No Regrets

IMG_5360Kate glides along the quiet road on a white beach cruiser, lost in thought. She’s concerned, but more than that she’s peeved. Over and over she’s spilled her feeling on the kitchen floor, telling George she wants more. More from their relationship. More from life. Yet, she can’t seem to get George to understand that more than anything she just wants more fun, more togetherness, more heartfelt conversations with him. He, on the other hand, seems to feel things are just dandy. Perfect. Just the way things should be.

Kate knows she is doing everything possible to ensure her voice has been heard. She doesn’t hold back. Because, really, seriously, whole-heartedly, Kate does not want to live her life with regrets. There have been a few times, some regrets she has, from her youth, that she wishes she could undo. But she can’t. There is no going back, not anymore. Not when the deed is done. Gone. No more. Not now. Never again.

So, instead, now, Kate always asks herself “Will you regret this? Will you beat yourself up when it’s too late to do anything about it?” If the answer is yes, she will do what she needs to to ensure any regrets that might follow don’t creep into her psyche; and, if the answer is no, well, then, she’s good-to-go. Life goes on.

While she pedals down the breezy pathway, George sits at the kitchen table, thinking about Kate, wondering if he’s going to regret not understanding what his wife wants from him.

“come on people now, smile on your brother, everybody get together, try to love one another right now”

Rock Band "Youngbloods"When the kids were younger, and for whatever reason, when some kind of disagreement pursued between them, or I was trying to explain the beauty of accepting others for who they are, I’d sing, a small portion of the Youngblood’s song Get Together,  “Come on people now, smile on your brother, everybody get together, try to love one another right now”. At some point one of the kids, probably Liz, asked if I had made the song up. “Of course!” I responded, as I continued to sing the same words over and over. And because they were young, they thought it was so cool, not really thinking about the fact I never sang any other words aside from the eighteen I repeated over and over until I had had enough.

I love those words, the combination of them. They tell a lot, say so much in such a small bundle of feelings. Truly, everybody, let’s do it, let’s get together, and love one another. Why not? It couldn’t hurt and I bet good things will come of it. Am I right? I’m right.

As the kids got a bit older, and I was, once again, singing, loud, proud, and feel-good happy both Liz and Roberto looked at me. And smiled. One of them, probably Roberto, agreed by Liz, said, “Mom. You are talented. That song is so good!” I laughed, said “Thanks,” and wanted to fall into the tune, to feel the peacefulness of it, but I couldn’t, not yet, not until I told them the truth.

“Okay. I have to be straight-up with you. Because, after-all, I am building trusting, honest relationships with you…..” I rambled on.

They stared at me. Confused. And Brad? Well, he was sitting in the back, tucked into his wee carseat, oblivious to our conversation.

“I didn’t make the song up. It’s not mine. I just love it so.” I smirked. They laughed.

“Oh, wow! I wondered how you could make up something so cool,” Liz admonished. She did a belly-roll, laughing until her sides hurt.

“Come on people now, smile on your brother, everybody get together, try to love one another right now” Roberto sang, in-between spurts of laughter.

That was a simple moment in our life, a building of community and genuine good will. A moment that set the standard for the beliefs that we have always held dear. Smile on your brother. Get together. Love one another. Right now.

Sitting in a Book Store

IMG_5668I have taken my writing outside of my home, and into a bookstore. A place full of words. Wonderful words.

I need inspiration, something to kick me back into spilling ink onto the pages of my blog and into the stories that fill my head. To continue writing. Happily, consistently, thoroughly, and contently.

Thoughts about life, stories made of soul, that have been waiting, day after day, to be told, waiting patiently for my enthusiasm to take over, to plaster my pages with heart, have stood still, only for me to know.

So, here I sit, feeling the old feelings climb up and slowly tingle through my fingertips, wanting to express, to feel. To be heard. To be read.

I am embracing the moment. Holding it dear. Letting it take me to where I belong.

Sorry, #R.L.Stine, BUT I Had to Laugh

zombieOctober is the month of scary, and what better way to intrigue my fifth grade students than with a spooky thriller. Something about Zombies, something by the best-selling children’s author R.L.Stine. And based on past experiences, with other groups of students, kids love this stuff. They literally sit on the edge of their seats, wanting more, telling me, begging me to keep reading. “Please don’t stop, Mrs. Romero!”

So, there it was, mid-October, pre-Halloween.

I pulled out the Zombie book, held it up for them to observe the gruesome twosome on the front cover, building up excitement. “Wanna get freaked out!” I bellowed. “Oh, yeah!” everyone shouted back.

Several students raced to the light switch. “No lights?” they simultaneously crooned in low growling voices. “Yes!, Please?” their counterparts hollered, everyone looking to me for the final vote. “Of course,” I calmly said.

First and foremost, background knowledge necessitated a 10 and 11 year olds understanding of what they knew before I began the titillating tale. “Raise your hand if you know what a zombie is.” All hands shot straight into the air. “Okay then. How many of you are familiar with the TV show The Walking Dead?” All hands popped back up. “Cool beans. So….who actually watches the show?” Everyone. For a moment, I took a silent pause, thinking these fifth graders have the upper hand here. I have never watched the show. Never will. (Just doesn’t interest me, in case you were wondering.)

Alrighty then.

Many kids clung to each other, opened their eyes wide, dropped their jaws, and held their breath throughout each chapter, yelping for more when I left them hanging, stopping the story so that we could move on to more educational avenues. But, after about fifteen chapters several outspoken kids began to claim, “So predictable. Boring”, only because nothing ever really happened. Lots of buildup, sure, but it always turned out to be a skinny friend grabbing someone’s shoulder, not the boney hand of a monster, or the hot, bad breath of a dumbfounded character, not the foul stench of a dead person sneaking up, who was just about to chomp on the neck of the unsuspecting. I agreed with those students, but in silence, so as not to deter the kids who hadn’t quite grasp the concept of boring read.


It was four days after Halloween. And I had had enough. I was so over the story, the supposed zombies, and nothing really happening – and plus I had Thanksgiving on the brain. You know, being thankful for what you have not preying on the fears of others. Scary was so last month!


So, that’s when I exclaimed I was going to simply breeze through the rest of Stine’s zombie story, and read only the quotes. And boy, unexpectedly, I cracked up!

As I was reading, I kept questioning the validity of the story line – “The zombie ran away from the guy? Come on. Class? You Walking Dead people? Really? Would a zombie run away?” I laughed, uncontrollably. Seriously, tears sprung from my eyes. The kids laughed because of my laughing.They caught on, grabbed hold of my antics and began having as much fun as I was, sadly at the expense of Mr. Stine. (Sorry, dude.) A spooky tale, told in a darkened classroom, with the sound of laughter. Who would have thought?

“Oh, geez!”, someone called out when I read the part about a girl who was finally freed from the basement, no longer human, but a full-on, grossed-out, ugly zombie who was mad that she had been locked away for so long. I just had to demonstrate what she looked like. I knitted my brows, squeezed my eyes, and pierced my lips. I threw my hands in the air, and walked away with a swivel of my hips, shouting ‘What-ever!’ The students busted out roll-on-the-floor laughter.

“What-ever!” they repeated.

“So fake!” someone added. The kids began comparing the book to the TV show, not realizing (or maybe just not thinking about it) that both were equally fake. Meaning, the show, though maybe more realistic, is just as silly (presumably). Which made me laugh even more!

In the end, when the final word, in the final (finally!!) chapter was read, the students cheered and clapped, just as the end-of-the-day bell blared.

Am I Awesome, or What?

IMG_4149Today, this very afternoon, not more than an hour ago, my fifteen year old son, a person who is, daily, trying to define himself, wanting to be someone who makes a difference, in life, and possibly beyond, a young boy wanting to be good while at the same time working so hard at not being a negative distraction, thanked me, his one and only mom, for instilling in him the feeling of being cared for, and cared about.

“I want to thank you, Mom, for listening to me, for letting me be myself, and for letting me have my say. Thank you for making me feel valued.”

Oh, yes he did. He said that to me. My complicated, yet very loving, six foot tall, basketball playing teenage kid.

He thanked me for letting him thrive, grow, and develop into his own person. And then he reached his hand out to me, a sort of gesture. “Seriously, thanks.”

All I could do was smile.

And continue to listen, like I always do, and watch him as he seemed to be digging deep within himself trying to fully understand who he, himself, is, and what kind of person he wants to be. Now. And when he grows up.

He’s only a sophomore, a boy in high school, but the way he feels and thinks is way beyond his years, and I don’t let any of those feeling slide pass me. No way. No how. Instead, I grab hold, whenever he stands, or sits, before me, whenever he says, “Mom, can we talk.”

dear 16

IMG_2074Being sixteen isn’t easy, but it shouldn’t be so hard either. Hold your head high and toss your shoulders back. Relax your mind. Soul. And body.

Smile. Always smile.

To my sixteen year old self I write,

Believe in who you are. You don’t need to be like her. Or her. Or even her. You have as much to offer as they do. Maybe more. And what’s so bad about that girl. The one over there. The one everyone seems to be avoiding. She’s just being herself. Just wanting what we all want. Friendship. Go talk to her. She will appreciate your kindness. It’s not about popularity, but rather about integrity. So, just be you.

Speak up. Talk. It’s not hard at all. Just ask questions. People like to answer what they know. So ask them about themselves. Their life. Add to the conversation by incorporating your life stories. Your thoughts. Your feelings. Your dreams. Your desires. Your wants. They’d like to get to know you, too. They would.

Go out. Have fun. Enjoy hanging out with people. All kinds of people. From all walks of life. Stop worrying about what everyone is thinking. Who cares? No one, really.

I’m telling you, all the downs will make the ups so much more rewarding. Remember that. Life is a series of lessons. Lessons to help mold who you will become, the person you inherently believe in. A person who cares about others, about life and the passionate passion entwined in your every day life. Humor will sustain you. Being real, being true to yourself, will be a driving force. A matter of fact. And you, of all people will understand fully, truly, that anything can happen anytime. Anywhere. To anyone. So, simply enjoy your young self. Laugh a lot. Out loud. For the world to hear. To experience. And when you fall into bed each night you will know, without a doubt, that there is so much more to life than being an insecure sixteen year old girl.

The working woman. The stay-at-home mom.

IMG_0279Friday night. I’m exhausted. I’m slouched on the over-sized faded denim sofa, watching TV. My eyelids droop ever so slowly. Yet, I can’t sleep. I will need to pick up my youngest kid. Unless he calls, asking if he can spend the night. I’m a working mom. I’ve been in the classroom all week teaching. This. That. And the other.

As I readjust my slumped position, I begin to reflect on my summer life. The one I lived only a few weeks ago. My life away from the school setting. The days I was a stay-at-home mom. Oh, how I enjoyed waking up at a ridiculously late morning hour, like 7am, rather than my working hour of 5am! With coffee in hand, I’d watch recordings of Dateline, Modern Family, and Say Yes to the Dress.
When Brad would wake several hours later (if he didn’t spend the night anywhere), I’d whip up his favorite breakfast – pancakes, eggs, bacon, toast, and orange juice – instead of quickly dropping a granola bar next to his cup of coffee. We’d talk. Shoot the shit. Discuss something new. Or revamp something old. Summer days. Days I truly feel connected. Devoted. Stellar. Like a mom.

I know I have the best of both worlds. Staying at home, working, engaging, and being involved is just as beneficial and rewarding as working outside the home. My family needs time with me just as I need time with myself.

And, so, I know, without a doubt, that the Friday night slump will soon pass, bringing forth renewed energy so that I can spend the evening writing up lesson plans for the following week, along with offering Brad and PB and J for dinner.