First Impressions

First impressions are pretty monumental. Some people are good at them, and some are, well, downright terrible.

One way or the other, first impressions set the tone for the relationships you will have with people. So what does it mean when, on the first day of student teaching, the principal sees your boobs?

I wish I was kidding.

One of the perks of being a mom who breastfeeds is the intimate relationship I've formed with my breast pump. By intimate relationship, I actually mean we're frenemies; pumping is the bane of my existence. But since student teaching means I'm away from my sweet boy for most of the day, I have to make time to pump at school. My mentor teacher located an unused conference room, showed me how to lock the door, and said I should be perfectly fine in there.

False.

There I was, half-naked and holding two plastic cones to my chest, when Someone jiggled the door knob. It was locked, so I figured I was safe. Not one minute later, Someone returned with the jingle-jangle of keys. This can't be good. The key went in, the door opened, and there stood the principal.

I wanted to disappear.

It was like a real-life train wreck, with "I'm so sorry!"s and stammered half-sentences falling all around us against the whirring-buzzing soundtrack of my breast pump. Can you picture it? Don't. There are no words.

She quickly closed and re-locked the door as I attempted to recover what was left of my dignity while still managing to hold these tools of torture to my chest. I made a point of stopping by her office later to make light out of what was easily one of the most mortifying moments of my life, and we both had a good laugh. 

I would like to think that somewhere along the way, the principal will associate me with things like stellar classroom management and brag-worthy lesson plans; she'll say things to her colleagues like, "Boy, is she an expert on Common Core!" and "She's super awesome at differentiating instruction!" and "Gee, I'm glad I hired her!" (please?!) But more likely than not, whether I'm a nobody or Teacher of the Year, that first impression is going to stick. I will always be remembered as that student teacher,
The Girl with the Breast Pump.

(Who would really love to be employed in the upcoming school year, please and thank you.)

...Like a Boss

Every time I drive past a used car lot, I think of the first time I was grounded.

Stay with me.

The details are a little fuzzy, but cut me some slack because I was only five. All I know for sure is that I was with my parents at a used car lot, and it was dark outside. In the distance, I saw it-- gleaming in the light of a fluorescent lamppost, a pile of tattered plastic bunting.

And by tattered plastic bunting, I mean decorative flags that would surely match the Pocahontas motif in my bedroom. I would decorate with all the colors of the wind, and it would be spectacular.

I asked my parents if I could take it home, and they said no, because that would be stealing and it was trash anyway. Um, hello-- had they never heard the universal motto of yard sales? One person's trash is another's treasure. And it would look great in a Pocahontas room.

Ever the problem-solver, I decided if I wanted to take it anyway, I had to ball it up and stuff it into my coat. I don't know if it was the sheer puffiness of my neon coat a la 1995, or the fact that my parents were distracted by cars and my two younger siblings, but they didn't seem to notice. I was totally getting away with it, like a boss.

It wasn't until we were driving home that it occurred to me that my parents might eventually notice this "trash" (how dare they) once it was taped to my bedroom walls. Panic set in. What was I supposed to do with this stuff? Take it out of my coat right now and admit the jig is up? I would get in trouble for taking it. Throw it in the trash when we got home? They would find it, and I would still get in trouble for taking it. Hide it in a dark corner of my closet? Bingo.

I committed to this plan and no one was the wiser, until my mom decided to clean. In my bedroom. In my closet. 

Boss status, retracted.

I don't totally remember how the next part went-- the part between the finding and the punishing-- but I imagine my mom coaxed me into telling on myself before actually producing the evidence. She's always been good at that, like a special mom superpower that I can only HOPE to possess someday. All I know for sure is that I came home from my exhausting day of finger painting and snack time (kindergarten, as it should be) only to find out that she'd thrown away my avant-garde decor and I was grounded. Yes, you heard me correctly-- I was five, and I was grounded.

Boss status, reinstated.

When I told my friends at school the next day, they could hardly believe their little ears; none of us had ever been grounded. This, coming right after my exile to the Red Square Table for sticking a pencil up my nose (on a dare, I'll have you know), basically made me a kindergarten badass. So much street cred.

I remember my little friends coming to the yard to play after school, and all I could do was pout at them through the sliding glass doors while my mom told them I could not come out to play. This must be what prison's like. While I was supposed to be taking this opportunity to learn a lesson in lying, I resolved to put more energy behind not getting caught.

[My Mom and I, pre-stolen-bunting fiasco]

This was an endeavor I pursued for the rest of my childhood. And just when I thought I could pull one over on her, my mom was quick to put me in my place. There are only a few instances where I actually got away with anything, and they are obviously the crowning moments of my adolescence.

But here's the thing-- it's all of her sneaky mom-ness that turned me into a good kid. All those times she hacked her way into my MySpace account and threatened to ambush dates and sleepovers and mall-ratting (this woman had eyes everywhere) kept me on my toes, and wary of ever truly testing my boundaries. It wasn't until I was safely 200 miles away in the mountains of central Pennsylvania that I did anything remotely questionable, and even then I somehow managed to stay on the dean's list and off of the 6'oclock news.

Even now that I'm all grown up (well, mostly), I still have the feeling that she's looking over my shoulder with every decision that I make-- and I think that's a good thing. While she might not be able to ground me anymore, I have what has become an inherent need not to disappoint her. It's all of her sneaky mom-ness that has turned me into a good person.

That is easily the single hardest job of a parent, and I hope I can pull it off just as well. I hope my kids push their limits just far enough to find out where they are. I hope they get away with enough things that they maintain the confidence to defy me once in a while, just so that I can put them back in their place (like a boss). I hope that in another five or ten years, I'm the one turning their friends away at the sliding glass doors while they plot new ways to get away with things. Most of all, I hope that I've inherited enough sneaky mom-ness to turn them into good kids.

two months old

Two months, TOO FAST.

Appropriately, so much of this month can be recounted in twos:

Two big milestones-- you're smiling all the time and starting to find your little voice! Don't ask me why, but you seem to be the most outgoing when you're on the changing table. You stare up at me and smile from ear to ear, ooh-ing and ahh-ing like you're telling me a story. You're starting to experiment with facial expressions, too; it's so exciting to watch the beginnings of your personality come to life.

Two books read (almost) every night while we snuggle in the glider for your 3AM feeding. Our favorites so far are Curious George, The Cat in the Hat, Where the Wild Things Are, and Oh the Places You'll Go. I just ordered some books from The Little Critter collection and I know you're going to love them! Call me crazy, but even though you don't understand what I'm reading to you it is so, so important-- and the beginning of a very special bond =]

Two songs that calm you down, without fail-- Stand By Me and The Way You Do the Things You Do. Clearly, someone has an affinity for Motown, and I don't hate it. 

Two bottles of gas drops emptied, because you are your father's child.

Two exhausted parents, who gave in and embraced co-sleeping with open arms. I'm sure we'll be kicking ourselves one day when you're six and still sneaking into our bed at night, but I'm over it because right now it means I get to SLEEP.

Two little watchful eyes, getting so good at focusing on new things and observing your surroundings. You love checking out your reflection and watching things that spin, like ceiling fans and the bird mobile on your swing. We still can't tell if your eyes are going to be blue or brown, but we should know soon!

Two piles of newborn clothes, ready to be packed away. A part of me is sad that those first precious weeks of your life have come and gone, but I'm so excited for what's to come. You are growing more and more every day-- holding your little head up, practicing sitting up like a big boy in your Bumbo seat, kicking your way across the carpet during tummy time. I can see how much you've changed in the way your face has filled out, in the way your skinny frog legs are turning into chunky baby thighs. Watching you grow and learn and come into your own is easily the best part of every day, and I can't wait to see who you become.

Love you to the moon and back, my sweet boy.

----

"Today you are you, that is truer than true. There is no one alive who is youer than you."

Dr. Seuss