Why I Love Pinterest

I have often remarked that I am not crafty. I have friends who are uber-crafty, and they intimidate with their creativity. I've often wanted to be crafty, but I just haven't had it in me.

I also just flat out haven't had the time. I know this is a bit of a broken record, but I would guess that during the school year teachers put in more hours every week than any other profession on earth. As a high school English teacher, it was not unusual for me to work from 7:30 until 5:30, pick up my kids and take care of evening activities, and then work for another hour or two after they went to bed. This happened at least three days a week and probably more, and it does not include the three or four hours I put in on a light weekend. These are serious underestimates for the times when major papers were turned in for Pre-AP. If you know a teacher, thank him or her. It is the most rewarding yet life-consuming job on the planet.

That is not to say that in my new role as Assistant Principal I'm not busy. I love my new job. It's exactly where God wants me to be right now, and it's a blessing for more reasons than I can list. However, (this totally IS NOT complaining) it's kind of exhausting. If it's any indication, I went to sleep Friday night at 7:00.

But I don't grade papers anymore.

It's been a culture shock for me. I found myself physically incapable of sitting on my couch without a stack of papers in my hands. I felt like I was forgetting something every time I left the house because I didn't have papers to take. My brain was exhausted from my new job, but I couldn't turn it off...ever.  I fidgeted, couldn't sleep all night, made up stuff to do, and I think I started to get a little depressed. My brain kept saying DO MORE DO MORE DO MORE DO MORE. My house was messy and my kitchen wasn't painted and my yard looked like a jungle and I wandered around feeling like a failure because people without papers should not have messy houses and weeds in their yards. It was difficult for me to adjust to a normal life - where it is possible to stay afloat with less than an eighty hour work week.

I considered learning how to crochet or knit so that I could have something in my hands to work on all the time. I watched some You Tube videos and practiced the same starting stitch about a hundred times, but then I could never get the next stitch. I think I'd still like to learn and have had several people offer to give me lessons, but I'm not exactly a natural.

Then I found Pinterest.

This weekend I have completed several Pinterest-found projects, and it's been fantastic! I may have cured myself of the "I don't know what to do with myself blues."

Here's what I've done:

S'Mores Bars: My cousin Dona recommended a different s'mores recipe, but I made this one because it didn't have eggs (the boys are both allergic). It was super easy, and they were good, but I was little underwhelmed. Next time I'll try the ones she suggested and just let the boys eat marshmallows or something. ;)

Bacon, cream cheese, and jalepeno crescent rolls: You guessed it - crescent rolls filled with bacon, cream cheese, and jalapenos, then folded up and baked. Delicious and also super-easy. How can you go wrong with bacon and jalapenos? 

Since we painted the kitchen last weekend, we've hung accessories on the walls that I forgot I had. They have literally been in boxes since we moved into this house seven years ago. Remember the grading - I blame it for my lack of unpacking. This cross is one of those items. Then, last night the boys were trying to remember their memory verse for Sunday school this morning, and Trey and I talked about how we should have a place to post the memory verse each week so they can see it all the time. I remembered a Pinterest tip that you can use dry erase markers on glass, we rummaged through some boxes of old pictures, and Presto! Memory verse in the kitchen (and easily interchangable when it's time for a new verse)!

Finally, my major project of the weekend is this wreath. I love the way it turned out!  I have poinsettias already made and some ribbon left, so I may make another one to give away. Since it was half price ribbon week at Hobby Lobby, I estimate the cost of this project to be about ten bucks.  Awesome!

So look out world, The Storm is a-craftin'. Follow me on Pinterest so I can follow you back. I have lots and lots of ideas for projects. It's just a matter of which one to do next. If you know of places in the B/CS area where I can find old windows, shutters, or wooden pallets (besides the Habitat store), hook me up. Keep in mind that I am ridiculously cheap.

See you on Pinterest!

Just another visit to the doctor

Tucker has bad skin.

Since he was born, Tucker has been plagued with what we've called eczema. All by itself, it sounds minor. But it's not minor.

He has spent his entire life covered in sores. His arms and legs, specifically, have been completely healed only once in his life, and that was for about two weeks last spring when he took a powerful anti-rejection medication that is usually given to organ transplant patients. We knew at the time it was a one time deal  -- he could never take it again. Other than those two weeks, he itches and scabs and bleeds and scratches. His sores are innumerable, and he has truly never known relief from them. This is kind of a blessing, actually. He doesn't know what it's like to not itch and hurt, and so he lives. He plays baseball and swims in the summer and goes to school and bleeds and scratches and it's his life.

We've seen dermatologists and allergists and the like, and we've "controlled" it sometimes and it's been infected and then it's better but just gross and painful and we continue on.

In the past three months, however, I've decided that I am a horrible mother. I think I realized this because he's started a new school, and I get to be there with him every day. It occurred to me that these new friends and new people at this new school know Tucker first as the kid with the sores. I knew they asked him about it. They asked me, too, "why does Tucker have sores all over him?" and it broke my heart.  I began to see him going into intermediate school and middle school and high school and having to first overcome his skin before he could make his mark in his new place. The thought still gives me this horrible feeling deep in my gut.

So I took him to the doctor, like we always do when the skin gets increasingly worse instead of staying just plain awful. He took an antibiotic for staph (as we often do because he has open wounds all over his body), and we hoped for the best. Two weeks later I took him again because he still seemed to be getting worse. Our awesome pediatrician, who always looks for new ways to help Tucker, put him on a different antibiotic and mentioned that there is a pediatric dermatologist in Round Rock that he'd be glad to send us to if we were up for trying something new yet again.

I made an appointment for early November, the soonest they could see him, but his skin continued to worsen. Finally I called the doctor, desperate for an earlier appointment, and they agreed to fit me in the next day provided that I changed to a different doctor in the practice. It wasn't what I wanted, but it was something, so I took the appointment.

Tucker and I made the hour and forty five minute drive and decided to have lunch before the appointment. Tucker chose a place called "Z Pizza," and it turned out to be the most hilarious place to have lunch. This was because Tucker spoke with an Italian accent the whole time, exchanged all the's for zee's. "Z Pizza at Zhis place is Zee best pizza I've ever had!" He was cracking himself up.

Off we went to the doctor, and when we arrived we learned that Dr. Tee, the pediatric dermatologist we wanted to see, found out we were coming and rearranged his entire schedule so he could see us. The nurse ushered us to a room and made Tucker don his very first doctor's office gown, booty hanging out in the back and all. Doctors don't usually make kids strip down and put on a gown, so it was pretty funny to see my eight year old's face when the nurse said those classic words: Take everything off and put on this gown, open in the back.

Dr. Tee was amazing. He studied Tucker, asked tons of questions, and really paid attention to us. After a few minutes he offered some theories and began explaining the tests he wanted to run.

There are moments in life that stop your heart. When the world around you keeps moving and panic rises in your throat and, just for that second, you can't breathe. You want to scream for time to stop and back up and I can't do this and no thank you and you must be wrong and this isn't really happening.

I learned this week that the word "biopsy" has that kind of power.

As the moment passed, all I could think was that I could feel my face. I felt it change into the face of one hiding what was really happening, one who appeared brave and strong and positive and altogether unaffected when what I really wanted was to cry. I knew Tucker was watching me, and I couldn't hear what the doctor was saying because I was so focused on what to do with my damn face.

I knew he wasn't doing a biopsy because he thought Tucker had cancer, but it didn't matter. It was like this thing, this giant monster of Tucker's skin that loomed over every day of his life was coming out of hiding and facing us. I realized that for so long I'd feared that what causes Tucker's skin to break out is something devastating, terrible. Something that would take him from me. The biopsy was going to show me how big the monster really was, and I don't think I was ready at that moment to know the answer. We had worked so hard to keep the monster stuffed in a little box, and I knew that we would never be able to put it back in. It was terrifying.

Long story short - okay, long story less long - the doctor did two 3 millimeter punch biopsies in Tucker's right arm, and then we went to the lab where they drew four vials of blood (he almost passed out). I smiled, I joked, I made a bet with Tucker about how many homers Pujols would hit in the World Series, and Tucker never once cried. He tolerated all of this a million times better than I ever expected. We have since joked that Trey and Keaton should never again send the babies to the doctor alone, but the babies did okay.

I must say here that I realize people all over the world and here in our own back yard have real problems. There are incurable diseases and debilitating conditions that make Tucker's skin problems look minor. I am well aware that in the big scheme of things, this is not the worst. But we just can't keep watching him suffer if we can help it.

Today the incredible Dr. Tee called with results. Tucker does not have celiac disease (that was a theory), and we now have documented evidence that he is one incredibly healthy eight year old who happens to bleed all over the place. His liver and kidneys and electrolytes and everything else they can test with your blood are all normal.

He does, however, have both eczema and psoriasis, an overlay that occurs very rarely. It seems people are supposed to get one or the other, and my little over achiever has managed to have severe cases of both.

But Dr. Tee thinks he can help. He wants to start Tucker on a new oral medication. It has lots of scary side effects, as do all medicines, but Dr. Tee's professional opinion is that the benefits will far outweigh the risks. For the first time in his life, Tucker could have complete relief. I'm so excited I can hardly stand it, but I'm also a little afraid to be too hopeful. Either way, the monster is a great deal smaller.

Tonight I asked Tucker what he thought it would be like to not itch all the time. He laughed a little and said, "I guess it would be like being a normal kid." 

"Oh, honey," I told him, "You are way too special to ever be a normal kid."

I'm pretty sure he made a face at me.

Then I told him when his skin got better, I was going to buy him new sheets. I think he was genuinely excited when he said, "And they won't get bloodstains on them!"

I know of no better way to end this post than to let Trey end it for me. As he told my mom in our latest facebook message conversation: "It seems like there are some risks with taking the medicine, but they think the benefits outweigh the risks. I would rather take a calculated risk for myself then to decide to take a calculated risk for my kid. I'll try not to worry....God always takes care of us and there is no reason to think he won't continue."

Keaton's First T-Ball Game

I haven't blogged in over a month. I've formulated several posts in my head, but none of them have actually made it out onto the keyboard. Perhaps they'll come soon.

Part of my trepidation is that the post rattling around in my head is regarding the differences and similarities between high school and elementary school. I'm very concerned that my people on both ends of the spectrum will interpret something I have to say as an implication that one is easier than the other, and that is most certainly not the case. Someone I respect more than just about anyone in my professional life told me from the beginning (I'm paraphrasing here) that people think elementary is easy, but it's not easy, just different. She, too, worked in both elementary and secondary schools, and now that I'm six weeks in I know exactly what she meant.

So that post will someday be posted, but for now I'll share about one of my favorite subjects in the world. Keaton.

It's good to be Keaton. It's fun and exciting and an all around good time just to BE Keaton Hickman. After six years of his life, I've realized that the rest of us in the world just don't enjoy ourselves enough.

Tonight he had his first t-ball game, and he couldn't have been more excited. He was serious business as a player -- he made sure he wore his batting gloves and showed off his swagger. You could just see the fun seeping off of him while he was on the field.

Now, in t-ball, the kid hits the ball off of the tee. The opposing team attempts to field said ball, and the player runs to first base. As the next batter hits the ball, all of the runners advance one base, and this continues throughout the entire batting order. Every great once in a while the defense gets an out, and the out player takes a seat on the bench, hopefully without crying. Finally, when the last batter hits the ball, all of the runners run through to home to finish out the inning.

Keaton was the last batter.

Here's how he told the story of his game to several people after it was over.

"I hit two home runs!  One time, I was running, and the player got in my way, but I was running so fast that he got scared and moved and then I scored a home run. I scared him because I was so fast!  The other time, the score was four to four and the pitcher was at home plate, and he had the ball, and I ran so fast to him, and when I got to home plate I just jumped right over him. The coach said I was safe. I JUMPED over him and scored another home run. It was awesome."

In reality, I'm pretty sure the score was like 30 to 30 because virtually every kid rounded the bases, and Keaton did run all the way through THREE times because there were three innings and he was the last batter. (I'm not sure why he didn't include the third one in his home run count.) But also, in reality, on the last play of the game the pitcher was waiting for Keaton on home plate with the ball, and Keaton did his level best to leap over the player's head so that he could be safe. Both boys ended up on the ground, and Keaton earned his final imaginary home run of the night.

It's fun to be Keaton Hickman.

First week of school

I really want to blog, but I'm tired.

A few things that should be documented...

Today is the first Friday of the school year with the boys and me at our new school. Conversation on the way home included:

Keaton: Mom, did Robert Earl Keen used to be the president?

Tucker (a question that I'm certain was inspired by his renewed rubics cube obsession): Mom, when do you think I'll get to learn algorithms?  Like sixth grade?

Keaton: Hey, you know what I get to do now?  Study.
Me: What are you studying?
Keaton: I don't know yet. But I get to study this year. You know how in kindergarten I didn't get to study?  Well, in first grade, we STUDY.  Awesome, huh?

Keaton: I need to learn how to play the banjo. You're supposed to learn how to play the banjo before you play the guitar.

Tucker: At 2:15 p.m. it was 100 degreess outside, but we were checking it with a rotary thermometer, so that could be approximate.

Lots of life changes, but the Hickman boys are still the Hickman boys.

Historic Moments

I just had an Irish coffee at an Irish pub, and it was good. Good like a cigarette.

I dated the same person from the time I was 17 until I was 21. We went off to college together, and it was just assumed that we would some day get married and have kids and live "back home." But that wasn't what was right for either of us. It's a long story that I'd be glad to tell you someday, but one night I was driving through Kosse, Texas, and God spoke to me in an audible voice and told me that it was time to move on.

You can think I'm crazy. That doesn't mean it didn't happen.

And so, we broke up. It was ugly and heartbreaking and full of the angst that fills those young people who think they have their lives planned out and then learn that they were dead wrong.

I decided at that point to start smoking. (I'd like to pretend that this is news to my parents because I have no doubt that they knew - or at least suspected - but we never spoke of it. I now appreciate their ability to let me work out my vices on my own.) My former boyfriend hated cigarettes and smoking and people who smoked, and we still had classes together in college and still spent time together ("let's be friends"is the stupidest phrase ever spoken), so I, naturally, chose to smoke incessantly around him to piss him off.

God did not tell me to do this.

Slowly but surely we went our separate ways, but I continued to enjoy the rebellious solitude of the morning smoke...and midday smoke...and evening smoke...and I think you get the picture. You lifetime non-smokers won't understand this, but there's something both calming and exhilarating about slowly, quietly enjoying a cigarette.

The night before I married Trey, the most amazing person I've ever met, I smoked my last.

Fast forward through the best ten and a half years of my life, two amazing boys, and eight years of what amounted to both ruining and lifting up what I estimate to be close to one thousand high school students. This and that happens, and I find myself elated to become part of a new elementary school family. My exit from the high school was filled with undeserved fanfare, including the most thoughtful gifts. A journal in which those I worked most closely with wrote me letters of encouragement and support, a few books and a list of books that I should read, a bucket of margaritas, a monogrammed pair of ceramic balls in a tray with a note that said "every administrator needs a pair." Only my friend Grace could get away with that, and it makes me smile every single time I think about it.

One of the books I received when I left the high school is a memoir by Frank McCourt called Teacher Man. McCourt is an Irish immigrant who won a Pulitzer for his book, Angela's Ashes, but perhaps more impressively he spent thirty years teaching English in New York City high schools. I began the book a few weeks ago. The first chapters relate McCourt's first few days of teaching and also MY first days of teaching. It's incredible the way he captures the fear and uncertainty of those days. I laughed at McCourt and at myself as I read, and I called teacher friends and told them they have to read this book when I'm done.

Currently, I find myself at the Conscious Discipline Summer Institute, learning about brains. Limbic systems and brain stems and pre-frontal lobes and safe places and well wishes. I am in awe of the science.We saw a demonstration today that proved the actual electrical fields around people sending positive thoughts versus sending negative ones. I am more in awe of the practicality. Children must be taught to regulate themselves and not rely on others for their self-worth or positive emotions. That's big stuff, folks, and most adults haven't figured it out yet. I wonder if I've even figured it out.

As we spend hours each day discussing self-regulation, I find it appropriate that I am all by myself. This six day conference is the longest I've ever been away from Trey or my boys, and it's hard. Really hard. But I am reminded every day here that I have a choice to make the most of this and enjoy myself or sit alone and crying in my hotel room for a week. I know I would rather Trey and the boys enjoy themselves than sit in a stupor, and I've made a valiant effort to enjoy this trip. Skype has really helped.

Tonight I walked from my hotel to Bongos, a Cuban food restaurant in Downtown Disney, and I requested a table for one. I ordered an appetizer and a mojito, said a private prayer of thanksgiving for Hemingway (Cuba always makes me think of Hemingway and my awe of him), and opened my book.

McCourt describes a silly little lesson that happened out of nowhere in which his students recite recipes like poetry. To an English teacher (which I will possibly always be at heart), the lesson is brilliant. Sitting alone at a table in a busy restaurant, his message to his students struck me:

"If you're an observant writer, you'll recognize the significance of this event. For the first time in history a Chinese recipe is to be read with background music. You have to be alert to historic moments. The writer is always saying, What's going on here? Always. You can bet your last dime that nowhere in history, Chinese or otherwise, will you find a moment like this" (212).

I closed the book and observed my moment. Never in history, and likely never again, would I sit alone in a loud Cuban restaurant enjoying fried plantains and ceviche. I didn't care that I was alone. I loved the food and atmosphere and the volume and the people. It wasn't Chinese recipes set to music, but the message was the same. Every moment is historic. We just have to realize it.

On the recommendation of a friend, I stopped on the way back to the hotel at an Irish pub for some bread pudding. I intended to take the pudding back to my hotel, but was informed at the front that they don't do to go orders. The hostess encouraged me to sit at the bar to order and then ask for a to go box after my food came. It was a lame rule, but I really wanted that bread pudding.

I wound my way through the tables to the bar, found an empty chair against the wall, and ordered my dessert. It arrived quickly and was so beautiful on the plate that I decided to just eat it there in the restaurant.

I took my first bite and reopened my book. I felt as if my friend, Frank the Irishman, had written it about our collective careers. As if on cue, an Irish band began to play their nightly gig, and the patrons sang along and stomped their feet to the rhythm. It occurred to me that I would finish this book, this Irishman's testament to every scary, exciting, depressing, amazing moment spent in high school English classrooms for ages, here in this Irish pub with Irish background music. This, friends, was an historic moment.

The entire book is phenomenal, but the last part (detailing the end of McCourt's teaching career) was profound. If you've ever felt that a book touched your soul, then you know what I'm talking about. I felt kinship with known and unknown teachers everywhere, and I felt like this book and this pub and this band and this bread pudding were, together, a gift.

And so I settled in, ordered an Irish coffee, and drank a private toast to Frank McCourt, to every student I ever taught, to every paper I ever graded.

And the coffee was good. Good like a cigarette.

Scatterbrained

I've been thinking that I needed to blog, but I didn't really have anything specific to write about. It's summer, and the boys are playing inside as much as possible. Tucker's been playing baseball and he ran summer track, so that was fun (and hot). As of last Saturday night, all of those activities are over. I've been working as much as I can. My in-laws are awesome and have helped with the boys a lot so I could go into the office. There's laundry, dishes, picking up the living room three or four times a day. Overall, things are just wildly normal. I have nothing clever to say about any of it. 

Today, however, I found myself something to write about. 

It was a wonderful, regular day, and after Vacation Bible School the boys had friends over to play for the afternoon. The boys, brothers, were so kind and polite that it was almost shocking. I really worried about my boys going over to their house and one of them chewing with his mouth open or putting a hand down his pants to give his butt a good scratch. The boys, Jacob and Andrew, and my boys were so good that they played all afternoon with no arguments or fights or messes. In fact, I sat at the bar in the kitchen and got a great deal of work done while they played. It was a great afternoon for all of us. 

We left about 4:05 to take the boys home because I had a 4:30 appointment with a personal trainer. See, I recently joined a new gym, and it comes with four free personal training sessions. We dropped the boys at their house, and as I drove to the gym I contemplated exactly what I could tell the trainer without sounding too lame. Honestly, he shouldn't even ask me any questions. He should take one look at me and see that I am yet another 34 year old woman who, at some point, was in pretty great shape, but now I just like ice cream and could stand to drop a few or fifteen pounds. I hate the "What are your goals?" questions at the gym -- um...to be 22, thanks. 

As I imagined my conversation with the trainer, I checked the calendar on my phone to remind myself of his name, and that's when I realized that my appointment with the trainer is tomorrow. Fail. 

So I decided to go on the gym anyway, and I apparently had all of these thoughts out loud because as soon as I had this particular thought Tucker began wailing about how he just wanted to go home.  PLEASE!!! My next thought was about being in Trey's car and, thus, without my headphones, and since the thought of running (okay, I'll just walk, but running sounds so much better so please pretend I run) on the treadmill  without watching Swamp People or 19 Kids and Counting seemed kind of awful. So I decided we would just go home. 

I was fully aware of the fact that this was an epic parenting moment. I taught my kids a) you don't have to exercise if you don't want to and b) wailing is a great way to get what you want. 

I hope you can tell by now that my brain was all over the place. In order to make myself feel better about ditching the gym and being a terrible mother, I started making a mental list of the work-related tasks I could accomplish during the time I would have been working out. 

Did I mention to you guys that on Keaton's Mother's Day card to me he did all of these fill in the blank things?  "My mom's favorite color is (blank)"and "My mom is (blank) tall."  On the question that asked "My mom is good at (blank)," he wrote "work." Seriously. Of all of the things I could be good at (mothering, for one), he wrote work. 

So I thought of that, too, as I drove home, and I was feeling really good about myself.  

I opened the garage door, parked the car, and was the first to get to the door that leads into the house. It was locked. 

Locked. 

This door is never locked, but clearly as we left earlier one of us locked the door. I'm not pointing any fingers, but Keaton was the last one out. 

No big deal, I thought, and then I realized that I don't have a house key. I went around the fence to the back door, hoping that perhaps I had left it unlocked as I often accidentally do, and it was, of course, locked. I had one random house key on me, and I knew in my heart it was to Trey's parent's house, but I tried it in the bolt of the front door anyway. No luck. 

But it was no big deal. Trey would be home soon, and we needed milk. "Boys, let's just run to HEB and get milk and by the time we get back your dad will be home with a key." It was a good plan. 

Then Tucker began wailing again. "I just want to stay here.  Please!!!  I'm tired!"

And so, from the driveway, I went full-on lecture mom. 

"Tucker Hickman, I cart you all over the whole free world all the time to whatever you want to do. I take you to practices and games and your friends' houses and I pick up your friends and bring them here and all I'm trying to do it get some milk so you can have breakfast in the morning and you are whining and I can't stand it anymore. You can't even get in the house anyway. Get in the car!"

My tirade ended, and I realized that everyone within three houses both ways probably just heard that. Then I thought, "Aw, hell."

Then, my mind took off again. I decided that I shouldn't think things like "aw, hell" because I'm working in an elementary school now and if you think things then sometimes they come out your mouth and I would be mortified if I said that in front of some first graders. I plotted on how to clean up my internal language, and this was followed by a scenario in which two sweet kindergarten girls in pink dresses come into my office asking for hugs, and I spill my diet coke all over their dresses as I hug them and then I say "aw, hell" out loud. They, of course, make that "aahhhmmmm...I'm going to tell" sound that only kids can make and then I start trying to explain to them that hell isn't always a bad word because it's an actual place only some people don't believe in it. Then I felt like a twisted, black-hearted person for trying to get away with something terrible like cursing in front of kindergarterners. Then I remembered the whole thing was only happening in my head and I felt a little better.

Tucker, Keaton, and their mentally deranged mother got in the car, and I called Trey.

I explained the key and the locked doors and the milk, and all was well with the world for a tiny moment until he said, "I don't have a key to the house either. I gave mine to Josh."

Aw, hell.

So I started driving to who-knows-where making phone calls. My sister-in-law does not have a key to my house. My mother-in-law has a key, but it's in her purse that happened to be with her on her trip to Dallas. The Hickman house was impenetrable. Fort Knox, if you will. 

My only option was to drive the 25 minutes to the Bombers ballpark where Josh, the player we're hosting, was probably already warming up for the game. I went through the mental picture of me traipsing onto the field to summon him from the team in order to get his key, but I'll save you the details of that little trip through my brain. 

I called Trey again to tell him my plan and not to hurry home from work because he couldn't get in anyway, and he asked if I tried to get in the front door. His thinking was that Josh left through the front door and since it was the middle of the day and we were all home he probably didn't lock it. 

Hmmm...I didn't try to open the front door. I only unsuccessfully tried to use my mother-in-law's house key to turn the deadbolt. (I guess when I put it like that it just seems silly.)

So I turned around, finally made it home, walked to the front door, and -- you're not going to believe this -- it was wide open. 

You know, like Fort Knox would be if someone left without locking the door. 

As always, there is a lesson to be learned here. I sometimes give my very smart oldest child a hard time about his lack of focus on everyday life. Case in point: he lost his shoes -- his actual tennis shoes that he wears every day -- at some point this year. I very kindly and lovingly have referred to him scatterbrained.  Today I was reminded who he gets that from. 

A True Test

Grad school is finished. I have an awesome new job as an Academic Coordinator A.K.A. Assistant Principal. Professionally, things have been going my way.

The only hurdle left to tackle was my Texas Principal Certification Exam. I intentionally waited to take this test until summer. I wanted to finish grading and packing and get off the emotional roller coaster that was my departure from the high school and initiation into a brand new campus. I wanted to focus. 

In preparation for the test, I took three practice tests over the course of the year prior. The passing standard is approximately 78%, and I scored well above that on all practice exams. I never made a 100, however, which a little part of me felt was failure, but then I remembered I am a humongous nerd and no one really cares about my actual score on this test - just whether I passed or failed. 

Honestly, I was never really nervous about the test. If I began thinking too much about specific questions that could come up, I could have made myself nervous, but I chose not to do that. Each time I thought about it, I reminded myself that I had passed this test three times in practice. That I am a basically intelligent person who made a 4.0 in the grad school program preparing me for this test. That I am good enough, I am smart enough, and -- dog gone it -- people like me.

My mother-in-law graciously offered to drive me to the test because parking is often a problem at A&M, and she dropped me off at the General Services complex around 8:05. I told her I'd probably call for my ride home around 11:30 because I anticipated that the test would take me 2 to 2 1/2 hours. My report time was 8:30, and the test was to start at 9:00. I was not stressed out by being late. Things were going well.

Around 8:25, the testing proctor checked in all of the testers, and the other testers and I locked our belongings in a provided locker, including our watches. One by one he took us into the testing computer lab and hit the start button on our various tests. He informed me specifically that I had five hours to take my test, and that I could take as many breaks as I wanted but that the time would continue to count down while I was out of the room. I'm pretty sure I was the only one taking the principal test, as all other testers looked very college-aged. I assumed there was quite of lot of GRE-taking going on in that room. 

As I began clicking through the on-screen instructions ("don't cheat," "don't tell the questions to your friends," "if you cheat you will be drawn and quartered") I realized the computer was moving very slowly. In my effort to remain calm, I took a deep breath and decided that maybe the directions were just slow. 

But it wasn't just the instructions. Once the questions began, I quickly realized that it was taking forever for one question on the screen the change to the next. Okay, I thought, I have to figure out if this is costing me time on my five hours. If this is costing me time, it could create a real problem. 

So I answered the next question, checked the timer on screen, and then clicked the magical "next" button. The timer stopped while the computer loaded the next question, and I felt so relieved!  The speed of the computer would not impact the amount of time I had for the test, so I was good to go.

I answered question after question, clicking the answer and then waiting waiting waiting waiting for the next question to pop up. It seemed to take almost a minute to change questions, but I decided that it was just my anxiousness to keep going that made it feel like so long. 

Sidebar: I have always been a good test taker. I'm one of those people who often looks smarter than I really am because I'm good at taking tests. I am also a fast test taker who doesn't second guess myself. I answer a question and move on, and I almost never go back to review my answers on a test. It's my personal strategy, and it has worked pretty well for the first 34 years of my life. 

But this test-- this stinking test that held my entire future career in its hands -- took that away from me. I answered a question, clicked "next," and then stared at the question and answer choices for what seemed like a full minute before the next question came up. I found myself rationalizing answers that I didn't choose, figuring out why they could be right even though I deemed them wrong. Each time, just as I over-analyzed enough to really question my answer choice, the next question would finally pop up. I frantically marked the last question number on my scratch paper so I could go back and look it over again at the end. I did this over and over.

This left my brain in a muddle. Was the last question right?  Was it worth the five minutes it would take to try to go back and read over it again? Am I over-analyzing?  Am I failing?  Am I unprepared?  Was my 4.0 dumb luck? Am I going to be that person who gets fired because she can't pass her principal test?  Will I be forever blacklisted from all jobs that require tests?  

Needless to say, I began to feel anxious. So I took a break. 

As I signed out of the testing room, I casually asked the proctor, "Does this test always run so slow?'

"Yeah," he replied, "ETS is having a problem lately that is making their tests run really slow. Sorry."

Okay, well, I guessed this would be my testing reality. I took a brisk walk to get my blood flowing again, drank some water to rehydrate my brain and did some cross-overs with my arms to get the two sides of my brain cooperating. I thought through the facts.

1) In practice, I have passed the test three times.

2) I am good at tests.

3) I never read over and over my answers after I choose them.

4) The slowness of the test is taking away my best strategy and replacing it with stress.

5) Getting frustrated will not do my any good.

I took a deep breath, signed back into the testing room, and proceeded with a new plan. I needed to answer the question, click next, and then not look at the screen again until the question changed. First, I counted. 1 mississippi, 2 mississippi, 3 mississippi. I determined that it was taking approximately one to two minutes between questions. 

Then I made up variations of songs in my head. One of the most popular sing-in-my-head songs was Stutts's "I'm gonna pass this test. I'm gonna pass this test." I also thought about words that rhymed with "test" so I could sing more than one line of the song I really didn't know. I came up with with "best," "lest," and "hest" (which I'm really not sure is an actual word). 

I wrote names on my scratch paper. If I know you, I probably wrote your entire name in my best handwriting at least twice. Then I went for initials. I pretended to be a calligrapher writing invitations for a fancy event.

Then I made traingles. I estimated how many triangles I could fit into a half sheet of scratch paper, and then I began dissecting triangle after traiangle to increase my number. When that got old, I shaded in every other triangle to make a pattern. 

I am particularly proud of the brick structure I made around my name. It had bricks going in various directions, but they were all exactly the same size and shaded in various colors. It was a masterpiece. 

All the while, every two minutes, I answered a question that could change my entire future. No pressure. 

Finally, I answered the last question. Then I went back to each question I had marked from the early part of the test (before my strategy change), and I did not change even one answer. Going with my instinct was the right thing to do. My total test-taking time: 2 hours, 19 minutes.

Then, at long last, I was done. I was so proud that I found a way to work with this ridiculous situation, and it felt good. That's when I discovered that I had to answer 13 survey questions, one at a time. 

THIS was frustrating, but I answered each question until I finally reached the "Report my scores" screen. I clicked it with victory, and then waited the two minutes for the confirmation screen to come up. The next screen read (did I mention it was two minutes later) "Your testing session in complete." Of course, it also came with a "next" button.

I clicked next, and left the testing room. I explained to the proctor (a new shift of proctors -- now a young lady) that I thought I was finished but I wanted to be absolutely sure. She offered to go in and check the computer for me.

She returned several minutes later and asked, "Wow!  Was your computer that slow the whole time?"

I checked the clock, and then informed her that while I had actually tested for two hours and nineteen minutes, I had been sitting in front of the computer for five hours and five minutes. 

"Oh my gosh!  I'm so sorry!  I wish you had said something because we would have moved you to a different computer. Next time be sure and let us know."

Seriously? Next time? I hope there is never, ever, in my life a "next time."

I suppose all's well that end's well. I am "officially" qualified for my new job. I passed the test with an equivalent of about 91. However, the true test, I suppose, was of my patience. In the midst of the insane slowness of the test I did not throw the computer across the room or begin pulling out my eyelashes one by one. I calmly made a plan and made it work. 

Perhaps I am prepared for this new job after all.