Tuesday-Time for Bed

First I would like to say thanks to Dolly Parton and her Imagination Library.  She has blessed our family with fresh children's literature on a monthly basis for both of our boys once a month.  She gives these paper treasures simply out of the kindness of her own heart and a passion for childhood literacy. And I am truly convinced that she has a staff of individuals whose sole mission is to conduct research of exactly what a family is going through at each month of development. Either that, or she has hired a team of authors and illustrators to peer through the windows of the Strauss house each evening and document our lives in entertaining little storybooks.

The comforting truth must be that we aren't in this alone. We aren't the only family with a two-year-old son who only recently started sleeping in his own bed all night and a newborn still sleeping in a bassinet in our room. We aren't the only parents still having to tuck our toddler back into his bed multiple times a night.

Last night was only the third night in a row that we woke Shea up in the morning in his own bed AFTER our alarm went off.

So this month's delivery of the book "Back to Bed, Ed" by Sebastien Braun was a celebration of the three consecutive nights of successful sleeping before we have a relapse, perhaps later tonight.

But for now, I will just be catching up on some episodes of The League with my husband until one of our boys decides to wake up...or fall out of the bed like Shea did in the middle of me writing this post.

Goodnight, my friends.

Life in the Strauss House

Tonight I read The Seven Silly Eaters, by Mary Ann Hoberman, to Shea as he tried to fight off sleep. It paints a perfect picture of life as a mommy complete with very detailed illustrations of the chaos that is a growing family. We may only have two little munchkins but sometimes it feels like seven.  This little gem of a story inspired this peek into the Strauss house.

There is a couple, so they say

That once did live so far away

But from far to here they came

To Chattanooga to begin their game

It did not take too long to see

That she liked him and he liked she

Since the day he knew she felt the same

He knew he soon would share his name

And share he did, she became his wife

And slowly they began to build a life

And before her oven even held a bun

He proclaimed Shea as the name of their firstborn son

Shea isn't a name passed down through the fam

But instead reflects the obsession of a Met's fan

Now Shea may be just a regular son

In every way---except for some

When Shea was less than one year old

His favorite show was Jeopardy I'm told

He did not like cartoons like his peers

But instead "daily doubles" encited cheers

But Mommy and Daddy Strauss didn't mind

They found his obsession simply divine

When the show was over he'd sit on the floor

And look up at his parents and sign to them "more"

They'd take the remote from the shelf

And mumble softly to themselves 

"What a silly sort of way

Acts our goofy little Shea."

When our Shea was not yet two

We learned of baby number two

Was born---dear Patten, small and fair

With big blue eyes and nearly no hair

But before dear Patten could come home

Into the NICU he had to roam

Shea just did not understand why

He couldn't go home with this new little guy

He demanded Patten be removed from that bed

And promptly taken to "Shea's house" instead

A few days went by then they strapped Patten in

To his car seat that made him look far too thin

And it didn't take too long before

They settled in to life of a family of four

Life it got crazy but they didn't mind

Except Patten only would cry when they dined

All day long he stayed quiet or slept

And he was independent at all times expect....

For while his mommy and daddy were eating

That's when he decided that he would be needing

To cuddle, or cry, or eat, poop, or play

Or just about anything that would take them away

From whatever they had decided to cook up that day

His mommy and daddy shook their heads at each other and said

"What a silly needy sweetie,

Just as we begin our eating."

Now Patten grew, and Shea grew too

Til Patten was two months and Shea was two

And who was two months, why little Patten

With eyes dark blue and skin soft as satin

A happy baby, never cross

And his brother, Shea, became the boss

Shea he taught him all things crazy

As Patten laid there oh so lazy

And took in all the crazy things

That his silly brother liked to teach

Like wearing socks upon his hands

And where his batted wiffle ball lands

When hit with a maraca instead of a bat

Wearing a fire helmet instead of a baseball cap

And dancing correctly to the Nae-Nae and Whip

While demanding "no" and giving his parents lip

Their mom and dad looked down at Shea and said

"What are we going to do with you two,

When your brother starts doing all that you do?"

At times, a handful, were these two Strauss boys

With their mounds and mounds of Strauss toys

But all the cooking and the cleaning

Even left their parents beaming

They know it is worth all the mess and the stress

They look at their boys and know they are blessed

They hug each other and smile and say,

"Wouldn't have it any other way."

The Little Engine that CAN

Tonight, I decided to dig under the pile of hundreds of children's books that line the shelves in our living room and grab some "fresh literature" for the little 2-year-old "reader" of mine. We have read the same four books that he LOVES about 400 times and this mommy needed a change of scenery. 

We have read them to Shea so much that even he has most of the books memorized. I decided to add a little variety to our bedtime story routine. So I dug up one of my old favorites.

What "Hello, Mr. Met," is to Shea, "The Little Engine that Could," is to me. But tonight I read it through a different pair of eyes. I wasn't marveling at the colorful pages with no thought that each of those black scribbly lines was a letter that made up a word that told a story. I was just letting the story unfold before me. Tonight I was laying it out for my son. Tonight I read it through the eyes of a mother and a teacher. I think that is who Watty Piper (which is really just a pen name for Arnold Muck....save that in your Jeopardy answer bank) was writing it for, after all. He knew we moms and dads and teachers would be reading these to our students and learn a lesson that is way over the heads of our little listeners.

Here is my formal book review of "The Little Engine that Could."

This is the story of the little engines that have been placed in our hands to teach and inspire. 

This little engine come into the world so excited about what it had to bring.

It was filled with all things good and jolly. Of course, it isn't perfect. But it has so much good to bring to the world. And somewhere along the way something happens.

Somewhere it hits a bump or gets discouraged or fails and its wheels stop with a sudden jerk. It tries and tries to get those wheels going again, but they just won't.

Then a spiffy new train all shiny and gold, or a cute new friend or boyfriend or girlfriend, or a new teacher came along that think will give them the help they need to get moving again.

But that shiny new engine, or hot new guy or gal, or new favorite person decides they are too good for them. They think they have it all with their comfortable beds, and fancy cars,

and a more distinguished crowds, and nicer views.  And that engine filled with jolly things gets left behind until someone new comes along.

And someone does, someone big and strong. They start to think, "surely this one has enough to get me on track again."

But this person has been there and done that and already has their success story. They've played their part and reached their quota. They have the results to prove it-and data and certificates and medals and success stories to back it up. They have been there and done that. Their job here is done. And they get left behind again.

This gets them thinking they will never get up and running again. They will never get over the mountain that stands before them. And, "I can not. I can not. I can not," starts to ring in their heads.

Then along comes the LITTLE engine. The underdog shows up just in time. Then the LITTLE engine spots the one that has fallen through the cracks. It notices that sad little engine filled with jolly little toys and all things good. It stops in its tracks. 

That new engine that comes along doesn't have all the answers. It has never been over the mountain either. 

The little engine starts to think this job  is too big to handle. Then the engine remembered all of those wonderful things the engine in need had to share.

So she grabbed that engine all stuck in a rut and didn't stop pulling until that engine was unstuck.

They cheered each other on. They just kept saying together, "I think I can. I think I can." They didn't give up on each other.

Together they reached the mountaintop and saw all of the possibilities laid out before them. 

And the world is a better place for all that that engine had to bring. 

And as they made their way into the city they chanted together, "we knew we could, we knew we could."

To Teachers, Moms, and my High-School Crazies

I am writing this in response to a  post beautifully written by a mom of six kids. She is overwhelmed by the amount of school supplies and back to school clothes she needs to buy when the year starts. She is stressed at the paperwork that needs to be filled out. But she remembers that the teachers are working just as hard and loving on her kids almost as much as she does.

It's beautiful. Read it.

http://alamocity.citymomsblog.com/2015/08/20/dear-teachers-youre-not-fooling-me/#lightbox/1/

Dear Loving Moms and My High School Crazies,

I am a mom of two little boys, and a wife of an amazing elementary school teacher, and an intervention reading and writing teacher to about 25 high-schoolers, and a case-manager for 27 IEPs.  I'm a little overwhelmed this time of year.  I read this article when I woke up at 5 am to feed my second boy who is 7 weeks old today. It's Saturday now, but I won't be sleeping in tomorrow, even if my boys let me. In a few hours we are going to watch one of my 5 siblings play in his first scrimmage as a college athlete at The University of the South. The baby just spit up and peed through his diaper at the same time so I gotta pause to take care of that and hope he goes back to sleep...

I'm back. And he did. He is a much better sleeper than his brother is or ever was.

I haven't spent hours at the store picking out cute stuff to make my classroom a little homier because we don't have a "cute classroom" envelope in our strict envelope budget system. My white brick walls are covered with taped pictures of the people I love and articles about the importance of not dropping out of high school. Unfortunately, against my best wishes and repeated pep talks and words of encouragement, some of them will drop out anyways. And even though it was a choice they made on their own, I still feel like I did something wrong. And I pray that what happens in that article won't happen to them. I pray they won't be statistic again. My walls don't have laminated posters of famous people with well-known quotes on them, because of that whole envelope system thing. And contrary to popular belief, none of the state's education budget goes to filling my room with posters, or even books for that matter. My joke of a classroom library contains books I loved when I was my students' age, and love to read again now, that would otherwise be on my shelf at home for my boys. I bought them in college while taking my favorite class ever, children's lit, back when I didn't need an envelope system. My job was running for the University of Tennessee-Chattanooga and my fast feet paid my bills. I didn't have a husband, 2 little boys, a car payment, bills, and a mortgage. My library shrinks every year and I try to tell myself my students loved the books as much as I did and took them home, even though I know they aren't big fans of reading. I think, "maybe, just maybe, they love reading (or hate it just a little less) after taking my class."  

The colorful quotes on my walls were quotes I found on Pinterest from not so famous people, handwritten in colorful marker and taped to those white bricks. 

I have some colorful baskets. They are filled with free spiral notebooks provided by our guidance office because someone knows our students probably can't afford them or don't care enough to bring them. But even the baskets are hand-me-downs from lots of teachers that came before me. I'm a little jealous of the pictures of my friends' classrooms that are super cutesy and have their students' names beautifully written and taped lovingly to their wooden desks. But most of my friends are elementary school teachers. I am pretty sure my high school students would think I was crazier than they already do if I did that. They wouldn't see it as an expression of my love for them and the excitement I have for them being in class, some of them for the fourth year in a row. This is not because they failed my class, but because I teach reading and writing to 9th, 10th, 11th, and 12th graders. I love having them again, even the ones that drive me absolutely insane. That is because I get to see them grow as people, and as readers, and as writers. When they graduate, I feel like I played a part in it. They aren't just students I taught for a semester. They are my babies. 

I hate the first day when they walk in my room and some of them say, "Ms. Strauss, why do I have to have your class AGAIN?" And it warms my heart to hear some of them say, "stop it guys. I love Ms. Strauss, and her class isn't that bad." I'll take "not that bad" from a teenager that has been forced to take my class again when they could be in Ms. Cooper's Zumba class :) any day. 

Last Monday, I dropped off my 6-week-old baby at daycare for the first time, along with my rowdy two-year-old. And I didn't even remember to take their first-day-of-daycare picture. (Thankfully their teachers did for me.)

I was too excited to go to my school and teach my other babies. I love being a teacher, even though I forget how much I love being a teacher about 90% of the time. 

I forget because I start to drown In pile of paperwork, or my kids are ignoring me AGAIN, or they won't put their cell phones away even though I have asked them 5 times, or a kid asks to be switched to a different lunch because they "don't have any friends in first lunch" even though I know they do and I spent hours working on their schedules so I wouldn't have to take them out of their favorite class, or my student refuses to do his work because he is too tired, or her boyfriend broke up with her, or his dog died, or their parents got a divorce, or they are hungry because they haven't had anything to eat since lunch YESTERDAY at school, or they were up late taking care of their baby, or their friend OD'd, or or they had to work late last night to help their family pay the bills. 

And some of it I understand, because I was in high school like them not too long ago. I remember having homework in all 5 of my classes on the same night. I stayed up way too late on the phone with my boyfriend, against my parents warnings, and fell asleep in class a time or two.  I ignored my teachers sometimes, too. Sometimes I hid my flip-phone under my desk where I thought they couldn't see it. I, too, tried to  get my schedule switched so I could be in the same lunch with my best friends, because there was a time when I didn't have a lot of friends either.  I've had my heart broken by a boy a few times in my life. Once, my dog died and I had to be in class the next day trying to hold back tears.  And my parents are divorced, too. They aren't alone.

The rest I feel for, but I can't even imagine. I never lived their life. I never walked in their shoes. I never went without a meal. There was always food on my table. I didn't have to raise a child until after I had a career and a husband. It's really hard to do and I don't have to do it alone. I was blessed to never have to see the effects of dangerous addictions on people I love. I didn't have to work to help pay my family's bills. They were busting their butts to make ends meet so I wouldn't have to while I was in school.  I can't relate. I don't know what it feels like. But I do hurt for them. My heart breaks for them. When they aren't around, I cry for them. Life shouldn't be that hard yet, because they are just kids. And most of the time I forget they aren't really my kids. Because I love them that much, even when they are hard to love.

I hope they know that I wake them up because Iove them. I take away their phones because I know they need to become better readers. I make them write a whole page about their feelings because one day it is going to be important to communicate their thoughts and feelings effectively. 

There are times when I can't communicate my thoughts and feelings about them and for them. I can't tell their teacher not to give them less homework. I can't fix their high school relationships. I can't let them catch up on sleep in my classroom, and I can't take their cell phone and throw it down a flight of stairs. I can't be a best friend matchmaker or change their schedule so they can find one. I can't bring their dog back to life or put their broken families back together. I can't put food on their tables, or feed them more than some candy and some pretzels from my lunch.  I can't pay their bills. I can't help them raise their babies. I can't take their friends'addictions away. So when I am at a loss for words, and don't know how to fix their problems or stop their hurt, I hug them. 

And then we take out a book and read. For about 30 minutes we are in another place together, enjoying the triumphs the protagonist is having, hurting over someone else's fictional problems, laughing at an author's wit, perusing the pages for plot and climax and similes and metaphors and personification. We search the novels for events we have experienced, characters we can relate to, and settings that take us somewhere else. Sometimes those stories are the only escapes they have.

And sometimes, near the end of the semester, a student will walk up to me and say, "I actually loved that book. I have never liked a book before."

That, my friends, is worth the mounds of paperwork, and whitewashed walls, and makeshift posters, and grumpy kids, and attitudes, and drool-stained desks, and self-funded classroom libraries. That is what keeps me going back. That is why I hate that I love to be a teacher. That brings me joy that outweighs the chaos that is the life of a high-school teacher. And when that student walks out of my classroom, I smile and rub my hands together and sigh and say, "my job here is done." ...until the next class walks in.

My heart on your screen...

Deep sigh....Life has been crazy lately...and beautiful...and exciting...and sad...and fun...and entertaining...and inspiring...and long...and hard.

But life has also been beautiful.  

I have been blessed with the pleasure of making some pretty awesome quilts that I pray will bring warmth and joy for years to come. They have been fun for me and have given me confidence in my creativity while also lightening the strain on the wallet at the same time.  Making money doing what you enjoy is pretty cool if you ask me.

I have made some Halloween hats too. For those of you who have lived in a closet for the last several months the first one is Anna from Frozen. And for those of you who haven't read the world's greatest children's book of all time the second one is Max from Where the Wild Things Are.

I have taken my 17 month old son to the neurologist.  He is having seizures just like his mommy. His are pretty frequent, especially for such a little guy.

Turns out his seizures may be more far-reaching than we thought. So tonight we started our little one on seizure medicine and we are praying that the first medicine is the right one. I just hope that he doesn't have a year-long journey to normalcy like I did to find the right seizure medicine.  And we will wait until December for an MRI to see if this is just a bump in the road or a long uphill climb.  Either way there is no other people I would want to share the journey with.

That being said I am trying to find the right balance in being a wife first, a mother second, a teacher third, and chasing my dream with whatever I have left.

And what I have left has left me with this...2 Pumpkin Painting Parties...

Super fun no doubt.

Every time I show up at the studio, walk to the back of that diamond in the rough to pull the drawstring that turns on the old fluorescent light bulbs and welcome people in it warms my heart, no matter how many people walk in.  I love being creative with other creatives in a place that inspires creativity.  But every time I post a new event to the Facebook page https://www.facebook.com/scrapstashstudio and add 120 or so people to the guest list and send out emails I dream of what it COULD BE.  I dream of the picture I have in my head.  I dream of trying to pack as many people in as can fit.  I dream of needing more than the 22 chairs I have in there. I dream of needing a waiting list and having the same event on multiple days because there wasn't enough room for everyone. I dream of having beautiful art from local artists exploding off the shelf one night then flying off the shelves not too long after when someone treasures their art enough to buy it and take it home.  I dream of a place that brings people together, that is an escape or a treat or a blank slate or a bright spot or a rest in the madness or just a little dose of happiness.  Let's make it happen.  I need your help.  Who's in?

1. Go like the page.  https://www.facebook.com/scrapstashstudio

2. EVERY TIME I post an event, click on invite at the top of the page and invite ANYONE AND EVERYONE THAT MIGHT COME and tell them to do the same.

3. Invite your friends...your family...your coworkers.  Heck, drag them if you need to.  They will be back.  Send emails, post a flyer, tell your team or church or neighbor or all of the above.

4. Come sell your art....and make money.

5. Come teach your craft or skill or talent...and make money.

6. Share your ideas and your preferences. I can't read your mind. I want to know what YOU dream it could be. What would you want to make or learn or do? What days and times work best (besides weekdays before 4:30 and Wednesdays...those are off limits) for you?

7. Let me host your party or event. I promise to make it everything you dream it to be and more!

So what do you say? Who is with me?

Seriously. WHAT DO YOU SAY? I can't hear you! Respond below or hit me up on Facebook.  See you or hear from you soon....or else!