Because of skunk mittens, spelling tests and guitar chords

My mother likes to tell the story that she knew she was supposed to be a teacher when she gave a spelling test for the first time. Somehow, she knew that she was meant to teach, which she did for many years. While I had no similar portent of my destiny, I have to believe that I became a teacher, in large part, because of my mother.

She also has helped determine who I am in other ways:

Because I stood beside her in our kitchen in Rochester watching her make a pie crust, using the backside of a fork to crimp the edges, I know how to bake.

Because she knit me hats and scarves and especially skunk mittens, and even more importantly, patiently showed me how to do it, I knit and have been able to teach this to my own daughter.

Because she carefully and kindly corrected my writing assignments, I am a confident writer.

Because she wanted to ski, I learned how to ski and skate and love the cold winter months.

Because she was a beautiful and strong swimmer, I learned how to swim. And because of how she taught me to swim, I learned how to teach others.

Because she taught me that being a lifeguard was an important job, I took the job seriously.

Because she was a voracious reader, I love books.

Because she taught herself how to play guitar, I play guitar. When I haltingly switch from C to G, and the song briefly hiccups, I hear her switching chords and hesitantly, quietly, singing at the dining room table.

Because she loved music and always wanted to play the piano, I learned how to play piano and cello and bassoon and drums and guitar.

Because she loved horses, she let me learn how to ride and eventually have a horse of my own.

Because she thought Caroga Lake was the most wonderful place in the world, the camp there remains my favorite place as well.

Because she let me up-end furniture and drape blankets over it, I learned to imagine other worlds.

Because she let me make peanut butter, onion and Worcestershire sauce sandwiches, I feel free to experiment with flavors when I cook.

Because she made me pancakes for supper on Fridays, I love breakfast anytime.

Because she let me use scotch tape on the windows, I know that any mess can be cleaned up afterward.

Because she didn't make me wear a white dress and veil for my first communion, I learned that we don't always have to do things the way everyone else does.

Because she always saw the best in her students, I try hard to do the same.

Because she is a strong woman, I know that I have strength when I need it.

In these ways, this incomplete list, I understand who I am and how and why I came to be.

Facts are meaningless. You could use facts to prove anything that's even remotely true!

Today was my first day back at school after being out since March 6. While I was looking forward to seeing my kids, I was not eager to return to the routine of being up before daylight, living according to bells, and the general mess that awaits a teacher who's had a substitute for this long.

Some significant numbers with which to document my day:

115: The number of pages I left my students to read during class.
35: The number of books I left for my students to read during class.
33: The average number of pages that were actually read.
27: The number of students who unabashedly told me they did nothing in my absence because they didn't like the sub.
17: The number of days I was absent because of my husband's heart surgery.
16: The number of days my sub apparently entertained my classes by performing magic tricks.
15: The number of feet a hawk was sitting from my window as he ate a pigeon, neck first.
12: The number of students who actually completed the work I'd left.
11: The number of days until spring break.
9: The number of hours I spent at school today trying to clean up my sub's mess.
9: The number of hours I'll spend tomorrow at school trying to clean up my sub's mess.
8: The number of the "mod" or period where this exchange occurred.*
4: The number of books that I found this morning upon my return.
3: The number of classes I alternately lectured, ranted at and made feel guilty today. I'll do the other class tomorrow. And I'll probably go back and do the same to the other classes as well.
3: The number of dry erase markers that disappeared.
2: The number of hours I'll spend tonight trying to clean up my sub's mess.
1: The number of lamp chops I will make for dinner (it's a big one).
1/2: The amount of a bottle of wine I will consume as I try not to think too much about my students.
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*Kathy: Miss! Did you read about me in the paper last week? I was stabbed in the butt!
Me: Um, what?
Kathy: Yeah! So I was at a party . . .
Me (interrupting): Kathy, I'll let you tell this story if you can do it in under 3 minutes.
Kathy proceeds to tell the story in 2 minutes and 47 seconds.
Me (realizing I had, in fact, read this story in the paper): O, lord, Kathy. That was you?!
Kathy: Yeah, and that's why I can't sit still today, even though they gave me a shot of amnesia.

(Later, as they're writing and some tiny discussion pops up)
Me: Hey! Hush now, and keep writing! You took the last three weeks off, and you have no business talking now.
Guy, Cheryl, Sherelle, et. al.: Okay! Okay! We're writing!
Me (sarcastic): Because if the writing is too much, I suppose I could grade you for breathing . . .
Kathy: It would help.

Remnants, Residue and Right

Today, I put my son on a train back to school, and Friday, I put my daughter on a train back to her home in New York. For a long time, I could never imagine my house without my kids. When my daughter went to college, I remember saying to my husband about our house minus one, "This is not the way it's supposed to be." We were a family of four, and one was someplace else. It just wasn't right.

When my son went to college last fall, I didn't expect it to feel better. And it didn't. We were a family of four, and now we were down to two. We were the incredible shrinking family, and while I realized that we all were going to be fine, that it was the necessary chain of events, that eventually, our family would grow again in wonderful ways, it still just wasn't right. And while I do not hover about my children or mourn their absence, and while I am thoroughly happy that they are able to develop their own lives away from their father and me, I do miss their presence in untold ways.

The reason that I'm considering this now, however, is because they've both been home for about two weeks, an unusual event caused by their father's recent heart surgery. Before this, time together for more than a weekend was rare and required the merging of four divergent school and work schedules.

However, after I put my son on the train today, I returned home to realize that even after they've left, my children always make their presence known.

From my daughter:
Two crumpled kleenexes on the bookcase.
A borrowed-from-Mom St. Rose hoodie, a University of Miami sweatshirt, a pair of shredded sweatpants and a yellow Factsheet Five t-shirt on a chair.
Amnesia Moon, by Jonathan Lethem, and A Long Desire, by Evan S. Connell, on the printer.
A green blanket cum dog lounging spot on the floor by the bed.
A borrowed-from-Mom black sweater astride the other bookcase.
A toolbox holding jewelry-making supplies on the livingroom coffee table.

From my son:
A futon left opened (which, unfortunately, no one here at home is capable of or has knowledge of how to close).
Various and sundry bedding material including a crumpled pillow, comforter, Grammommy-knit afghan and pillows from the loveseat in the livingroom.
An empy Wii game box (game to be found at SUNY Purchase).
A Game Cube.
The 4th, 5th and 8th seasons of The Simpsons on DVD.
The Special Extended Edition of The Lord of the Rings Return of the King.
Ocean's Twelve.
No Country for Old Men.
An A & F bag holding a size 13 Van's Bucky Lasek Navy/STV Navy shoe box.

It does not bother me to clean up these bits and pieces of my children's presence. In fact, I almost enjoy finding their residue, their remnants. Somehow, it tells me that this is still home, that they know it's okay to pack hurriedly the hour before they must make their train, to leave the unnecessary bits out on a chair or a bookcase or a radiator, for me to pick up later. It's fine. And somehow, while I'm happy to know that they are happy to go back to their lives away from here, I'm happy to slowly pick up their bits and pieces knowing that this is the way it's supposed to be, that it feels right.

408 hours (not counting weekends)

By the end of this month, I will have missed 17 days of school, the most consecutive days ever (by far) in 20 years of teaching.

7 days more than I took for the birth of my son.

17 days for my husband grudgingly to allow me to help him after heart surgery.

17 days to get caught up on work.

17 days to do the laundry whenever I want.

17 days to miss at least 5 deadly after-school meetings.

17 days my alarm will not ring at 6:00 a.m. but at 8:00, according to the pill schedule.

17 days to appreciate the sort of freedom my retired friends enjoy.

17 days . . .

to receive emails from students: "hey huth we should watch the movie only Farshid and me and Liz are reading the book"

and "Hey mrs huth how is your husband clas is not as fun with out you. Hope yout husband gets sonn take care."

17 days to get calls from my sub, quiet desperation in his voice, asking me to please send in work that my students would want to complete.

17 days . . .

to realize that my home can be anywhere.

to know that my house is one of my favorite places despite its leaky and cracked spots.

to find that nesting instinct returning from so long ago as I try to make my son's room comfortable for my husband and me, as my daughter and I try to find a chair that will allow him to sleep comfortably (and is not too ugly).

to appreciate a house full of my family after months of quiet.

to realize that I can love my job, and leave it. And that when the time comes to leave it for good, that will be fine with me.

to enjoy being taken care of.

to understand the huge difference 17 days can make.