Being Seasoned Doesn't have to be a Bad Thing

In education, teachers try to put a positive spin on just about everything so as not to bring on discouragement or low self-esteem.

There is a term that we use to describe older teachers. The term is "seasoned" or "seasoned veteran."

The term "seasoned" still has somewhat of a sting to me, now that I fit that classification. Most teachers have their master's degrees. In fact, I am one of probably three teachers in our district that doesn't. A couple of years ago I decided to put forth the effort and cost and join my colleagues with that esteemed distinction of having an MA behind my name. So I enrolled in a fully online program through Northern Michigan University.

When I was a college student in my younger years, I would glance around the class at what we referred to back then as nontraditional students. I thought that they had sort of an air of confidence about them while at the same time wondered if they felt out of place in a classroom of young 20-somethings.

In my online program, we have the luxury of not being able to see each other and therefore the playing field is somewhat leveled as far as who is seasoned and who is young (for lack of a better term). In every online class I have had to write a bio and include a picture and then read and comment on other classmates' bios.

For some reason, I was shocked to see pictures and read bios of first-time moms, recent graduates, and one or two other nontraditional students, including myself. As I would leave comments to others about their exciting futures as parents and educators, I would read comments on my bios that said things like, "I am looking forward to the expanse of knowledge and experience you will bring to the class as a seasoned veteran."

There it was.

I was the old lady of the class. In that first class I decided to tread lightly and not let my experience show, so to speak.

But as I proceeded through the coursework, I realized that I did have something to offer.

I quickly saw that my experience was met with appreciation. The younger teachers seemed to want to hear what I had to say. They weren't rolling their eyes and commenting about me under their breath, not that I could see anyway. I have come to embrace my role as an educator with experience that can bring a different perspective to those who have not been in education long.

With that, I think I'd like to update the term "seasoned" to something that describes how I feel inside.

I think I like "zesty" a little bit better.

Published February 25, 2012

Rethinking the Appeal of Empty Nest Syndrome

This is one of Robby's senior pictures.

A few days after Christmas our oldest son, Robby turned 18. I remember the day he was born like it was yesterday. I can see the day when he leaves the nest rapidly approaching and it makes me kind of sad. But that feeling hasn’t always been there. When our kids were in the years of early adolescence when the arguing and defiance were at an all-time high, my husband and I questioned whether Empty Nest Syndrome actually existed and why anyone would consider it a syndrome. Aren’t syndromes supposed to be bad things? We would go to open houses and chuckle on the way home saying “Those lucky dogs! We can’t wait for Empty Nest Syndrome!” We could see the days of no children in the house as refreshing and relaxing. We fantasized about packing boxes and turning bedrooms into craft rooms. The frustrations that go along with raising teens seem to be as endless as the eye-rolling and sarcastic remarks. Our longing for the elusive “Empty Nest Syndrome” continued until our oldest son became a senior. An amazing thing happens when a kid gets to be around 17 years old. He seemed to turn this mystical corner of maturity. He still thinks he is of a highly superior intelligence than his dad and I, but he has also become much more agreeable. He doesn’t seem to get mad at us nearly as often or stay mad as long. We actually like having him around and find ourselves saying stuff like “Don’t you want to hang out with us tonight?” We are feeling our sentiments change from “Don’t let the door hit you in the…” to “Sure, you can live at home and go to community college.” We breathe a sigh of relief because although he’s graduating in June, he’s not leaving for at least another 2 ½ years. We find ourselves re-thinking our fascination with Empty Nest Syndrome as we tell our younger son, a high school freshman, that there’s no reason for him to go away to school right after graduation. He is welcome to stay home after high school and attend North Central Michigan College like his older brother. We say it’s because of the money but we know deep down that we don’t want to let him go either. We remind ourselves that when he is at his most frustrating, that it is just a phase and we survived it with Robby.  Visiting my friend in the hospital as she welcomed her new baby boy in early December brought tears to my eyes as I remembered friends saying “You’ll blink and they’ll be teenagers.” That is exactly what has happened to us and we wonder where the time has gone. We still joke out loud that we’ll claim their rooms the moment they pull out of the driveway, but secretly know that we won’t. Not for a while anyway. I’m here to verify that yes, there is an Empty Nest Syndrome and yes, we will have it too. However we no longer welcome it and we are desperately trying to stop blinking.

Published January 28, 2012

Sometimes Dirt Doesn't Hurt

The boys and I at the youth group campout

My husband and I recently had the opportunity to be chaperones on a youth group camping trip for our church.
Since I am a planner and an organizer, camping is not one of my strong suits — it is not something that can be planned and executed perfectly because there are always those unique circumstances that arise that can ruin the whole experience for me.
When I set out to go camping with my family, I want it to be memorable.
What better way for things to be memorable, than to micro-manage every minute, right?
Because I didn’t plan this trip, we simply had to show up and help out with the kids when needed. I was able to sit back and observe some of the things that to adults can be trip-wreckers, but not to kids.
One thing that just irritates me to no end is that my feet are inevitably dirty the entire trip.
The ground is usually some sort of gray color and my flip-flopped feet just never seem to be free of it.
As I watched these kids walk around barefoot, moving the dirt around with their feet at the campfire, and then of course, go to bed that way, I wondered what I was so worried about. I knew the sheets could be cleaned and so could my feet.
Kids also don’t tend to be too concerned about whether or not their teeth get brushed. Some did, some didn’t. And my dentist might chastise me for saying this, but will one day of dirty teeth really cause advanced tooth decay?
I realized too that I don’t need modern conveniences like electricity or showers to have fun. Tent camping takes me back to my youth, only in a better, more water-resistant tent.
That brings me to my last point — rain.
I have come to realize that the only ones that seem to be bothered by rain are the adults. Kids and teens don’t have any trouble continuing to have fun on a camp-out when it rains.
As they get older they do, but only because of listening to us grumble about it. Fortunately we avoided rain until our final night.
The kids swam, ate banana boats and hobo dinners, played a game of predator in the woods at night and whittled knives out of sticks.
Our youth intern, Matt, did a wonderful job making the experience fun and memorable for everyone. All was done with dirty feet and questionable oral hygiene.
I loved every minute of it.

Published August, 2010

Breaking Up With the Sun

Even Molly has trouble staying away from our beautiful beaches in the summer!

I knew there was such a thing as skin cancer, but never thought it could happen to me.
But a few years ago I had a brush with melanoma. Although the test results were officially inconclusive, I still ended up with a 2-inch excision scar on my hip and dermatologist appointments three times a year.
That experience was enough to end my 25-plus year relationship with tanning beds and golden brown skin.
I have always loved being tan. I have skin that’s so pale in the winter that my husband says, “If you stand against that wall I can’t see you.”
I have always spent summers on the side of some pool or beach working on my perfect tan. I had two to three suits that insured I wouldn’t have defined strap marks.
The smell of Coppertone has always been intoxicating to me.
Since my skin cancer scare, my dermatologist has done a very good job at instilling fear in me. I don’t want any more icky moles or excision scars.
Last year when the weather was colder, I didn’t have as difficult a time staying out of the sun and away from the beach. I really felt that I was able to get to the point where I thought to myself, “I’m over 40 now. Is it really that important for me to get a tan?”
My derm told me in February that I could stretch my next exam to six months and see her in August.
“But you’d better not be tan!” she warned.
This year it’s warmer. The call of the beach is stronger as my scar fades.
The love of the sun and desire for brown skin is something with which I am definitely struggling.
I think to myself, “Who cares if I have farmer lines on my arms? Seriously, does it really matter that my stomach isn’t tan? No one sees it anyway.”
And in wanting to at least be seen when standing against the dining room wall, where do I draw the line so that I don’t look like I have the flu, but don’t look like that 20-year-old who spent the entire day on the shores of Gun Lake covered in baby oil, flipping every half-hour?
Getting older means letting go of some relatively silly things, such as being tan, that in the grand scheme of things really aren’t that important.
So with a lot of sunscreen, some sunless tanner and a new attitude, I think I’ll be able to show up in my derm’s office with my head up and my moles clean.
I guess it can happen to me.

The 'Good Little Cooker'

A recent recipe success- Chicken/bacon alfredo pizza. Yum!!

The other day my husband Tom and I were in the car and out of the blue he said, “You’ve really gotten to be a good little cooker.”
To tell you the truth, that’s quite a compliment considering how far I’ve come with my culinary skills.
As I was growing up I never had much interest in learning how to cook. When the food was on the table, I sat down and ate it.
When I got married my lack of experience was evident. I don’t remember a whole lot of my cooking from back then, but I do know that I made spaghetti so much that Tom began calling it “Old Standby.”
Tom grew up with a mom that was an excellent cook. She loved cooking and was very good at it — actually, she still is. Back then my incompetence in the kitchen reared its ugly head on more than one occasion. I called her frequently with my culinary emergencies.
The first thing she did was give me cookbook titled “The Absolute Beginner’s Cookbook: or, How Long Do I Cook a 3-Minute Egg?” by Jackie Eddy and Eleanor Clark.
Since she lived much closer than my own mother, she made dinner for us about twice a week. She’d include the recipe with the food, so if we liked it, I could make it again.
To this day I am extremely grateful for her help and generosity.
When we moved from Sault Ste. Marie to Charlevoix I was on my own again. We were back to “Old Standby” and lots of BC Pizza.
I did try, but I hadn’t built up the confidence to make anything that didn’t have cream of something soup in it.
A few years ago I flipped to Food Network and caught “30 Minute Meals” with Rachael Ray. She made cooking seem so effortless. It was like she was talking right to me.
As I continued to watch her show, print off the recipes and then make them myself, my awkwardness and fear of making meals containing more than five ingredients started to fade.
I started to hear, “This is good Mom. Make it again!” I got more and more confident and began to take risks in the kitchen. A friend even mentioned to me that my son, Robby, told her Rachael Ray had saved my life.
I don’t know if she really did save my life, or if it was my mother-in-law, or my incredibly patient and understanding family.
All I know is that I wear the title of “Good Little Cooker” with honor.

Published May, 2010

Boredom: Learning to Love it

This was my very first column back in April of 2010

A few years ago my friend Brenda gave me the book “Don’t Sweat the Small Stuff, 100 of the Best Inspirations from the Best-selling Series.”
In a variety of short essays, the author teaches the reader how to chill out and enjoy life. Since I tend to be a little high-strung, this turned out to be the perfect book for me.
My favorite, marked by a sticky note, is titled “Encourage Boredom in your Children.” When I read it I realized we adults need to do the same.
My husband and I have taken on the daunting task of living within our means. We decided taking vacations would only be done if we could pay cash for them.
Year after year, I would watch longingly as my friends began their late-winter ritual of building a base tan before going someplace warm and tropical for a week.
I would avoid the teachers’ lounge for the first two weeks after spring break so I would not have to listen to the excruciating stories and see the beautiful tans. Once the tans faded and the stories finished, I could return to daily lunches with my friends.
Many years, I would go so far as to purchase my own tan so when everyone returned, I wouldn’t get “Oh, you poor thing, you had to stay in this cold and miserable weather all spring break” looks. They don’t mean to do it, but they can’t help it. With a tan, people would assume that I had a fabulous break too, and hopefully wouldn’t ask about it.
As I felt more and more sorry for myself, my husband would try to cheer me up by saying things like, “Oh they’re just putting $3,000 on their Visas that they’ll have to pay off” or “There’s no way I’d be trapped in a car for four days just to go to Florida.”
It didn’t help.
I wanted to slather on Bain de Soleil for that St. Tropez tan and lounge in the sun by the pool. I wanted to wear shorts and flip flops, and my cute tankini with the little skirt. I continued to wallow in my self-pity.
Until this year, that is.
Every so often we are blessed with a two week break. For Christmas, we didn’t go anywhere and I decided to do as little as possible (a long time ago I realized the less busy I am the more slowly time goes by). I did a little cleaning, poked along at the laundry and laid around.
When the two weeks were over, boredom had set in and I was ready to go back to into the routine of my job. It felt like I had a month off.
This spring break, boredom hit about three days before the end.
Ready to go back to work, I was refreshed and recharged. My skin was pasty-white, but I wanted to see my friends and their tans, wanted to hear about wonderful trips and see pictures.
I’ve come back from vacations feeling rushed to do laundry and unpack, and go back to work tired, frazzled and grumbling, wishing break had not gone by so fast.
I have decided that there is value in not having to go on a fabulous trip every time there is a break.
Don’t get me wrong — if I have the opportunity to do something fun and fabulous somewhere warm and tropical, you can be sure that I’ll be there.
But I’ll pay for it with cash, and when I am there I will make sure I schedule in time just to be bored.

You Can't go Back...or Can You?

Robby and I at the Homecoming football game at half-time

I recently found out that you can live vicariously through your children. I came home from work one day to my son Robby, a senior at Charlevoix High School, calling me up to his room because he needed to tell me something. Actually he needed to tell me three things. I have no idea what the first two things were because the third thing sent me skyward. He was on homecoming court. I jumped up and down and babbled a bunch of nonsense with a few “Oh my gosh’s!” thrown in. I bolted downstairs trying to figure out if I was going to text everyone I knew, call my mom, or post it on facebook as he sat there dumbfounded. My son obviously was not as excited to be thrust into the limelight as I was for him to be. My high school dream of being nominated for homecoming was being realized by my own flesh and blood. Back in high school I literally had more than 8 chances to be nominated and never once was my be-nice-to-everyone way of life rewarded with that one announcement that just about every girl waits with baited breath for “and the nominees for homecoming queen of 1986 are…” When I say I had numerous chances it’s because my high school did things a little differently. Each grade elected a king and queen for both football and basketball seasons. And that really wasn’t all. There was also a school-wide king and queen who were seniors and got elected during basketball season. And if you didn’t manage to get on any of those courts (or even if you did), there was always “King and Queen of The Ledge.” That’s right; Grand Ledge’s own yearbook royalty. Back in the 80’s the homecoming nominations were much more of a popularity contest than they are now. You had to be popular. Not just friends with a lot of people; friends with a lot of popular people. You had to be the envy of roughly 90% of your class and although I was nice to everyone, I was not popular in the “getting nominated for homecoming queen” sense of the word. I am happy to see that things have changed. The nice kids do get nominated right along-side the popular crowd. Oh that’s not to say that our homecoming court didn’t consist of nice people, many of my dearest friends held those coveted seats on the Kleenex flowered floats, waving at their adoring fans. I have come to terms with my past but it doesn’t mean I couldn’t share in the excitement of having a son on his senior class court. I may not get to buy a beautiful Cinderella dress with matching satin shoes, but I was be the proudest mom screaming from the stands in my jeans and sweatshirt as my husband took picture after picture and feeling just as elated as if I were out on the field myself. I guess that with the help of your kids, maybe you can go back.

Published October, 2011