So, So Lame

I just finished two days of training in the Lindamood Bell curriculum, Visualizing and Verbalizing.  And after two days, what do I have?

More plastic trinkets than anyone else in the class!

That’s right, baby, I answered more questions correctly, and asked more insightful questions than anyone else.  Each time I did, the facilitator gave me a prize.  Once I understood that there were prizes involved, it was game on.  No one would leave that conference room with more junk than I!

So, so lame.

I want the boys to love learning for its own sake.  I don’t want them comparing themselves to others.  I don’t want a bunch of Dollar Store crap in my house.  But I just couldn’t help myself.

If only this were the most egregious example of my competitiveness, I might have more hope of raising the boys in a healthier environment.  Alas, it was not…

If you read the blog regularly, you know that my first husband died when I was seven months pregnant.  I returned to work as a high school teacher in New York City nine days after Scott died.  I waddled in with a cup a coffee and an egg sandwich and sat down across from Ed, the principal, who put his paper down and asked, “Are you sure you want to be back so soon?”

“I’m sure that I don’t.  But I need to save my sick days now for after the baby is born.”

We were scheduled for two days of in-service training, and I was dreading it.  I didn’t want to spend the whole day with the other faculty.  They all loved me, but many of them would spend the day staring at me, afraid of me, worried about what to say or not say. And did I mention there would be two days of training? Two days without seeing my students and without teaching – nothing to do but gut my way through another boring day of profession development and feel the horror of what had happened.

On the second day the trainer began, “I thought we could start this morning with a fun exercise to wake up our brains.”

Whoever hired him clearly did not understand the audience he would have to reach.  Veteran New York City high school teachers are decidedly not looking for fun ways to wake up their brains.

He handed out a worksheet with a list of cryptic clues.  We were to figure out what each letter of each clue stood for.  For instance, if the clue were 3 B.M.S.H.T.R., we were to write 3 Blind Mice See How They Run.  If the clue were 57 H.V., the answer was 57 Heinz Varieties.

As soon as I got the sheet, my consciousness immediately split in two.  There was the part of me with knots in my stomach, longing for Scott, wondering if he could see me, longing to hold my baby, wondering what color eyes she would have.  There was also a part of me that was fiendishly excited to work on these clues.  I love word puzzles, math puzzles, even jigsaw puzzles in a pinch.  And this puzzle had a timer and lots of other contestants, even if they didn’t see themselves that way.

I went to work on the puzzle like my life depended on it, the two sides of my brain providing running commentary.

“12 Signs of the Zodiac.  Check.”

“What’s wrong with you?  How could you care about this?”

“Shut up, I’m working.  Do you know what 64 S on a CB could be?”

“I don’t give a shit.  I want to curl up in bed and not come out until Sarah is born.”

“That’s a lie.  You like this as much as I do. 64 Squares on a Chessboard.  Ha! Got it!”

Time ran out and none of us had finished.  He asked who had gotten the most, and I was torn between wanting to have won, and being afraid I would look cold if I had.  Luckily a teacher named Len got two more than I did, and I never had to admit that having the love of my life die was not enough to stop me from trying to bury my competition.

So, so lame.

Lord, have mercy.