I have always found trust an easy thing to feel. For the most part, people make it easy to trust them - more often than not because they are trustworthy in general. And, of course, when a person breaks that trust, you can simply know to never feel that level of comfort with them again.
But what happens if the person who breaks the trust is someone you are intimately entwined with? How does that lost bond ever heal? The easy answer is that the other party heals it with love and kindness and by humbling themselves. They work hard to be sure you know you can trust them in the future. They understand the seriousness of what they have broken. They walk gently and understand you can't magically trust them again. They think before they act. They make it clear their respect and love for you is their number one priority in your lives.
And if they don't heal it? Then the opposite happens and the relationship dwindles and deteriorates until it is incapable of repair. That happens when the actions of the other person continue to produce stress, fear, tears, and mistrust. I would think this an easy concept. At least easier than many others I can think of. But the offending party would have to be sincere and be able to look outside themselves, with no expectation of if, when or how the trust grows again. They would simply have to be kind.
But as I write this, I realize that the facts would indicate the latter is a person who, in general, is not kind, does not love the other person, does not respect them and cannot find a positive attitude about life in general. And then that relationship isn't really a relationship of love. And the time invested, how ever many years that might be, have been wasted on something for which there is no hope.
I don't think these relatonships begin that way. I think it, sadly, just grows that way. Something or someone became broken and never cared to be whole again. I grieve because of it, but I know there is nothing more I can do. So instead, I do what I must to protect those I love and I severe that relationship with hopes and prayers that it is the right thing to do and that I am protecting us the best I can.
There has been too much pain. Too much fear and hurt and stress. Now we need peace and this is the only way I know to give that to us. Just the two of us...what once was three.
Sunday, May 29, 2011
Friday, May 6, 2011
Mother's Day
I guess it's the firsts that will hurt so much. First day after her death when I awoke and my first thought was that she was gone. The first phone call after I got home to speak to my dad and not her. The first sympathy card. The first comment from a friend. Now Mother's Day is upon us and it will be another first. Already I feel the ache in my heart. Already I feel the loss. And feeling this, I can't imagine how much more difficult it is for my sister, Kandi, who has cared for my parents all these years.
Since I had my daughter, Mother's Day has always been my favorite holiday. Not because mother's are the center of it but because I was given the gift of becoming a mother and my joy in that has been my greatest joy in life. This year, it's hard to feel that same way because my mother is gone from this earth. I know her spirit is with me when I need her. I know her love is there. But I won't hear her voice or see her face or talk to her and make her laugh again until I have moved from this life myself.
My husband asked me what I wanted to do for Mother's Day. I gave a half-hearted answer because nothing feels right. I might just go to church and then go to bed for the rest of the day. At least, that's what I'll feel like doing. But instead I'll smile and love on my sweet little daughter who gave me that joy beyond measure. That's what my mom would do, too.
I'm not sure what to do with the Mother's Day card I'd already bought for you when I couldn't decide between the two I narrowed it down to.
I miss you, Mama. I miss hearing your voice on the phone. I miss sharing things with you, hearing you laugh, listening to the love in your tone when you say you love me and miss me. I love and miss you, too.
Since I had my daughter, Mother's Day has always been my favorite holiday. Not because mother's are the center of it but because I was given the gift of becoming a mother and my joy in that has been my greatest joy in life. This year, it's hard to feel that same way because my mother is gone from this earth. I know her spirit is with me when I need her. I know her love is there. But I won't hear her voice or see her face or talk to her and make her laugh again until I have moved from this life myself.
My husband asked me what I wanted to do for Mother's Day. I gave a half-hearted answer because nothing feels right. I might just go to church and then go to bed for the rest of the day. At least, that's what I'll feel like doing. But instead I'll smile and love on my sweet little daughter who gave me that joy beyond measure. That's what my mom would do, too.
I'm not sure what to do with the Mother's Day card I'd already bought for you when I couldn't decide between the two I narrowed it down to.
I miss you, Mama. I miss hearing your voice on the phone. I miss sharing things with you, hearing you laugh, listening to the love in your tone when you say you love me and miss me. I love and miss you, too.
Sunday, April 17, 2011
Motherless
On March 30, 2011 at 2:45 p.m. in Conroe, TX, that is what I became. And every day for the rest of my life, that is what I will be. It has left an empty hole in my heart where she lived.
My mother was an amazing woman. Everyone who knew her spoke of her smile that lit up the room, her kindness, the way she shared her love and her home with anyone and everyone.
My mother was a beautiful woman. Even at 83 years old, she barely had a wrinkle on her peaches and cream skin. She had gorgeous, curly and wavy white hair that was soft as silk to the touch.
My mother was my father's lover and best friend for 65 years of marriage and four years of dating beforehand. The hole in his heart is so much more than I can imagine.
She was remarkable in the way she filled our childhoods with adventure, never let us think we were poor because we always had enough to eat and a roof over our heads, and filled our home with music.
My mother played the piano and my whole childhood is filled with memories of standing around it while she played, singing hymns, Christmas carols, whatever more popular songs we could talk her into playing and old favorites from her youth and earlier life.
My mother smiled her way through life. And I learned from her that this is an excellent survival tool. It makes you feel better and, in most cases, it makes those around you feel better, too. She knew this secret and used it to bring joy to the sorrowful, peace to the weary and hope to the hopeless. All of my school friends loved her. And this is a big reason why.
My mother and I didn't always get along. Her death has made me reflective and turned my thoughts inward. I see some things in myself that remind me of her. And there are some things about her I wish were part of me. I think she made me strong. Some of those difficult things between us when I was young made me capable of coping with parts of my adult life I never imagined. And I feel nothing but love and gratefulness for her being in my life.
There is a story of our travel to Texas after Kandi called to say, "Come now," and what occurred leading up to the moment of her death. But though I have attempted to write it, I find it too personal to publish on my blog (despite a small readership). Those intimate details, of tearful, softly spoken words, whispered secrets, coping skills or lack thereof are only for those of us who were there, sharing in this heartbreak together.
What I will tell you is that I wish I had been a better daughter. I know I am who I am and living so far apart made that difficult, but I wish I'd had the opportunity to be a better daughter. I will tell you that Kandi has been the very best of all of my mother's children in how she cared for my parents, and continues to care for my father. I will tell you that I am eternally grateful that we arrived before she passed away so that I could feel her hand in mine, touch her, kiss her and whisper words I needed to say to her. I am so grateful we didn't wait until after as initially planned, that I can't even express how much it ultimately meant to me to be there. I had not expected that. Now I know I HAD to be there. And I will tell you that I want to be a better person than I was before all this because of this great and painful loss.
The truth is, I lost my mother about a year or so ago. Her body weakening caused her mind to weaken, too, and I no longer had her to call and listen to me when I sorrowed or had concerns I needed to share. My mother was the first person I called when I got pregnant with my daughter, Rachel. She was also the first person I called with my five subsequent pregnancies and the miscarriages that followed each one. I knew that because of her first child being stillborn, she could understand my sorrow. I knew that like me, she had always wanted to be a mother and wife. She was blessed with five surviving children and then later adopted Judy in every way but officially. My mother knew how to love and that is what she did. So when her mind changed so drastically, I only called with funny stories about our pets or happy accomplishments of her granddaughter's or when I got my jobs after being a stay-at-home mom for more than ten years. She was always so proud of me, of Rachel, of Jay. I did not call her when my marriage fell apart last November and we separated for a little while. I didn't tell her how hard it was to pick up all the pieces and make our marriage good again. I just told her everything was fine. And it was so hard not to have her there. But now she knows all the details, knows we are still working at it, because I know she watches out for us. So when we had to put our dog down a few days ago, on April 20th, I spoke to her while I cried in the shower - my place to do that so I don't worry my daughter or stress my husband - and I know she heard me and mourned with me. So in a way, I guess I do have her back.
My mother was an amazing woman. Everyone who knew her spoke of her smile that lit up the room, her kindness, the way she shared her love and her home with anyone and everyone.
My mother was a beautiful woman. Even at 83 years old, she barely had a wrinkle on her peaches and cream skin. She had gorgeous, curly and wavy white hair that was soft as silk to the touch.
My mother was my father's lover and best friend for 65 years of marriage and four years of dating beforehand. The hole in his heart is so much more than I can imagine.
She was remarkable in the way she filled our childhoods with adventure, never let us think we were poor because we always had enough to eat and a roof over our heads, and filled our home with music.
My mother played the piano and my whole childhood is filled with memories of standing around it while she played, singing hymns, Christmas carols, whatever more popular songs we could talk her into playing and old favorites from her youth and earlier life.
My mother smiled her way through life. And I learned from her that this is an excellent survival tool. It makes you feel better and, in most cases, it makes those around you feel better, too. She knew this secret and used it to bring joy to the sorrowful, peace to the weary and hope to the hopeless. All of my school friends loved her. And this is a big reason why.
My mother and I didn't always get along. Her death has made me reflective and turned my thoughts inward. I see some things in myself that remind me of her. And there are some things about her I wish were part of me. I think she made me strong. Some of those difficult things between us when I was young made me capable of coping with parts of my adult life I never imagined. And I feel nothing but love and gratefulness for her being in my life.
There is a story of our travel to Texas after Kandi called to say, "Come now," and what occurred leading up to the moment of her death. But though I have attempted to write it, I find it too personal to publish on my blog (despite a small readership). Those intimate details, of tearful, softly spoken words, whispered secrets, coping skills or lack thereof are only for those of us who were there, sharing in this heartbreak together.
What I will tell you is that I wish I had been a better daughter. I know I am who I am and living so far apart made that difficult, but I wish I'd had the opportunity to be a better daughter. I will tell you that Kandi has been the very best of all of my mother's children in how she cared for my parents, and continues to care for my father. I will tell you that I am eternally grateful that we arrived before she passed away so that I could feel her hand in mine, touch her, kiss her and whisper words I needed to say to her. I am so grateful we didn't wait until after as initially planned, that I can't even express how much it ultimately meant to me to be there. I had not expected that. Now I know I HAD to be there. And I will tell you that I want to be a better person than I was before all this because of this great and painful loss.
The truth is, I lost my mother about a year or so ago. Her body weakening caused her mind to weaken, too, and I no longer had her to call and listen to me when I sorrowed or had concerns I needed to share. My mother was the first person I called when I got pregnant with my daughter, Rachel. She was also the first person I called with my five subsequent pregnancies and the miscarriages that followed each one. I knew that because of her first child being stillborn, she could understand my sorrow. I knew that like me, she had always wanted to be a mother and wife. She was blessed with five surviving children and then later adopted Judy in every way but officially. My mother knew how to love and that is what she did. So when her mind changed so drastically, I only called with funny stories about our pets or happy accomplishments of her granddaughter's or when I got my jobs after being a stay-at-home mom for more than ten years. She was always so proud of me, of Rachel, of Jay. I did not call her when my marriage fell apart last November and we separated for a little while. I didn't tell her how hard it was to pick up all the pieces and make our marriage good again. I just told her everything was fine. And it was so hard not to have her there. But now she knows all the details, knows we are still working at it, because I know she watches out for us. So when we had to put our dog down a few days ago, on April 20th, I spoke to her while I cried in the shower - my place to do that so I don't worry my daughter or stress my husband - and I know she heard me and mourned with me. So in a way, I guess I do have her back.
Friday, March 25, 2011
Mom
Writing soothes my soul. And right now, I very much need that. My parents have been going downhill, coming to the end of their lives, for a couple of years now. But just two days ago, my mother began a fever and now lies unresponsive, eyes closed, in bed. It will not be long.
In so many ways I think I am not ready. But at the same time, I know she is. She's been in a lot of pain for a long time, worse now because of bed sores that will never heal. Her back and neck cause her pain, too. It is her time.
My dad sits at her side and cries, talks to her, loves her the way he has for their 64 years of marriage and the four years prior to that. They met at the age of 15, got engaged at 16 and married at 19. Their only separations where when my father did his tours of duty in Korea and Vietnam during those wars. I cannot imagine my dad being without her.
Today, I called my brother, Kim, who is with her and he put his phone to her ear. I told her how much I loved her, what a wonderful mother she has been, how I have so many fond memories of shopping with her, laughing, talking and the support she always gave me. And I gave her my permission to go. I told her we would all be all right, we would take care of Dad and that it was okay for her to go.
She got a blessing today, too. My brother, who has been inactive for many years, was asked to join in. He needed this, too, as a way to provide a special service to my mother. It was a deeply spiritual experience for him. I am grateful that Heavenly Father directed my parent's home teacher to ask Kim to assist him.
People are rallying around. My mother's church is beginning to respond with love and support of all kinds - both to my parents and to my siblings who are already there in Texas. I said my good-byes at my visit in June. I will wait until she has passed to go. I asked my brother, Kim, if I was doing the right thing because I want to be there for my sister, Kandi, who has been the one caring for them these last few years, after. He said yes, so I feel even more confident that I should go then. I wish I could afford to be there now and then stay on a week to help Kandi, but that's not the reality of my life. So I said my good-bye on the phone today and back in June and I know I will see her again one day.
I wish I could speak my whole heart - but I fear drowning in the emotions, here in the world where I have to do what I have to do each day. This post doesn't really speak my heart. But it says what I need it to say for now.
If you are reading and pray, please pray for a peaceful transition for her, for peace for my dad and comfort for us all during this difficult time.
In so many ways I think I am not ready. But at the same time, I know she is. She's been in a lot of pain for a long time, worse now because of bed sores that will never heal. Her back and neck cause her pain, too. It is her time.
My dad sits at her side and cries, talks to her, loves her the way he has for their 64 years of marriage and the four years prior to that. They met at the age of 15, got engaged at 16 and married at 19. Their only separations where when my father did his tours of duty in Korea and Vietnam during those wars. I cannot imagine my dad being without her.
Today, I called my brother, Kim, who is with her and he put his phone to her ear. I told her how much I loved her, what a wonderful mother she has been, how I have so many fond memories of shopping with her, laughing, talking and the support she always gave me. And I gave her my permission to go. I told her we would all be all right, we would take care of Dad and that it was okay for her to go.
She got a blessing today, too. My brother, who has been inactive for many years, was asked to join in. He needed this, too, as a way to provide a special service to my mother. It was a deeply spiritual experience for him. I am grateful that Heavenly Father directed my parent's home teacher to ask Kim to assist him.
People are rallying around. My mother's church is beginning to respond with love and support of all kinds - both to my parents and to my siblings who are already there in Texas. I said my good-byes at my visit in June. I will wait until she has passed to go. I asked my brother, Kim, if I was doing the right thing because I want to be there for my sister, Kandi, who has been the one caring for them these last few years, after. He said yes, so I feel even more confident that I should go then. I wish I could afford to be there now and then stay on a week to help Kandi, but that's not the reality of my life. So I said my good-bye on the phone today and back in June and I know I will see her again one day.
I wish I could speak my whole heart - but I fear drowning in the emotions, here in the world where I have to do what I have to do each day. This post doesn't really speak my heart. But it says what I need it to say for now.
If you are reading and pray, please pray for a peaceful transition for her, for peace for my dad and comfort for us all during this difficult time.
Sunday, March 6, 2011
Saying What Should Be Said
I have a brother-in-law, Javad, of whom I am quite fond. He is married to my younger sister. They have two beatiful boys whom I adore and I am proud of the fact that he really is a rocket scientist. Of course, I'm proud of my sister, a dean of graduate students and associate VP at the State college where she works, too.
I think what made me first really take notice of Javad, who he is as a man, was how kind and respectful he was to my parents. They always lived across the hall from each other in apartments or shared a house with a basement apartment or, in these last 12 years or so, had them living in their home until my parents required a nursing home. All that time, he treated them with respect and took a step back when necessary to maintain peace. I don't think he gets a lot of credit for that in our extended family. And I don't think it was always easy because he was up against some hard-headed folks, I can tell you. But he appreciated the help they gave while they were healthy enough to do so and then he returned the favor by helping Kandi care for them when they could no longer care for themselves. Certainly, there were pluses on both sides. Kandi and Javad had child care for their boys whenever they needed it and the boys got the extra attention and love that only grandparents (or those wonderful, dear friends who step in to act as such) can provide to children. When Mom and Dad could no longer care for themselves, became a danger to themselves, Kandi and Javad found a lovely place for them to live where they are well cared for. Kandi visits regularly and makes sure the care they get is the very best possible.
Now that my parents are nearing the end of their lives and my mom is actually dying, Javad supports Kandi through this transition that I wish I could be there to help her with. This experience will be hardest on her. She has been closest to them, lived with them ALWAYS, watched her children attach to them and has endured watching them fade from who they once where to the confused and sickly elderly people they now are. On my last visit, Javad quietly asked me to be sure I could get there when it happens, that Kandi would need me. And I promised to do so. I'm working all the hours I can so I can come to her without losing any pay from my job and I am beginning to build a savings account again so that I can afford to come and stay a little while to help her manage.
I am grateful for my faith which allows me to know that my parents will be in a place where they will feel no pain, can move freely, can watch over us here on earth and will see their infant son who was not able to take a single breath while on this earth. He waits for them to raise him in a heavenly home. I know my sister will be blessed for all she has done for them - all the difficult, heart-wrenching decisions she has had to make. She will be held most high for this prolonged and great sacrafice she has made. And so will Javad for never failing her in his support and the respect and kindness he offered them. I pray always for them to endure this well and to have the strength to carry on to the end. And I know they will.
So, to my sister and her husband, thank you for all you have done. It will not be forgotten - not by me and not by our parents when their minds are once again whole.
I think what made me first really take notice of Javad, who he is as a man, was how kind and respectful he was to my parents. They always lived across the hall from each other in apartments or shared a house with a basement apartment or, in these last 12 years or so, had them living in their home until my parents required a nursing home. All that time, he treated them with respect and took a step back when necessary to maintain peace. I don't think he gets a lot of credit for that in our extended family. And I don't think it was always easy because he was up against some hard-headed folks, I can tell you. But he appreciated the help they gave while they were healthy enough to do so and then he returned the favor by helping Kandi care for them when they could no longer care for themselves. Certainly, there were pluses on both sides. Kandi and Javad had child care for their boys whenever they needed it and the boys got the extra attention and love that only grandparents (or those wonderful, dear friends who step in to act as such) can provide to children. When Mom and Dad could no longer care for themselves, became a danger to themselves, Kandi and Javad found a lovely place for them to live where they are well cared for. Kandi visits regularly and makes sure the care they get is the very best possible.
Now that my parents are nearing the end of their lives and my mom is actually dying, Javad supports Kandi through this transition that I wish I could be there to help her with. This experience will be hardest on her. She has been closest to them, lived with them ALWAYS, watched her children attach to them and has endured watching them fade from who they once where to the confused and sickly elderly people they now are. On my last visit, Javad quietly asked me to be sure I could get there when it happens, that Kandi would need me. And I promised to do so. I'm working all the hours I can so I can come to her without losing any pay from my job and I am beginning to build a savings account again so that I can afford to come and stay a little while to help her manage.
I am grateful for my faith which allows me to know that my parents will be in a place where they will feel no pain, can move freely, can watch over us here on earth and will see their infant son who was not able to take a single breath while on this earth. He waits for them to raise him in a heavenly home. I know my sister will be blessed for all she has done for them - all the difficult, heart-wrenching decisions she has had to make. She will be held most high for this prolonged and great sacrafice she has made. And so will Javad for never failing her in his support and the respect and kindness he offered them. I pray always for them to endure this well and to have the strength to carry on to the end. And I know they will.
So, to my sister and her husband, thank you for all you have done. It will not be forgotten - not by me and not by our parents when their minds are once again whole.
Monday, February 28, 2011
Losing Them
Both my parents are in a nursing home - together, thankfully. But both suffer from dementia and speaking over the phone, because they live in Texas now, is difficult, at best. My dad can barely string a sentence together. In fact, it often consists of the simply phrase, "That's good, that thing, yeah." My mother is difficult to understand over the phone as she slurs her words from Parkinson's disease. Now she's bedridden, too, and barely taking any food. My sister's been told that soon she will not take any food and will just drink. Then she will just sip and eventually take nothing at all. It's just a matter of time.
On the one hand, this will be a blessing as my parents have little quality of life. On the other hand, we're talking about losing my parents, and despite the diffcult relationship growing up, it has been so much better as an adult. I already miss talking to my mom. When my marriage nearly ended, I didn't have her to talk to. With my daughter's new challenges, I cannot share them with her. She doesn't remember or understand, really. I just tell her everything is good for us all the time. I know what is best in my mind. Now if my heart could just move there with it.
On the one hand, this will be a blessing as my parents have little quality of life. On the other hand, we're talking about losing my parents, and despite the diffcult relationship growing up, it has been so much better as an adult. I already miss talking to my mom. When my marriage nearly ended, I didn't have her to talk to. With my daughter's new challenges, I cannot share them with her. She doesn't remember or understand, really. I just tell her everything is good for us all the time. I know what is best in my mind. Now if my heart could just move there with it.
Saturday, February 12, 2011
Old Friends
I just spent the last 2 & 1/2 hours reminiscing with my oldest, best friend on the phone tonight. We've been friends since we were fourteen years old and there are a lot of memories - fun, funny and not so wonderful. We were talking about our junior high school math teacher, Mr. Taylor, and how we tortured the poor man. One of the cowboys (I grew up in the sticks), after the teacher walked out of the room for a moment, climbed out the second floor window and was hanging on the ledge by his fingers. Mr. Taylor came in and asked where he was. The classes were small in my hometown of 3,000 back then. Suddenly, we heard a yell, a thump and then a groan as Bert slipped and landed on his back, knocking the wind out of himself. We all ran to the window cracking up. Of course, he was fine once he caught his breath.
Another student, Scotty, was really tiny. He was a willing participant as everyone liked him and no one would have been mean to him. We put him in the cabinet of an old china cabinet in the room which held books on the top shelves and nothing in the one cabinet on the bottom left. When Mr. Taylor returned to the room and asked where Scotty was, you could hear a quiet little voice saying, "Help me! Help me!" Needless to say, Mr. Taylor was not amused.
We didn't stop there with our torture of this poor man who was just trying to make a living and actually likely expected he would enjoy teaching children. Sadly, he got the wrong class with us. My best friend, Laurie, drew kissing lips on his wooden chair at his desk with lipstick (again while he stepped out of the room - you'd think he would learn and never leave us). Since it was the 70's and light brownish corduroy was actually in style, this act did not bode well for him. Ever faithful in his trust in us, believing we would get better, he never checked his seat before sitting down and walked around for a good part of the rest of the day with those lip marks on his backside. He never even felt the tacks she put there one day. Not stopping there, Laurie also once poked him in the butt when he was bent over helping someone, then when he turned to yell at her, she acted like she'd been looking away and didn't even realize what she'd done. Not that he fell for that.
As you can imagine, his frustration with us grew each passing, down-right hellish day he spent as our teacher. When he got angry, which was often, he would clap his hands and stomp one foot in rhythm while he yelled something like, "I'm sick and tired of the behavior in this class!" Our response, little darlings that we were? We clapped our hands and stomped our feet with him.
I don't know why he never turned us in to the principal. Maybe he was embarrassed that we were so awful in his class. Maybe he felt like it was his fault. Of course, it wasn't. We were just absolute terrors. If my daughter were to behave this way, she would never do so again because her punishment would be severe. Then again, my daughter NEVER WOULD behave this way. Thank goodness.
The last part of this story begins in my 9th grade year. I was forced, by my parents, to take Algebra. There were five of us in the class (yes, I said 5). Guess who the teacher was? He smiled as the others entered the room and when I did, his face visibly dropped. I quickly muttered, "Sorry about the last two year" and went to my seat. I behaved well and we ended up having a pretty good year. He helped me make it through that class, math-hater that I was (my daughter gets it honestly) and I remained respectful thereafter.
I just blame the rotten years on Laurie. (whispers) Don't tell her I said that.......
Another student, Scotty, was really tiny. He was a willing participant as everyone liked him and no one would have been mean to him. We put him in the cabinet of an old china cabinet in the room which held books on the top shelves and nothing in the one cabinet on the bottom left. When Mr. Taylor returned to the room and asked where Scotty was, you could hear a quiet little voice saying, "Help me! Help me!" Needless to say, Mr. Taylor was not amused.
We didn't stop there with our torture of this poor man who was just trying to make a living and actually likely expected he would enjoy teaching children. Sadly, he got the wrong class with us. My best friend, Laurie, drew kissing lips on his wooden chair at his desk with lipstick (again while he stepped out of the room - you'd think he would learn and never leave us). Since it was the 70's and light brownish corduroy was actually in style, this act did not bode well for him. Ever faithful in his trust in us, believing we would get better, he never checked his seat before sitting down and walked around for a good part of the rest of the day with those lip marks on his backside. He never even felt the tacks she put there one day. Not stopping there, Laurie also once poked him in the butt when he was bent over helping someone, then when he turned to yell at her, she acted like she'd been looking away and didn't even realize what she'd done. Not that he fell for that.
As you can imagine, his frustration with us grew each passing, down-right hellish day he spent as our teacher. When he got angry, which was often, he would clap his hands and stomp one foot in rhythm while he yelled something like, "I'm sick and tired of the behavior in this class!" Our response, little darlings that we were? We clapped our hands and stomped our feet with him.
I don't know why he never turned us in to the principal. Maybe he was embarrassed that we were so awful in his class. Maybe he felt like it was his fault. Of course, it wasn't. We were just absolute terrors. If my daughter were to behave this way, she would never do so again because her punishment would be severe. Then again, my daughter NEVER WOULD behave this way. Thank goodness.
The last part of this story begins in my 9th grade year. I was forced, by my parents, to take Algebra. There were five of us in the class (yes, I said 5). Guess who the teacher was? He smiled as the others entered the room and when I did, his face visibly dropped. I quickly muttered, "Sorry about the last two year" and went to my seat. I behaved well and we ended up having a pretty good year. He helped me make it through that class, math-hater that I was (my daughter gets it honestly) and I remained respectful thereafter.
I just blame the rotten years on Laurie. (whispers) Don't tell her I said that.......
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