idontbelieveingrammar

My family usually sat in the same place. A hard wooden pew near the back on the left-hand side. My mom made me wear a dress, wrangle myself into pantyhose and wear nice shoes (not Keds). We would go to Sunday school. The kids would wait in hallways for our parents' class to end. Hoping that there would be donuts leftover. More often than not, we skipped “big church” visited family and picked up Church’s fried chicken on our way home. Church was pews, pipe organs, air hockey in the youth building, polite conversations and boxes of chicken. At summer camp. Church was at the top of what felt like the highest hill in Hill country. We sat on dusty stone benches in our sweaty Sunday whites. Someone strummed a guitar and we all sang along. Church was aching legs, BBQ down by the river and clumsy chords. In college I made it to church on Sundays about half of time. Occasionally hungover. Always tired. I would still find a dress but had long ditched the hose. We shopped around but my fa...

One of my favorite traditions for over a  decade has been to sit down and try to write a REAL Christmas letter.  Not just the highlights, but a few honest moments as well. It started as a joke with one of my friends, thinking how refreshing it be for people to share more than just their perfect lives that we are used to seeing on Facebook and Instagram. It would be way more truthful and a whole lot more entertaining. Last year was full of big and new things. This year has been mostly settling into them. Boring, but only in the best ways. It has been hard to write and wrap up my year because in some ways I feel like I don’t have much to say. Over the last year I have read, literally, hundreds of books but struggled to find my own words. Owen has started high school. High school. I feel like I have blinked and this tiny blond toddler has turned teen with a deep voice and shaggy greasy hair. Something magical happened between 8th grade and 9th grade because he turns in his...

One of my favorite traditions for a decade has been to sit down and try to write a REAL Christmas letter.  Not just the highlights, but a few honest moments as well. It started as a joke with one of my friends, thinking how refreshing it be for people to share more than just their perfect lives that we are used to seeing on Facebook and Instagram. It would be way more truthful and a whole lot more entertaining. Last new year, I had a friend ask me to come up with a word for 2018. I joked that my word was just going to be “done”. I was partly kidding, partly serious. The year ahead seemed daunting rather than full of promise and resolutions.  I had so many things to finish in the upcoming year that I needed to be “done” with: my degree, my job and my thirties. A few weeks later, my friend showed up with one of those string bracelets with the metal word “done” hammered in the middle. I wore it often, especially in those home stretches. Not taking it off until I had my last...

Months ago, I sat in a pew and tried to not think about the fact that you could count on one hand the number of white congregants in the room. And I was one of them.  I did not want to draw attention to myself, but despite the fact that I have been to church most Sundays of my life, I had no idea what to do. When to sit, stand, pray or the lyrics to any of the songs. The rules here seemed so different than my own church, just a few miles away. Filled with people who mostly looked like me.  A few elderly African American women were seated next to me and were kind enough to attempt to make me feel welcome and tell me what to do. At some point Eunice, in a bright purple dress, slid her arthritic hand on top of mine, squeezed and tugged me to the front to pray.  I let her lead me, because I didn’t how else to respond, and because she seemed so genuinely glad that I was there, singing off key next to her.  It was not lost on me, that my slight discomfort was one ...

(things to note...I make super cute kids, but they don't wear shoes and we don't rake our leaves...win some, lose some) One of my favorite traditions for a decade has been to sit down and try to write a REAL Christmas letter.  Not just the highlights, but a few honest moments as well. It started as a joke with one of my friends, thinking how refreshing it be for people to share more than just their perfect lives that we are used to seeing on Facebook and Instagram. It would be way more truthful and a whole lot more entertaining. I don’t set true New Year’s resolutions, because I know that I will eventually break them, but I always reflect this time of year and set a few goals. In this case, “few” might mean dozens. Last January, however, my only goal was to make it through the Spring semester. I had my first internship, my last true graduate class (that seems to be a lie because I keep having to turn in papers) in addition to my normal day job, two kids and a condition...

I remember waking up the day after the election tired and stunned. When I got to work I went downstairs to make copies and make some tea and did not make it back to my classroom until right before the tardy bell rang. I have a large class, full of all kinds of students from all kinds of backgrounds. I had not even thought about how they would respond to the election and that since we begin school so early that I might be the first adult they saw that day.  Immediately an African American on the front row told me that she was disappointed in our country. I teach science, not government and thought that I needed to turn the conversation as quickly as I could safely back to the objectives on the board, but I could not ignore her hurt and the rest of the quiet in the room. I told her that  regardless of what candidate she supported that this country is run by more than one person, that very soon she would be able to vote, that she had a voice. Behind her, a student that also ha...

Someone recently sent me a meme about tattoos. I reminded them that I have over half a dozen, although none in such obvious places as the picture. I thought about it while I washed my hair, and how once my hair was also purple, and what kind of memes could be found about that. And also, my nose was pierced. Other than the first two tattoos, none of these were things I did in my youth. All were in my thirties. Currently my hair is a plain brown in a sensible cut. My tattoos all easily hidden with most clothing and only my ears are pierced. As this decade closes I have made efforts to dress more professionally, drink less, stay on top of the laundry although I still refuse to make my bed and talk at an appropriate volume level. Yet, I only looked back on my purple-haired days with longing rather than regret. See, I used to do those things to be different.   Sometimes I’d feel just a little trapped by my suburban life although perfect, felt a little too predictable. I fel...