"Never mind that you are pregnant; you are just fat."
This is the voice that I hear when I first wake up in the mornings, and I struggle to turn it off all day long. I know that the voice which I often hear the loudest speaks lies, and yet I find myself frequently believing that these lies are true, that I'm not good enough, that my worth is based on my appearance, and that beauty is a pant size or a number on a scale. I always knew that if I were to ever get pregnant, these body image issues would be a struggle for me, but I never knew just how much I would struggle or the extent to which I would care about the perception others have of me. I am fully aware that this pregnancy is a miracle, and I know that I should be far more grateful for it than I am, especially considering where we have been over the last few years. I promised myself years ago that if God did choose to bless us with a baby one day, I would never complain about pregnancy. But at times, I already find myself resenting my changing body and the good and precious gift that is growing inside of me. Understanding that I'm not supposed to feel this way about the miraculous unfortunately ushers in a whole new realm of guilt and shame.
If I am being honest with myself, there is no number or size that would ever be "good enough." When I was my skinniest, running marathons at a size two, I hated the way I looked. I wanted to be thinner. Now, I fight every day to quit comparing myself to other pregnant women, scrutinizing my belly, and trying to determine whether or not I am appropriately large or small for the number of gestational weeks that I am. Some days, I feel as though the lack of control that I have over gaining weight and the worry that I have about losing it after baby girl comes will consume me.
My cousin had an eating disorder in high school and college. At her thinnest, she weighed 98 pounds. In family counseling, the therapist told her parents that this disorder couldn't be beat- that my cousin would continue to fight against negative thoughts and feelings about her body every day, nearly every hour, for the rest of her life. She anticipated that my cousin would have to learn how to deal with it. Forever. "We just chose not to believe that," my aunt said. "We chose to believe that God is bigger, and that he could heal our daughter of anything. And He did."
We chose to believe that He is bigger. What if I chose to believe that, too? What if I chose to believe that perhaps I'm the one with cloudy vision, and not the people around me (particularly my husband) who tell me that I'm perfect? What if I chose to believe, as the Dove commercial I've watched half a hundred times says, that perhaps I'm more beautiful than I think? Or, as Eli the woodcarver tells wooden Punchinello in Max Lucado's children's book, You Are Special, that I'm infinitely valuable simply because He knows my name?
Pregnancy is a complicated thing. It's amazing and nauseating (literally), scary, and joyful all at the same time. What if I chose to start over tomorrow, or even tonight, and believe something different? Change takes time, but for now, I'm working on straining to hear that still, small voice that speaks truth to me instead of believing the lies that are forever screaming in my ears. He is bigger, and that is enough.
Wednesday, April 15, 2015
Sunday, March 15, 2015
The trash in their backyard
We've had a whirlwind of a few months. In the midst of preparing for a new baby, continuing to heal emotionally from some tough things in our marriage, going to grad school, raising our daughter, and working our full-time jobs, we decided to sell the first home that we bought five years ago. There is never a good time to buy or sell a home, but I still think we were crazy! On January 22, we put our house on the market. Three days later, we had four offers on the house and sold it for over our asking price. Four days after that, we made an offer on a new (to us), bigger house in Norman. It got accepted. We closed on that house on February 20 and moved the same weekend. Then we closed on our old house on February 24. We aren't exactly "settled" yet, but we are managing, and I'm learning more every day that I don't have to have the best decorations on the walls, the perfect paint colors, or the latest Pinterest project in Piper's room to have a happy home.
Before we even moved in, I was already complaining about our new neighbors to the south. They have three yappy dogs, chickens, random boxes and wood scraps all over their backyard, and a citation from the city in their front yard. They also have no less than four cars in their driveway and on the street at any given time. "These are trashy people," I thought. Though our pastor had posted a challenge on our church's website about loving our literal neighbors not even a week before we moved, I was determined to have as little to do with these people as possible. "Maybe we could be friends with them," suggested my husband one day. Or...maybe not.
A couple of nights ago, we were in the backyard, enjoying the first sign of nice weather that we've had in awhile, when our neighbors came outside. First, there was a girl about my age. Then her fiance came out. After that, her mother came out, eating an avocado straight out of the peel with a knife. Next was a middle-school-aged boy. Then his sister. People just kept coming out of the house. All in all, I think seven people live in a house that is much smaller than ours. They introduced themselves, asked about us, wondered if we knew what happened to the lady who lived in the house before we moved in, and offered to help Andrew with the boxes that he was breaking down on the patio. As the girl was talking, I began to feel smaller and smaller, embarrassed and ashamed that I had jumped to such quick conclusions about these people who now wave to us all the time and have been nothing but kind since we moved here. The avocado lady had open heart surgery several weeks ago and had less than a 30 percent chance of living. The rest of the family is just trying to help her out and make ends meet for themselves. Yet, all I could see when we bought the house was the trash in their yard.
Last weekend, I shared one of my life's stories at our church's women's retreat. It's not a pretty story, and I had been nervous about my talk for several weeks. When I came up to the microphone and looked out at the audience of 60+ women, the two things that I wanted more than anything were for people to hear God in my words, and for them to love me in spite of my messiness. I wanted them to extend the grace to me that I was so unwilling to extend to my neighbors. And they did. Beyond what I could have envisioned.
Don't all of us want that- acceptance regardless of what we've done? Perhaps the more grace we receive, the more we understand how to give it to others. Maybe, too, our neighbors' messes are not so ugly when we consider our own. We might not have literal trash in our front yards or chickens in the back, but we all have garbage that we want people to overlook and simply see us. I hope that we can become friends with our new neighbors- partly because they're nice people and deserve a chance, but mostly because people have seen past my junk and loved me anyway.
Before we even moved in, I was already complaining about our new neighbors to the south. They have three yappy dogs, chickens, random boxes and wood scraps all over their backyard, and a citation from the city in their front yard. They also have no less than four cars in their driveway and on the street at any given time. "These are trashy people," I thought. Though our pastor had posted a challenge on our church's website about loving our literal neighbors not even a week before we moved, I was determined to have as little to do with these people as possible. "Maybe we could be friends with them," suggested my husband one day. Or...maybe not.
A couple of nights ago, we were in the backyard, enjoying the first sign of nice weather that we've had in awhile, when our neighbors came outside. First, there was a girl about my age. Then her fiance came out. After that, her mother came out, eating an avocado straight out of the peel with a knife. Next was a middle-school-aged boy. Then his sister. People just kept coming out of the house. All in all, I think seven people live in a house that is much smaller than ours. They introduced themselves, asked about us, wondered if we knew what happened to the lady who lived in the house before we moved in, and offered to help Andrew with the boxes that he was breaking down on the patio. As the girl was talking, I began to feel smaller and smaller, embarrassed and ashamed that I had jumped to such quick conclusions about these people who now wave to us all the time and have been nothing but kind since we moved here. The avocado lady had open heart surgery several weeks ago and had less than a 30 percent chance of living. The rest of the family is just trying to help her out and make ends meet for themselves. Yet, all I could see when we bought the house was the trash in their yard.
Last weekend, I shared one of my life's stories at our church's women's retreat. It's not a pretty story, and I had been nervous about my talk for several weeks. When I came up to the microphone and looked out at the audience of 60+ women, the two things that I wanted more than anything were for people to hear God in my words, and for them to love me in spite of my messiness. I wanted them to extend the grace to me that I was so unwilling to extend to my neighbors. And they did. Beyond what I could have envisioned.
Don't all of us want that- acceptance regardless of what we've done? Perhaps the more grace we receive, the more we understand how to give it to others. Maybe, too, our neighbors' messes are not so ugly when we consider our own. We might not have literal trash in our front yards or chickens in the back, but we all have garbage that we want people to overlook and simply see us. I hope that we can become friends with our new neighbors- partly because they're nice people and deserve a chance, but mostly because people have seen past my junk and loved me anyway.
Tuesday, December 30, 2014
Ebenezer
A friend once told me that you can B.S. people by being a good writer.
I think that's true. Words are powerful. With my words, I can make people believe that I'm doing great when I'm actually miserable. I can boldly display the parts of my life that I like, and I can carefully eliminate other, less desirable parts. For years, I've used my blog as a journal without realizing that I was slowly starting to hide behind my words, painting a picture of myself that I wanted the world to see, and losing touch with my present (and often messy) reality. In the past few months, I've picked up my leather journal again and processed thoughts that no one else will ever read. I've been honest with myself without worrying about what others will see and think of me through my words. I don't edit my writing in my journal- it's just raw emotion.
I've thought a lot about whether I want to blog or not, and I decided that I want to keep it up, at least intermittently, for the same reason that I took a break from it initially: Words are powerful. I'm not putting away my journal. It will still be there for working through "the ugly," but some tales are worth telling to the world. You don't need to know every detail. I don't need to paint a perfect picture for you. But I do need to keep writing in hopes that even one person's heart will be touched in reading this unfinished story of mine that has taught me so much about redemption, forgiveness, and love.
September 12. In most ways, I wish I could completely erase it from my memory, but in every other way, it was the defining moment of my relationship with my husband. This is one of those instances when you don't need to know every detail, but our world came crashing down that night. Trust was broken. We were both hurt and unsure of what to believe. Our marriage seemed irreparable. In the days immediately following September 12, we slept separately- not touching, not communicating, not able to be in the same house. Piper cried a lot. Even she knew that Mom and Dad were not okay. Both of us sat, alone, amid a flood of tears, hopelessness, and shock. I'm not being dramatic when I say that I have no idea how I managed to even get out of bed in the mornings, except that my 14-month-old still needed me.
Gradually, we independently began to tell a few close friends about what had happened- not out of bravery, but out of desperation. We knew that this was something bigger than us, and we needed help. We started going to counseling, which has helped tremendously. And somehow, as He always does, God began to make something beautiful from the ashes. Because the truth had come out, neither of us had anything to hide anymore. In the past three or so months, we have learned what it means to be truly honest with each other. More importantly, we have both experienced forgiveness in ways that we didn't know even existed. I've found, for the first time in the 5.5 years that I've been married to my Andrew, that I am actually thankful for him. In every great love, I that think there is always some sense of "I don't deserve you," and I've never had that until now.
It's impossible to explain the amount of healing we've had in just a few short months to anyone else. Our marriage didn't just need to be repaired; it needed to be made new, and that is exactly what has happened. We have recently spent many late nights on the floor in the living room, actually talking, actually praying, and actually forgiving. Those quiet nights when no one else was around have been some of the most precious moments we've ever known. I wonder if you know what it feels like, as you're admitting your biggest faults and ugliest mess, to have someone look you in the eye and say, "I love you. I still choose you. I've never been more attracted to you than I am right now." That, friends, is freedom.
It is a miracle in itself that God chose to heal us emotionally, but it is equally miraculous that He chose to heal us physically. I'm pregnant. We weren't trying for another baby; we had long since given up on the idea of having a biological child. I don't believe that God always tangibly rewards people for having great marriages or for "getting their lives together." I definitely don't believe what people say about "just adopt and then you'll get pregnant" or "maybe you need to just stop trying and then you'll have a baby!" (I have so many problems with both of those statements for so many reasons.) I do believe that God does things that we don't understand, at times which make no sense to us, to people who least deserve it. And I'm so thankful for this tiny miracle growing inside of me, defying the odds of what doctors told us was impossible. Our prayers, over the past four years, have not fallen on deaf ears.
Today is Piper's "Gotcha Day," and as I think back over the past year of her life as an official member of our family, I can't imagine our lives without her. She brought healing in her own sort of way by making this barren woman a mom, and she continues to make me smile and laugh (and sometimes cry and want to bang my head against the wall) every day. Frequently, I think my heart will burst because I love her so much. While there have been many moments that I doubted God's goodness because of our struggle with infertility, I now realize that, at the time, it was His kindness to us. Piper is the perfect gift, and there is no other child that I would rather have as my first than our little girl. If I had gotten pregnant four years ago, or even two years ago, we wouldn't have her.
At church, we often sing this favorite song of mine called "Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing." The second verse goes like this:
September 12. In most ways, I wish I could completely erase it from my memory, but in every other way, it was the defining moment of my relationship with my husband. This is one of those instances when you don't need to know every detail, but our world came crashing down that night. Trust was broken. We were both hurt and unsure of what to believe. Our marriage seemed irreparable. In the days immediately following September 12, we slept separately- not touching, not communicating, not able to be in the same house. Piper cried a lot. Even she knew that Mom and Dad were not okay. Both of us sat, alone, amid a flood of tears, hopelessness, and shock. I'm not being dramatic when I say that I have no idea how I managed to even get out of bed in the mornings, except that my 14-month-old still needed me.
Gradually, we independently began to tell a few close friends about what had happened- not out of bravery, but out of desperation. We knew that this was something bigger than us, and we needed help. We started going to counseling, which has helped tremendously. And somehow, as He always does, God began to make something beautiful from the ashes. Because the truth had come out, neither of us had anything to hide anymore. In the past three or so months, we have learned what it means to be truly honest with each other. More importantly, we have both experienced forgiveness in ways that we didn't know even existed. I've found, for the first time in the 5.5 years that I've been married to my Andrew, that I am actually thankful for him. In every great love, I that think there is always some sense of "I don't deserve you," and I've never had that until now.
It's impossible to explain the amount of healing we've had in just a few short months to anyone else. Our marriage didn't just need to be repaired; it needed to be made new, and that is exactly what has happened. We have recently spent many late nights on the floor in the living room, actually talking, actually praying, and actually forgiving. Those quiet nights when no one else was around have been some of the most precious moments we've ever known. I wonder if you know what it feels like, as you're admitting your biggest faults and ugliest mess, to have someone look you in the eye and say, "I love you. I still choose you. I've never been more attracted to you than I am right now." That, friends, is freedom.
It is a miracle in itself that God chose to heal us emotionally, but it is equally miraculous that He chose to heal us physically. I'm pregnant. We weren't trying for another baby; we had long since given up on the idea of having a biological child. I don't believe that God always tangibly rewards people for having great marriages or for "getting their lives together." I definitely don't believe what people say about "just adopt and then you'll get pregnant" or "maybe you need to just stop trying and then you'll have a baby!" (I have so many problems with both of those statements for so many reasons.) I do believe that God does things that we don't understand, at times which make no sense to us, to people who least deserve it. And I'm so thankful for this tiny miracle growing inside of me, defying the odds of what doctors told us was impossible. Our prayers, over the past four years, have not fallen on deaf ears.
Today is Piper's "Gotcha Day," and as I think back over the past year of her life as an official member of our family, I can't imagine our lives without her. She brought healing in her own sort of way by making this barren woman a mom, and she continues to make me smile and laugh (and sometimes cry and want to bang my head against the wall) every day. Frequently, I think my heart will burst because I love her so much. While there have been many moments that I doubted God's goodness because of our struggle with infertility, I now realize that, at the time, it was His kindness to us. Piper is the perfect gift, and there is no other child that I would rather have as my first than our little girl. If I had gotten pregnant four years ago, or even two years ago, we wouldn't have her.
At church, we often sing this favorite song of mine called "Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing." The second verse goes like this:
Here I raise my Ebenezer; hither by Thy help I've come;
And I hope, by Thy good pleasure, safely to arrive at home.
Jesus sought me when a stranger, wandering from the fold of God;
He, to rescue me from danger, interposed His precious blood.
For a long time, I used to sing that song without any idea of what an Ebenezer is. Now, before we sing the hymn, there are two sentences in our church's Order of Worship which explain it: "An Ebenezer is a 'stone of help'. It's a marker of God's grace in your life, when you have seen Him come through." God gives us distinct, touchable evidences of His grace because we are a forgetful people. This baby, for us, is that. It's not an answer to all of our problems. It's not an example of "getting our ducks in a row" and then waiting for God to bless us. It's an Ebenezer, a simple reminder that He is good, that He helps desperate people, and that His grace really does bring healing.
Sunday, September 28, 2014
The end.
I've kept a journal ever since I can remember. In elementary school, I called it my "diary." I have no idea what I wrote in it, but evidently, the thoughts were so secret that I thought I needed to keep it in the pink lock box in my room. I kept up this process through middle school and high school, when I started calling my writing a "journal" instead of a "diary," because only nerds kept diaries. I wrote more than ever in college and even into our first year of marriage. Then, I started a blog, and two-and-a-half years ago, I stopped journaling entirely.
Writing has always been therapeutic for me, and for awhile, I thought that blogging was sufficient for that. What I've come to realize is that, even though I often write about things that other people have left untouched, I haven't been truly honest in my shocking "honesty." I've been honest as far as it makes me sound like a good person or good writer, but there have been times that I've been mid-sentence and deleted an entire paragraph because "that part is too awful for people to read." My blogging became more about getting responses than sharing the deepest parts of my heart.
I thought about deleting my blog altogether, but I do think that our adoption story is one that should be read over and over again. I need to read it over and over again. I need to remember the wonder that comes with being part of this story that is actually my life.
Currently, we are dealing with a lot at home, things that I thought I would never face in our marriage. So, instead of processing out loud for the world to read but stopping at the ugly places in my heart that actually need to be explored, I am pulling out my journal for the first time in over 2.5 years and just writing without edits. Maybe one day, I'll be ready to write for the world again. Maybe that will take two months or two years. Maybe I'll never blog again. But for today, I'm closing my laptop and going to sit in the stadium at OU with the same tools that people have used for thousands of years: a good, old-fashioned leather notebook and a pen.
Thanks for reading.
Writing has always been therapeutic for me, and for awhile, I thought that blogging was sufficient for that. What I've come to realize is that, even though I often write about things that other people have left untouched, I haven't been truly honest in my shocking "honesty." I've been honest as far as it makes me sound like a good person or good writer, but there have been times that I've been mid-sentence and deleted an entire paragraph because "that part is too awful for people to read." My blogging became more about getting responses than sharing the deepest parts of my heart.
I thought about deleting my blog altogether, but I do think that our adoption story is one that should be read over and over again. I need to read it over and over again. I need to remember the wonder that comes with being part of this story that is actually my life.
Currently, we are dealing with a lot at home, things that I thought I would never face in our marriage. So, instead of processing out loud for the world to read but stopping at the ugly places in my heart that actually need to be explored, I am pulling out my journal for the first time in over 2.5 years and just writing without edits. Maybe one day, I'll be ready to write for the world again. Maybe that will take two months or two years. Maybe I'll never blog again. But for today, I'm closing my laptop and going to sit in the stadium at OU with the same tools that people have used for thousands of years: a good, old-fashioned leather notebook and a pen.
Thanks for reading.
Saturday, August 23, 2014
Bright Beginnings
This isn't really a post about teaching as much as it is about life changing when you least expect that it will.
I prayed all summer that my afternoon Pre-K class would fill up. At the end of last school year, I knew that I would either be teaching a morning and an afternoon Pre-K class, or I would teach a morning Pre-K class and then completely switch gears (and locations) to teach special education in the afternoons. To get two Pre-K classes, I was told that I would need 30 students enrolled before the class would split. I watched as my class started with 15 students, then went up to 18, then 23, then 25, then 26. With each addition to my class, I started to breathe a little easier, confident that I would get the necessary 30 students and officially be able to teach one thing all day. And then it didn't happen. On top of this, I found out that one of the full-time special education teachers at my school got relocated at the last minute, meaning that our school essentially lost a half-time position and my caseload would be larger than expected. I also discovered, as I was unscrewing bookshelves from the walls in my Pre-K classroom (which, I might add, was inaccessible to me all summer because it was being used for daycare), that the surface underneath was five different colors, so the entire classroom would need to be repainted...by me. At the end of the day on Thursday, August 14th, I left the school with half-painted walls, no furniture, no assistant for my classroom, no idea who my special education students would be, lots of tears, and crushing feelings of panic and defeat because school would be starting in less than a week and I had hardly touched either of my two classrooms.
Obviously, school did start, seemingly without me. Contrary to my normal mode of operation, I didn't feel completely prepared or in control of my own work. Also contrary to my normal mode of operation, I somehow managed to shut off my mind and go to sleep anyway. Through this whole experience of rapid change and a little disappointment, I've learned a few things:
1. I've got some good people in my life. Because my Pre-K classroom is at a daycare (even though it is public school), I could only access it for a limited number of hours in a limited number of days. I called my mom, freaking out, and she immediately volunteered to come up with my dad to assist. My coworker blocked out her Saturday morning to help me set up my classroom centers. My husband and his buddies delayed their rock-climbing trip to move furniture for me. My boss(!) even cleared her schedule and excused me from a meeting so that I had more time in my room. I asked for support only one time, and the troops rallied immediately. Those are fine people, y'all.
2. Regardless of my own perception, I'm never really in control. I had some sense of control and stability when I thought I would be teaching Pre-K all day, but ultimately nothing in this world is guaranteed. Life can completely change in a second, and when that happens, I have to choose if I am going to let its circumstances ruin me or build me. When texting with a friend about my particular situation, I told her that I was "trying to make lemonade," and she simply said to "make lots of it." Attitude is the one thing that can be regulated.
3. This year is an opportunity, not an obligation. Yes, it is hard to completely switch gears at lunchtime. Yes, I have twice as much preparation and paperwork to do. Yes, I'm a little overwhelmed and a lot exhausted. And yes, this year has tremendous potential for learning and growth. Not only do I get to teach small children to love learning for the first time, but I am able to help struggling students believe in themselves and make strides in their education. I can also build my own knowledge base and experiences as a professional by interacting with a wider range of age and ability levels.
4. "Busy" doesn't have to mean "frantic." I often equate these words as one and the same in my mind. Going into this year, I knew that I would need to set boundaries for myself so that I wouldn't go crazy. I took my work email off my phone, resolved to work or read for school only after my daughter is in bed, and realized that it really is okay to leave some tasks untouched at the end of the day. True, I do have a lot to do (I'm busy), but surprisingly, I don't feel stressed (I'm not frantic). I do recognize that my relatively calm state of being is a gift that cannot be entirely contributed to my own formation of boundaries. Thank you, Jesus.
As a side note about busyness, it is sometimes tempting for me to say that I am busier than most people I know and consequently to feel sorry for myself because I work full-time, am in grad school, have a family, and am training for a marathon. This is not a correct view because, A) I chose these things so I don't get to complain, and B) Everyone is busy and overwhelmed to some extent; I'm not more or less so than anyone else. Busyness is subjective anyway, so I don't get to compare my apples of things to do to another person's oranges.
5. Wherever I am at any given moment is exactly where I'm supposed to be. I do have my thumb in several different pies at the same time, but I can choose to be "all there" for a certain experience or "not there at all." Twenty minutes at the park with my daughter is far more valuable than two hours "with" her while she is playing with her toys and I'm responding to emails and cooking supper.
6. Every job is important. I often believe that, because I spend more time each day with my Pre-Kindergarteners, that job has a greater impact than my special education position in which I see small groups for only 20-30 minutes at a time. I had an interaction with a previous student this week that reminded me otherwise. I'll call this student Elliot. Everyone at my school knows Elliot, and let's just say that he does not make himself known in a positive way. I saw him for a twenty-minute fourth grade reading group every day last year. He had zero motivation to read and always complained about coming to group, but for some reason that I can't explain or attribute to my teaching abilities, he often volunteered to read for me and engage in the activities that I wanted him to complete. Not every day was a complete success with Elliot in my room, but there were times when the work that he did for me was the only work he finished all day. (He never pretended to be happy about it, but he did it.) I saw Elliot when I was in the cafeteria this week, and our conversation went something like this:
E (from across the cafeteria): "Hey, Mrs. Fenrick!"
Me: "Oh hey, Elliot. How's it going?"
E: "Good. Hey," (pretending to be indifferent), "are you still going to get me for reading this year?"
Me: "No, sorry, bud."
E: "Dang it! Why not?"
Me: "I'm not teaching fifth grade this year."
E: "Aw man."
Me: "Did you have a good summer?"
E: "Yep," (thinks for a minute), then, "Oh yeah, how was your summer?"
Me: "It was great. I went to Alaska."
E: "That's cool. So will you be in here for lunch duty every day?"
Sure, 2.5 hours with 15 four-year-olds every day matters, but twenty minutes a day mattered to that one kid (even if he never tells me that it did). Teaching in general matters. Office jobs matter. Technical jobs matter. Machinery and construction jobs matter. Every job is important.
Norman Public Schools calls its offsite Pre-K programs (such as the one I teach) "Bright Beginnings." If I'm really being honest about my life this year, it's going to be a wild ride, and there are days when I wonder if I'll be able to keep my head screwed on straight. But, just as Pre-K can be a "bright beginning" for students who have never experienced school before, I feel that this year can be a bright beginning for me. Change is crazy, but life is good.
I prayed all summer that my afternoon Pre-K class would fill up. At the end of last school year, I knew that I would either be teaching a morning and an afternoon Pre-K class, or I would teach a morning Pre-K class and then completely switch gears (and locations) to teach special education in the afternoons. To get two Pre-K classes, I was told that I would need 30 students enrolled before the class would split. I watched as my class started with 15 students, then went up to 18, then 23, then 25, then 26. With each addition to my class, I started to breathe a little easier, confident that I would get the necessary 30 students and officially be able to teach one thing all day. And then it didn't happen. On top of this, I found out that one of the full-time special education teachers at my school got relocated at the last minute, meaning that our school essentially lost a half-time position and my caseload would be larger than expected. I also discovered, as I was unscrewing bookshelves from the walls in my Pre-K classroom (which, I might add, was inaccessible to me all summer because it was being used for daycare), that the surface underneath was five different colors, so the entire classroom would need to be repainted...by me. At the end of the day on Thursday, August 14th, I left the school with half-painted walls, no furniture, no assistant for my classroom, no idea who my special education students would be, lots of tears, and crushing feelings of panic and defeat because school would be starting in less than a week and I had hardly touched either of my two classrooms.
Obviously, school did start, seemingly without me. Contrary to my normal mode of operation, I didn't feel completely prepared or in control of my own work. Also contrary to my normal mode of operation, I somehow managed to shut off my mind and go to sleep anyway. Through this whole experience of rapid change and a little disappointment, I've learned a few things:
1. I've got some good people in my life. Because my Pre-K classroom is at a daycare (even though it is public school), I could only access it for a limited number of hours in a limited number of days. I called my mom, freaking out, and she immediately volunteered to come up with my dad to assist. My coworker blocked out her Saturday morning to help me set up my classroom centers. My husband and his buddies delayed their rock-climbing trip to move furniture for me. My boss(!) even cleared her schedule and excused me from a meeting so that I had more time in my room. I asked for support only one time, and the troops rallied immediately. Those are fine people, y'all.
2. Regardless of my own perception, I'm never really in control. I had some sense of control and stability when I thought I would be teaching Pre-K all day, but ultimately nothing in this world is guaranteed. Life can completely change in a second, and when that happens, I have to choose if I am going to let its circumstances ruin me or build me. When texting with a friend about my particular situation, I told her that I was "trying to make lemonade," and she simply said to "make lots of it." Attitude is the one thing that can be regulated.
3. This year is an opportunity, not an obligation. Yes, it is hard to completely switch gears at lunchtime. Yes, I have twice as much preparation and paperwork to do. Yes, I'm a little overwhelmed and a lot exhausted. And yes, this year has tremendous potential for learning and growth. Not only do I get to teach small children to love learning for the first time, but I am able to help struggling students believe in themselves and make strides in their education. I can also build my own knowledge base and experiences as a professional by interacting with a wider range of age and ability levels.
4. "Busy" doesn't have to mean "frantic." I often equate these words as one and the same in my mind. Going into this year, I knew that I would need to set boundaries for myself so that I wouldn't go crazy. I took my work email off my phone, resolved to work or read for school only after my daughter is in bed, and realized that it really is okay to leave some tasks untouched at the end of the day. True, I do have a lot to do (I'm busy), but surprisingly, I don't feel stressed (I'm not frantic). I do recognize that my relatively calm state of being is a gift that cannot be entirely contributed to my own formation of boundaries. Thank you, Jesus.
As a side note about busyness, it is sometimes tempting for me to say that I am busier than most people I know and consequently to feel sorry for myself because I work full-time, am in grad school, have a family, and am training for a marathon. This is not a correct view because, A) I chose these things so I don't get to complain, and B) Everyone is busy and overwhelmed to some extent; I'm not more or less so than anyone else. Busyness is subjective anyway, so I don't get to compare my apples of things to do to another person's oranges.
5. Wherever I am at any given moment is exactly where I'm supposed to be. I do have my thumb in several different pies at the same time, but I can choose to be "all there" for a certain experience or "not there at all." Twenty minutes at the park with my daughter is far more valuable than two hours "with" her while she is playing with her toys and I'm responding to emails and cooking supper.
6. Every job is important. I often believe that, because I spend more time each day with my Pre-Kindergarteners, that job has a greater impact than my special education position in which I see small groups for only 20-30 minutes at a time. I had an interaction with a previous student this week that reminded me otherwise. I'll call this student Elliot. Everyone at my school knows Elliot, and let's just say that he does not make himself known in a positive way. I saw him for a twenty-minute fourth grade reading group every day last year. He had zero motivation to read and always complained about coming to group, but for some reason that I can't explain or attribute to my teaching abilities, he often volunteered to read for me and engage in the activities that I wanted him to complete. Not every day was a complete success with Elliot in my room, but there were times when the work that he did for me was the only work he finished all day. (He never pretended to be happy about it, but he did it.) I saw Elliot when I was in the cafeteria this week, and our conversation went something like this:
E (from across the cafeteria): "Hey, Mrs. Fenrick!"
Me: "Oh hey, Elliot. How's it going?"
E: "Good. Hey," (pretending to be indifferent), "are you still going to get me for reading this year?"
Me: "No, sorry, bud."
E: "Dang it! Why not?"
Me: "I'm not teaching fifth grade this year."
E: "Aw man."
Me: "Did you have a good summer?"
E: "Yep," (thinks for a minute), then, "Oh yeah, how was your summer?"
Me: "It was great. I went to Alaska."
E: "That's cool. So will you be in here for lunch duty every day?"
Sure, 2.5 hours with 15 four-year-olds every day matters, but twenty minutes a day mattered to that one kid (even if he never tells me that it did). Teaching in general matters. Office jobs matter. Technical jobs matter. Machinery and construction jobs matter. Every job is important.
Norman Public Schools calls its offsite Pre-K programs (such as the one I teach) "Bright Beginnings." If I'm really being honest about my life this year, it's going to be a wild ride, and there are days when I wonder if I'll be able to keep my head screwed on straight. But, just as Pre-K can be a "bright beginning" for students who have never experienced school before, I feel that this year can be a bright beginning for me. Change is crazy, but life is good.
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| After |
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| Before |
Sunday, August 10, 2014
Daycare is not a bad place.
My daughter's last day at her childcare center was last week. I found myself surprisingly sad on that day, even though I'm looking forward to our family's new adventures. (For those of you who don't know, Norman Public Schools contracts some Pre-K teachers to teach at childcare centers in the city. I have accepted a job doing this for the 2014-2015 school year. Technically, I'll be teaching public school, but I'll be offsite, and Piper will stay next door to my classroom at the childcare center.) So far, she has adjusted well to her new setting, but I secretly shed a few tears as we walked out the doors of the center where she has been since she was seven weeks old.
Some people see daycare as a detriment to children. While I do not believe that every childcare center is quality or that just anyone can be trusted to care for kids who don't belong to them, I have seen first-hand that this is not the case everywhere. Also, I am a firm believer in families carefully choosing the best, most well-informed option for their own family and realizing that their choice should not be imposed upon everyone else's family as a rule. For our family, my daughter's daycare has been a blessing beyond what I can even describe. Financially speaking, I need to work, and personally speaking, my work gives me a sense of fulfillment and makes me a better mom. Our situation isn't for everyone, but having Piper just down the hall from me in trusting hands has been ideal. She has blossomed at her center. Her development and character are ultimately my responsibility, but her teachers have partnered with us to help her become the spunky, curious, sweet, smart, and loving one-year-old that she is.
Teaching (notice that I said teaching, not babysitting) at a childcare center requires skill. I recently heard on the radio that the average four-year-old asks 400 questions per day. Even though Piper doesn't ask questions (yet!), she does poop her diaper, fuss, refuse to take naps, spit her food out, destroy things, and engage in other similar sorts of mischief, as do all seven other babies in her class. Not only are her teachers simultaneously dealing with all of this times eight, they are also teaching the children to be kind, to play with toys appropriately, and to make good choices. At times, I am impatient with my only child. Piper's teachers perhaps become impatient with her, too, but they do not show it to her or to any of the other babies in her class. And people say that anyone could do their job(?!).
Though I pay for Piper's childcare, payment alone does not entitle me to quality care. Yes, Piper's teachers are required by law to check her diaper every hour and change her when necessary. Yes, they must make sure that their classroom never exceeds the established student-teacher ratio. Yes, they have to feed her certain foods at given times. They didn't have to bend over backward when Piper had a rough adjustment to my return to full-time employment in January. They didn't have to read with her, hug her as I dropped her off the in mornings, or volunteer to babysit her outside of school hours. They didn't have to love her. But they did, and they did those parts for free.
Piper will never remember Miss Barbara, Miss Sierra, Miss Shawn, Miss Kelsey, Miss Amy, Miss Ashlee, or Miss Madison, but I will. Our family is forever indebted to these ladies who have made it possible for me to leave Piper for a few hours each day, knowing that she will be happy. If your child attends a daycare, hug her teacher. Daycare workers do a big job.
Some people see daycare as a detriment to children. While I do not believe that every childcare center is quality or that just anyone can be trusted to care for kids who don't belong to them, I have seen first-hand that this is not the case everywhere. Also, I am a firm believer in families carefully choosing the best, most well-informed option for their own family and realizing that their choice should not be imposed upon everyone else's family as a rule. For our family, my daughter's daycare has been a blessing beyond what I can even describe. Financially speaking, I need to work, and personally speaking, my work gives me a sense of fulfillment and makes me a better mom. Our situation isn't for everyone, but having Piper just down the hall from me in trusting hands has been ideal. She has blossomed at her center. Her development and character are ultimately my responsibility, but her teachers have partnered with us to help her become the spunky, curious, sweet, smart, and loving one-year-old that she is.
Teaching (notice that I said teaching, not babysitting) at a childcare center requires skill. I recently heard on the radio that the average four-year-old asks 400 questions per day. Even though Piper doesn't ask questions (yet!), she does poop her diaper, fuss, refuse to take naps, spit her food out, destroy things, and engage in other similar sorts of mischief, as do all seven other babies in her class. Not only are her teachers simultaneously dealing with all of this times eight, they are also teaching the children to be kind, to play with toys appropriately, and to make good choices. At times, I am impatient with my only child. Piper's teachers perhaps become impatient with her, too, but they do not show it to her or to any of the other babies in her class. And people say that anyone could do their job(?!).
Though I pay for Piper's childcare, payment alone does not entitle me to quality care. Yes, Piper's teachers are required by law to check her diaper every hour and change her when necessary. Yes, they must make sure that their classroom never exceeds the established student-teacher ratio. Yes, they have to feed her certain foods at given times. They didn't have to bend over backward when Piper had a rough adjustment to my return to full-time employment in January. They didn't have to read with her, hug her as I dropped her off the in mornings, or volunteer to babysit her outside of school hours. They didn't have to love her. But they did, and they did those parts for free.
Piper will never remember Miss Barbara, Miss Sierra, Miss Shawn, Miss Kelsey, Miss Amy, Miss Ashlee, or Miss Madison, but I will. Our family is forever indebted to these ladies who have made it possible for me to leave Piper for a few hours each day, knowing that she will be happy. If your child attends a daycare, hug her teacher. Daycare workers do a big job.
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| Piper's letter and shoes "for her new adventures" from her teacher on her last day |
Tuesday, July 29, 2014
The House That Built Me
I have lived in exactly seven residences in my 26 years. Seven sounds like a lot when I say it out loud, but my family has never moved around much. Those seven houses have all been in only three cities.
I was born at 10611 Sagemeadow, Houston, TX 77089. I remember this because of the many times I had to practice saying my address and phone number so that I could earn a prize in kindergarten. The Sagemeadow house was home for almost ten years. For being as young as I was when we lived there, I have quite a few memories of childhood days spent in the hot Houston sun. I remember dragging my cat, Tiger, around by her back feet, playing "school" with my brother in my cardboard playhouse, and creating secret "clubs" with my best friend, Carolyn. I remember swimming in the hot tub with my cousins (until we had to fill it in because one of Tiger's kittens drowned in it, and my mom got scared that Tim or I might do the same). Best of all, I remember Granddad's house with the giant, custom treehouse and Sunday-after-church-lasagnas being less than a mile away.
Just before fourth grade, my dad accepted a job with Microsoft, which moved our family to Flower Mound, Texas (1408 Ivywood, to be exact). I don't recall as much about this house as I do about the Sagemeadow one. I do remember sitting in the top of our backyard fort (not as cool as the treehouse) with my also-new-to-Flower Mound-friend, Jenna, as we braved the awkward years of middle school together. In this house, Tim and I got our first and only dog, Nikki. Rest her soul.
When I came to college at the University of Oklahoma, I, like most freshmen, moved into the dorms. Jenna and I made the mistake of choosing to live in the Honors Dorms, thinking that they would be more quiet than "the towers." By "more quiet," I mean that they actually were completely silent about 95% of the time. No one ever came out of their rooms. Thank goodness I lived with one of my best friends, because I met approximately 3 people on my entire floor that year. I became an honorary roommate to my other friends, Kate and Katherine, who lived in Adams Tower and knew everyone on their hall.
After my freshman year at OU, I moved into an on-campus apartment, Traditions Square, with my friends, Kate, Ellen, and Amanda. In fifty years, I'll probably still look back on those two years at 2500 Asp Avenue as two of the best in my life. There were times when the four of us studied, of course, but mostly I remember having weekly dinner parties, carving pumpkins, dressing up for date parties, watching America's Next Top Model together, and having random dance parties in the middle of the night.
When Andrew and I got married after my junior year, we moved into the bottom of a janky quadruplex, 316 Falcon Court #1, because it cost $520/month and had two bedrooms and a laundry room inside. There were, however, some things we unfortunately did not take into consideration before moving in, namely the fact that our backyard was Norman North High School. We often woke up at 3 a.m. to the sound of monster trucks doing donuts in the parking lot, and there was no hope of sleeping late during the summer because the marching band began practice every weekday at promptly 6:45 a.m. I once told someone where we used to live, and her first response was, "Oh my gosh, there are drugs all over that street!" So there was that, too. In addition to the less-than-ideal location of this rental property, the walls and floors of our apartment were uncomfortably thin. Every time our upstairs neighbor used the bathroom (or did anything else), we knew about it. All in all, we were comfortable in that little home. But we were also young and stupid. Anyway, I should be grateful.
Four years ago, Andrew and I moved into our current house in Norman. Though we have some interesting neighbors, including the king and queen of holiday inflatables, as well as the people who dug up their entire front yard to plant a garden (complete with CDs hanging in the trees to keep the birds away), we have loved almost everything about this home. The previous owners completely remodeled the inside just before selling the house to us, and we have a huge backyard, which is great for grill parties and s'mores around the firepit. I'll always remember this home because it's the first one we bought together and because our sweet Piper was born here.
I saved the seventh home for last, even though it's not where I most recently lived. Just before my freshman year of high school, my parents bought a newer and bigger house in Flower Mound at 1717 Bershire Court. I technically only lived in this house for four years before leaving for college, but it has been "home" for much longer than that. It is "the house that built me," and it is for sale.
Aside from the Houston house, I probably have the most memories in the Bershire house. I remember taking pictures for homecoming and prom in the front yard, sitting in the driveway at night with my friend, Amanda, having sleepovers with my friend around the corner, Brooke, practicing piano in the foyer, shutting myself in my room and staring at the clouds I painted on my ceiling, and having friends over for study parties and FCA because everyone knew that my mom always made the best food. I grew into myself in that house. Even after I left when I graduated, I still continued celebrating all of our family's big life events at "home," because I'd rather be sitting on a barstool in my parents' kitchen late at night than mostly anywhere else. And hey, everyone still knows that my mom makes the best food.
My parents have found their "dream home," which is about 30 minutes closer to us than their Flower Mound house. It backs up to a horse farm and has tons of space inside and tons of land outside for those tons of grandkids they're hoping to have one day. (Sorry to disappoint, Mom, but unless Tim gets busy soon, I'm thinking that "tons" will look more like "two" on our end.) I'm excited for them but also somewhat sad about saying goodbye to the house on Bershire Court. Thankfully, memories are even easier to pack up and take with you than the utensils in your kitchen. And, life is less about where you live than who you're living it with anyway.
I was born at 10611 Sagemeadow, Houston, TX 77089. I remember this because of the many times I had to practice saying my address and phone number so that I could earn a prize in kindergarten. The Sagemeadow house was home for almost ten years. For being as young as I was when we lived there, I have quite a few memories of childhood days spent in the hot Houston sun. I remember dragging my cat, Tiger, around by her back feet, playing "school" with my brother in my cardboard playhouse, and creating secret "clubs" with my best friend, Carolyn. I remember swimming in the hot tub with my cousins (until we had to fill it in because one of Tiger's kittens drowned in it, and my mom got scared that Tim or I might do the same). Best of all, I remember Granddad's house with the giant, custom treehouse and Sunday-after-church-lasagnas being less than a mile away.
Just before fourth grade, my dad accepted a job with Microsoft, which moved our family to Flower Mound, Texas (1408 Ivywood, to be exact). I don't recall as much about this house as I do about the Sagemeadow one. I do remember sitting in the top of our backyard fort (not as cool as the treehouse) with my also-new-to-Flower Mound-friend, Jenna, as we braved the awkward years of middle school together. In this house, Tim and I got our first and only dog, Nikki. Rest her soul.
When I came to college at the University of Oklahoma, I, like most freshmen, moved into the dorms. Jenna and I made the mistake of choosing to live in the Honors Dorms, thinking that they would be more quiet than "the towers." By "more quiet," I mean that they actually were completely silent about 95% of the time. No one ever came out of their rooms. Thank goodness I lived with one of my best friends, because I met approximately 3 people on my entire floor that year. I became an honorary roommate to my other friends, Kate and Katherine, who lived in Adams Tower and knew everyone on their hall.
After my freshman year at OU, I moved into an on-campus apartment, Traditions Square, with my friends, Kate, Ellen, and Amanda. In fifty years, I'll probably still look back on those two years at 2500 Asp Avenue as two of the best in my life. There were times when the four of us studied, of course, but mostly I remember having weekly dinner parties, carving pumpkins, dressing up for date parties, watching America's Next Top Model together, and having random dance parties in the middle of the night.
When Andrew and I got married after my junior year, we moved into the bottom of a janky quadruplex, 316 Falcon Court #1, because it cost $520/month and had two bedrooms and a laundry room inside. There were, however, some things we unfortunately did not take into consideration before moving in, namely the fact that our backyard was Norman North High School. We often woke up at 3 a.m. to the sound of monster trucks doing donuts in the parking lot, and there was no hope of sleeping late during the summer because the marching band began practice every weekday at promptly 6:45 a.m. I once told someone where we used to live, and her first response was, "Oh my gosh, there are drugs all over that street!" So there was that, too. In addition to the less-than-ideal location of this rental property, the walls and floors of our apartment were uncomfortably thin. Every time our upstairs neighbor used the bathroom (or did anything else), we knew about it. All in all, we were comfortable in that little home. But we were also young and stupid. Anyway, I should be grateful.
Four years ago, Andrew and I moved into our current house in Norman. Though we have some interesting neighbors, including the king and queen of holiday inflatables, as well as the people who dug up their entire front yard to plant a garden (complete with CDs hanging in the trees to keep the birds away), we have loved almost everything about this home. The previous owners completely remodeled the inside just before selling the house to us, and we have a huge backyard, which is great for grill parties and s'mores around the firepit. I'll always remember this home because it's the first one we bought together and because our sweet Piper was born here.
I saved the seventh home for last, even though it's not where I most recently lived. Just before my freshman year of high school, my parents bought a newer and bigger house in Flower Mound at 1717 Bershire Court. I technically only lived in this house for four years before leaving for college, but it has been "home" for much longer than that. It is "the house that built me," and it is for sale.
Aside from the Houston house, I probably have the most memories in the Bershire house. I remember taking pictures for homecoming and prom in the front yard, sitting in the driveway at night with my friend, Amanda, having sleepovers with my friend around the corner, Brooke, practicing piano in the foyer, shutting myself in my room and staring at the clouds I painted on my ceiling, and having friends over for study parties and FCA because everyone knew that my mom always made the best food. I grew into myself in that house. Even after I left when I graduated, I still continued celebrating all of our family's big life events at "home," because I'd rather be sitting on a barstool in my parents' kitchen late at night than mostly anywhere else. And hey, everyone still knows that my mom makes the best food.
My parents have found their "dream home," which is about 30 minutes closer to us than their Flower Mound house. It backs up to a horse farm and has tons of space inside and tons of land outside for those tons of grandkids they're hoping to have one day. (Sorry to disappoint, Mom, but unless Tim gets busy soon, I'm thinking that "tons" will look more like "two" on our end.) I'm excited for them but also somewhat sad about saying goodbye to the house on Bershire Court. Thankfully, memories are even easier to pack up and take with you than the utensils in your kitchen. And, life is less about where you live than who you're living it with anyway.
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