short conversation about what I was going to do and I was thrown into it. That day was test day at Drew and I was to work with two kids who needed extra help with reading and understanding the questions. In the morning I worked with an 8th grade girl called Sabrina. She had just transferred into the school and was described by all the teachers as “reserved and slow”. We sat together for an hour and a half and I left completely disagreeing with the teacher’s description of her. She was inquisitive and opened up to me immediately. She thrived on the attention, asking if I was going to be with her every day. It was a good first experience.

In the afternoon, I did the same thing with a 12-year-old boy called Dennis. I was warned that Dennis was the quintessential gossip and could easily go off task. It was delightful spending an hour with him; he was funny and charming but struggled immensely with reading. Instead of sounding out the word, he would look at the letters and choose a word from his memory that sort of matched. He quickly grew tired of the test and, to be honest, so did I.

I left Drew extremely proud of what I had done but also very angry about my preconceptions. It wasn’t at all scary or violent. The kids were kids, charming, inquisitive and searching for attention. TV has a lot to answer for.

On Thursday I returned to Drew unsure whether I’d had it easy the first time. The kids were studying the play “The Monkey’s Paw’ and I took a small group of girls in the morning and boys in the afternoon. The experiences couldn’t have been more different. The girls were a nightmare, constantly going off task, answering back and generally messing around. The boys were a dream, enjoying the task and asking some great questions. I was fascinated at how different they actually were and can’t wait to get back there and try to figure out what’s going on. I’m determined to get on the good side of the girls.


I am thrilled with my introduction to tutoring but still feel nervous. We’ll see how this week goes.

Love xxxxxxxxx

Listening to: Heard it through the grapevine - Marvin Gaye

Wondering if: I can turn the heating up even further without us going bankrupt.

ELVIS LIVES

If you have ever doubted it, here’s the evidence. And yes, I got to smell his sweat.

http://home.comcast.net/~mrl3/
(click on the Elvis link – it may take forever but you will not regret the wait)

He has had a lot of work done and it’s safe to say he no longer has his own hair but Elvis is still alive and crooning. As you can see everyone was is disbelief, having to turn away from this God of our times. They didn’t seem to want to go near the vision, but I was the chosen one. He touched me and my outfit miraculously turned into a wondorous wedding dress. He sang to be so beautifully in my face that I seriously began to consider if I had married the right man.

Ladies, how can you say no.

And please everyone - forgive him his costume. I mean his family have gone and sold all of his fabulous suits to the plebs on ebay. He had to improvise and I believe he did an excellent job. The tin foil on red terry towelling was stunning and set off beautifully with his use of orthopaedic clogs. I wouldn't be surprised if we see identical outfits on the runway for the Summer '06 season. Watch this space.

He is a God. Long live the king.