BrooklynGirl

"Only a Baby Can Start."

We didn't get the snow day on Tuesday, which was a bummer.  That didn't stop 3/4 of the 4,300 students at my school from showing up late and blaming the weather (Note to students: after teachers and wannabe teachers have dragged their sorry asses into school on time, there's nothing about which we could be less sympathetic.  Don't expect that absence to be excused.)

For those in attendance, we pressed on to one of my favorite chapters in The Grapes of Wrath, the so-called bitterness chapter.  Oh, yeah.  Brooklyn Girl knows bitterness.  In this chapter, about to be migrant families are selling off their few possessions before they hit the road for the (un)promised land, and it's crushing, really, to imagine what that would be like (11th graders, incidentally, don't find it crushing.  They find it a little silly, and when they giggle over these destroyed lives--even if they are fictional ones--it makes the resurrection of corporal punishment sound awfully appealing).

These broken people talk about starting over again.  "But you can't start," they argue. "Only a baby can start."  And we readers are meant to the think of Rose of Sharon, the pregnant Joad girl, who carries the baby that represents this new start.   Of course, there are other pregnancies in the book.  There's Uncle John, who's haunted by the death of his pregnant wife (because he didn't call for a doctor) years ago and even Pa Joad, who was so freaked out when his wife went into labor with their first that "using his hands, his strong fingers for forceps, he had pulled and twisted the baby [out]," damaging the child. 

So, babies and the Joads?  Not such a sure thing. 

I talked a lot about the risks of pregnancy (all but giving away the ending of the book, which they have not read yet) and about the pressures on the dimwitted Rose of Sharon and women in general.  I think I actually said, "pregnancy isn't a guarantee, you know."

The poor kids.

Does It Make Me A Bad Person...

...to admit that I'm really hoping for a snow day tomorrow?

Yes, I just had a week off from school, and yes, I'm taking Thursday off to scurry to various doctors appointments, but I would love, love, love to spend tomorrow watching the snow from the comfort of my couch.

At school today, all the teachers were pretty low energy until it started to snow (in the middle of seventh period) when word trickled in--even to the interior classrooms and offices--that it was snowing and snowing hard.   Adults were chanting "SNOW DAY!  SNOW DAY!" with unexpected fervor.   Even the students who wandered by were shocked. 

And the things is, they don't have a lot of snow days in the big city, which is a shame.  My school is in the nether regions of Brooklyn, which is not at the top of the Department of Sanitation's plowing list.  In late January when we had the last big snowstorm on a school day, they didn't cancel school--or even have a delayed open--even though none of the subways that stop in the vicinity of the school were running.

Alas.  A girl can dream.

Milestones

Last night was my last PIO shot for what I hope is a very long time.  This after 70 consecutive nights of "butt shots," as we came to call them.  I've been left with bruises, pock marks, and little spots of blood on the upper outer quadrant of most of my dainties and the pants portion of my favorite jammies.  I'm also jettisoning the estradiol patches, which have left red, raw circles on the parts of my belly not targeted for heparin (which will continue--can't do away with all the shots, now can we?).

When they called to give me the news, I didn't ask about levels because, frankly, I'm past caring.  Okay--not really, but let's all play along, shall we?

*****

I am (student) teaching my first high school class tomorrow.  It's Advanced Placement American Lit, and I'm teaching a short story by Edith Wharton that went over like a lead balloon in the class that I observed (but didn't teach) today.

One of the things I really like about teaching is how consuming it is.  When I'm in a classroom, I don't have time to think about anything except how abominable my blackboard handwriting is or how that kid over there in the corner next to the window keeps thinking he can pull his hood up over his ears, put on his headphones, and listen to his iPod during class without my noticing (I assure you he cannot).

In this particular case, however, the story revolves around a pregnancy.  Ironic, isn't it?

*****

For those keeping score, this is week 12 of the, um, project.

Distractions

Thanks for your kind words about the bad thing.  There is a whole region of my brain labeled "do not disturb" where the scary shit that I try not to think about lives, and this has taken up a whole wing of its own.

I will just say this one thing on the topic: I called my doctor earlier today thinking that I ought to give my side of the story in the event that the fellow and the nurses who were on duty yesterday were crowded into his office rolling their eyes about the hysterical patient that is Brooklyn Girl.  Also, I thought he might have some actual medical advice.

As it turned out, he had no medical advice but said that he thought going in for an ultrasound was very reasonable under the circumstances (God how I crave approval).  He asked when my first OB appointment was (next Thursday) and wondered aloud if I would be able to wait that long between scans.  I was astonished that he understood this and happily scheduled an appointment for Friday. 

******

In other news, I'm actually back in school now: teaching (well, currently observing other teachers) and going to classes.  I spent the morning with a bunch of high school students--such a delightful change from the 7th graders of last semester. 

It's kind of nice not to be able to spend the whole day googling "IVF + spotting + miscarriage."

A Little More About Me

The reason I have so much time on my hands these days is a little shameful...see, I'm finishing up graduate school so I'm actually still on winter break.  I don't go back to school (and semester #2 of student teaching) until January 18th.  Disgusting, no?

It's not that I don't have hobbies.  I've been catching up on some of my overdue knitting projects, straightening up the blog (note some new links on the left), cleaning up the apartment some (should be doing more of this), visiting with pals, and watching TV.  Lots of TV.  I watch too much TV really, though fortunately daytime TV has lost it's appeal--except for Adoption Stories, which is the family building show I allow myself when I feel like being a little weepy.

In the evenings, I am a sucker for some reality shows, although I do have my limits.  I'm still fascinated by The Amazing Race--especially by the train wreck that is Jonathan and Victoria--and, I confess, I'm addicted to The Real World.  Now, what generally amuses me about that show is how totally unlike any normal person's real world it is.  And by normal person I mean me.  Last night, for example, one of the cast members who has a tendency to drink WAY TOO MUCH and threaten people with knives decided he was going to get control of his drinking by limiting himself to 5 drinks a night.  I chuckled at the fact that any person living in reality would think that 5 drinks a night was a reasonable plan for controlling drinking (bearing in mind that I have a slight bias because of my current booze-freeness in case of, well, you know).  Then I flashed back to a time in college when one of my roommates was diagnosed with high blood pressure and the infirmary suggested he lose weight.  Our supportive solution for helping him?  Whenever we bought beer, we made sure there were some "light" options.  Doh!

Anyway, those are the secret confessions of Brooklyn Girl.  Ultrasound #2 is tomorrow.  I may or may not be experiencing nausea because it's hard to wonder if you're feeling nauseous (and wonder what it means if you're not) without--surprise--suddenly feeling nauseous. 

A Reminder of How Disgusting Teenagers Are

(Tertia--Though this has nothing to do with the following post: 6dp3dt.)

So, yesterday there was a flurry of activity at school that involved the nurse running around frothing at the mouth.  Since this is a woman who moves slowly and deliberately when caring for a child who has tumbled down the stairs and is bleeding seriously from a gash in his chin, I figured it had to be pretty serious.

It turns out that all the excitement was about this: one of the students had gotten colored contact lenses for her birthday, had worn them to school, and had LET HER FRIENDS TRY THEM ON.  Ewwwwwwwwwwwwwww!  I mean, really, just ewwwww.  Several of the girls now apparently have eye infections and these really bad stye-looking things pulsing from their eyes.

So, the nurse and the teachers had to, in all seriousness, make announcements to each class reminding them that some things are NOT for sharing.  Ick.

A Breakthrough. And a Revelation.

You know how back when you were in school you had that one really annoying teacher who answered every question with a question?  The question itself didn't matter.  If you wanted to know why a negative multiplied by a negative made a positive or what a covalent bond was or whether there really was such a thing as a catcher in the rye, there was always some smart ass teacher who would pause dramatically and ask, "What do you think?"

And I hated that.  Never one for public displays of ignorance, I had to muster considerable effort to pose a question in the first place so to have it turned back on me was, well, horrific. 

Today I learned what those smart ass teachers were up to: they were stalling for time.  Due to some miscommunication, my cooperating teacher was expecting me to teach a lesson today--a full 45 minute lesson--and I, um, I don't know what I was expecting, because I've only been paying attention to all things follicular.

So, with zero prep time, I launched my 45-minute fiction-writing workshop on creating compelling characters.  I lobbed platitudes to and fro ("write what you know" or the equally useful "show me don't tell me") and when that was done about 7 minutes later, I opened the floor for questions.

"Why are evil characters so much more interesting than good characters?" Asked one budding 13-year old writer, his eyes wide with expectation.

I cleared my throat.  I looked at the clock at the back of the room.  "Why do you think evil characters are more interesting than good characters?"   

Voila.  One annoying, smart ass teacher, at your service.   Will work for meds.

When the Present Catches Up to the Future

When I applied to graduate school, I did it with a sense of urgency.  I'd been thinking about becoming a teacher for so long and was so unhappy in my then current job that I was desperate for a change and tired of waiting for just the right time to make my move.

In fact, I was so unhappy in my job that I wondered if the professional angst  was in some way responsible for our reproductive issues, which were just then hitting the one year mark.  Maybe to get pregnant, I needed to feel happy and secure with what was going on in my life?  So, I enrolled, checking the leave of absence policy at my school and reasoning that I would most assuredly take some time off between my first and second year to give birth and bond with my baby.

Ha, ha, ha.  So funny I forgot to laugh.

Now here I am, nearly 3/4 of the way done with my program.  So close to the end, in fact, that today we got the speech about looking for a job for the school year that begins in September 2005.  I am excited about being a teacher--I really am--but there are so many things (okay, maybe just one thing, but it's a biggie) that I want to happen between now and then that it's hard to focus.

This is the future I had planned and it's what I want, but it's not what I dared to hope.

The Other Kind

There is the kind of teacher that likes field trips, that likes the break in the routine and the opportunity to interact with students in a slightly less formal setting, that likes the possibility of utter chaos that dogs you all day until you return to the relative calm of the classroom.

It should not come as a huge surprise to learn that I am the other kind of teacher, the kind that hates field trips, that finds them another excuse for kids to misbehave and not do their work, that gets all twitchy at the notion of 2+ hours in a school bus with 51 adolescents.

This week's field trip involved a visit to a middle school on Long Island. The school was nice enough, but I didn't think it was any great shakes. I mean, it reminded me of my own school so many years ago--you know, generic public school. The kids, however, were in awe. I sat behind them in the auditorium and listened to them whisper about the seats ("They have cushions!" "There are armrests just like at the movies!").

They paid attention to the presentation they were there to watch, but their attention flagged during the question and answer so I took a group of girls to the bathroom to kill some time. On the way, we walked past the school's art gallery. Yes, art gallery. It was "just" student work, but it was mounted and well lit and well displayed. My city kids won't even have an art class this year.

After they composed themselves, they heard music wafting down the corridor and were off in pursuit of its origin. It was band rehearsal. The kids stood mutely in the hallway watching, and they applauded when the song was over. The band teacher acknowledged the girls and asked who they were. He took a break to give them a mini-tour of the music room filled with bright shiny instruments. I could see the envy that was building in the kids begin to overflow, and I thanked the nice teacher and herded the kids back to the auditorium.

Eager to make this into a learning experience, when we got back to our city school, the one without band or art, I asked them if they would rather attend the school in the suburbs than the one they attend now. The answer was a unanimous yes. "Why?" I pressed.

They talked about how neat and tidy everything was, how quiet the students were in the hallways, how nice the lockers were, and--of course--how shiny the band instruments were. "But," one of them chirped as silence settled over the group, "We would ruin it. We're loud and messy. We can't be trusted with nice stuff." And the group spent a few moments in utter self-loathing, concurring that they deserved the under-resourced city school in which they find themselves.

I was shocked.

And then I was struck that that's exactly how I feel about being infertile. That part of me deep down inside feels that I got what I deserve. I envy happy parents and their babies with the same naked longing I saw in my seventh graders drooling over band instruments, and I worry that I'm not worthy of that happy ending.

Maybe that's why I get along with these kids so well?

Another Day, Another Dollar

Okay, first, anyone who hasn't been over to Tertia's place to read this really ought to go now. I'll wait. Plus, nothing I say here is going to be nearly as interesting.

Now, on to mundane issues: for those who have been asking about school, it's going well. The kids were bad on Wednesday, as I said, and worse on Thursday, but they bounced back a little on Friday and then again today. Phew.

Much as I wish everyone behaved as angelically as I remember behaving at that age*, it's hard to hold a grudge against 13 year olds. In describing this age group, someone once said that the worst thing that ever happened to anyone happens everyday in middle school. So true. You see it when the girl who everyone was clambering to sit next to on Friday is sitting by herself on Monday or when the boy sitting at Table 3 is still the tiny little cherub he was in sixth grade while his friend has grown 6 inches and attracted the interest of the girls who giggle when he walks by. That stuff could give infertility a run for its money in its soul crushing nature. Remembering that, it's hard to stay mad.

I'll be teaching my first official lesson on Wednesday, but the real test will be Friday when my cooperating teacher (as we say in the biz) is taking a personal day. I'll be left in charge with a substitute (since I don't have a teaching license yet, I can't be on my own with the kids). My knees are knocking already.

*Whether or not I actually behaved angelically is up for debate, but I've always been a pretty big nerd.