Something Terrible Happened Today

Something terrible happened today. I don't know exactly when it happened. It may have been when I was running on the treadmill with my gym girls teaching Tread n Shed; maybe it happened when I was teaching water aerobics to some of my favorite senior citizens, many of whom are former teachers, school secretaries, and bus drivers. Maybe this horrible and senseless act of violence occurred at 10:40, the designated time for Tanner and his class to receive their AR awards. Tanner had been so excited when I dropped him off at school, and because of who he is, he told me not to worry that I couldn't be there to see him get his 80 point sticker. We shouldn't have to worry when we drop our kids off at school, should we?

I can't help but think of all the other students who went to school today, expecting to celebrate their achievements, test their knowledge on a tough science test, or maybe participate in some much-anticipated Christmas celebration. While our kids were smiling for cameras, dancing with their friends, and gluing Popsicle sticks into Christmas trees, others were living the kind of horror that we don't even let our kids watch on television. All those things we as parents try to shield our babies from, close their eyes to, came to life today in Connecticut. How to make sense of that? What kind of test has no right answers, just a bunch of empty blanks with no solutions, no do-overs, no retakes? I keep seeing the same responses from people on Facebook: how could this happen, what kind of person does this type of thing to 5 year old children? All rhetorical questions, I know, but I think beneath all those rhetorical questions lies a real need for answers. We can't fix what happened in Connecticut, but can we prevent it? That's a scary question.

I don't know when it happened, but I do know that I have NO answers for why things like this happen, why people see violence as a means to an end, why we have no respect for the sanctity of life. Apparently, my children haven't heard anything about what is being called the worst school shooting in history. I plan to keep it that way, so unless one of them finds out on his own, I think I'll keep it to myself. Of course, I was a little more "overjoyed" to see them than usual at car rider pick up; I played tennis ball with Tanner in the middle of the parking lot while we waited on Tucker, not really caring what other parents thought of my softball toss; and I figured that on the way home we might make a detour and have an after school snack. I'm going to spend the rest of the afternoon watching "Mickey's Christmas" with Tate; I'm going to smile at them a little more, laugh with them a little more, let them laugh at me whenever they want, and kiss them EVERY morning at drop off.

And I'm going to pray. And pray some more. And keep on praying that our tv's and radios, our Facebooks and texts never again interrupt our days with the kind of information they gave us today.

From Ozzy's Uck to Willie Robertson's Duck

The first reality tv show I can remember watching was Ozzy Osbourne's; I don't remember if it even had a catchy "reality tv" name. Tucker was a wee lad, just starting to toddle around the house, and one lazy Sunday afternoon I scrolled through the channel selections and found a marathon showing of Ozzy and his family. I guess curiosity must have killed the cat, because I flipped to the channel and all I can remember was cuss word, cuss word, cuss word, and a really big house. The good news is that I didn't stay long on that channel, evidenced by the fact that I can't remember anything other than cuss word, cuss word, cuss word, and a really big house. I couldn't then, and I still can't today, allow myself to watch things that I KNOW aren't pleasing to God. I find myself struggling with than one sometimes, but when someone tells her son or daughter to shut the **** up, that's a clear cut sign for me--it's time to keep flipping.

I guess what is most surprising is that it became acceptable to air things like this, as long as the editors are *bleeping* the words out and shadowing any other unfortunate gestures made from one friend to another. I know this because shows like this are everywhere now. Morals are gone, niceness isn't as funny as meanness, and manners are a thing of the past. The even scarier thing is that the shows come on at all times of the day, and the horrible word choice and innuendos have slipped into the few remaining sitcoms on TV at night. Used to be we could turn the TV on at 8 o' clock on a school night and feel pretty confident that whatever was on would not end up in a one-on-one conversation with Dad in the back room away from the brothers who haven't caught on yet.

So as we lament the passing of quality TV and try to shield our babies (11 is still a baby, y'all, especially to his mother) from growing up too quickly, along comes a show about rednecks eating squirrel brains, hunting ducks, and blowing things up. I realize that West Monroe is just a short skip from where I grew up, and I have spent some quality time in Louisiana, but when Coach suggested we tune in to this new phenomenon everyone had been talking about, I was skeptical. Frogs scare me, guns scare me, and if someone offered me a bowl of squirrel stew, I might cry (because deep down my momma raised me right, and if someone offers me something in her house, by golly I have to eat it).

What I found (and am tuned into religiously every Wednesday night) is a family not unlike my own. I love that all the brothers work together and visit their Momma all the time; in fact, I'm working on coming up with a multimillion dollar industry that will insure that all three of my boys can NEVER go too far from home. I love that the grand kids say "yes, ma'am" and "yes sir" in their sweet, country accents. I love that the wives on the show have been shown on more than one occasion doing things for their church. I love that there is never a cuss word spoken. I love that when my kids watch, they are unknowingly witnessing an example of a godly family, where men appreciate their wives, women respect their husbands, and children still spend time with their parents and grandparents. Most of all, I'd be lying if I said I didn't get a little choked up every time the show closes and Phil says his prayer. It isn't contrived, it isn't funny, it isn't propaganda. It is just who they are.

And apparently America loves who they are: Facebook pages are lit up with Likes for just about every member of the family, the main talk at the middle school these days is the latest episode and Jase's shenanigans, and people I know are planning to name their babies Silas, nickname Si.

I've heard folks speculate that Duck Dynasty is just another fad, soon to pass in time. I hope not. Maybe ten years from now, America will still be talking about Willie and his ducks; and the youngsters will cock their heads, look at me all funny, and ask "Ozzy who?"

And that is my closing prayer.

Today was home school Sunday School again at our house. Coach has a Thursday night game this week, thus a Sunday practice (yes, they do exist), so in lieu of trucking my three munchkins to church alone, I opted for my own life lesson from the KJV. I had a great idea to work with, and I have to admit, I found MORE material to choose from than I could incorporate into my adorable worksheet. So I narrowed it down and we got to work.

Our topic was fear, and we started out pretty basic. We talked about things that fourth and sixth graders, not necessarily them, but any fourth and sixth graders might find frightening. Their answers were good, and they were taking me seriously (I had thought about whipping out a copy of my teaching certificate for credentials, but it wasn't necessary). Tanner said going to the principal's office; Tucker suggested breaking a bone, along with some others. "All valid fears," I commended. We were rolling by then, so I got ready to hit them with the scriptures, when one of them turned it around on me and asked me what my greatest fear was. After I thought about it for a few minutes, I told them I had already realized my greatest fear and will testify to this day that without God, I would never have known how to face and overcome that fear.

All parents' worst fear is to see their child hurt or suffering, sometimes it is physical pain, other times it is emotional. My worst fear came with the news (from a not-so-sympathetic NP) that my water had definitely broken at 24 weeks and it didn't "look good." From there we spent 17 weeks with a most sympathetic, yet stubbornly tenacious NICU crew that transferred my hastily scribbled "I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me" verse from room to room, bed to bed. Never was Tanner without that rag-tag verse, thanks to some pretty special ladies. I still have that piece of paper with all the cards and prayers lists we were sent, and trust me, that is definitely something I'm grabbing in the event of a house fire.

I felt led to write about this as I prayed this morning for another baby T, little Tripp from Winder who was injured when a tree limb fell and struck him on the head. Right now, his mom and dad are facing their biggest fear, and I wish for them the peace that comes from that verse that traveled with Tanner for seventeen weeks, that now-torn, slightly faded promise that we held on to until we could hold him. Life is not fair, and we may never understand why things happen-- why babies get sick, why wind can be powerful enough to destroy, why moms and dads divorce, why jobs and homes are lost. Though we don't understand, we must constantly remind ourselves that no matter our fear, the depth or the weight of it, "I can do ALL things through Christ who strengthens me."

If you are reading this, please stop and pray for this sweet little boy and his mom and dad. And for each person who comments, I will make a $1 donation (up to $50) to his family. And if you don't want to comment, please just pray for Tripp.

Book Judging

One of the things I look forward to every afternoon is my Facebook time; it might not be my proudest revelation, but a girl has to have her guilty pleasures and I think this is much better than ice cream and "Teen Mom." So today, i logged on and saw a notification that I had been tagged in a picture. Because of who it was from and because today was AR celebration at Tanner's school, I had a pretty good idea of the nature of the picture before I ever saw it. I expected to see Tanner with some of his friends, celebrating their reading prowess. I expected to be proud.

Yeah, so the picture was of four boys, all about the same size, most of them smiling. And then there was Tanner: I'm not really sure how to describe the look on his face. It definitely wasn't a smile, definitely not a frown, definitely not something I would hang on the refrigerator. I saw lots of "likes" on the picture, because really, they looked happy and like they were having a good time. I wanted to comment, but I was at a loss for words. I couldn't quite figure out the right response to this picture of my kid in a goofy (for lack of a better word) pose. So I didn't. I don't think I even "liked" it. I logged off, and I'll be honest, I wondered, "if this is how he acts at 9 years old, Lord, what should I expect in the future."

Well, here goes. Sometimes I'm wrong. Yes, I said it. Once I picked Tanner up from school, I had one of those figurative slaps in the face, and I realized this was definitely one of those times when I was waaaayyyyy off the mark. I told him I had seen a picture from the school celebration today, and then I surreptitiously asked him about the look he was making when the pic was taken. His answer was a quick summation of the boys in the picture and how their "gang" likes to act in school. I asked him if he and the "gang" ever gave his teacher a tough time , and then it happened: the slap in the face. His answer to the question wasn't an answer at all, but something even better.

"Mom, you know her Dad is real sick, so this weekend can we get something to cheer her up?"

Oh, good Lord! Had I seriously been concerned about the degree of goofyness in my little boy, while I was totally missing the degree of love in his heart?

Yes, I was. I almost missed the book because I didn't like the cover. And I gave birth to that book. Life lesson, y'all, courtesy of Tanner!

Happy Friday!

A River Runs through It

Teachers these days have it hard: pay cuts, furlough days, state testing stress, lack of funds for supplies. It's a wonder college grads even take the certification test, let alone actually accept a position as a teacher, with all the negative press the world's oldest profession gets these days. But every teacher knows that if you do the job long enough, the rewards will come. Struggling readers will master their first books, math-a-phobes will conquer algebra, and if we are lucky, those state testing gods will smile down on us fondly. The same is true for coaches, who essentially teach the same principles, skills, and fundamentals; who exhibit leadership, love, and hope on a field or court instead of in a classroom.

Last Friday, Coach got a call from a former player, and we had a fist-pump moment. One of his former student-athletes received an offer from a Division I school to play football after graduation, the final piece to a three summer puzzle. With that piece in place, this student-athlete has fulfilled a promise he made to himself to work as hard as he had to in order to reach his goal: college football. I was pretty proud (did I mention the fist-pump was mine?) when I got the text from Coach who had just gotten the text from River, and I had one of those flash-before-my-eyes moments: off-season workouts, texts with questions at night, film watching and discussion. It all paid off, and it's been fun to watch.

Of course I'm proud of River and excited to see what his future holds, but I have a little more invested in this whole thing. Tuesday morning all of Atlanta was made privy to the unfortunate decision to drink and drive by none other than one of our most gloried Falcons. Well, I have little eyes watching all around me, absorbing anything and everything football related, and I find a whole lot of comfort in the fact that for this one massive error made by Michael Turner, an even better story is unfolding right in front of my three boys' eyes.

When your dad is a football coach, your heroes don't have to be elusive and high paid; for my boys, their hero is a phone call and a Saturday ticket away; they are the boys putting in extra hours in the weight room and hitting the bleachers when they finish. Their heroes play past the hurt, cram for honor roll, and know when to say thanks. And for all those first year teachers and coaches hoping to make a difference in some student's life, know that sometimes it's the students who make a difference in us.

My Tanner!

Y'all know those times when your kids do things that just totally blow you away? I'm not talking about leaving the milk out all morning or hitting a home run on the first at bat. I'm talking about those times when your kids say or do things that absolutely stop you in your tracks: when you overhear them pray at night or witness one of them stop and help someone who dropped her books or you stumble upon one of them reading to the other without being bribed. Y'all probably, like me, feel like those moments are sometimes few and far between. Well, not tonight.


Tonight was just an ordinary night-- until it wasn't. Tanner and I were headed to baseball practice, just the two of us, and without brothers in the car, he had me all to himself. "Hey Mom, what do you think would be the worst way to die?" Huh? Where did this come from, I wondered, but I pressed on, determined to give him a grown up answer. I pondered it all: car wreck, fire, drowning, sickness. "Well, I guess they would all be pretty bad ways to die. I don't know if one would be worse than the other." I wasn't sure if he didn't like my answer or if it satisfied him enough, but that was it-- end of that conversation, and we moved on to whether I thought he would get to pitch or not.


After a very long, almost excruciating, 90 minute practice that included fundamentals, drills, pop flies, and incessant "whoop, whoop's" from Tanner to his friends, we were back in the car. My middle child had gone from philosophy major to pre-teen goof ball in a two hour span, and he wasn't done yet. The question Tanner had originally posed to me about dying came back in the form of an answer. "Hey, Mom. You want me to tell you what the worst way to die would be?"

"You think you figured it out?"

"Yep. The worst way to die would be to die alone." Pause. Silence. I couldn't answer; and this mostly eloquent, English teacher mom managed to utter something quite un-eloquent like, "Uh-huh."

Nine and a half years ago, a very, very sick baby boy spent 17 weeks in the NICU, much of that time alone. And I wonder. . . does he remember? Is that where he got his answer? And if it is, what other answers does he have????

Oh, Tanner! You keep me on my toes.

Fathers, Roosters, and a Rocker

Father's Day 2012 came and went yesterday without much fanfare at this house. Not to worry, though, Coach had a fun-filled afternoon with Tucker (the boy who first made him a father) and a swell father figure whom this Kirk family has all come to know and love over the years. After devouring his traditional Father's Day breakfast of French toast, maple bacon, and grits (prepared with loving hands by muah and Tate)and opening up a few goodies from the boys, Coach K loaded up with clubs, tees, shoes, and Tucker for a drive over to the annual Rooster Classic pre-tournament tournament to spend a sun shiney day with some old friends ( that we now just call family). I wasn't sure at first about this golf excursion on a day set aside for father's and their fams, but after hearing the details from a worn out but enthusiastic Tucker, yesterday's outing was just the ticket for a dad who deserves the best. The Rooster Classic is an annual fundraiser whose goal is to raise money to send kids to FCA camp, kids who otherwise might not have the funds, or the Christian-driven parents, to experience a place where fun is centered around learning about God. Big Jay and the rest of the Bodes have made it their goal to fill that camp every summer with kids who benefit from golfers who want to give back. They (the golfers) also have a pretty good time raising money, golfing, eating bar-b-q, and hanging with former Brave John Rocker. The Rooster Classic also serves as a kind of memorial to Big Jay and Mrs. Margie's son Brent, or Rooster, who died in a plane crash several years ago. Not only do his memories live on with all the folks who gather every year, but so does his name. This year the tournament just happened to fall on the weekend of Father's Day and what better tribute to both Jay and Brent than to bring together dads and their sons for an afternoon of priceless and picturesque memories. We are always told to appreciate every day what we have and more importantly, WHO we have, because we never know when things or people will be taken away from us. Sometimes, as with Brent, that lesson hits close to home. So yesterday, while Billy strolled the links with a great dad, Tucker experienced his first brag-worthy father-son golf tournament, and he learned that family comes in all forms.

Things You do When You're Dating

Thirteen years ago today, I was running around like a chicken with her head cut off, weeks before the biggest day of my life (up to that point), checking off my to-do list to become Mrs. James William Kirk III. I'm sure Mimi (back then just Mom) and I were wrapping gifts, stuffing boxes, and licking envelopes on the floor of her much-used living room. Coach (still just Billy back then) was probably at the gym, wedding details the LAST thing on his mind. We would have still been in that cute stage, before cell phones hung on belt loops, and I would have been waiting for Mom's house phone to ring so I could hear his sweet voice checking in with me for the night. Coach was a good courter, always taking me to dinner, movies, heck he used to even walk with me back in the day, round and round the lake, acting as if walking was the next best thing to a 420 pound bench press. Ahh, the good old days, when we went to midnight movies, shared a dessert, and held hands ALL. THE. TIME: the things you do when you're dating:-) And just so the young neighbor couples in the cul-de-sac don't despair when they see their future flashing before their eyes in the form of the Kirk family, I'd like to share the details of my evening, thirteen years after the invitations were stamped and sent out. Once the boys were securely dropped off at the local FBC VBS, I envisioned a quiet evening, or at least a quiet two hours until the noise returned, screechy voices echoing the events of the night. Fold a little laundry, channel surf, wipe down some kitchen counters, maybe. I envisioned wrong. Coach disrupted my bath towel fold to tell me to get in the car, tennis rackets in his hand and athletic clothes adorning his body. Great, right? Well, it was raining, had been raining all day, and is still raining as I write this. "Are you an athlete or not?" he taunted, and y'all know I can't back down from a challenge. So as we loaded up and the rain pounded a little harder on our windshield as we drove to the courts, we laughed, knowing that after thirteen years of wedded bliss (bliss being moving vans, surgeries, preemie clothes, pediatric endocrinologists, mean principals and all the other good stuff), a little rain was NOTHING we couldn't handle. So we served it up, Wimbledon style, only we didn't stop when the balls splashed and died, didn't give second chances because of a slick spot (because life surely doesn't), but finished strong as we always do and walked off the court hand in hand, just like we did almost thirteen years ago.

Musings on Motherhood, or Happy Mother's Day To Me!

I couldn't decide at first how to title this one, considering that I came at it from the angle of "Things that make me happy" and most of them had to do with my kids, so I made it into my Mother's Day blog and I think it really hits the spot. This coming Sunday, moms will wake up to breakfast in bed (that they will eventually have to clean up), bottles of perfume (that have a very good chance of being spilled on the carpet), beautiful earrings (that will inadvertently be yanked out as she wrestles an unwilling toddler into his car seat), and an entire day that is "all about Mom." Who wouldn't want that? Apparently, a lot of folks.

A recent study looked at whether people WITH children or people WITHOUT children were happier. Sorry, I didn't get the results--my mind was stuck on the statement people without children; are there really grown adults out there with diplomas, mortgages, and spouses who don't have children? Interesting. . .
No high chairs clogging up the kitchen?
No potty chairs in the bathroom to trip over?
No sippy cups with days (weeks?) old milk hiding in the sofa cushions?
No PTO meetings to attend?
No lost sunglasses, remote controls, or cell phones that doubled as baby rattles in a pinch?
No science fair projects at the last minute? No parent-teacher conferences every quarter? agendas to sign daily?
No Legos to step on in bare feet?
No taking baths with mini sailboats and tiny dinosaurs tickling my nether regions? No baseball practices to sit through on rainy summer afternoons?
No football games on icy cold, windy Saturday mornings?
No jerseys, cleats, hats, gloves, mouthpieces to find as we are in the car, engine running?

Really?

No one to help you crack the eggs on Sunday mornings or stir the pancake batter, chair pulled up close to the counter?
No one to say, "I love you, Princess" as I leave his room for the night?
No one to exceed on all areas of the CRCT state test?
No one to cheer for as he hits a doozy of a line drive right past the shortstop's head?
No one to ask me how old I was when Kennedy was shot?
No kindergartner to read signs and billboards and cardboard books for the first time, giddier than me even in his own progress?
No constant reminder of how handsome his daddy's blue eyes are?
No treasure chest full of premature onesies, favorite blankies, and "coming home" outfits?

I'll have to check on the results of that survey, but I'm confident in my answer. I am a happier gal with messy bathrooms, a disaster of a mini-van, a backyard full of all things Tonka, and a full heart (and home) every night.

Parting is Such Sweet Sorrow, Part Two

Well, it had to come to an end--12 weeks of quizzes, tests, computer lab, fire drills, literature, and more flew by and yesterday was my last day as a high schooler. Which means that today was my first day back to my old life, and sweet as it was to have lunch in a room free of copy machines and coffee makers(every teacher has her own), I felt a little mischievous cruising the streets before 3:45, kind of like a truant senior on skip day. Hard to believe just months ago I was lamenting the return to the world of academia and counting the days until I could return to my "normal" life. Twelve weeks later, I'm not sure I know what normal is.

I know people who look at me as if I have three heads when I mention I teach high school, either that or I get the look of pity that screams, "thank you for your service," as if high school were somehow equivalent to daily ambush on a battle field in a high security war zone. Those folks don't know what they are missing.

I love reading vocabulary sentences where I am the main topic, consistently referred to as Miss Kirk, despite the fact that Mr. Kirk could be found two halls over.

I love hearing how awesome and pretty I am, never mind the fact the compliments always came on the day of a major test.

I love being confidant to a junior girl on the brink of her first major crush, sharing in all the innocence of first love.

Cheerleading drama. Enough said. I have no daughters, so I fulfill all my high school girl drama with other people's kids.

Challenges: "Hey, Mrs. Kirk, you think you could outrun me?" Sorry, hun. I realize Georgia Tech is recruiting you, but if it's me and you and a 12 miler, I WILL WIN! Alas, all good things must come to an end, which means now I seek my compliments from my Senior Citizens instead of the senior class of 2012; instead of making surreptitious laps around the lunchroom to keep up with the latest styles in clothing, music, and gadgets, I'm forced to do real research so my own kids think I'm naturally "cool." The only running challenge I have is the guy with the artificial leg, and even I couldn't be that cocky; and my own elementary boys are beginning to be creeped out by my incessant questions on cheerleader tryouts, gossip, and fifth grade relationships. All I can say (and i say it with a smile) is "You can take the girl out of the high school, but you can't take the high school out of the girl." Now don't forget to vote for me for Prom Queen, er, Teacher of the Year!

He Out-punted his Coverage, and I got GREAT field position!

I was leaving the gym this morning after a great run and an even better swim, when I heard a member of the body-building set inquiring at the front desk as to whether our dear Y might have any athletic tape. Hmmm . . . "Sir, I have some right here. Take as much as you need." Well his eyes just about glazed over and he laughed, saying, "I guess you never know when you might need to wrap an ankle," because in case y'all haven't seen me in a while, I don't exactly scream "Weightlifter" or "serious athlete" when one gets a glance at me in my tennis duds. There are some things that all moms need to carry on them at all times: wipes, juice boxes, epi pens. I just happen to carry a few "different" accessories in order to make sure my days go smoothly. I can't count the number of times I've pulled out my roll to quell a squealing toddler as he motions to some obscure boo-boo that can ONLY be fixed with the same tape daddy uses. Tape works for so much more than curing wounds and tears, too. I've gift wrapped last minute packages with my leftover rolls, created numbers on the backs of blank t-shirts, and re-gripped my tennis racket in a pinch. So the fact that I ALWAYS carry a roll of athletic tape and pre-wrap in my Gucci bag really shouldn't come as too much of a surprise when one finds out I am married to a football coach, as I explained to the gentleman at the Y desk today. I also have a shiny, silver coaches' whistle-- and I'm not afraid to use it. Coach always jokes to people that he "out-punted his coverage" when he married me, and I'll be honest, it took me about 4-5 seasons before I really understood what that meant. I knew it was a compliment, but I hadn't quite deciphered the difference between a kicker and a punter at that point, so I just stood there smiling, proud of my husband/coach and all the information and fancy words in that bald head of his. Thirteen years into this marriage/career, I've got this bull by the horns. *When Coach says he's gonna be late tonight because he's lining the field, I quickly ask, "you got plenty of yarn and a screwdriver?" *I realized that sometimes coaches need to mow the field more than the field needs to be mowed. *I FINALLY figured out what trips means, and now I can scream it with the rest of the staff when I see a blitz coming(?). *I know spring football (or two a days, or 7-on-7) is coming soon when the text messages coming in from players keep me awake at night. *During the season (when he's home) when I make a dinner that he kind of turns his nose up at, I know right then and there that he's probably had it for pre-game meal one too many times already. *When he tells me that practice will be over at 6:00, y'all, I know he's not going to be home at 6:30. And that's OK. *I know the difference between running the spread and the quarterback option. I know how to defend it too. (Sort of). Most of all I know now, especially, that football is a year round sport that takes tons of time, energy, talent, smarts, and backbone, not to mention thick skin. I know that sometimes teams win and sometimes they don't. Some parents are nice; others are not. Some coaches work hard; others work hardly at all. I know that winning is more fun than losing; that playing (and watching) in the rain and cold is way better when the concession stand sells hot chocolate. I know that road games are fun, but nothing beats a win in front of a home crowd. And because of all this I know for a fact that nothing beats the life of a football coach and his wife.

parting is such sweet sorrow!

Well, it had to come to an end. Three weeks of jumping, swimming, running, pumping, and doing Pilates every day flew by, and tomorrow I head back to the halls of high school, this time in a subject I'm a Master at (or so says the diploma). I'm certainly not complaining-- I mean tons of people wake up every day hoping for a job and I have one, albeit for only six weeks-- but I sure do LOVE my part time job, which makes it a little bittersweet. Every day at the YMCA, I am greeted by folks who SMILE at me as I walk through the halls chasing my Tot! They think he's precious, dirty face, barefoot, and all. He's told every one of my senior (citizens) about his train table that Santa Claus brought him and they never seem to get tired of his blabbering baby talk, smiling and cooing at him, despite the fact they have no idea what he's saying most of the time. They never fail to thank me after class for a "great workout" and tell me how much fun they had. Eh, not so much with the American Lit students.

Pretty often at the YMCA, I receive souvenirs from the retirees who are enjoying their retirement and stop midway through their travels to buy something for me and/or my kids. Just this week, I left with two chocolate bars from Austria and a handcrafted Easter egg, not to mention a sweet thank you card from a lady recovering from surgery, simply thanking me for the motivation I give her every day in the pool. I'm no stranger to homemade jelly, breads, and cookies either, because what could be better than burning tons of calories and following it with a softball sized snickerdoodle. All this makes the paycheck seem even bigger come payday.

I also have a younger crew I see most days and when we're not laughing, gossiping, and catching up on the latest episodes of trash TV or debating what to do with a mouthy 3rd grader, we're huffing and puffing at a 7.5 on the treadmill or hitting the sprints on the Spin bikes. I've marveled at first time 5kers, ladies shedding baby weight, and newbies who've never lifted a weight before and see the first hint of muscle tone. Talk about "Meeting the Standards," we do that every day. One can see why my trade off is a little tough.

When I show up tomorrow I'm not guaranteed smiles at the door, but if I'm lucky I'll get a few. I'm not certain of compliance. I may have to ask twice for a project to be done, whereas I never have to ask a water member to REBOUND! There will be bathroom requests, too many cellphones, and questionable dress code violations. Of course, that last one does come up sometimes at the Y, but it's not my place to judge an octogenarian's choice of Speedo.

But it isn't all bad. How many people get to work with their spouse? I can see Coach every day at lunch and sometimes that's the only child free conversation we'll have that day. How many people are made privy to the relationship woes, best friend drama, and SAT stress that doesn't personally affect me (not yet, anyway)? And speaking of cellphones, the teens can teach me waaay more about technology than the water members, and I'm all ears. I learned everything I need to know about the kids I-pod touches from last semesters 4th period. And I may not get a smile first thing in the morning from a sleep-deprived, heart-broken, English-hating teen, but when I DO manage a slight grin or tiny chuckle from the coolest of kids, it's soooo worth it! Makes the paycheck seem a little bigger at the end of the day.

My name is Jennifer and I'm a Bachelorholic

Oh Lawd, y'all, I did it again. Last night, despite season after season of disappointment, embarrassment, and questionable cocktail gowns, I tuned in to the newest installment of The Bachelor. I didn't so much tune at 8:00 with popcorn in buckets and cold coke in hand, sitting restlessly on the edge of my couch; rather I DVRed it and made the Coach watch it with me once the little monkeys were in bed. And, I have to say, it didn't disappoint-- if, of course, you were looking to watch a train wreck.

I have to start by saying that in all fairness, I am not a huge fan of Ben F. as the bachelor. Sure, I felt bad for the guy considering that Ashley made a FOOL out of him on national television as he asked her to make him the happiest man on Earth and she dissed him (I hope he atleast got some sort of ratings bonus for that sucker punch). But still, the winemaker, his hair, his. . . oh, i don't know what it is, but it just doesn't do much for me, so following him on his quest for TV true love isn't going to be easy. However, ABC must have known this and thus brought in a whole new group of CRAZIES who are destined to go down in the reality TV hall of fame. Someone needs to pass it on to these lovely bachelorettes that being documented on an E! special 6 months from now about reality show mishaps IS NOT THE GOAL! Sharing the limelight with a Kardashian kid is NOT an accolade to be proud of. WInning the heart of the bachelor is-- I guess.

Anyhoo,the show started with a grandma in tow, an equestrian demonstrating her skills, and an epidemiologist sharing her knowledge on germ prevention and how to win a guy with a rap about infectious disease. (I'm totally skipping the girl who shoots deer and eats, well, you know). Gone are the days where lovely young college grads would demurely approach the bachelor upon exiting the limo and PROPERLY try to win his attention. You know, do and say things that would make a Southern mother proud. Nope, now it's a quest for the most outrageous pick up line, presentation, or first kiss-- unless you come in on a horse or with your Nana, then that soliloquy you practiced for weeks in front of the mirror is for naught. You just got trumped by an octogenarian.

I have to be honest here and admit that I fast forwarded through much of the cocktail party, as two hours of watching the unappealing bachelor appease women who have given up their JOBS to be there, despite the fact that me, Coach, Chris Harrison, and the rest of America all know that he has no interest in her WHATSOEVER, just doesn't merit my ENTIRE two hours. I did get lucky and stop the FF in time to catch the NYC love blogger lock herself in the bathroom and talk to herself for what seemed like hours, thanks to the editing of some pretty clever ABC producers. And how Ben was not made privy to this semi- mental breakdown is beyond me, and all of America guffawed together as the poor guy STILL gave that girl a rose. (BTW, Jenna, you're giving the rest of us bloggers a really bad name; so shape up girl or stop calling yourself a writer!).

So as the show came to a close and the producers regaled us with clips from future dates, disasters, and drama,I wept a little for all the girls, good and bad, who just exposed themselves and their sometimes poor decisions to national scrutiny, public embarrassment, and a possible engagement in two weeks; because I'm convinced that no one leaves The Bachelor/ Bachelorette unscathed. And if you don't believe me, just hit You Tube or check out the tabloids on your next visit to Kroger.

Meanwhile, I kissed MY former bachelor good night and said a little prayer of thanksgiving for the lack of roses, wine, and cocktail dresses in my life.