Just dropping a line....

I have a confession to make. I've been feeling guilty about not keeping up with the blog.The deeper into teaching I delve, the more my writing becomes a black fist squeezing my heart in the middle of the night when I realize I haven't written a thing but lesson plans in weeks.I'm scared about forgetting my dad. Not forgetting him as a person exactly, but forgetting to catalogue my heart. I'm afraid if I don't write here as much, it means I'm getting better- and getting better only gets me farther away from him.

The pendulum swings once and I say, I'm guilty, I'm thoughtless, I'm a bad daughter and a shallow person because I don't always feel the drive anymore, to write it all down. The pendulum swings back and I say, fuck it, nobody reads the blog anymore, nobody cares, nothing will bring him back. But in the end, as usual, a wise Dutch lady gave me some good advice: "If not writing is bothering you that much, you'll do something about it."

So here it is. I think about him, dream about him, and miss Greg more often than I ever have the time to write about. I'm tired and I'm overwhelmed and sometimes I'm deeply sad, but teaching is gratifying. This isn't going to be one of the posts that makes your heart sink (with Irish melancholy)....or sing (with Dutch enthusiasm). It's just a couple of thoughts to remind me of.....to remind me.

This week I taught my students the expression, "I don't chew my cabbage twice," which I told them my dad used to say to me. After a bit of trial and error, we figured out that it means repeating herself makes Mrs. Rodriguez shoot angry lasers from her eyeballs. One of the students gleefully shouted "That's an idiom!" Thank you thank you thank you, they ARE learning something. Reminder from my dad never to talk down to children, whether it's academic vocabulary or idiomatic expressions- they get a sense of pride and accomplishment from rising to my level.

Second way Greg's in the classroom with me: we've gotten into the habit of 2 minute physical activity as a transition between math and language arts. An hour is a long time to ask 9 year olds to sit. We've tried dancing, stretching, and jumping jacks, all of which have been moderately successful- but they love nothing as much as they love shadowboxing. It's been a week or so and they've figured out that my right is their left, and we're slowly learning the vocabulary. I feel my dad at my shoulder as I call out, "Jab, jab, right cross, hook, uppercut." He's laughing in the corner when I show them what happens when you drop your hands between punches. He's proud of me like I'm proud of my kids when they work an imaginary speedbag.

Maybe I should be grateful that teaching keeps me busier than grieving did. Maybe it's okay to resent getting better; maybe it's all part of the same journey.  But it's okay to be sad, and it's also okay to not write here again for awhile. I don't need to document every thought I have about my dad- he's documented in how I live, how I love, the person I am everyday.

And he and I are always gonna make terrific sparring partners.