The Hall of Shame...One More Reason I Wasn't Teacher of the Year

We all have moments we would rather not relive.  Moments people continually reassure us will be really funny "someday."  (Exactly how long is "someday?" I always wonder.  Long enough that I forget it was me who actually did it and think it was someone else?)

I hate to admit it, but I have had more than my fair share of "moments."  It seems like anywhere from once a month to once a week to sometimes even once a day, someone shakes their head and mutters under their breath, "Only you, Melissa, only you.  I have never met anyone...."

I mean, there was the time--in a mad rush--I changed clothes at a stoplight and forgot to zip my skirt.  It fell down around my ankles when I got out of the car while I (as shocked as anyone) just kept standing there.  When I told my dad about it, he laughed so hard I think he cried.

There was also the time I said, "Who would WEAR something this hideous?" right as a lady stepped out holding the "hideous" item in her hand, clearly on her way to the dressing room (Maybe it helped her realize her fashion faux pas in time?).

Oooooor the time I freaked out after I hung up with my insurance representative...and then realized I hadn't actually hung up.

And as if those times weren't bad enough, most of the rest of the embarrassing moments I can think of (that haven't been repressed already) are so horrifically scarring that only those who were present at the scene of the incident are even allowed to know.  A few I didn't even tell Paul until we'd been married for six months, despite his reassurances that it really was too late for an annulment.  

You see, my embarrassing moments are a pretty serious thing.  One girl told me that one of my stories was the best ice breaker she's ever had.  She just told her group of campers she was in charge of that sumer about how horrible one of my dates was and everyone laughed and said, "Well, I've never had anything that bad happen!" and like magic, everyone seemed to be friends.

I'm worried and half convinced that my own self-inflicted stupidity mixed with bad luck is part of the reason people stay friends with me--just hoping to be present the next time I do something that could incriminate me for life.

I'm the person who, when I get asked, "What's your most embarrassing moment?" just smiles politely and says, "Uh....embarrassing?  Something I've had happen to me that was embarrassing?  Hmmm.....I can't really think of anything off the top of my head."

But as bad as many of these things have been, this past school year I had one of the best (or worst) moments yet.  A moment that got me an official invitation to the Teaching Hall of Shame.
(Don't look that up.  I made that up right now.  But if they did have one, there would be a plaque with my name on it.)

Let's go back to October.  I was a crazy, first-of-the-school-year teacher who was working to keep thirty-two kids and their parents happy, simultaneously plan the dream wedding I'd waited 27 years for, and still find time to see my fiancé (who worked until 9:30 almost every night)--ALL while still trying to squeeze in enough sleep to perform my daily song-and-dance routine of convincing ten-year-olds they really did want to write a report on brine shrimp and learn long division.

To sum it up, I was exhausted.  Totally exhausted.

Then, an adorable girl from my class had to get her appendix out, had complications, and ended up in the hospital for about a week.

Now, we as teachers are not perfect.  Sometimes we're probably not even good.  But, we do love your children.  So, thinking about how much I liked this sweet little student, I got the class to write get well notes, got her a plant for her hospital room, along with some things to do to pass the time while she was there, and headed over to the hospital.  I was sitting in the parking lot when I realized I didn't have a gift bag and there was WAY too much stuff to shove in my purse or haul in bare-handed.

However, to my relief, I spotted a gift bag in my backseat which was left from the bridal shower I'd had  the week before.  Thank goodness I never throw those things away!  I opened it, made sure no spatulas or cookbooks had been left inside, and then took the gift in.

My student and her dad were there, we all chatted for about a half hour, I gave her the gift, and then I went home after a thirteen hour day.   And that was the end of the story.  Go me.  Teacher of the Year.

Until May.

I know.  If you have any Sherlock Holmes in you at all, you have already figured out that this story is not supposed to have a happy ending and people who win Teacher of the Year don't simultaneously land themselves in the Hall of Shame.  So, that being said, your mind is already starting to wonder what could have gone so horribly wrong.

Well, nothing went wrong as far as I knew, until I received this envelope on the last day of school.

For those of you who can't see that, it says: "Mrs. Montoya (for your eyes only)"

Kids give me end-of-year gifts all the time--anything from sweet, handwritten cards to necklaces that say "MO" (I think "Montoya" was just too long....), to gift cards to flowers to candy.  But flowers or candy don't usually come with a note that says, "For your eyes only"........written by the mom......

Imagine my confusion and absolute horror when I opened the card and found this:

Yes, the person who gave me this gift is on my "not nice" list for a LONG time....

Come on…You can put the pieces together.

Luckily for me, this VERY forgiving mother (who also had been teaching fourth grade the year she got married) did.  She figured it all out very quickly.

That's right.  The gift bag I used was not, not, not, NOT, definitely NOT entirely cleaned out.  I know it's shocking to think I could have missed such an enormous and obvious article of clothing. But somehow, in my tired haze, I missed it.  Note and all.

I can only imagine the look on my student's face (and her dad's) as she pulled the items one-by-one from the bag.

"Look!  A plant!  And...a coloring book!  And cards from my friends!  And a puzzle!  And....an....an....???"

Apparently, her dad--who hadn't gotten a very good look--exclaimed, "An eyepatch!  I think it's an eyepatch."

Yes.  It had the same square yardage as an eyepatch.  That was very observant.

But no, her dad didn't figure out exactly what it was until the nurse walked in to find her nine-year-old patient holding up a pink and black polka dot thong....given to her by her fourth grade teacher.

I don't know how she ever came back to school.  I think I would have stayed home and died.  I don't know how her parents got through one or two more parent conferences with me, maintaining straight faces and looking me in the eye.

But, they did have a sense of humor enough to know that someday (there's that word again) this would be funny.  So, they returned my items and told me the whole story.

Once it was summer.

Once I would never have to face them again.

Once I would have months to recover from the shame.

So, there you have it.

And, let's face it.  It IS funny.  In a terrible, "Man, I'm glad that's her and not me," sort of way, it's hysterical.  In the, "I'm glad that was someone else's child but I swear I would have killed that woman," way, it's a riot.

So, with school right around the corner and a fresh set of cardigan-clad teachers who are ready to love your child, you will have something new to be grateful for when, in just a few short months, you and your child both make it through the year virtually unscathed, unscarred, and unembarrassed.  

Come May, when you are thanking your child's teachers with those heartfelt cards and crafts from Pinterest for all that those spectacular educators have done in the last nine months to enrich your child's life, you could always throw in a little, "Aaaaand, on top of everything else, thanks also for never giving her underwear with enough square footage to fit someone's big toe."

I mean, those things happen.  Oooooh, they do happen.

Right here in River City.

Don't worry.  I always have this year to become Teacher of the Year.  And with a streak like mine....I would say my chances are looking preeeeetty darn good.

But, you might want to stay friends with me to wait it out and see--just to be sure.

Dear Kid....A Little Advice About 4th Grade

Next week is the last week of school.  In some ways this year has flown by.  In others, it's been a million years since it started.  That was three roommates, one engagement, one marriage, and two root canals ago.  It's been a big year.

I asked my students this week to write some advice to the new incoming 4th graders--you know, sage wisdom, things they wished they'd known or been told.  Here are a few real gems....

Dear Kid,
I still don't know your name but I want to tell you what you will be doing with 4th grade.  You are in Mrs. Montoya's class.  You will like it.  Now let's get down to business.
(Yes, to defeat, the Huns...)
Math is not hard.  Science is fun.  Book reports are not hard.  Keep your class money.  Don't go to Think Time
(a punishment where they have to go visit another teacher and tell them what he or she did/should have done/will do in the future...).
Don't shout out.  Don't be late from recess.  Have fun.  But not too much.  And make sure you have these things: pencil 2 or 3, pen 1 or 2, markers, crayons, glue.
Love, __________
Friend me on Facebook if a girl.  jk

Dear New Kid,
This class is a very awesome class, but we do work a lot.  For instance, writing, we do a lot of it, like 8 total stories and report, plus, we have to write poetry.
Reading buddies are also fun.  Because now we're the big kids that read the the second graders, and usually, it's lots of fun.
Mrs. Montoya is nice and fun.  But when we get into trouble, she lets us know it.  That's when she's in military mode, as we call it.  When she's very nice, she's in Disneyland mode.
You will have a lot of fun and love the year.
From __________

This is from a few years ago.
 Clearly, it was after "Military Mode."
I am the devil with the pitchfork.
Bryan is the angel with the halo and wings.
I found this masterpiece drawn on his desk.
 I secretly took a picture when the kids weren't there
 and then made him wash all the desks, including this treasure.
Soooo military.  Man.  Life is so hard when you are ten.  

*If you ask what my class looks like, I would actually say, "Military meets Disneyland."  That just means I believe in rules, structure, consequences, order, and responsibility. But it's still the happiest place on Earth.  If you're being good, I guess......Haha

This snippet will tell you about how sad school can be:

"You do a lot of fun stuff during the year....Oh, the sad thing is there's Think Time.  It is not fun even though I have never been there.  So if I were you, be good!"

I can only imagine the horrors she has dreamed up--never having been there and all.  But really.  Trust her.  It is NOT fun.

This one made me laugh out loud.  Clearly, she has been around me way, WAY too much.  I only hope a full summer can turn her back into a ten year old.

Dear New 4th Grader,
I am so excited to talk to you today. But in order to talk, I need you to be so quiet.  We need to talk about a lot of stuff, like book clubs, reading buddies, and much more.  There is one thing I actually want to talk to you about, which is "Cowboy Up."  You're probably wondering what in the world that means.  Well, "Cowboy Up" means don't ever, ever say, "I don't get it," or you will be in trouble.  Also, if you don't like something, don't whine like a cowgirl.  Cowboy up.
Love ____________

Okay, so "Cowboy Up" may have been the theme this year and the room is all decorated in Western stuff with horseshoes on the wall (Thanks, Emily!), but I don't recall it meaning EXACTLY that....

Dear New Student,
I am writing this letter to you because you'll probably need some help in fourth grade.
One is don't be bad.
Two is have fun.
Three is keep your money and save at least $100 for the end of the year so you can buy things from the auction.
The End.
P.S.  Save til the end of the year.

*They have class money they earn and we buy stuff with it.

This next one makes me feel like Teacher of the Year.  I will write it just like I got it:

"And the math, since, and wrighting are all verry easy."

Verry easy indeed.  Especially the writing, is appears.  Although "since" is a close second.  

This was funny:

Mrs. Montoya gets cooler every year.  She will be a lot cooler for you than she was for me."


Dear Future 4th Grader,
You are probably really awesome because you're getting a letter from me.  Here are some things you might want to know.  This teacher you have right now can be nice and fun like Disneyland or mean and strict like military.  Let me warn you that you have to do book reports, in my opinion they are the worst possible thing you can do.  Then comes math.  You have to learn math.  It seems dumb to me because when I go to Smiths with friends, I just grab whatever.  If it costs too much, I put it back (that's happened before).  So beware, because you're in for a long year.

So much for telling them they need to know how to estimate so when they go to the grocery store they won't spend more than they have....Clearly, that is NOT an issue.  Just put it back.  Put it aaaaaall back.  And then take a deep breath, because it's going to be a long year, Cowboy.

At least this was the last one I read:

Dear New Kid,
My teacher last year (3rd grade) said 4th grade was scary.  
(Thank you, for that rousing vote of confidence, 3rd grade.  You scared them before I could even go military on them!)
It's really not.  Mrs. Montoya is awesome!

There you go!  To all prospective third graders--if you can "cowboy up," ignore the fact that the math is totally irrelevant, and save your money, it appears you will make it out fine, just fine.  Just don't whine like a cowgirl, because if you'll be really quiet, I'll tell something important: cowgirls aren't really allowed in such a military classroom.  After all, we won't say who, but it appears someone has a pitchfork.  Probably the one from Idaho.  So beware.  It could be a long year.  Third grade did after all, say it was scary.

Thank goodness it's almost summer!

Do You Have What It Takes?

We just got done talking about MOUNTAIN MEN and GOVERNMENT EXPLORERS at school.  You think you're tough?  Well, have you ever had a bear rip your ear and part of your scalp off and then let your dirty friend with no medical experience sort of sew it back on out in the wilderness?  Probably not, because you're not Jedediah Smith.  Wimp.

What can I say?  Kids love learning about tough people.  And I love teaching them about it.  

Me: "What?  You don't want to do your fractions test?  Jedediah had his ear ripped off and still probably didn't even complain.  Cowboy up."  


(Just kidding, I've never said that--except the "Cowboy Up" part, which they hear almost once a day, but I would sure love to say it.  No worries.  There's always tomorrow.)

After learning about the government explorers the U.S. sent out to map the "wild West," the kids wrote a wanted ad for a newspaper advertising the job.  Here are some of their "Help Wanted" ads:

MAY NOT HAVE THE BEST HOURS.....

Wanted: Explorer.  Tell us how to survive.  Notice: You have to work 24 hours a day 7 days a week.  What?!  

(The kid actually put "What?!" at the end.  Love it.)

Wanted: Government explorer.  Must know how to speak other languages.  Must work full-time, holidays, weekends, and nights.  You need to have a pen and paper.  Must have experience with a job for at least 12 years and need to know how to live alone.  If allergic to anything, not a good job.

Should I know who he is?  Because I don't....

MAY INVOLVE ANIMALS.....

Wanted: Government Explorers.  If you are allergic to bees, horses, or other animals, this may not be the job for you.  Must be willing to work very often.  This includes holidays, late nights, weekends, and more. Must know other languages and agree with Indians.  You will need mapping supplies.

Wanted: Government explorers.  Must be able to tell directions, survive in nature, and map out things.  Must be able to sleep outside and travel and find your way home.  You must be able to defend against bears and other dangerous animals. 

Wanted: Government explorers.  Need: bravery.  Be good with traveling and nature.  Bring supplies for survival.  Be ready for maybe bears, wolves, foxes, or poisonous snakes.  You may go through deserts.

Wanted: Government explorer.  To be a government explorer, you need to be brave, like skin animals without throwing up and kill big animals and shoot big guns. 

MAY REQUIRE KNOWLEDGE OF PLANTS.....

Looking for a job?  Stop by Tough Crowd Corners.  You need an application.  Be able to ride a horse.  Good experience with outdoors.  Your job will be at least four years long.  We will have all the equipment for you.  Be able to make trails.  Big boys who can tell the difference between poison plants and non-poison plants.   

Wanted: Good explorers.  Need to know how to ride a horse, have knowledge about plants, how to make trails, and how to survive in the wild.  Be willing to work for five years straight.  Be tough.  (Picture: “Is that poison ivy?”  “You can do better!!!”)

Yes, Mr. Hammond.  I did find out the hard way what poison ivy is.

I think the funniest part was the differences between the boys and girls.  

WHAT BOYS HAD TO SAY:

Wanted: Government explorers.  Have to be good with directions, know how to make camp fires, or go to the training camp.  If you can crush the odds, defy what your wife has to say and rise to the challenge.  Your name will forever be followed by the words: Mountain Man.

Wanted: Explorers.  Wanted for new government plan.  Two years of training.  Have to do well in wildlife.  Have to have a sense of directions.  Have to know what plants to eat.  Ten year contract.  Men with clingy wives…do not apply. 

Wanted: Someone that has five years of experience.  And please don’t take your wife.  Your job is to be an explorer for 20 years.  You also have to get your own gun.

Boys' Version of Family Exploration

WHAT THE GIRLS HAD TO SAY:

 Wanted: Explorer with three years wildlife experience.  Long 2-3 years, so bring family if needed.  Must know way around.  Know what food to eat that’s not poison.  Have wildlife skills and hunting skills.  Must have your own gun and knife.  Must have fist-aid techniques.  Must know how to build a fire. 

Wanted: Government Explorers.  Someone who is good with the outdoors and with guns, to be able to use a compass, and make trails.  It will take awhile so if you have a family, you will have to miss them or take them with you. 

Girls' version of Family Exploration.
Almost the same...

You got all that?  Your ear could get ripped right off.  Suck it up and sew it back on.  You might get into poison ivy or eat something poisonous, but come on.  You can do better!  You better skin animals without throwing up and be tough enough to leave that clingy wife behind.  If you think you have what it takes, there could be a job for you.

Please apply at Mrs. Montoya's 4th grade class.  A panel of ten-year-old toughness experts will determine if you really have what it takes.  

This is Jedediah Smith.  He thinks you're a wimp.

Cancer, Herpes, and a Root Canal

I love being married.  It's like I have all the same things to do that I always have had, but sometimes, they magically turn up done...without me doing them.  Like my breakfast being made when I go to leave for work, or the laundry being done or the dishes being washed when I get home from work.

Nevertheless, balancing my 32 kids at school, the 3 year old Sunbeams I teach at church, and just the everyday things like, you know, getting dinner made, seems to have thrown me over the edge.  I have been sick more times since meeting Paul than probably all the years I've been away from home...combined.  What is it about change that does that to a person?

Anyway, a few weeks ago my being sick reached an all-time high.  My mouth started hurting, my throat started swelling up, and I got a horrible fever somewhere between 100-103 degrees.  When Paul asked me what was wrong I said, "Honey, I think I have cancer."

Something like that, minus the smiling or course.

"Why would you say that?!"

"Paul, I have never been sick this much.  I never get sick.  I have been sick FIVE TIMES this year.  That probably means that something went horribly wrong in my body and I have cancer, and I'm going to die."

"You don't have cancer and you are not going to die."

"How do you know?!"

Because after lying in bed all day with a fever, what else am I to conclude?  A totally healthy person with Viking blood gets sick five times in a row?  There's nothing it could be but cancer or something equally horrible.

And thanks to all the Lurlene McDaniel "Cancer Death Books" I read as a sixth and seventh grader (Six Months to Live, Don't Die My Love! and other equally riveting treasures) I knew exactly how this would play out.  I would be one of those tragic stories--a young woman, only 27, with everything a person could want in life, suddenly diagnosed with some type of lymphoma--when it had just seemed like a cold or flu.  Of course, the biggest tragedy was how horrible I was going to look bald with this big, round face of mine.

I know, you want to run to the library and get it, don't you?

While Paul was able to convince me that I probably didn't have cancer and didn't need to say goodbye to anyone just yet, I was still certain that all the sickness wasn't normal.  So, on Saturday, I dragged myself to a QuickCare...that didn't take my insurance.  I was so exhausted, I went home and took a two hour nap before calling the next place first to make sure they took my insurance before I tried again.  Finding they would take it, I drove myself over, pretty certain now that it was some type of infection that had started in my gums that was causing the fever.

I tried to explain that to the InstaCare folks, but would they even look in my mouth?  No.  They swabbed me for strep, tested me for mono, and told me that I probably needed to "rest and drink more water."  By the time I got to the car, I was hysterical.  "They just charged me $200 to tell me to drink more water!!!"

It is no secret that I hate doctors.  I typically think they are morons (Sorry Brett and Paul).  I feel like I have never had a good experience with a doctor to this point in my life.

It started in elementary school when I was getting horrible earaches.  My mom finally convinced me we should go see a doctor.  After waiting for what seemed like forever in the waiting room, they called me back.  The doctor asked a few questions, looked in my ears, said nothing was wrong, and told me I was probably just cold and should buy some earmuffs.

"What an idiot!"  I thought.  "We paid all this money so he could tell me to wear earmuffs?!"

And that was when I decided that doctors knew nothing.


I have been to the doctor as little as possible from then on, but the times I have had to go have not been any more reassuring.

My greatest fear in going to the doctor is not that there will be something wrong with me.  It's that there won't be anything wrong, and suddenly, I 'll be that same little kid being told to go buy earmuffs.  Which is exactly what happened.  Except this time I was supposed to drink more water.  Which would have made me less mad if they would have at least tried to listen and look at what I told them hurt.

And so, I went home and drank more water and slept some more.  But things didn't get better--they simply got worse.  Monday I stayed home from school and didn't even make sub plans or show up to my important presentation I was supposed to be giving.  I slept until 11:00 am, ate some food, and then went back to bed.  (If you know me, this is all clearly atypical behavior--probably a sign of imminent death.)

By Tuesday, I was able to get into an emergency appointment with a dentist.  After all, the pain was coming from my mouth.  Perhaps they would be more informative and less expensive than another doctor.

Dentist: "It was the top right that you said was hurting you, correct?"
Me: "No, the bottom left."
Dentist: "The bottom left?"
Me: "Yes."
Dentist: "Well then, I have bad news for you.  Because you have problems on the top right."

And so, there in my dental chair, I discovered that I did not have cancer.  I needed a root canal (top right) and I had herpes (bottom left).

"Herpes?!"

"Above the belt herpes!" he said reassuringly when he saw that look on my face that screamed, "But I can't have herpes!  I'm not that kind of person."

Apparently, 70-90% of adults have it and are carriers.  It's the same thing that causes cold sores.  If a person gets too stressed, it can manifest itself.  In my case, the symptoms were high fever, canker sores all over the inside of my mouth and tongue, sore throat, and swollen, bleeding gums.

Delightful.

"So, how do we fix it?" I asked, secretly pleading, "Please give me drugs, please give me drugs."
"Well," he said, pointing to the virus section he was showing me in his dental textbook, "It says here take Ibuprofen.  It'll clear up in 7-14 days."
"I don't have that long," I said.
"Well, the worst part is over," he reassured me.  "But, that bad news is, that top right part of your mouth?  You had a filling fall out and it looks like you now need a root canal."

True Story.

So, I didn't have cancer.  But I did have herpes (and now have the terror of a repeat performance if I ever get stressed again), and I certainly needed root canal--which frankly was nowhere near as horrible as the herpes.  At least they numbed me for the root canal.

Talk about some March Madness.

Now if I can never, ever get stressed again, we should be good to go.
"You were stressed?!" a mom at school asked me.  "What do you have to be stressed about?"
I know.  There is nothing to be stressed about ever again.

Except maybe doctors.

But let's look on the bright side.
After not being able to eat for so long, at least my pants fit again.

Kids are So Dang Funny

I promised that my next post would include our phenomenal marriage advice from my class.  Don't worry--they wrote us a whole book.  Here are a few of my favorites:

"Do not have too many kids.  It will be hard work.  Go to San Francisco, California and see the Golden Gate Bridge and take a picture for your honeymoon.  Name your first girl Lizzy and name your first boy John."

"You should go on a date and these are some places you should go...Low's Extreme Air Sports, JumpOnIt, Lagoon, Classic Fun Center Roller Skating, do silly string fights, and kiss each other every night and morning."

"Don't do eneything stoopid."

"My advice is to kiss for 10 minutes and name the child Thomas or Cho.
P.S.  Say I love you 100 times."
(It looks like that is a pretty serious kiss, if it leads to a kid named Thomas or Cho.  (Although a white kid named Cho Montoya will only confuse things more.....)

"1. Do not kiss too much or it will get a little wet.
2. Get a good job so you can move into your dream home.
3. Don't get more than 10 kids. It's hard work."

"I think you should get a pet and rock out to awesome music.  Go on a date at least one time a month.  Laugh together.  Have fun together."

"Good advice: Close your eyes when you kiss.  Go to Orange Leaf and Pizza Pie Cafe for dates.  Never drink coffee.  Go to BYU soccer games a lot.  When they say 'Will you marry her?' say yes.  Hug each other a lot."

"Okay, one thing is never name any of your children Julian or Maurice because my brother wanted my neighbor to name their baby boy one of those names because they're famous skiers.  Name your children after me.  And never leave Utah and don't obey the advice like closing your eyes when you kiss."

"Give Miss Waite a good anniversary present.  Get a little dog.  Kiss every day.  Play with your kids.  Don't break up."

"You should buy Paul's dream car and he might give you yours."

"Be alone as long as you can.  Always like BYU.  Have 32 kids and name them after us."

"I think you guys shouldn't fight.  You should share, be happy, get an Audi, and name your kid Jackson.  Go on vacation to Hawaii and Spain.  You should get horses and at least three kids."

"Buy a house with a big swimming pool so we can swim in it.  Get a kitten or cute dog (but not too furry).  P.S. Paul, take Miss Waite on a good date at Texas Road House."

"Have a happy life.  Get a good job.  Use your money for cars--Lamborghini and Bugatti sports cars.  Don't vote for Obama--vote for Mitt Romney.    We should go to a football game together.  Real Salt Lake rocks.  Do not give us homework, especially math."
(How not giving homework to the ten year old who wants to double date with us fits into my marriage I'm still not sure, but I think he may be onto something...)

"I think you should kiss on the lips to end a fight."

"If you have a girl with long, blonde hair, grow it long and braid it for the night and then take it out in the morning."

"You guys should buy a Ferrari and live at the school in Miss Waite's classroom with a dog named Ruffer and name your boy kid Nemo and the girl Nemoent."
(Uh...if we buy a ferrari right now, we WILL be living in the school, for a long, long time....Oh well.  At least we have Ruffer.)

"Be strong.  Share food and never make food together.  It could be bad.  But kiss A LOT.  Every night snuggle."

"Let your kids have a birthday party every year!  Go on a date every week.  Kiss every night."
(Well, looks like our years, weeks, and days are now planned out for us.  Although a party on my kids' birthdays may be a bit much...)

"Dear Paul,
Whenever you get married, promise me that you will never, I say NEVER go through the same thing my great-great-great-great grandpa did.  Because as soon as he started dating and marrying my G-ma, A GIANT SQUID CAME IN AND ATE HIM!  Just kidding!  But really, don't screw up."

"Explore the world.  Stay together.  Have fun."

See, these kids could be family therapists.  Just make sure not to have too many kids, kiss a lot (but not too wet), have a dog, and do fun things.  And of course, whatever you don't don't screw up or be stoopid.  ;)
____________________________________________________________
I went to a wedding one day and got a sub.  While she was there, the kids wrote letters to Santa.  Here are a few gems:

Dear Santy Claus,
I think I should get a big motor bike that says "Ladies Dig My Ride" and I want it to be orange slash blue so I can support BSU.  And I can help someone if they're dying...like I will hurry and ride over there and put them on my motor bike and bring them to the hospital.  The End.

Dear Santa,
These are the things I want to Christmas.  First, I want a gun, because then I can go hunting and I will have protection.  Secondly, I want a ka-bar because without a knife, how can I skin and gut a deer?

Dear Santa,
This is what I want for Christmas:
I like those mini lock things so I can hold my class notes in them because I have way too many scattered in my backpack.
This is what else: I would really like a sister because I have only brothers.
And last but not least, the new American Girl doll Caroline Abbet with more outfit of hers, in the letter I sent you.

Dear Santa,
Hi, what I want for Christmas is...
Well, I don't know what I want.  I doesn't matter.  I want other kids to have a fun Christmas in all other places kids who don't have moms or dads and a lot of other kids.  Christmas is about giving.  I don't care what toy or present.  I just got it in my mind--one of these side purses that me and my mom saw at Target but I want you to make it different--blue or purple but with silver chains to go around your side.

Dear Santa,
I loved the presents last year.  I would love to have a dog cause when I can't play with friends I can play with the dog.  So I won't bug my mom to play with my friends.  I can play with the dog instead.  I wouldn't have no other Christmas presents for this year.  P.S.  We might go duck hunting.  The dog would help so we would not have to swim.  The dog could go get it.

Dear Santa,
Thank you for everything you have done and given to me.  I just want to tell you a few things I want.  I don't need or want too much.  Can you please get me some CUTE clothes?  It is not that I need them, but it would be nice to have them!  The second thing is (I want, I don't need) some girl legos.  I really want the vet one and a few others.  The reason I want the girl Legos is because I can play with them with my friends and with my little sister.
That is about it.  I told you I don't want or need stuff.
Now, I want to ask you a few questions.  First, do you have any kids.  Second (this tags along with the first!) do your elves count as your kids?  Third, how is Mrs. Claus?  Fourth, how old is Rudolph?  Fifth, how are the elves?  Sixth, how old are you?  Seventh, how many hours does it take to do every house?  Eighth, how many toys do you have to make?  Ninth, how many years have you been doing this?  Tenth, what is your favorite cookie?  Okay, done with questions.  Please write back before Christmas.  Say Hi to Mrs. Claus for me and the elves and reindeer.  P.S.  I do want some dry erase markers too!

Santa,
You should get me a b.b. gun so I can hunt small game, so I can have the fur and the meat.  And it is fun to shoot for fun.  Shoot targets and it is fun to have a competition with your dad.  That is why I should get a b.b. gun for fun shooting and small game.

Dear Santa,
I want a picture of you, your reindeer, your workshop, and your elves.  Because I've been good this year and I don't know if you exist or not.  If you don't, I probably won't think you're real, cause you won't hear me out for what I wanted this year.  P.S.  Am I on the nice list?

Dear Santa,
What I want for Christmas is lots of duct tape.  Like: red, pink, black, white, camo...all of that times twenty.  Cuz I'll make you bracelets, rings, wallets ("my kind") and...if your boxes get dirty, I will fix them with my black duct tape.  And if you get me more green, I will make you a Christmas tree.

Dear Santa,
For Christmas, I want a salamander.  I think I should have it.  I would take care of it.  I would feed it and give it water.  I would keep it in my room so my mom wouldn't freak out.  I would clean the cage and pet it so it won't get mean.  I would close the lid, so my cats won't get it.  That is why I should get a salamander for Christmas.

So, if anyone has some extra guns, salamanders, or duct tape, send them my way.  Or just let Santa take care of it himself.  :)

Happy Holidays! 

Letters to a Brain Surgeon

I have a tendency, when I get really excited about something, to get a bit...caught up.  Obsessive.  Intense.  I go through phases where something will really interest me and I find every book I can and read up on it.  People who have to be around me get to endure my constant talking about it.  I get online and research it.

I remember this educational phenomenon starting in about fourth grade with horses (what girl doesn't go through a horse phase at some point?) and moving on to the Holocaust and WWII in junior high when I first really started learning about them, and then Abraham and Mary Todd Lincoln in high school.

This past year or two, I found a new person to research (i.e. become obsessed about): Dr. Ben Carson.  Who?  

Ben Carson, famous neurosurgeon.

No, I did not undergo brain surgery.  No, I am not reading up so I can begin the pursuit of a new career (I'm supposed to be putting things in their heads, not taking it out).  No, I am not suddenly interested in science or medicine.

It all started with the $5 movie bin at Wal-Mart.  My mom saw a DVD that looked "uplifting" or "family friendly" or "inspirational"called Gifted Hands.  It didn't appear to be some cheesy Hallmark movie, because it had Cuba Gooding Jr.  Already, what was not to love?!  So, she bought it, took it home, watched it, and then promptly insisted we all watched it so our lives could be changed.

I laughed a little, but one time when I was home, I finally sat down and watched it.  I was in shock as I watched a young, poor, underprivileged boy from a single-parent home go from being the dumbest kid in elementary school, to the world's best and most famous pediatric neurosurgeon.

The teacher in me couldn't resist being utterly moved as I thought of the potential each individual has, and who we each have the power to become.

So, I did what I normally do.  I set out to Google Ben Carson and find out as much as I possibly could. I bought his autobiography.  I bought his children's biography.   I watched online interviews.

Last year, I read the biography to my class.  As we were finishing, I discovered that Ben Carson was actually coming to BYU as the forum speaker.  My class begged to go on a field trip but--considering it was a college forum for BYU students--we compromised (as in--I told them what the plan was) and I took the day off so I could attend, promising I'd take notes for them (which I did).

Ben Carson was just a phenomenal in person as he was in the books.  I was blown away by this man!
And so, we read his book again this year and I let my class write him letters.  They were so fun!  Check out a little of what they had to say to the world's best pediatric neurosurgeon:

Dear Ben Carson,
I think you are a great doctor.  I watch your movie.  I think you are very brave.  You work very hard to save people's lives and I respect that.  If I ever get in a life threatening sichyouwashin (situation) I would want to go to you.

Dear Mr. Carson,
My fourth grade teacher, Miss Waite, read us the book Gifted Hands.  It was great!  I loved it.  You are so much braver than me!  You are so smart!
How many kids do you have?  I want to meet you so bad.  What is your favorite color?
We are learning so much in school.  Do you learn anything when you are doing Dr. stuff?
I bet you are a wonderful man.  And I bed you do wonderful things too.  And I think I will be much more smarter, once I read a lot more.
Want to be your friend,
_________________

Dear Ben Carson,
My teacher just read the book Gifted Hands!  It was cool!  How are you doing?  You are AWESOME!!!  It is very cool that you did surgery on people whose heads were stuck together!  I hope your family is doing very well.  
P.S.  You are amazing to do those things.  How is your wife?

Dear Ben Carson,
Your book has inspired me to work my hardest in school.  Also to do and choose the right--that if a friend turns me down that person is not a good friend, and just to live your dream, to not stay inside and not have fun.  Go outside and just have fun!  It is good to be active and be healthy.  If you don't use your brain, then start.  

Dear Ben Carson,
Hi, my name is ________.  I really look up to you and meeting you one day.  I am nine and in 4th grade.  We just finished Gifted Hands the day before fall break and I want to be like you, nice.  But I kinda get creeped out because of brains.  So when I grow up, I will be a mom.  I am a Mormon.  It impressed me about you and your thoughts.  I think you are very special.  I liked your biography.  

Dear Ben Carson,
Thanks for all you do.  That must be groce (gross) how you look inside people's brains.  Is it?  How is your family doing?  What are your kids' names?

Dear Ben Carson,
You are an amazing brain surchin (surgeon).  How are your kids?  How's your wife?  Your life has been amazing!  What is your favorite color?  I really look up to you.  I have to go!
From a kid who looks up to you.

Ben...dude, please tell me how dang disgusting it was separating those first two twins.  By the way, I think you SHOULD be a brain surgent (surgeon).  

Dear Ben Carson,
We read the book, Gifted Hands as a class and I loved it.  It was a really good book.  I also watched the movie Gifted Hands.  It's a really good movie.  I watched it with my older sister right after we finished the book in class.  I want to read more books about you.  I don't get how you do brain surgery.  It's so blah.


Dear Ben Carson,
I look up to you and admire you.  I like you "THINK BIG."  You are very smart.  You taught me lots and to follow my dreams.  You are good at being a doctor. 

And there you have it.  A sampling of the best of our letters, coming straight from America's future brain surgeons and rocket scientists and accountants and teachers and vets and moms.

Keep your eyes open.  You just never know when the $5 bin at Wal-Mart might shape the future.  :)

Sometimes, 82nd Time's The Charm

Years ago, before I was thinking about boys or marriage or eternity, a woman told me that I should go out with at least 100 different boys before I got married.  She admitted that she also had been challenged to do that, and--while a hundred had seemed a bit high--she had worked to go out with at least fifty.

At this time, I still had a year or two left before I would even go on my first date (a double date where I went bowling with my brother and one of his friends), but I seemed to think it was a great idea.  I could keep a record of all my dates--first to make sure I went on lots and lots and knew exactly what I wanted when I got married and didn't just run out and marry the first person to come along, and second to have as ammunition in case I ever needed to show my husband all the people I could have married and didn't.  (Don't worry, I wrote that at the beginning of the notebook where I planned to keep track all those years ago.  I know.  I was pretty awesome.)

It didn't hurt that by this time, my grandma had already started in on her "marriage talks," in which (contrary to what you might be expecting) she informed me that college would be full of boys who would think they wanted to get married, but that I should pay no mind.  After all, I had my whole life to be married.  And not that marriage was bad, because it wasn't, BUT....

And so, starting with that funny double date UNO bowling at age sixteen, I began to keep track.  For each "real date" I went on (you know, the kind where the boy knows he is on a date--like he actually asked you using the "date" word and picks you up and pays for you and all that), I wrote down who I went with and what we did.  I listed their age and home state.  I made note of whether or not they'd been a blind date or actually asked me out themselves.

Time passed and the list stretched on.  Every time I would go home to visit my grandparents, my grandma would ask if I was dating someone.  "No," I would reply, a little sadly.  "Good!" she'd say.  "There is plenty of time for that.  Finish your education."

And so I did.  I graduated from college.  I started working.  I watched my list of dates get longer and longer.  I began to think more about quality than quantity.  As time went on, people stopped sighing, "Oh good," when they heard I wasn't dating someone and started saying things like, "You know, it only takes ONE."  (Yes, thank you.  But it still takes one!  I wanted to scream.)  Or, "You know what the problem is?  You're being too picky.  Is that it?  Are you going for the wrong type of guy?  You just need to find someone average.  Nice, but very average."  (Few things are worse than being told that with what you have to offer you are clearly setting your sights too high.  Thanks.  Thanks a lot).

The more time went, the more people tried to "help," and the longer the list of blind dates got (which actually did wonders for my numbers on the list to 100).  Some of them were very nice.  A few of them I would have dated.  But mostly, they were just other "old" people who were still single too.  Which, really, what more did I need?  I mean, do you see why people thought I was so picky?!  I was single, they were single, I was "old," they were "old"....What more did we need?!  Gosh!

After a few experiences that convinced me I just may be one of those "star shaped tupperware" who didn't have a "type," I was just about resigned to stop altogether and just buy a dog.  (Golden retriever, in case you're wondering.)  It was during that time, that I decided one night to go to yet another activity (I was going alone) at which I decided I would stay approximately ten minutes.  Long enough to convince myself I was a good person for going and not feel guilty, but not so long that I'd actually have to have it get awkward.

As I sat down at a park bench to eat some watermelon, I noticed a new person across from me.  Thinking of my resolve to be better about communicating in person, I sucked it up, took a deep breath, and (after mentally telling myself I was a good person and I could talk to strangers and really, it probably was the right thing to do), introduced myself.

The guy's name was Paul and we must have talked for a few minutes before I gracefully ditched the activity and rushed home to sink back into my safe couch at my own apartment.

I was surprised later that week when Paul called to ask me to a movie (with a big group, of course).  Due to several circumstances that had very little to do with Paul, I decided not to go.  After all, I told my roommates, it wasn't a date.  He didn't specifically ask me.  It was a "group activity."  And if other plans came up, the group would be just fine without me.  I wasn't obligated to go.  (Little did I know at the time, the entire thing had been set up just as a way to get me there.  Sneaky, Paul.  Very sneaky).  And so, I planned not to go.  Until a friend texted me, specifically asking me to come.  "Don't leave me alone.  You have to come."  You know me.  I'm a sucker for that kind of thing.  I never say no.

And so, my roommate and I went.  She sat next to him and talked to him.  I sat by a very nice girl I didn't know.  Right after the movie, my roommate and I jetted out and went home.

However, Paul must have felt like a group movie bridged whatever social gap was needed in order to make it kosher to then ask me on an actual date, because ask me out he did.  It caught me off guard when he asked me to come over.  I told him I could only stay an hour.
Which is exactly what I did.
("She hates me," he thought.)

I guess he decided I was worth one more chance, so he texted me one day from work to see if I would drive down to the Manti Pageant with him that night ("It is a long way to drive alone").  Of course, it was a day I didn't have my phone, so I didn't get the message until nearly six o'clock that night.  Feeling a little guilty (mixed with panicked at the idea of spending hours trapped in a car with someone I barely knew), I simply texted back, "Sorry, I just got your text.  Have you left yet?"  which he took to mean, "YES!  I would love to go on a date with you!  I am ready whenever you are!" and he responded, "Great!  I'll swing by and pick you up after work."  ("What am I supposed to do?  I never even said I would go!"  I yelled to my roommates.  "Talk about 'assume the sale!'")

I figured that three hours in a car with someone would either seal the deal that I should never see him again or give me a pretty good sign that they at least there was potential.  And so, after a well-more-than-three hour date that included lots of "adventures" (calling my mom, for instance--like I said...I'm pretty awesome), I actually wanted to see him again.  As surprised as I was right then in my life, it was a pretty good surprise.

And so I did see him again.  From then on I saw or talked to him every day.  For hours.  We talked about everything from our families to our favorite books to stupid things we had done as kids to religion to politics to education to medicine to the fact that I'm cheaper than a dollar store to what makes us laugh.  And we had fun.  We went geocaching and to new restaurants and to plays and watched football and cooked and went kayaking and went to a rodeo and ate an elephant ear and watched a meteor shower, and hiked and mostly just enjoyed the fact that it was summer.

Gradually, throughout this whole thing, I realized that something was different about this experience.  When I was with Paul, I was still me.  My real self.    And I found there was someone on the planet who liked that.  Who liked me.  Not only that, but I found I could be with him and not get tired of him.  I had someone I could tell anything to.  I'd found someone who took care of me and made me want to be better.
(I'm sorry.  For those of you who get ill and tend to throw up in your mouths, I'll stop.  I really will.  Believe me, I know.  Sometimes there are few things grosser than love.  Bleh!)

So, one night we started talking about the M word.  You know...The M word?!  Yep.  And I decided (after a few weeks of thinking it over) that I really did want to marry this boy and keep him around forever.

"That was fast!"  people always say.

Yes.
Yes it was.
Very fast.
WAY faster than he originally expected.
Faster than even I expected
(and I was pretty sure I'd seen enough to know it when I saw it).


But as I began to panic (while thinking about what everyone would say), I realized something about myself.  In the almost decade since I left high school, I have lived in 3 states and 2 foreign countries.  I have worked in 8 very different jobs.  I have lived in 14 different apartments, had 54 incredible roommates, and been out with 82 different boys (Sigh.  I guess I never did quite make it to 100.  Oh well).

I would say, based on my experiences, I have gotten the chance to know myself and what does (and doesn't) work for me pretty well over the last nine years.  (Not that everyone needs to take nine years of soul searching, but I guess that was the way I had to do things...)

And so, call me crazy, but for whatever reason, this time it's just different.  Anyone who can get me to say the word "marriage" is living proof that something is different--in a very good way.  I'm not scared anymore.  I don't want to throw up at the thought of love.

So, that being said, how did he propose?  Well, (for those of you starting to feel like that pumpkin, skip this part and be done) he had told me he was working until 9:00 pm all week long.  Knowing that, I had made other plans.  The night he proposed, I stayed at work until 6:30 pm and caught up on all my piles of grading.  I came home long enough to have a little to eat and was on my way out again when his roommate knocked on the door and delivered a card.  It was a note from Paul, explaining that he knew we wouldn't get to see each other much this week, so he had a surprise for me.  It was obvious it was some type of scavenger hunt.

Now, any NORMAL person would have thought, "Fun!"  and gone to find the first clue.  Instead, I exclaimed to my roommates (who apparently knew what was going on), "I'm supposed to be meeting my friend for Institute.  Should I go?  Oh...but what if he's proposing?!  I didn't even get ready today.  I'm in ugly teacher pants!  If he is proposing, there could be someone in the bushes taking pictures!!!"

I ran upstairs, changed clothes, tried to fix my hair and makeup, and threw in a load of laundry (Sure, why not?  As long as I was near the washing machine...)

THEN, I went on the scavenger hunt.  It led me to all our spots--where we first met, our first date, where we had our first kiss, the spot we first said "I love you" (thank goodness he didn't propose there!  The place was crawling with jr. high kids who were doing some type of service project), and ended at the place we went to see a play for my birthday.

It was an outdoor amphitheater, and as I approached it in the darkness, all I could see was the glow of candles.  I began to walk up the stone steps lined with candles and when I got to the top, saw a balcony with lights, a table set beautifully, and flowers.  Music was playing and--of course--Paul was there.

I won't go into all the details, but it included what every good proposal should: a good down-on-one-knee asking, complete with a ring (Not just any ring.  THE ring.  The one I really, really, really wanted.  The one with my grandma's diamond in the middle.  The one I have had at least two nightmares about not getting.  The one that I had to look at before I told him that I would marry him.  Ooops...).

The best part is that the diamond is from the grandma from the beginning
of the story who wanted me to find myself and then get married.
Once I finished college.  I think she'd be proud.  :) 

It didn't hurt that there was some food involved, and that the chicken was not only stuffed, but also wrapped in bacon.  ("Bacon?!  I LOVE bacon!")

So, there amid the trees and flowers and stars and music and perfect weather and three hundred candles, I said yes.

After all....
Sometimes 82nd time's the charm.  :)