If you search the Internet for “Common Core,” you will get hundreds of hits about people who are angry about the “poison” that is the Common Core. They are all up in arms about how difficult materials are or how everything is focused on testing now. A recurring complaint I hear is how Common Core math is so hard for kids (and parents!) to understand.
If my hair would just style as well as hers, I would be so much happier.If I could lose 30 pounds, I could wear cute clothes like she does, and I would be so much happier. If I could get a paid writing gig, I would be so joyful, just like her. If we could go on a REAL vacation, we would be happier. If we had more money to spend, I could do that and that and that to our house and be happy like she is. If we had a bigger house, I would totally be happier....more
It's uncomfortable to bring it up out of nowhere with people, but if someone asks, I am good about dispelling myths or telling them what my experience is like. But I don't go to restaurants and order my burger and then tell my server about my PPD, PPA, and OCD. I don't let the dressing room attendants at the GAP know I have Generalized Anxiety. I don't let the cashier at Target in on my PTSD. And I sure as heck don't put any of that stuff in my syllabus in the About Mrs. Sluiter section, nor do I introduce myself that way in my welcome email to parents. If someone asks about it, I don't lie. I mean, duh. The Google search.
And let's face it, sometimes life gets so busy we just do a "mark all as read" move and start from scratch. Except that I never really do that. I mean, I do it to MOST of my reader, but there are some blogs, that no matter HOW late to the party I am, I will read every.single. word. What is it about those blogs that keeps me from just skipping some posts in an effort to catch up? Why am I so drawn to those particular spaces?
He swooped in with one arm around my waist and grabbed my other hand in his.
As we glided around the kitchen floor, I asked him,
“Who taught you to dance?”
“My mom, of course,” he replied and nuzzled his face into my neck.
His mom. Of course.
She taught him to dance.
to open doors for ladies.
to do laundry.
I seem to spend a lot of time looking at my hands. I see them out of my peripheral vision as they fly across the computer keys, but I really see them when I need to pause and think about my next words. I rest them flatly on the keyboard when I am thinking. And I look at my hands. And I think about her hands. My mother's hands.