How to Succeed at Concerts While Really Flippin' Trying

I took a toddler to a concert. Maybe not my best idea, but I learned some valuable tips that I will share to other parents who also happen to like going to shows.

1.  Check the ticket policy.  I walked into the venue, little man strapped to my chest, and approached the will-call window.  I gave the lady my id and she gave me an envelope with one ticket in it.  "You need a ticket for that baby", she says unflinching.  "Oh, no, he doesn't need a seat, he will be on my lap the whole time." I retort.  "Doesn't matter.  He needs a ticket."  She starts typing on her magic ticket machine and informs me that there are not two empty seats next to each other.  Quickly, my eyes well up with tears.  I had drove several hours, with a toddler, bundled him in a carrier, it was past his bed time, I was overwhelmed, oh, and I was doing this alone. Seeing the panic on my face, a manager took sympathy and wrote me what was essentially a seat pass and let me in.

2. EVERYBODY will have something to say (with their words or actions).  My general life motto is fly under the radar, but dadgum if I wasn't a spectacle in that crowd.  Inquisitive looks in the lobby were unsettling so I rushed in to auditorium.  I took my seat.  When my son bumped into the lady next to me, she stood up and switched with the person she came with.  Later, when his foot bumped her leg, she picked it up and moved it.  Irritation and judgment all over her face.  Feeling beaten down, I snuck out before the intermission and stood alone in the lobby to collect my thoughts and debate staying. Not more than five minutes later, the crowds flooded into the lobby.  A sweet woman sought me out and tapped my shoulder, "I love that you brought your child.  His little happy sounds were great!" she grinned. A few others smiled and made nice comments.  I should have been able to revel in them, but I was stuggling to get over the initial experience with my seat neighbor. and the lady at will call.

3. Stuff every pocket with fruit snacks.  Fruit snacks are a real treat in our house, even the fruit and veggie kind are limited to every once in a while.  When he started to churn and get antsy (and loud), out came the fruit snacks and all silence befell upon us.  Mistakenly, I only had one pack, next time, I will have ten.

4. Accept that you will not be comfortable.  I had tried holding my son on my lap, but he got squirmy and didn't want to sit still any longer.  I put him back in the carrier, but I could not sit down.  I creatively tried to lean on things or rest a cheek on the chair rail, but alas, comfort was not mine to have.  With my 30 pound babe strapped to my chest, I took my place in the dark eaves of the concert hall, and gave in to the mama sway.  For 90 minutes, we swayed, sang, and affirmed my initial motivations in undertaking this challenge- sharing something meaningful with my son, because ever since he was born I have wanted to show him the world and beautiful things it took me nearly 30 years to discover.

5. If you feel like going somewhere, even if it is somewhere that is severely inconvenient with a toddler but going there will restore some part of yourself that may have been unfed since becoming a parent, try it.  It may be really hard most of the time, but perhaps you too will leave with a memory of dancing your child to sleep with their little head on your chest as you sing:

Cheers parents!  May your children know good music and may your lyrical soul be satisfied.

Lyrics from "Method Acting/Cortez the Killer" by the Dave Rawlings Machine.  Listen here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gxPTQDP2bRQ

A Quick Update

Today my son peed in the potty and jammed/lost a cd in the VCR.

Winning.

Treating the Fever

It is summer time.  Everyone at every public place I go to is pregnant and beautiful.  A-line dresses and belted tops abound and I start to get the fever.  

Baby fever.

Admittedly, I have had the fever for a while and this post comes out something like a confession.  I know that babies (and God) laugh at our human-y life plans, but that does not stop us from making them.  My husband and I had a plan.  It was create baby two in the spring/summer of 2014.  "But wait, Ms. Fartsonparade", you may be asking yourself, "are you up the spout now?"

"No", is the answer to that question.

I have a handful of dreams and aspirations in my life.  Chiefly among them, are to grow our family and to grow in my education/knowledge.  And wouldn't you know it-the two are pitted against each other.

The plan to expand our brood in spring of 2014, was made so our kids would be nicely spaced apart, I would get a year off from using my body to feed or house another human, and it is such a freaking miracle to carry a child and deliver them into the world and we felt ready to do that again.

In the same month that it was okay to let this baby become a possibility, I got an offer. The most generous and needed offer I have ever been given-a chance to get a FREE master's degree from a leading university that would help me specifically with teaching urban students.  (If you are wondering why I need help with this, see Reflections on My First Year of Teaching in an Urban School)

I panicked.  Here were two things I had laid awake at night dreaming about.  Hoping for.  And both possibilities were open to me, and I had no idea what to do.

Initially, I decided to decline the offer to keep with our family plan, citing that family is more important than work, but decided I should complete the application process anyway, thinking that if my application was not chosen, then I wouldn't really have to make a decision.
 
In order to apply for the program, I needed take the GRE. I spent 30-90 minutes each night studying and taking practice tests.  Stretching my brain and learning something new, felt refreshing and welcome.  And when I finally took the exam and passed, the delight I felt should have indicated my true desire.

But still I felt torn and confused.  
 
Then I talked to my husband, for real.  We had talked about all of it a million times before, but it felt unresolved, so I started to hash it all out again.  What I thought would be a long and painful process turned out to be a brief and cherished moment of our marriage.  Tearfully and honestly, I told him I wanted to pursue the program.  To invest in myself, but I admitted that I felt guilty for doing this for me and sad about missing out on bringing a new baby home in the next year-ish.  But what he said next mended my heart and gives me motivation to start this program in two weeks.  He said, "We are not losing a baby now. Whatever baby is born later?  That one will be ours, and that will be the baby we love."

Cheers, blogosphere.  This mama is starting graduate school.

Reflections On My First Year Of Teaching In An Urban School

Friday was the last day of the school year.  After lots of hugs and high-fives, I stood in front of my school with all my fellow teachers and waved and cheered our students out into the world for summer.  After sending them on their way we celebrated with a faculty cookout and toasted our veterans who decided to move on to their next adventure.  Then all the teachers headed up to their rooms to begin the checklist of tasks that are required before a teacher's school year is over.  I, however, went outside and sat in my car.  In total silence.  For 30 minutes.  Just stunned at what a year it has been.

This was my first year in an urban school.  Having attended a variety of rural schools as a student, including one of the top five smallest schools in the great commonwealth of Pennsylvania, I was unaware of what to expect.  It was nothing like the experience of Michelle Pfeiffer or Hillary Swank in their happy ending movies.  This year was a bit more Stand and Deliver, but without the intense math instruction and the ensuring of the better livelihood for 50 eighteen-year-olds in Los Angeles.  It was something all it's own.

I asked for this urban teaching job.  I taught for three years in a suburban school, that was challenging for it's own reasons, but I always felt a pull to support my community and teach in my neighborhood school.  My motivation for working in an urban school comes from the heart and with good intentions.  Believing so strongly in the ideal, "I want to be a positive, stable adult in their lives," that I probably declared it in my job interview. 

And when the kids rolled in on that first day, I said it again to myself,  "I want to be a positive, stable adult in their lives."  I tried to keep reminding myself of that as my classroom management fell to pieces over the coming weeks, and as I filled out office referral after office referral.   I chanted it again as I looked over the failing grades on the benchmark assessment. I muttered it when winter break seemed like it would never come and my students were as cold and unwelcoming as the weather.

I tried everything I could think of to reach my students, both on a human level and an educational one.  I designed creative activities and planned field trips, but my class discussions became opportunities to show out and put others down.  My "fun ideas" became belabored tasks.  But I soldiered on.

Believing that all children should see some part of themselves reflected in their education, I had what I thought was a brilliant idea.  Instead of using boring sentences like, "Sally jumped up.", I decided to use quotes from many famous people as a way to teach how to use quotation marks.  Monday, Tuesday ,Wednesday, were a breeze, but then came Thursday.  When my students read a respectable quote about not judging people by Lil Wayne, the intellectual discussion about how it is important to know a person before making a judgment about them, did not occur.  What did happen is about fifteen kids began rapping loudly and off rhythm about "smokin' weed".  (hashtag:outtatouch) And so instead of teaching the correct punctuation, I spent fifteen minutes trying get my class settled down.

Shortly there after I sought out advice from my administrator about respect.  What respect looked like when I was on the other side of the desk was much different that what I was receiving as the instructor.  I carefully expressed concern about how students often huffed and puffed and stomped their feet when given directions or asked to do something.  She said, "That is how they see adults fight for power and they feel powerless in their lives."  I took that to heart and repeated, "I want to be a positive, stable adult in their lives."

This creed got its greatest challenge in February.  After constantly correcting a child for their behavior, the child spouted, "You are a racist."  And before I could put on my brave teacher face, my non-teacher-just-human-eyes welled with tears and my cheeks flushed, but again, "positive, stable adult" came back to me.  I explained what that word truly means and stated plainly that that was not who I was.  I cried the whole way home and a few mornings after that, but for the next 85 days, I smiled at this child and kept teaching.

I tried so many strategies and hot ideas that I felt emotionally exhausted.  I could not come up with a way to reach these children as people. 

The ending of this story is not that we all got along fantastically and I was actually Miss Honey from Matilda and I adopted the smartest child in my class, but the ending is one that fills me with hope.

As I had reached an emotional pit of despair, I gave up all fancy strategies and hot ideas from internet searches.  I began talking with my students as they were waiting in line for the restroom.  At most there would be about ten of them there.  As a small group, we managed to have casual discourse about weekend happenings and sibling rivalries while using our inside voices. It happened so inconsequentially that I truly thought nothing of it until a week later, when I noticed one particular kid not acting quite as particularly challenging.

In college, each want-to-be-teacher is made acutely aware of the line between teacher and friend.  Fear of lawsuits and false claims instilled a wall of me and you.  Eliminating the idea of an us- a family word, a friend word, a two or more people together word.  Fear of crossing some imaginary line is still very real for me, but I could not go on like before.  I would not have been able to survive trying so hard to be separate from them if something didn't give. 

We spent the last month of the year on a poetry book project.  I decided to make one, too.  I wrote an example poem for each new topic and shared little pieces of my heart with them: the love of my family, the intrigue of nature, and how music has played an important role in my life.  As the unit continued my students shared more with me about their hearts. 

When the state test scores came in, I didn't gripe through clenched teeth, "I want to be a positive, stable adult in their lives."  I felt no mantra.  I looked at the scores and then stopped looking at them.  I went on to do something else.  The scores were not good, but the scores were not my students.  They were playing basketball, and obsessing over minecraft and watching Disney Channel XD.  They were origami, skating, and Takis.  They were small and scared and brave and learning.  

And I almost didn't see it.  

The year nearly slipped by without me really seeing my students and without them really seeing me.  What a tragedy to have gone unseen for months!  I sat there in my car thinking all these things and feeling the pressure of how to do a better job next year when it hit me.  Defining myself by two criteria: positive and stable, kept me from other, necessary things.  My good intentions (you know what they say about them) had not been sufficient.  As I put the car in reverse, I settled into a new mantra.  I drove out of the parking lot, over 500 index cards that a child let fly out of a bus window, looked back at the school in the rear view and thought, next year, "I want to be me."

I Want To Be A Writer

Not in a, "I want to quit my job tomorrow" way, but in a quiet, genuine way.

I have been narrating through my journey of motherhood for over two years.  I enjoy sharing the day-to-day blood and guts of what it means to be a mom, but I always feel there is more to say.  And then I think, who wants to read the inner workings of my brain?  Not that I am so concerned with how I will be received, but I have this guilt about being self-gratifying and indulgent.  Then I struggle to take myself seriously.  Even now, as I edit these words the voice in my head is Carrie Bradshaw's and I envision that this is not an open jar of peanut butter next to me (that I am eating by the finger-swipe-full), but instead, some fancy red wine that I drink while nestled in my white, down comforter.

I also fear that I will contribute to the mountains of empty words that have been freely given to the internet's users.  I loathe most circulated blog posts- catchy titles for articles excusing people's shitty behavior.  I don't want to be another contributor to the masses of unfounded opinions and half-inspired stories.  So it is with fear that I admit that I want to jump onto this ship.

As someone who has anxiety, I have learned enough about myself to know, that my anxiety is greatest when I am trying to shut myself up.  Trying to quiet the stirring of ideas and options in my mind, and resisting newness, make my problems greater.

Yet, still I want to write.  

I did something crazy and applied for graduate school, not for writing, but for teaching.  I am nearing 30 and have one child under two.  I work full time and my husband has a job that requires a lot of travel.  Everything is nuts right now, but I really hope I get in.

I went to the campus last week to see some of the work the current students are doing and I was so inspired.  Walking the halls of academia, even using the lavatories of academia, rejuvenated me!  Things were quiet there.  All the learners were there on their own volition.  I remembered studying.  I remembered I was a thinker.  I remembered I was a scholar.  A spark of pre-mom me was awakened.  A spark I had ignored in recent years.  The spark of seeking knowledge and using my brain in creative and constructive ways.

I left that night feeling so much.  I wanted to write it all down, so I decided to start a new blog.  Some other anonymous channel full of philosophy, musings, short stories, and poems.  But as I pulled into my driveway, thinking of my son inside, it hit me.  I truly believed that my creative-self and mom-self were so separate from each other they each deserved their own web address. 

Sinking into this realization, I saw the fatal flaw of dividing myself in half.  I felt the heaviness of realizing that I already had.  I made a decision to put it all together.  To be both a mom and artist. (I use that term very loosely.)  I will allow myself to be both those things.  

So with that- Farts on Parade will be adding some new subject matter to the pages.  Not all the time and it probably won't be good (at least not for a while, writing takes practice), I am going for it.  I will still write about my little bubba and his antics, as this blog is my love letter to him, but perhaps a little snippet of my writer's dreams will come along with it.

Destination Destin

Photo Credit: Emerald Coast CVB

Ahh, Destin, Florida.


I am not a vacationere (a word that I made up to sound fancy, that means, "Someone who frequently takes vacations to beautiful and exotic places").  The last three vacations I have taken in the last six years, have all been to the same place: Destin.  As you may have predicted from the title, I am there now.  Sitting quietly, trying to eat all the leftover food and drink the leftover wine that cannot make the trip home tomorrow, and I am finding myself feeling more than a little reflective.

My first trip to this area was in 2008.  My then-boyfriend-now-husband and I made the trip in a wildly unreliable car with less than fifty dollars in spending money.  We stayed at a really special little hotel that ran us a tab of $29.99 a night and ate sandwiches every meal.  We laid around on the beach and felt like we were a million miles away.  We were young and amused by both the people and the spectacle of the touristy town.  I specifically remember one day of laying on the beach, mostly asleep, marveling in the newly acquired freedom in my life.  I was happy.

Fast forward two years, and again I am on the Emerald Coast.  This time with my husband and in-laws.  I was three months pregnant.  Just preggo enough to look fat, but not cute and round.  I wrote a blog post then about my swimsuit mishap (How I Ended Up Flashing on Spring Break), but that is not the only memory I have of that trip.  We had all gone down to the beach, and my father-in-law sprung for the rental umbrella and beach chairs (we had longed for them last time).  I climbed in into the chair and covered myself up in a towel.  I daydreamed about our baby.  When I wasn't doing that,  I was reading one of the three Louis Erdrich books (which soothe my soul) that I had brought along, and I occasionally looked up from my book to find my husband tromping through the waves in his own version of beach joy.  And I was happy.

And now, here we are again, another two years later, this time with an 18-month-old kiddo in tow.  We knew we were not treading into easy territory with the long car ride, studio-style hotel room where we can all see each other all the time, and a first introduction to the sand and saltwater, but we wanted to spend sometime together as a family and share with him something that was special to us.  Each interaction with water was only minutely better then the one before.  He was still crying in the pool at day five, but there was no more screaming.  The beach also took some getting used to.  There was a lot of confusion and hysteria, and it wasn't always just the baby.  It can be very draining to contain a child in certain circumstances.

The night before leaving, we found a great little local coffee shop called, Starbucks, maybe you've heard of it?  This one was real fancy-inside of a Target.  We sprung for Ventis and hit the beach at dusk.  Walking down to the shore, our son's wind-up started.  It is a combination of turning into a screaming noodle if he is being held, or a limp, leg-less, scream machine if he is holding hands and walking.  We scooped him up, made a few long strides, and quickly sat down facing the water.  After a few seconds,  he realized we weren't going to make him go in the water, and he calmed.  He reached down and grabbed handfuls of sand (something that took us days to convince him was ok) and he began to amuse himself.  The screeching stopped.  He started to chatter at us and laugh at the feeling of the sand.  We admired the silhouette of him and immediately forgot about the screaming, that had ended just minutes before.  My husband and I began to quiet.  Really quiet.  We sat there in the dark, drinking our cold coffee, looking back between the water receding into the dark horizon and collection of stars we had forgotten existed since we moved to a city.  Meanwhile, our son walked in circles around us lovingly putting fistfuls of sand onto both of our heads.  And we were happy.

Super Saturday

Sometimes I doubt my ability as a Mom.  

I am a fine the-stuff-of-life-mom.  The doctor-appointment-making, food-prepping, make-it-to-work-on-time-mom.

But not Mom.

You know, that magical creature who manages to pull off powerful and meaningful life experiences daily.  Mom who does holiday crafts.  Mom who joyously learns all the words to every kid's song.

This is not a cynical or judgemental view of these incredible women, it is just aspiration.

All mom's have guilt.  We are given it free-of-charge with the birth of our children.  And us working moms, have a special brand of guilt.  Often failing to realize that the happy moments of laying (exhausted) on the floor, allowing our child(ren) to jump on our stomachs while laughing hysterically, counts as meaningful and valuable together time.  I know that I feel inadequate because on many days I see my son for 2.5 hours a day.  That is a small number.  It is very hard not to feel guilty about it.  The other 21.5 hours are spent sleeping or at daycare. Which makes that ability to be Mom, feel like an impossible task.

But as I mentioned, it can be a great motivator.  

Last Saturday, I planned a Mom and son day.  We got up in the morning, and I packed everything under the sun to be prepared for our day of adventures.  He rode around in the backpack carrier while we shopped for books.  He sat across from me at the table of the chicken-fil-a delightedly eating his chicken and yogurt, laughing and engaged in a pretend discussion with me.  He dozed as we made the long drive to the rural park where we would spend the day.  We scaled the playground.  We chased the ducks.  My son ate some duck pellets, so did the ducks.  We walked 5 miles along a beautiful river, feeling the fresh air and sunshine and letting ourselves be restored.  Blissful in this time of quiet engaged-ness with my son, I began to feel like Mom.  

After the 5 mile loop, we went back to the car, loaded up, and started home.  I passed back some crackers and water and contendedly we made the long drive home.  As we neared our neighborhood, a thought popped into my mind.

Oh.my.

I had not changed his diaper...all day.  That diaper was 8 hours in the trenches. 

I pulled into the driveway and knew what I was in store for as I went around to the side door to open it.  Grinning in the seat, was my soggy drenched son.  Wet through his clothes, and sitting in a pee-soaked car seat, was my urine-coated-happy-boy.

Here's to you Moms.  

I am not there yet.  But I am trying.