Moving Day

In all of the hub-bub of Richie’s graduation and resignation and sterilization (I’m kidding; I was just having fun thinking of other –ation words.), we may have failed to mention that we applied for a principal opening in White River, SD, and we actually received the job but decided to turn it down for a handful of reasons. If we had accepted the position, Richie would have been moving west and starting his new job on January 5th. It is in the spirit of moving, then, that I offer you this next story of the last time we moved.

About a year ago my husband and I decided to move from our rather empty house into a two-bedroom apartment on the east side of town in order to save gas money and pay off our student loans sooner. By sooner, I mean before we reach age 57 and start collecting whatever is left of Social Security.

As anyone can tell you, moving is always horrible. Just horrible. Too much stuff. Stuff too heavy. Day too hot. Day too humid. And in our case, too many stairs to climb. If you have ever moved, you know the feeling. Any move is horrible, but this one turned out to be exceptionally horrible, and therefore, perfect material for a story.

We had just celebrated Harmony’s first birthday by going to a Bon Jovi concert in Fargo, ND, with our friends, Ben and Maria. We had to drive home after the Saturday night concert, though, because Sunday is a work day for pastors. And this Sunday happened to be Moving Day, as well.

By two o’clock Sunday afternoon things were going as well as could be expected when one moves, although my stomach had been hurting all morning and Harmony had also had some na-asty diapers. By four o’clock my energy was fading fast, but my bowels were just getting their second wind. Sometime around five, when most of the move was complete and anything left was being shoved into plastic grocery sacks, I bent over to pick up a nameless, needless object, and at that moment I sharted! Right there in the middle of my barren living room! Surrounded by the few true friends who were still helping us move five hours after I had promised we would be done. With no scrap of clothing left in the house. Me, a grown woman who thinks that sort of thing is disgusting. I sharted! I honestly had not felt all that sick, but I guess the sphincters had thought otherwise.

For those of you who are too innocent or too isolated to know what I am talking about, or maybe you are too proper to actually give this semi-normal human process usually done while sitting on a toilet a name, sharting is when you s--t and fart at the same time. One could also call it po-arting or cr-arting, but sharting has a much better ring to it. A shart happens when you think that you will be sly and sophisticated and just let an SBD (silent but deadly) float right out while casually walking to the other room, but instead you are left with tread marks on your underwear and as you waddle to the nearest bathroom. And in my case, the underwear I was wearing were the ONLY underwear left in the house! Because remember, today is moving day and moving is always horrible.

So what can I do? I waddle to the bathroom, sit down, and survey the damage. Not bad, I think. Definitely wipe-able. I look left where the toilet paper should be hanging. I see only a brown roll of cardboard. Then I remember already packing all the extra toilet paper. I think about the “Spare a square” Seinfeld episode. I chuckle. I catch a glimpse of my poop-stained underwear. I stop chuckling.

Let’s just stop here for a moment, shall we? What would you have done? Yelled for help? While yelling, who would you have wanted to come? Who would you want to rescue your poop-stained self? And what could that person have done, really? There are NO paper products left in the entire house! Would you have waited on the porcelain throne while your friend, thinking that you pooped your pants, runs to the store to buy you a role of TP? Really. Before you judge me. What would you have done?

Back to the action. I am sitting on the toilet in a house completely void of all paper products and extra clothing. I have just pooped unwillingly in my underwear, and I don’t know what to do. I have never been in this situation before, nor I have never heard of anyone being in this situation before, either because it has never happened to another living soul or because no one is brave or stupid enough to talk about it.

But I guess that’s just what I do. I get into ridiculous situations and then share my hard fought wisdom with others. This usually comes in the form of what not to do, but in this case, I think this might be good advice to follow. In a sense, I am a trailblazer. I have always been a trailblazer. As the oldest child in my family, it has always been my job to make choices and cut a path that my younger brother or sister either decide to follow or not. So this one’s for you, Ty and Kadie.

If you happen to ever be sitting on the toilet after sharting with no clean underwear or available toilet paper in sight, carefully remove the stained underwear (and I mean CAREFULLY!), fold them in such a way as to protect yourself from an even bigger diarrhea disaster, and simply use the clean side to wipe any remaining residue from your bottom. Stand proudly, knowing you have made your sister proud, and pull your pants, sans underwear, back up. (This is what they call, “Going commando”; you’ll get used to the feeling after awhile.) The final step is this: Even more carefully than before, wad up the dual-purpose, double-sided panties (or briefs, as the case may be), find an almost full garbage bag (one that is actually full of garbage, not miscellaneous items that did not find their way into a box) and dispose of any evidence.

Once back at the apartment, I discretely grabbed a fresh pair of underwear and began unpacking, proud of my problem-solving skills and grateful for another story. I had survived the sharting episode, just like I have endured other embarrassing moments of bodily dysfunction and social unawareness. And slowly I am beginning to understand one important key to surviving this or any other embarrassing moment: Tell it! Tell your story. Get it off you chest. Just get it out. Quit bearing the shame and humiliation all by yourself. Turn your lemons into lemonade, for lack of a better cliché, and use your less-than-flattering moments to become a good storyteller and give other people a good laugh.

Deck the Halls with Munky Balz

Upon first glance at the title of this entry, one might think that this story focused around Curious George learning how to spell because of some amazing cross-curricular spelling lesson taught by his P.E. teacher right before the holiday break. And based upon the number of children's books I've read and PBS cartoons I've watched in the last year, that assumption is well grounded.

But sadly, this post has nothing to do with a curious little monkey or gym class. Instead, we will set our scene at Roosevelt High School, Room A209, AP Biology. In an effort to incorporate more formative assessment into our daily lessons, I was quizzing my kids on the parts of enzymes and the beauty of water's polar nature. The kids would hear my question, write their answers on small, rectangular white boards, and then when I would give them the signal, everyone would flip the white boards around and reveal their answers. (Let it be known on the record, as well, that I am all for teachers adjusting their plans based on what students are or are not truly comprehending, but please, any person with half a brain can usually tell by looking at the degree of glossiness in the eyes, how much or little a student is retaining.) After asking the question, I, too, would write the answer on my own white board and then sit and wait, with the white board's backside facing the students until we were all ready to reveal.

Now, in all fairness, I know that throughout the many years of white board use, students have written some very raunchy text and drawn some very raunchy pictures on the backside of these formative assessment tools. I guess, on this day, I just forgot about all of that.

This was the format for the majority of the lesson in all three of my AP Biology classes that day. Me...sitting up front in my director's chair...asking questions...holding the backside of the white board on my lap...for all my students to see.

It wasn't until the very last period of the day, about 2:30pm, when one student said softly to me, "Hey, you should look at the back of that thing." I turned the white board around and read aloud the message that I had been broadcasting to my students all day: Suck my munky balz. And in case anyone was wondering what munky balz looked like, there was a picture, too.

Yes. Suck my munky balz. Shown proudly for all to see. This infamous formative assessment tool now resides in the third drawer of my lab desk, a constant reminder never to take myself or my job too seriously.

So this holiday season, if you ever find yourself with lists too long and time too short, just remember, "Deck the halls with munky balz! Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night."

This Sunday After Church

I have always considered myself a writer, not necessarily because I have all these grandiose ideas streaming through my mind that warrant public acknowledgement, but instead because I hands down prefer the written word to any spoken. Besides texting itself, I cherish all things text: books, magazines, post-it notes, and the ever present inspirational postcard.



So, when I stole ten minutes away from my higher calling of improving the lives of America's young people through the power of education, I was honestly giddy.



Yeah, that was Monday morning. This is Thursday evening, and I've got nothing to show for it! It's like I'm literally (pun!) paralyzed. The idea of my ideas floating around in cyberspace for all to read and judge totally freaks me out. I'm more of the "stand outside the fire" kind of person, as my long time older man crush, Garth Brooks, so adoringly sang about. (Keep watch for a longer list of older man crushes in subsequent entries.)



But here I am, posting to the world. Yeah, right! Who am I kidding? If you're reading this, we are probably closely related or I owe you money and you're just trying to keep track of me.



I think starting anything is the hardest part, so let's just pick up the conversation as if we're already having one. This past Sunday was a joyous day to worship God by pulling a bulky snow coat over our crabbier-than-crabby toddler, wrestling her into a five-point harness carseat, and then dropping her off with the ever patient, next in line for sainthood, nursery staff. (I think one of the things I look forward to the most in Sunday morning worship is simply sitting by myself, not being touched or needed or whined at by anyone. Ahhhh.)



But I digress. Back to the original content of this post.



If you had been driving down 26th Street after the service on Sunday about 12:30pm, you would have seen Hillcrest's student ministries pastor running over his wife with the maroon Pontiac. ("Running over" may carry too strong of a connotation, but the jolt I received from the right bumper did cause me to stumble back a step or two.) If you had continued to watch this scene play out, you would have witnessed the pastor's wife (Please know that I never call myself a pastor's wife, but this title lends itself well to my story.) giving him the death stare and cussing him out. Loudly. So much for the transforming work of the Holy Spirit. When the rubber hits the road, or the car hits the body, as the case may be, I fail miserably.



Stay tuned next Sunday, same time, same place, for the next episode of You've Got to be Kidding Me! starring the Hutchinson family That episode will no doubt be entitled "Two Masters Degree Getting Owned by a 20-month Old. Again." Should be a good one. As always, we promise to make you feel better about your own circumstances by laughing at ours.