you ain't foolin' me

You ain't foolin me, February.

You think you're all that,
with your sunshine
warm breeze
and muddy puddlin' sidewalks.

But you ain't foolin' me.

You might be foolin' the birds, February.

They're singing thier hearts out
with lighthearted chirpin',
crazy tunes
and high-falutin' lyrics.

But you ain't fooling me.

You might be foolin' the grass, February.

It's trying to grow green
with muddy snow,
squishy earth
and springtime determination.

But you ain't foolin' me.

You might be fooling my friends, February.
They're acting crazy
with summer clothes
no coats
and joyful winter-dead cries.

But you ain't foolin' me.

I know you, February.
I know you are still winter.
Leave the guesswork up to March.

Still, it was nice of you to try.

living for crocuses

One of my profs calls me a "super student." I wish I got to wear a cape and fly, too. Stress is my sunshine and worry my kryptonite, and academia is a sickening balance of the two. A blank white poster board reclines on the floor next to King Bidgood's in the Bathtub, a lesson plan gapes unfinished from the monitor on my desktop, and a glossy mountain thirty picture books tall graces my bed. There is a quiz waiting in the wings, biding its time on my thumb drive, as well as a journal entry that hasn't crept out from the recesses of my mind quite yet.

All due early next week.

I am living for the crocuses. I know enough about the leonine madness some dare to call spring in Chicago to not worship spring break, but I am ready to see the bold green fingers laugh at the snow and the cold and come up, quietly smiling at the world, not audacious like the fanfare of daffodils or loud like sirens of tulips. They are the first, the brave, and the beautiful.

I am living for the crocuses because I want to be one. Despite the mounds of suffocating snow pressing against me, I feel the warm sunlight above. It urges me on through the malicious elements and blustery days into a world of sunlight and hope of a verdant summer.

My petals are purple.

winter

I like flying along the satin sheen of wind-buffed snow on a sunny morning.

I like hearing nothing but the rythmic tramping crunch of snowboots on salty concrete.

I like inhaling the sharp bitterness of frozen air.

I like dancing like black branches abandoning themselves to a deeper velvet blue sky.

I like listening to the whispered downy quietness of moonlight on drifting snow.

I like snuggling into the softness of a fuzzy-thick scarf.

I like identifying with the violent angry rattle of the storm windows.

I like tasting the sweet, crystal-clear coldness that sticks to my face.

I like breathing big white clouds.

writers block

Nothing terribly interesting has happened lately.

I need to read things that don't include methodology sections, I think. My brain is toast.

Nothing a little 'Bou won't cure...

post-homework muddling

I can only stuff so much homework into one afternoon before I start including words like quantitiative and correlational into my basic vocabulary. I actually began analyzing the behavior of the children playing behind me (at 'Bou). If you care to know, they're engaged in associative play, just a step below cooperative, and they are fairly adept at ascertaining each other's point of view, which means they're probably reaching the tail end of Piaget's pre-operational stage...

Good lord, I'm going to write a flipping paper and all I want to do is drink my tea.

*sigh* There was more, but it isn't coming out of my head right now. Stay tuned...

it's very cold and rainy

I've realized that I talk about the weather a lot when I write in my blog. Not exactly scintillating reading, I'm sure. I guess it is because the weather frequently reflects my mood. Oh well.

Today I played hide and seek in the dark with my nameless charges (not the anonymous siblings) and it is worth mentioning that two year olds do not understand hide and seek in the dark. Don't get me wrong--the nameless toddler is a bright little guy, who understands that hiding is more than standing with his face in the corner. He actually gets behind things.

But, being the careful nanny that I am, I don't believe in letting two year olds wander around in dark basements. So I hid with him. We found a good spot behind some boxes that was actually rather comfortable because there were some soft sleeping bags next to us. I explained to toddler that we were hiding and that we had to be very quiet. He got a serious look on his face and sat very still, eyes wide, not making a peep.

Until the lights went out. In case you were skimming the above, notice that we played hide-and-seek in the dark. Which meant that before the oldest nameless child, who is thirteen, came downstairs, he flipped the switch. And this was too fascinating for toddler. It was so fascinating that he felt the need to explain it to me in great detail and proceeded to inform me, in very emphatic toddlerese, "Dark! Light! Dark! Light! Hide!"

Given that oldest isn't deaf in any way, shape or form, you can guess who he found first.

So what's with granola?

I really do intend on blogging more. I try. I really try. Writing regularly is hard. Maybe that's why most writers are poor and melancholy--too much thought, not enough action. I like thought and action together, which is one of the reasons I chose to become a teacher. I can only think of a few vocations that involve more thought and action than teaching, and they all involve mortal peril.

So because nothing has really inspired me today, I am writing a regular entry. You know the type: "Today I had granola for breakfast. What's with granola anyway?"

In truth, I did not eat breakfast. I threw a pop-tart in my bag and ate it while driving home to eat lunch. I hate having extra time on weekday mornings; it throws off my groove. I have to be up and moving quickly or I lose momentum and feel sluggish all morning. So I set my alarm clock a mere twenty minutes before I need to be driving down the block, and I make a mad rush to get out the door. Breakfast is a casualty of collegiate life.

I eat breakfast after school (at 9:00) on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, and that's been really nice. I love having that half hour to drink a cup of tea and have real cereal with milk in it. I read the paper then, too. That breakfast time is some of my favorite time in the week. I need time to stop and breathe. Sometimes I feel like breathing is a casualty of collegiate life, too.

lady weather

Today I intended on taking my books to the park and studying under a tree. The forecast was beautiful--sunny with a high of 83. I am an ardent fan of indian summer, and I figured I would enjoy today. The crispy smell of dry leaves baking in the sun and the sharp end-of-summer grass are things to be delighted in.

Unfortunately, I live in a city where the saying, "If you don't like the weather, just wait a few hours," is often unbelievably true. The sunny sky that promised good times this morning became more moody than a 15 year old girl and by noon, she had a temper tantrum. Lighting flashed, thunder crashed, and the air was white with rain. All in about the span of 20 minutes. I came home from work to a puddly world, complete with soggy leaves and dripping branches. No park today.

Still, I'm not complaining. I love the weather here. Maybe its because I was raised in this climate so, like a child brought up on too much television gets ADD, I need meterological stimulation. When the weather is the same day in and day out I get stir crazy and start shaking my fists skyward. I adore not knowing whether to pull out a t-shirt or a sweater, and putting on both "just in case." I love the freakish nature and the total rebellion of the forecast, as though she yells to us, "You think you've got me all figured out! Think again, suckers!" And then she'll get all calm, cool, and collected. For a few minutes, anyway.