Author Archives: Theresa

Dear Daddy,

Posted in About Me, More Theresa's Thoughts by

Dear Daddy,

It has been almost two months since you have been gone. And the reality that you are actually gone is becoming more and more clear to me. And as that realization becomes clearer, I find myself crying more often. I am sobbing even now as I write this letter to you, squinting at the vision of my computer screen, blurred with tears.

It is so hard to explain—to explain the grieving process. But I know you know how it goes. I watched you handle yourself so well when Grandpa passed away when I was 19 years old. But two months after Grandpa died, I also found you in your bedroom completely collapsed on your bed, holding your father’s portrait in your hands. I’ll never forget that day. It was the first time I ever saw you cry. You became human to me that afternoon. And seeing you with those new eyes made me love you all the more.

Now here I am in your place. I handled myself well when you died. I cried, sure, but I stayed focused. I made your video montage, the scrapbook, and wrote that eulogy for you. I read my piece at the funeral, set up the video projector, and talked with all the friends and family who came to grieve with us. I cried less on the day of your funeral than any of the days prior. I wondered if people would judge me based on that. I put you in a box that day, emotionally. And I let the need to be focused—the need to meet people’s needs push away the raw pain so many others allowed themselves to feel that day.

Then it was back to work. Back to being a wife. Back to being a mom. Back to being pregnant. The times I allowed myself time to think about you and miss you and grieve for you were in between those moments of duty—driving in my car. Driving from where I had to play Theresa the teacher to the next place, where I would play Theresa the wife and mother. I had very little down time. And it is the down time, where we can feel safe enough to just mourn. To just feel and to think and to miss you.

But also…..there are the reminders that you are gone that I didn’t get as much over the last two months as someone like Linda. Linda spent every day with you. She slept with you, lived with you, went to work with you. Your absence is clear to her every minute of the day.

I saw you like once or twice a month. I talked with you two or three times a month on the phone. We texted each other once or twice a week. We emailed each other once a week or so as well. So even though I know you are gone, it is not until those times of contact go unfilled that the actual feeling of your absence becomes clear. Well it has been two months Daddy. I should have seen you at least twice now. I should have talked with you about four times and we should have texted each other and emailed each other at least eight times by now. I am feeling your absence Daddy. And I am missing you terribly.

I will no longer get funny texts from you with pictures of you and Linda on your adventures. I will no longer get your emails with attached art you created for me to enjoy or political emails or inappropriate jokes. I will no longer feel your warm hugs when I come to your house or hear your deep voice on the phone.

I am so sad that you are gone Daddy. Jameson will be here in 6 weeks and I am so sad that I will not see you in the hospital room. I am so sad that Jameson will not meet the greatest man in my life next to my husband.

Daddy—you were only 57 years old. But the autopsy came today and they said you accidentally drowned. I don’t understand why you had to die so young and so unexpectedly. I trust God in His ways, but it doesn’t mean I understand Him all the time.

There are moments when I forget. Someone will walk by and they look like you and I’ll take a double take until I catch myself and remember, it can’t be you. I’ll call Linda to ask her something and she won’t be home and that darn answering machine comes on and I hear your baritone voice and for a moment, its like you are really there, its like I’m talking to you—and then I remember. I’ll be going through my voicemail, erasing the old ones, and then I get to the last one you left me—a week before you left on vacation to Maui. And again—here you are talking to me in the same tone you always have. My heart stops for a moment….And then I remember. And its at these moments daddy, these moments when I remember, when I realize, when I know…..and each time, you die all over again. And with that, a little piece of the illusion that you are still here dies too.

I do not know when the last fragment of this illusion will die. I do not know how long it takes before your voice message is taken off your answering machine. Before your clothes are sold or given away or Linda puts away that jar of peanuts that still sits beside your recliner in the living room. Before I stop taking double takes at your look alikes in the county. I do not know when I will stop looking at your page on Facebook or perhaps when it gets erased. Or when your voice mail to me accidentally gets erased or disappears when I sell my phone or change my phone number. I do not know when Jameson will point at a picture of you and say, “who is that?” And I will have to tell him stories and show him more pictures and try so hard to get him to truly know and appreciate you the way his cousins or brother do. And he probably won’t because that is how it goes when you never meet the person and I will have to deal with the hurt and the frustration that he doesn’t know. That he doesn’t appreciate the most compassionate man I ever had in my life. The man who was the heart of our family and who is now gone and with that absence has left a massive hole, a massive void in our lives. A void my Jameson won’t even realize exists because he will never know what it was like when it wasn’t there.

Your son, Anthony made a post yesterday morning on your page on Facebook. It said something like “I wish. I wish. I wish I had one more wish.” Me too Daddy. Had I known I would never see you again, I would have called you more. I would have visited you more. I wouldn’t have allowed the business of life give me permission to say “tomorrow.” I would have gone out to happy hour with you that day you left your last message on my voicemail. I would have called you when you were on vacation in Maui and apologized for bothering you but would have told you something, everything, anything. Anything but “I would have.”

Thank you Daddy for pulling me out of my downward spiral after high school. Thank you daddy for giving me a home and paying for my school at Palomar. Thank you for being there for me through all my successes and failures. For loving me through moments of integrity and purity and yet also my selfishness and pride. Thank you for always opening up your home to my sister, brother, and I when we needed help. For always hoping and expecting the best for us even when we didn’t have that same belief. Thank you for being so loving and accepting of my husband Owen. Thank you for making him so quickly a part of the family and being joyful with us through our adventures of marriage and our pregnancy.

There is more to come from me Daddy. I’m not done writing letters to you. I pray I never will be done.

I love you. I miss you. I do not know if you are able to hear me right now or read this letter. I do not know how Heaven works. But I cling to God’s promise that He has made a house for you. And that you are there with Him. And that I will see you again.

Your daughter,

Theresa

33 Week checkup

Posted in About Me, Pregnancy Update, Random, The Hemsath Life by

Just had my 33 week checkup yesterday (or 34 weeks if we prefer UCSD’s assessment) and things are looking great!

Firstly, I passed my glucose tolerance test! Boy was that whole process a pain. First, I went in for the standard one-hour test. Now when I did this test with Kanan, my doctor told me i didn’t have to fast, so I made my appointment for after work. Well, I had carrots for lunch without knowing that those are one of the highest vegetables on the glycemic index. So I didn’t pass it and therefore had to take the 3-hour test which includes fasting (I’ll go into the details soon). I did not want to make the same mistake again, so this time I took the test in the morning after I didn’t eat breakfast just to make sure. Well, the lab lost my blood. Yes,you don’t have to reread that last line, they LOST MY BLOOD. Now this wouldn’t be such a terrible thing except for that the test is not fun. You have to drink this  10 oz bottle of disgusting sweet syrup version of tang and then sit there for an hour feeling terrible before they take your blood. So needless to say, when they lost my blood and I learned I would have to do it again, I was not happy. But I did it. And again, I didn’t eat breakfast. But I did enjoy a cup of half-caf coffee with powdered creamer and no sugar. Not a good choice. I didn’t pass. Agh! I looked up coffee on the internet and its connection with glucose levels. Guess what, it raises insulin levels. So there you go. I messed up. Again. So off to the three-hour test I went. This one is much worse. You have to fast for 12 hours. So I didn’t eat anything from 8pm to 830 am when I went in to the lab. They stuck my arm immediately to get my “fasting glucose levels.” Then I had to drink the nasty drink. After one hour of sitting there, (actually standing for a while because no one in the waiting room offered the pregnant woman his or her seat, so I finally had to just clear one of the magazine tables and sat my rump there until one became available) they stuck my arm again for more blood to test. Then after one more hour, stuck my arm again. And then finally, one hour later, they stuck my arm for the last time. During this time, I felt sick. I had a difficult time concentrating so I couldn’t grade essays as I had attempted but instead could only maintain enough intelligence to mentally process the pictures in a February issue of People Magazine. I also felt this weird tingly sensation up and down my arms. But, on the positive note, I did use the negative experience to treat myself to an In-and-out cheeseburger and a vanilla shake on my way home. Felt much better after that!And the best news is, I passed. Yay!! I am thoroughly enjoying my cravings for baked goods like toast, creme of wheat cereal, cake, and cookies and did not want to swap that for chicken in the morning. 🙂

Condition of baby: heart rate in the 130’s still which is normal and good. His head is down–also good. He is moving all day long now as opposed to just the evenings. He gets an occasional bout of hiccups from time to time. He loves my belly being touched by dad or brother. And he gets extra active after Mom eats sweets. 🙂 He still likes to hang out on my right side, so my belly looks lopsided most of the time. And he doesn’t like it when I cough (leftover effect of the three-week bout of laryngitis I just got over)! He jumps sometimes when I do. It’s cute.

Condition of Mom:

On the downside—-I am starting to get uncomfortable pretty much all the time, but especially in the evenings. It seems that I’m having a harder and harder time feeling like I can breathe, the bigger this baby gets. So I sit in one position until it’s too uncomfortable and my breathing gets shallow. Then I move into another position. And the process continues. At night, I wake up constantly from being uncomfortable or needing to go to the bathroom. So now the fatigue is starting to come back during the day. I’ll definitely be ready for middle-of-the-night feedings though! Also–baby is putting weight on my bladder. So guess what happens when I cough? You got it. Even if I just went to the bathroom! Somehow there’s still just enough! Not enough to embarrass myself, but I know it happened and I don’t like it! So–I guess its time I start doing kegals. Boo! I always forget. And finally, my hips can sometimes really ache. I mean ache so bad that at night I have a hard time even walking–especially if I was on my feet a lot that day. I think I’m officially ready to just roll myself around my classroom on my desk chair instead of walking. Haha!

On the bright side–I’ve gained only 25 pounds so far, which is much, much better than where I was at with Kanan. At the rate I am going, I should gain 33 pounds by the time Jameson comes, which fits right in the 25-35 pound healthy zone for pregnant women. Yay!! Secondly, my skin looks fabulous. After Kanan was born, I have struggled with more acne. I was always blessed in this area, so constantly having 5-6 pimples on my face everyday drives me nuts! Well, now my skin is better than ever. Not one pimple! I love it! I can go makeup free and feel beautiful! And, my chapped-lips continue to stay gone. Oh, and this is strange, but I’ve noticed my hair on my legs is not growing as fast. I used to have to shave my legs everyday and now I can go like 3 days between shaves. And the hair that is there is super fine. What’s up with that? I mean I’m not complaining. Less work in the shower is definitely appreciated. It is just strange. Especially since the hair on my head is growing faster and none of the hair that is there falls out anymore, so its growing super thick. The same goes for my nails. They are stronger, with whiter tips, and long. Again, no complaints, just….strange.

Condition of Dad: He is working super hard in school, on his business, and building his business’s website. He is also still working in ministry–mentoring the youth of our church, working on his first sermon for the college group at our church on Luke 20, maintaining his studies in the internship program at our church, and attending a parenting class with me on Friday nights. He also of course balances this with his wonderful role as a husband and step-father to Kanan. He and Kanan are growing so close in their relationship–it is beautiful to watch. He of course is super excited about Jameson’s arrival–he’s cleaned out the garage and brought all of the baby stuff up to our apartment. And he is totally nesting! He completely reorganized the house during his spring break, bought curtains, hung them up, and rearranged furniture!

Kanan is 4!

Posted in Kanan news, Random, The Hemsath Life by

Well Kanan’s 4th birthday was such a hit and so full of action, I actually forgot to pull out my camera and capture any of it. And given my father wasn’t there, who had he been, would have walked around the entire time with his camera around his neck, clicking away, I didn’t have him to call to make up for my unsentimental mistake. So here it is ladies and gentlemen. I took two photos total. This one is the only one that didn’t come out blurry. Kanan had just blown out his candles on his T-Rex cake and was excited as can be to eat the piece with the T-Rex’s eye.

We originally planned to have the birthday at a MLK park, down the street. But when we slept in yesterday morning and found icky weather, we rushed around trying to work with our back up plan: our friends the Martin’s home. They were off getting tables and chairs for the gathering. Owen rushed to Dollar tree for back up games and table runners and then to Costco for pizza. I got myself and the birthday boy dressed and then grabbed our cake and presents and rushed off to the Martin’s to set up. People were already there, as I the hostess, arrived at the time the party was scheduled to start. So our gracious friends made do with Doritos, and nothing to drink until Owen arrived with the rest of our things. As for me, I didn’t realize the plates and cups were in my trunk and so thought I had forgotten them at home. So our friend Bill raised off to Dollartree again to grab more plastic plates while we used the Martins extras from their pantry. Aghhhhh! I think it was at this point I actually started to tear up a bit from feeling so overwhelmed and so bad. I took a breather outside.

But everyone had a good time. The kids ran around outside playing ball, inside playing with cars and dolls; and the toddlers toddled around with parents following them around. The adults sat around, chit-chatting, debating philosophical ideas, sharing life stories, and acting rather entertained by the children’s behavior.

I believe everyone would agree that watching the children play hot potato was the most entertaining. Children circa four years old aren’t the best of sports. As each child caught the potato when the music stopped, they stormed off angrily, some throwing the potato on the ground and then crying over their loss. By the end of the game we had one happy winner and about five crying losers. I then suggested moving on to Musical Chairs–the parent’s all laughed and agreed–maybe next year. In the meantime, Pin-the-tail-on-the Donkey seemed like a better option. The kids all could see through the poorly made blind-fold and everyone amazingly knew where the Donkey’s bottom sat.

Kanan laughed and played imaginatively with his friends all clad in animal masks after the games. We sang happy birthday, ate a delicious cake made by Albertson’s and decorated by yours truly. My T-Rex’s arms grew way bigger than they should have been, but overall at least looked like a dinosaur in the end.

Kanan loved his presents and cried excitedly with each and every one. Getting him to be patient enough to wait until home to play with his new toys proved a bit more difficult as all his friends were pressuring the alternative. We saw disaster if we gave in. But the Lightening McQueen ball seemed like a safe pick for all the kids to share as the party winded down afterward.

All in all, there was only one kid who peed his pants (on the plush couch) and no one threw up. Only five kids cried, but no one got physically hurt. Parents all walked away still friends and our hostesses still like us despite our lack of preparation for the change of events from the weather. And funny enough, the icky whether did subside, so that it probably would have been a fine day at the park. Hahahah!

Sighs….

Still, Owen and I were happy to be able to throw a party for little Kanan—a special day to celebrate him and praise God for blessing us with his sweet little laugh, his energy, and curiosity. He is growing up to be such an amazing kid with a sense of humor and a great imagination.

Kanan, we love you so much! Happy Birthday little man. And thank you Jesus for blessing us with him. May he grow up to love and serve you and be little light in this dark world.

Sick with the Cold-Virus from the Antechamber.

Posted in About Me, The Hemsath Life by
The genesis of my cold

Well, its official. I am sick. I’m on day 4. I tried to prevent it with vitamin D and prayer. I even thought I had avoided it. I had always thought that incubation period before coming in contact with a virus and the time your symptoms appear were like 2-3 days. Well, I suppose that may be correct if you can actually nail down the day of the virus’s invasion into your system. Take my husband and son for example. When Owen got sick, he was  very good about covering his mouth when he coughed, not kissing me on the lips, etc. So the worst of his cold came and went and I didn’t catch it. But Kanan caught it (probably during their tickling fight they had on the couch when Owen was still sick) and then I may not have actually caught it from him until two or three days after he caught it because it took that long before he coughed in my face while sleeping in my bed. (that’s what I get for letting the little guy crawl in at 5 am with his blankey, his bunny, his monkey, and his doggy.)

 
So my chart tracks the genesis. I blame it all on my cousin Dalton. Thanks coz! 😉
 
So why am I writing this blog about a cold? Because this is no ordinary cold. This cold is a malicious little virus that likes to fester in your respiratory system, affecting every aspect of it. It likes to linger. And it likes to torture!
 
First–you start off with a terrible sore throat. Your throat feels likes its been burned with fire and cut with razors. Swallowing, speaking, just existing….is pure pain. Then the cough  on day three comes and the fatigue and the head ache. Every time you cough, your throat flashes out a solar flare of fire and the pressure in your head erupts so high you feel like your head will explode. Then the chest pressure on day 4. You feel like someone is standing on your chest. You resort to shallow breathing just to minimize the pain—so then you feel dizzy and weak from the lack of oxygen in your system. The trip to the store to get another bottle of Tylenol or Robotussin puts you so out of breath, you collapse on the couch on your return. Next—the voice box. This virus takes sandpaper and shreds it up to pulp and then soaks his claws in slime and rubs it all over the remains of your voice box afterward. So the sound that comes from your throat when you speak on day 5 is this croaking, phlegmy sputter. That is what I can expect tomorrow. I’m on day 4 right now. But from all the other people who had it before me, this was their pattern. Unless I take the path Kanan took. Now–the virus didn’t attack Kanan on day 5 the same way. No with Kanan, he filled his sinuses up with so much phlegm and snot, the pressure left no other option but for it to find relief through erupting out of his tear ducts. I had to wipe away yellow mucus from the kid’s eyes like every 10 minutes over the course of 24 hours. I thought it was pink eye, but they never glued shut. And pink eye is severely contagious. I didn’t catch it. So, my diagnosis is–pressure from sinuses. Other slight variations include–pneumonia, as in the case of my Grandma who caught it. And hallucinations, as in the case of Dalton, my cousin who is the earliest host of this virus that I can track down. Oh, which one should I choose?!!
 
So here I am on my couch—too weak to talk, to walk, to do anything other than write to you all and tell you to stay away from me. Stay far away. I’m doing my best to do my part too. I watched my church service on-line. And I’m cuddling with my blankets. My husband is racing off to church right now to cover our home fellowship table that we totally forgot to attend at the first service because my cold distracted us from everything. I didn’t even know it was day lights savings day until I hopped on-line to read a little Japan news before catching the service, only to find the service was already 30 minutes deep at 9:30.
 
I had so many plans this weekend. Plans to organize Kanan’s room with all the baby stuff we pulled from the garage. Plans to clean. Plans to grocery shop. If I don’t get it done today than it will be chaos next week trying to balance work and wifing, parenting, and cleaning and a cold. Oh yes, and planning out last-minute details to Kanan’s birthday party next weekend. So I have today left of this waste of a weekend.  I don’t pick up Kanan until 4 today. So have some time to try to muster up the strength to get off this couch and at least fold a load of laundry that has been sitting on my bed the last week. A week? Yes…because I went from nursing my son, to a day of work and then nursing my own cold after  long days at work that even included a back to school night. I have had no time. As for  Owen, he has been amazing. While that laundry does need to be folded—it is the least I can do. He has cleaned out the garage, cleaned the kitchen, cleaned and organized the living room, cleared out space in Kanan’s room for the baby stuff, designed a video-reel for an actor friend of ours, written a paper, and studied for mid-terms. All the while, while still coughing up the last remains of this virus that debilitated him 10 days ago. Yes, he still has lingering remains. I’m telling you, it is the cold-virus from the Antechamber of you-know-where.

29 Week Checkup

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Baby’s heart rate: 137

Mommy’s weight gain: 22 lbs to date.

Progression of Pregnancy: 11 more weeks to go! Or 10. Yeah, I could be 30 weeks. Last day of work: April 22

Condition of baby: active to say the least. He kicked me in the ribs for the first time on Monday afternoon. Ugh that hurt!

Condition of mommy: chapped lips are going away= good.  Digestive system has gone awry again= bad. Trying not to get sick as everyone around me comes down with a nasty cold virus, so I’m taking vitamin D3 supplements and have done some research that helped me realize I need to continue with that for the rest of my life. Vitamin D3 is awesome! Also– my hair is getting thicker. I used to shed before I was pregnant, but not anymore. The same thing happened when I was pregnant with Kanan. As for the size of my belly—is it just me or am I not way bigger in the belly than I was at this point with Kanan? I don’t know, maybe its just my memory, but I feel like I look bigger. And my decolotage! I finally had to go buy new bras. Went up an entire cup size and and an extra inch in my ribcage!

Condition of big brother: very excited. Loves his little brother. Wants to be at the hospital when I give birth. Doesn’t want me to hurt.

Condition of Dad: sicky poo. 😦

What do you Wear to your Father’s Funeral?

Posted in About Me, More Theresa's Thoughts, Random, The Hemsath Life by

Maybe the simple black dress you wore for your seventeenth wedding anniversary

Maybe the white pearl earrings your father bought you for your 50th birthday

Maybe the silver cross necklace your six-year-old granddaughter gave you last Christmas

Anything but the black paisley maternity blouse with the pants that stretch for your growing belly

Anything but that

His Hands— in memory of my father, Jeffrey R. Matzke. Sept 4, 1954- Feb 10, 2011

Posted in About Me, More Theresa's Thoughts, Random, The Hemsath Life by

A Self-Portrait of my father---digitally designed with his hands

During a short time in my childhood I lived with my father in his mother’s house. He and my mother were going through a divorce at this time and my mother was taking care of my new-born brother. He painted with my grandfather during the day while I went to first grade and after school I ran around my grandmother’s house, playing make-believe, drawing trees, riding my tricycle and playing with my little sister before my father came home.  I was about six years old at this time and I was madly in love with my father, eager to see him when he came home in the evenings and even more so to spend every moment with him on the weekends. He was my best friend, my comfort, and my hero. While he was not able to spend a lot of time with us in our later childhood years after my mother remarried, the times we shared before that, still resonate such vivid imagery, it is hard to grasp that it was 25 years ago.

 His hands. His warm, large hands, callused from his weeks worth of work, over mine as he leaned over me from behind, teaching me how to balance on my first bicycle.

His hand’s gentle pull on my hair as he held the warm blow dryer and  brush after my bath. He brushed and dried my hair into a wild mane around my small, six-year old face and he would call me his little lioness.

 His strong hands closed tightly into two fists as he asked me to guess which hand had the quarter. If I guessed right, I could stay on the bottom step of the staircase leading to the bedrooms upstairs; if I guessed wrong, I had to scoot my bottom up one step–one step closer to my bed where sleep awaited—sometimes this game would take a whole, joyous half an hour before I made it to the top.

His quiet hands, turning the pages of my favorite bedtime story “Cinderella”—a story I made him read so often, I had memorized each word and so read it to my sister when my father wasn’t around.

His safe hands holding mine, as he carried me on his strong shoulders, and then diving into the swimming pool or throwing me up in the air so high, I swear I could look down at the rooftops before cannon-balling a large splash, and he would tell me how much I had grown.

 I remember one cold winter night, I heard the loud hum of his car when he pulled in. I had just taken my bath and felt so excited to see my daddy, I could not wait for him to come in. I opened up the large front door, hearing grandma yell for me to put my socks on. My wet hair hung in ringlets around my neck and pink cotton nighty, hung so long, I almost tripped over it as I ran out to greet him. He wore his black leather jacket and his hair blow dried back into a John Travolta style. He squatted down to await my hug and I took his hands and held  them to my face…. smelling the familiar blend of cigarettes and spearmint gum–my father’s signature and my peace.

 The same hands that would one day hold the arms of his future wife Linda years after the pain of divorce from my mother healed and the same hands that would clasp the photograph of his own father in his bedroom and then lay limply on  his bed as he mourned his father’s death. And the stern hands that put out that last cigarette when he decided he wanted to live a long, healthy life for his own family.

 The same hands that would pull me away from loneliness and depression when I was 17 years old and would do the same for my sister and brother too. That would carry my moving boxes into his home and pull the cash out of his pocket to pay for my books in college.

The hands that waved good-bye when I thought I was mature enough to start my life.  That would one day cradle my son Kanan when he came home from the hospital, and the hands that welcomed me back into his home and wiped the tears from my eyes when my life didn’t turn out as planned.

 The same hands that would give me away on my wedding day at the last-minute in Las Vegas and embrace my husband like he was a son, even when he barely knew him. Those hands that then clasped my own hands on the dance floor for our father daughter dance and guided my steps when I nervously told him I didn’t know how.

 The hands that exercised my grandmother’s legs after her knee surgery. Those same  hands that held her fragile ones in the hospital when she came down with pneumonia and the same hands that designed plans to renovate his guest bathroom so his mother could move in after she recovered and could shower easily in her old age.

The hands that held a coffee mug in one and the digital pen to his computer in his other so purposefully when he created his beautiful art illustrations in his later years. The hands that hung the portraits on the walls he made of himself with his beautiful wife and dog Riley . The hands that clicked send on his phone as he forwarded political jokes, photographs, and links to our family.

The hands that paid for the bill when my husband I were the ones to invite him and Linda to lunch at a local Mexican restaurant just weeks ago. Those same hands that would lovingly rub my belly that cradled my second son just weeks before my father’s surprise death in the waters of Hawaii.

So much of the future were held in those hands that my little 6 –year-old mind couldn’t even imagine on that cold winter night. And so I kissed those hands over and over again–so much, one would think I thought at that moment, that I’d never see those hands again.

Papa, I can’t wait to kiss your hands again.

My New Class

Posted in About Me by

When the Assistant Principal of my school walked into my classroom one month ago and told me the news, I had to bite my lip and fake a nonchalant attitude. Because of my upcoming maternity leave and shrinking ELD class sizes, Mr. Perez would be taking over my ELD 3 class and I would be relieving Mrs. Mueller of her excessively large Sheltered English 9 class by splitting it with her. Now any outsider might read this and think, “what is the big deal?” Well, go back to my previous blogs (Teaching Unmotivated students and Pssst, can I tell you a Secret?) about this Sheltered English 9 class. They used to be my ELD 3 class last year until they moved on to the next level this year. This is the worst class I have ever had in my entire career of teaching! This class made me ponder whether or not I wanted to continue being a teacher. This class oozed disrespect and disruption. I don’t know what it was about this class. Just a bad combination. I have taught ELD for years. Never have I had a combination such as this before. And after all of my hard work last year, I finally wore them down to one word: tolerable. That is the best I could make them. And now Mrs. Mueller has inherited them and has been struggling with them as well. The Assistant Principal and counselors believed that perhaps if the class were smaller, they could be more manageable. And so I would split that class with her and return those students back to her when I leave on maternity leave. A long-term substitute would only be needed for my remaining three English 11 classes.

I didn’t complain. I didn’t give alternative ideas. I simply smiled and said, “OK.” It’s only my second year here. I need a job. I refuse to complain.

But then I went home and prayed.

It was a simple prayer. Something to the effect of, “Oh Lord, save me. Help me get through this class. Calm these students down. Let the class run smoothly. Help me with the curriculum as it will be much more work to put together lessons without using the ELD curriculum. Help me with this emotional and intellectual work load. Lord, I don’t know what you can do, but please help me. Give me patience Lord. Give me energy. I need you.”

Then I returned to work in early January after the cold and rainy holiday and found a roster of my new class resting in my mailbox. On it was a list of ten girls. Girls???? Girls!!!!! They split the class by gender? I have just the girls? I scanned the list. There were ten beautiful names that would soon be written in curly letters with sparkly purple ink on college-ruled paper.

Some were girls I knew. The quiet ones who didn’t speak much because the loud, obnoxious boys demanded so much attention last year. The not so quiet girl, who transferred into my class later in the year because she had worked so hard to learn the language. Another who was a smart, hard worker, but put up a hard demeanor to protect herself from the drama of the Chicano culture–but who I knew, was still a girl. Just like me. Just like all the other girls.  And a few I didn’t know, but I knew one thing. They were not the boys in my ELD class whose names vibrated in my eardrums like teeth scraping a styrofoam cup. They wouldn’t throw trash across the room or curse at me or sexually harass the quiet senior girl from Lebanon. They wouldn’t sneak pot to school or come to class reeking of last night’s alcohol and pass out. They wouldn’t practice writing their gang name in fancy tag letters on their binder. Or draw pictures of penises and pot leaves instead of doing work.  No, I could handle this. These were girls!

And so we are now halfway through our third week together. We have talked; taken notes; written in journals; laughed; analyzed Taylor Swift’s song called “Fifteen” to study how it communicates a theme about growing up and compared it to a short story we read called “The Moustache” which also gave a message about growing up; we’ve assessed and reflected on our learning of how to combine sentences to create more complex structure. And now we are discussing war and will be comparing themes between two stories about the effects of civil war.

We had a little drama between a couple of girls where the first didn’t want to sit next to the other and work as a team because the other “was taking about [her] behind [her] back.” But I got the girls together and encouraged the other to apologize to the first. We talked about the need to communicate and we all realized that whether we are quiet and innocent or loud and experienced, we each are so similar: girls who just want to be understood and liked.

Already I feel a special bond forming between myself and these girls. Already I see the inhibitions dropping and hands raising. Already I see happening what couldn’t have happened in the education of these girls if they continued to have had to learn in an environment shared by boys who just didn’t care. Yes, the Lord took what looked like a curse and turned it into a joyous blessing. For all of us.

I think I just might cry on my last day with these girls come April when I leave on maternity leave. And that my dear friends, is awesome. 🙂