To the Boy Who Made Me a Monger

Being a wife and mother has always been key to who I am. No matter what else I do--my foundation is built with Ed, Braxton, Blaize, Brody, and Bentley. Solid and firm. 

Families grow and that has happened to ours. 

Bentley fell in love with Mason and they brought the most amazing little human into this world a year ago today.

Everything changed when Angus Edward Landess was born. 

To the boy who made me a Monger.

It was 4:56 a.m. on Monday, July 18, 2022, when your Papa and I heard the lullaby play at Springfield's Memorial  Hospital. We had been at the hospital for over twelve hours waiting for you to be born. Your Uncle Braxton, Uncle Brody, and Aunt Emily came over to wait, too, but they went home sometime after midnight. Uncle Blaize was at his house in Chicago eager to hear the news. Papa and I decided we wanted to stay at the hospital for the duration. Not only were you coming into the world but your Mommy is our baby girl and we wanted to be there for her and your Daddy on such a special day. The night nurse in the Labor & Delivery Department told us we weren't supposed to be waiting up there, masks were still required and limited accessibility to the floor was in effect. But we explained we were waiting for our first grandchild to be born and, miraculously, she let us stay. I still don't know how we managed that one. 

We could feel the shift in the world when we heard those musical notes. I can't explain it but I knew you were here. Sitting in the cold waiting room on the hard plastic chair I anxiously watched the doors to the hallway where you were with your Mommy and Daddy. Your birth made a family of three. You got some special time with them. Finally, someone came out of the hall doors. 

A nurse told us we could see you and as I walked down the hallway with Papa, I remember I was so excited to meet you. My mind was racing a mile a minute. I had pictured what you would look like so many times and now I would actually get to see you. It seemed unreal. We were at your Mommy's hospital room door and the wait was over.

To the boy who made me a Monger. 

I had pictured you with so many different facial features for months--the reality was so much better. You were a perfect tiny little man with your eyes closed and a big blanket covering most of your body. You were sleeping peacefully and contently. 

Watching your Mommy and Daddy with you made my eyes well up with tears. The tears began to spill over when Papa looked at you. The wonder and amazement in his eyes were something I had never seen before--not even when your Uncles and your Mommy were born. It was obvious to me that your Papa had just become your biggest fan. 

It was my turn to hold you. You opened your eyes and even though I knew you couldn't see me clearly, I looked at you for as long as your eyes looked toward mine. I had a grandchild. I had a grandson. My Angus Edward was here. 

To the boy who made me a Monger. 

Today, you've been alive for one whole year. In 365 days you've managed to work your way deep into the hearts of our entire family. We can't remember a time before you, to be honest. It's as if we weren't complete before you were born. 

Each of us has come to have a special relationship with you. To see your face light up when you see us...to have you reach for us with your chubby arms...it's about the best feeling ever. 

Your Papa and I didn't have any idea how becoming grandparents meant our heart would be able to grow even bigger than it already was. It seems there's always room for more family. A grandchild? Well, this is about as good as it gets. 

To the boy who made me a Monger. 

I made up a song for you and sing it loudly and annoyingly whenever and wherever I want. No one can stop me. You smile and clap your dimpled hands as I sing and you rock back and forth to the beat. If you love it, I don't care how ridiculous I sound or look. I'll do what I need to do to get my Angus to smile. We'll sing that song for as long as I have a voice, my sweet baby. 

You are my Angy Pang. My Angy Pangity Pang. No matter how old you are, this Monger will call you by those names. I will forever see the baby who I held for the first time a year ago. I will remember the five tiny teeth you flash when you grin and the silly way you wrinkle your button nose and snort while you laugh. I will continually call you 'my baby' even though your Mommy seems to think you're hers. Silly Mommy. 

I hope your future is as happy for you as life has been so far. You don't know it yet, but you have the best Mommy and Daddy that any kid could wish for. Their world revolves around you and love fills your home to the brim. You are so very loved by both sides of your family. What a lucky little boy you are, Angy. 

I wish for you to continue to grow and enjoy life with the innocence and awe you do now. Never lose that sweet, sweet personality. You have so much to give the world and I pray you never forget how loved you are by everyone you meet. 

I was fortunate to have grandparents who loved and supported me for decades of my life. You will have the same, no doubt. You come from a long line of love, Angus. 

You are the next generation. 

The first grandchild. 

To the boy who made me a Monger...Angus Edward Landess.

I love you. I love you. I love you.

Happy 1st Birthday.

It is what it is.

Love, Monger

Taking on Trauma

I'm a 57-year-old wife and mother of four children. I became a grandma "Monger" for the first time last year. I'm a sister, sister-in-law, and aunt. I'm a friend. I'm an educator. I'm an advocate. 

These descriptions encompass who I am. 

Yet, there is a descriptive phrase I have yet to embrace.

Trauma survivor. 

It hasn't always been there--the trauma. I can pinpoint exactly when it became a central component of who I am. I was 36 and I watched my mom battle pancreatic cancer. I helped care for her during weeks of hospice. 

21 years ago she passed away and my world turned upside down. Giving her eulogy I referenced how my life had been clearly divided from "before" to "after." There was no way my life would ever be the same with the loss of this one person. A deep cavernous void formed as her hand slipped away from mine. 

When a traumatic event happens, most of us don't immediately recognize it. Obviously, you know something monumental has occurred but labeling it may not happen for some time. 

For me, it happened this year. Yep, 21 years after. Of course, there is always more to the story, isn't there? 

This is my story. 

When my mom died, within a few hours of her passing and after the funeral home had left my parent's house, my dad sent my brother and me home. We had disassembled the bed and physically moved my parent's entire bedroom set into the garage. Just like that. Any sign of my mom in the bedroom was gone and hospice was over so it was time to leave. I don't know what the protocol is for mourning and how this is supposed to look. But I do know this didn't feel right at the time. I should have paid more attention to the nagging feeling in my gut. I wasn't acknowledging what I needed in the moments after her death. My mourning was being shaped by someone else and I had no ownership of what I was feeling. 

I wish I could say I remember the rest clearly. But, I honestly don't. The memorial preparation and private burial were a blur. It seemed hurried and rushed. Bury my mom so we could get on with our lives.

Within a month, my dad was away on a weekend trip with my mom's hospice nurse. Yep, you read that correctly. My mom's hospice nurse was now romantically involved with my dad. 

Our daughter was a contestant in the Little Miss South Jacksonville Pageant that summer in 2002 and we had asked my dad to come but he told us he couldn't because he was away. This is the first I had heard of an emotional entanglement.

And so began the second, and equally impactful, layer of my trauma.

Let me clarify, the second layer of my trauma had nothing to do with my dad's choice of a girlfriend. He needed to make his own decisions about how to shape his life. His spouse was not coming back and I only wanted his happiness. Rather, the second layer of my trauma was because of the abandonment which followed as the result of his choice to move on. 

As hard as it is to admit, my dad chose to abandon me, my husband, and our four children--his grandchildren--within the course of the next year. 

I never talked in detail about this at the time it happened because I assumed we would eventually get together and discuss our differences but we never did. I grew up in a household where we were encouraged to discuss and communicate to solve or resolve issues. This time was different. My dad told me there would be no discussion. He gave me an ultimatum and when I didn't comply contact ended. He systematically erased all six of us from his life as if we had never been there at all. 

I told you at the beginning of this blog that I am a mom to four children. I can't imagine making a conscious decision to walk away from them. It's unfathomable. I am also a Monger. My grandson is so ingrained in our family that, again, abandoning him would never be an option. Neither of these scenarios is within the realm of possibilities. 

I used to think my dad and I were alike in many ways---I suppose actually we are to some degree---but we have one fundamental difference. I am not someone who would leave behind my children and grandchildren and make them feel as if they were not worthy of my love because they didn't conform to my vision of our life. 

It's taken me decades to admit this to myself. I didn't do anything wrong. I simply questioned some of my dad's decisions following my mom's death and he didn't like it. My husband tried to talk to my dad, too, and with no success. If you know my husband, you know he is level-headed and keeps me grounded. When I react with emotion, he is more pragmatic and objective. Neither of us could reason with my dad. 

He wrote us all off in one day and never looked back. He lumped his four grandchildren into the same category as my husband and me. We were all defying him and, therefore, he was done. Even though we offered to keep our feelings separate so he could continue as Papa to our kids, he said no. It was his choice and his choice alone. 

Time passed. 

One decade. 

Another decade. 

If you think of your own life you know how many holidays and life events occur in this amount of time. 

Our kids remember my mom and we talk about her often. We keep her alive in traditions and memories. She is still a tremendously positive influence on them. They love her deeply. 

My dad--well, it's as if he died when she did with none of the love and warmth remaining. He simply left and never came back. He's a stranger who doesn't evoke anything positive in any of us. He is someone we used to know. 

What does a child do with that? 

Not only me as an adult child but the small grandchildren who were also left. How do you compartmentalize these feelings of trauma and abandonment? 

Trauma is generational. Our family is living proof.

I've had people who knew my dad ask if I ever reached out and tried to talk to him. Our kids have had people ask them the same. For me, I realized my life wouldn't be better with him in it so our relationship effectively ended when he abandoned me. For our kids, they were children. It wasn't up to them to ask their Papa why he left them. Shame on any adult who asks my kids that--even now. They don't need to be the 'bigger person' and reach out. They were here the entire time. He knew where to find them. He knew where to find all of us. 

My kids are adults now and are starting to ask more questions about me and how I dealt--or didn't deal--with what happened. They're wanting me to face the feelings I have long ignored. Writing this blog is a cathartic way for me to begin to release what has been bottled up and hidden. 

I was made to feel like the black sheep because I questioned my dad. Years after my own abandonment, my dad also abandoned my brother, my sister-in-law, and my niece and nephew. My brother has a much different personality than I do but when he finally spoke up my dad's response was, "You're just like your sister."

Checkmate.

Perhaps healing began when my brother told me what had been said. I have always felt I was the defective family member--that I had caused the abandonment to occur. 

It wasn't me.

It was my dad. 

He has walked away from his two children, our spouses, and six grandchildren. His life with my mom and with us has ceased to exist. 

I don't write this for sympathy or for advice. I definitely don't want anyone's advice because my journey is for me alone. I don't write this so my dad sees it and we have some glorious reunion. I know I don't want him in my life. As I said before, he died when my mom did. 

I write this for healing. 

Facing the fact my trauma from the abandonment of my dad has trickled down to the next generation--to my kids--is unbelievably hard. I thought not discussing it and moving on was the way to handle it. I know now that not talking about what I was feeling caused more trauma for the four of them. For this, I will be eternally pained and truly sorrowful. 

I can only move on from here with the knowledge it's ok to admit you have been traumatized. It doesn't make me less of a person it makes me human. I don't have to be the strongest person in the room. I'm allowed to hurt, to cry, to feel. 

I'm also allowed to tell my story without fear of judgment. No one knew my dad like I did. We had our own relationship and my feelings about it are valid and true. I don't know why I have felt sharing this would tarnish his reputation in the community because he was a respected educator. I would never want to take away his accomplishments and the many relationships he built in this town. So many people were fortunate to get the side of my dad they will fondly remember. He deserves to be respected for what he did--professionally. His personal life, however, was vastly different and the version of my dad I knew would be unrecognizable to the Mr. B. the public knew. 

Is there a correct way to take on trauma? 

I obviously don't have the answer to that one. But perhaps the first step is acknowledging you've experienced it. So here I go...

For my husband, my kids, and for my grandson, I will work to heal. 

For my brother, my sister-in-law, and my niece and nephew, I will work to heal. 

For me, I will work to heal. 

I'm a 57-year-old wife and mother of four children. I became a grandma "Monger" for the first time last year. I'm a sister, sister-in-law, and aunt. I'm a friend. I'm an educator. I'm an advocate. 

These descriptions encompass who I am. 

Finally, I'm officially and publicly adding one more descriptor.

I am a trauma survivor. 

It is what it is.

p

Leo's Gift

When it happened, I had some true moments of hesitation. 

Would I tell anyone? Would it seem so farfetched that no one would believe me? 

What if I did share it and it didn't come true? 

Would those I told think I was crazy?

My hesitation didn't last long.

The following morning, I told Ed first. His reaction made me realize that I had to tell Tonia and Sam. 

I also had to tell our daughter, Bentley. 

Leo's gift.

On the night of July 15th, Leo appeared in my dream. It was an average dream for me--bouncing around from one subject to the next with no real purpose or goal. Simply a kaleidoscope of images and scenes. 

At some point during the sequence, I looked to my left and there was a seated figure in my view. I could see his face but where his clothes should have been was nothingness. Plain white space. Just a face, who I knew belonged to a male, looking in my direction. 

The face was God. "Why is God in my dream?" But as I walked closer, the face changed to Jesus. I immediately recognized the difference. "Oh, wait, it's Jesus," I said to myself. I kept walking closer. Suddenly, I realized it was neither. Those two faces had gone and another was in their place. 

The face was Leo's. 

He looked ethereal and heavenly. He was absolutely gorgeous. Perfect in every single way. 

I gasped and immediately started crying the kind of tears that fall so heavily down your face that it's hard to see or even to breathe. I began choking back the flood of emotions that had overcome me. The intensity brought a wave of emotion over me that made my heart feel as if it were about to burst. It both tightened and pulsated in a way it never has before. I wasn't scared but instead felt the most love, beauty, peace, acceptance, and comfort I had ever had in my life. For a person who has no trouble expressing her thoughts and feelings, I fail to find the words to accurately describe what was happening to me and what I was feeling at this moment. 

In sheer wonderment, I took my left hand and reached out to touch the side of Leo's face. I started at his hairline and my fingertips made an arc motion moving down over his cheek to his chin. I stared at him in complete awe. 

Both of Leo's hands appeared and I reached out with mine to grasp his and held tight. 

What transpired next could have taken minutes or possibly seconds...I don't really know. 

We had locked eyes and Leo, smiling gently, looked at me and we 'talked' about everything we needed to talk about. It had nearly been 9 years since he was taken from us but the years were erased as we spoke to each other without a single word being uttered. 

Finally, I tried to speak. I have absolutely no idea why but the one thing I needed to verbally tell Leo was about Bentley. I said, "Our Beni is going to have a baby." 

Leo smiled a brilliant smile and nodded. "Yes, I know," he said. 

With our hands still clutched together, my thoughts turned to our grandson, Angus, who was due to be born on July 25. With the date about 10 days away, I must have been thinking about when Bentley would deliver because Leo said, "The 17th or the 18th." 

I had just been told when Angus would be born. 

Leo's gift.

Somehow I knew my time with Leo was ending and I managed to tell him I loved him with an emotion-filled voice. 

Leo, again, smiled the brilliant beautiful smile and faded from my sight and I felt the pressure on my hands lessen and then release altogether.

He was gone. 

When I told Ed about my dream, he said I needed to tell Bentley even if it didn't come true. I had planned to tell her the next day (the 16th) but she and Mason had a diaper shower out at the lake and the timing wasn't right. We left without me telling her. When we got home I told Ed I had this nagging feeling I needed to tell her that day. So I texted her at 10:30 pm and asked if she could FaceTime us. I never do this, so she knew it must be important. 

Over FaceTime, with Mason asleep in the next room, I told Beni. 

She was overcome with emotion and took a deep breath and exhaled. She said she had been apprehensive, as moms-to-be often are, about impending delivery and this message made her feel like everything was going to be alright. I think this is what Leo wanted for her. 

On Sunday, July 17, Bentley's water broke around 10:30 am. Imagine our surprise! She and Mason headed to Springfield and they were admitted. Angus was coming. 

I knew I had to tell Tonia and Sam...and quickly! They were going to be thrilled with this dream and with the fact Beni might actually deliver on the 17th or the 18th, as Leo had said. 

I was able to tell Tonia before Beni and Mason even got admitted to the hospital but Sam wasn't home. She told me she would have him call me later. Tonia said she knew Leo wanted this for Bentley and how grateful she was that I shared this with her. Knowing Leo was still sending us signs and watching over all who love him means the world to her. 

When I asked her why she thought Leo might have said, "The 17th or the 18th," she reminded me that Leo had actually died on the 17th but the coroner had not declared him legally dead until the 18th. So, both dates have significance. I had forgotten this over the years. 

While our family was at Memorial waiting for Angus to be born, Tonia and Sam called. I told Sam. He said he knew Angus being born on one of these dates was because of Leo. He said that's what Leo does and it made him so happy to hear Leo was with us all...still. 

Leo's gift. 

I was raised Catholic and consider myself a religious person even though I have not been a practicing Catholic for decades. Since this dream, I have talked with others about the significance and the meaning behind God and Jesus appearing to me before Leo did. Was it to put me at ease? Was it to let me know I was safe and comforted and that I was about to witness a glimpse of the love and beauty of heaven? I have no idea. All I know is I continued to walk toward them in wonder and awe. I was enveloped in love and it was indescribable. 

One thing I do know for sure is our Leo, ethereal and heavenly, was an angel. No, he didn't have wings but I have no doubt he is an angel for so many of us who love him. I now know he is watching over all we do and has become part of overseeing our life plans. He would be so pleased with the way I'm describing him because he was beautiful in life and liked to be told how handsome he was. You're welcome, Leo. 

Leo's gift.

Having our Angus Edward born on the day Leo was taken from us is Leo's gift to Bentley. The pain and suffering of July 18, 2013, are now going to have new emotions attached. The beauty and wonder of a new life coming into this world at 4:56 am on July 18, 2022, will make the day one Bentley can face with love for both Leo and for Angus.

What many may not know is that the night Leo was taken, Bentley is the one who had to tell Brody and then Ed and me that Leo was gone. We've been told since that this was Bentley's job--Leo had chosen her to break the news to us. It had to be her. I've been told Leo saw this as an extreme honor for Bentley. Perhaps Leo is thanking her for what she did? However, this honor has at times seemed anything but that. It had been such an emotional burden for her to carry all these years. The gift of Angus erases the heaviness of that night and replaces it with only love. 

There's something else I am now certain of since reflecting on Angus' birth on the 18th. Angus' name was chosen by Bentley and Mason because it was Brody's nickname growing up and Bentley is extremely close with Brody (there's also an AC/DC connection, too, of course with Angus Young--our kids were raised on AC/DC). Leo called Brody "Angus." Leo's brother, Peter, still does. I know, wholeheartedly, Leo also sent Angus on the 18th for Brody. A new life heals. A new life refreshes and revigorates the soul. Brody's pain of losing Leo will always be there but this new life is a reminder that we are here on earth to LIVE. What a wonderful relationship our Brody "Angus" and baby Angus will have. 

Leo's gift. 

For Sam and Tonia--their own grandson was born on July 18, four years ago, to son Peter and their daughter-in-law Megan. I often hear Tonia say Samuel saved Sam and gave him new life after losing Leo. This wasn't a coincidence. It was destined to happen.

Leo's gift. 

While I was initially worried people might think this is all too hard to believe, I realized it doesn't matter what others think because I believe it. I know what happened in my dream. I know Leo is around us and for some wonderful and unknown reason he decided to bless us with Angus on a date in July which is forever etched in our memories. 

I have never had a dream like this before and I doubt I ever will again. I don't know why Leo chose to come to me but he must have thought I needed it and trusted me to pass his message on. 

Well, Leo. I did it. I passed it on. 

I asked Tonia and Bentley if they were alright with me writing this in my blog--intensely personal moments are sometimes not to be shared. They both said to write this. They know Leo wants people to know. 

Angels are among us. 

We have one and his name is Leo. 

We will be forever grateful for Leo's gift. 

*Angus Edward Landess, Born July 18, 2022*

Keep Going...

Today marks a month that I've been a special education teacher...from home.

Each morning, I wake up and 'get ready' for the school day. I simply walk downstairs to my school.

My classroom is my kitchen island with me perched on a bar stool. My laptop sits in front of me right beside my coffee cup of courage.

School starts at 8 a.m.

My son, Blaize, sits on a stool at the other end of the island. His remote office is in our kitchen, too. He's been home from Chicago for a month, as well. Luckily, his employer implemented remote work options when their office building was closed. So happy he came home and is safe with us as we social distance together. Trying to do our jobs at opposite ends of a butcher block.

Keep going.

It's been a true adjustment.

I suppose that's the understatement of the year.

No one knew how to 'teach school' from home. Our nation's school districts come with actual buildings and campuses. Now, those have been taken away. How in the world do we continue when our buildings, our classrooms, our students, our support staff, our supplies/equipment, our EVERYTHING has been taken away...in a day?

A day!

I locked my classroom door on Friday, March 13, 2020. Our governor told us we would be closing schools as of Tuesday, March 17. Over that weekend, the date was changed to Monday, March 16. Schools have not been the same since then.

Keep going.

I consider myself a patriotic person. I stand, with my right hand over my heart, for the pledge of allegiance. I proudly lead my class in this each school day. I fly a flag in my classroom as well as at home. I celebrate national holidays and I respect our constitution as best I can. I respect all who have served and who continue to serve our country. I volunteer within the community, I serve on various boards, and I try to donate to charities as much as possible. I've always been proud of our nation, our state, and our community. I'm not sure if that's the definition of patriotic, but it's what I try to do, in my little corner of the world, to show my love and my respect of country.

I had no way of knowing how proud I could be until this pandemic hit. The people who have stepped up to keep our nation and our communities safe boggles my mind. Truly a nation coming together.

While my profession has been hit in a way no one could have imagined, the same can be said for so many other professions, as well. No one had a play book for a pandemic. This is true trial and error in most cases. But, we're doing it. Everyone is doing things they never imagined and attempting new options never even considered.

Keep going.

I'm not going to lie and say I've converted to teaching from home with no issues and act like I have it all together.

I've done it about as ungracefully as I could have! I wear my pajama pants most days. I do remember two days where I wore make-up for Zoom meetings. One of the other teachers asked me why I had eye make up on!? I realized the absurdity of 'getting ready' for a day of work from my kitchen.

Noted.

I've learned how to adjust the laptop screen so my chins don't look so 'double' and I realized that my glasses hide the fact I didn't manage to do anything but wash my face when I got up. Score! In the real world, there is no conceivable time I would have considered going to school without hair done and makeup on. Always wearing a dress to school, this new me is in stark contrast to the teacher I used to be.

Keep going.

New reality means new perspective. And I've come to realize that our new normal means teachers have to support parents more than ever. I've always felt fortunate to have the parents I do to work with. They not only support our district and our program but they've supported me and what I work to accomplish with their children. Now, the tables are turned and we're working together in supplying curriculum and providing instruction. We've had to pivot and then pivot, again, to find a rhythm which works with schools closed and students at home. As we hit the month mark, I can honestly say, I think we're doing it! I'm so proud of what we've accomplished in such a short amount of time.

Each week which passes gives me more clarity on how to teach from my kitchen island. SO much of our jobs is in the delivery of the curriculum. Actually, that's my favorite part! I love to sing and dance in class and joke with my students. That's gone now and it's the basics. The bread and butter of education is what I'm supposed to be presenting. But, my personal touch is missing. That makes me sad.

I miss my students.

I miss the staff members who have become my friends.

I miss being there.

Keep going.

Today, I had an epiphany.

I am in contact with my student's parents on a weekly basis and I talk to some parents even more than that. One mom and I text quite often on the Remind App. I asked her if she would accept an invitation to Zoom and she said she would. The Zoom App is one we use for meetings but I thought I'd give it a try one-on-one so I could talk to my student, too! I had yet to talk to this student since this all began. In our special ed setting, it's been most important to make sure I am addressing IEP goals, etc.

That changed this morning.

It hit me like a ton of bricks when his mom brought her phone over to where my student was sitting in their house. She asked if he knew who this was on the screen? It dawned on me that he might not recognize me (you know, no make-up & no dress!) so I asked her to hang on and I went to my teacher bag to get the lanyard with my Four Rivers ID hanging from it. I haven't worn it for four weeks. I held it up to the screen. Covered the whole lens on my side. I could see him focusing on the screen through the very top corner of my laptop.

Silence.

Then, "Paula!" It was my student's voice.

You see, when he first became a student in my classroom, he would walk up to me and take my ID in his little hands. He'd touch the lanyard which it hangs from and would say, "Neckle" because it looks like a necklace. Then, he would point to the picture and look up at me and say, "Paula!" This was our 'thing.' It's our way of communicating.

We also do a 'clicking of our tongues' after we say each other's names. I call it our form of echolocation.

I heard 'clicking' through my laptop speakers.

He remembered me. After four weeks, he remembered me!

Keep going.

Today I realized that I can still insert my personality into this remote learning. I've spent so many hours these past weeks making sure my students are getting what they deserve and what they need per their IEP's that I pushed the 'fun' we had aside.

A few minutes on Zoom with my little guy reminded me why I'm a special ed teacher. It's because of the personal connection I have with these kids that I do what I do. Any teacher will tell you that teaching is hard work under normal conditions. There's no way you can understand how hard being a teacher is unless you are one. These extreme circumstances take it to a whole new level.

All we can do is try. Fail. Then, try again.

But there's no reason I can't still sing and dance with my students, is there? I can joke with them and I can smile when they are being silly. We can be loud and fun! (Blaize might be looking for a new work space...either that or he's going to have to learn our songs and join in!)

The moments with my student earlier today reminded me of that. I can still be the teacher I was, even from my kitchen island.

All I can do is...keep going. That's all any of us can do.

It is what it is.

p

"Emily taught me how to teach..."

She's been in the forefront of my mind since yesterday afternoon when I received a text message from my administrator.

The words she texted told me that a student, from the first year I was a paraprofessional at Turner Junior High School, had died. 

I initially scanned the words and then uttered, "Oh, no." 

Thinking of this student took me spiraling back 20 years to my first job in Special Education. I was a 1:1 for part of the school day and was placed in teacher Kim Nelson's class for the remainder. 

It was in this class that I met Emily.

Emily taught me how to teach.

I don't remember everything about those few years, of course, but what immediately comes back into focus is her. 

Kim had a full class and several students. As an 'extra' para in her room, I was there to work with whichever student needed me. I know I made a quick scan of the classroom, silently praying Kim wouldn't place me with Emily because she was as tall, if not taller, than I was and I knew she was nonverbal. She had a communication device and I hadn't worked with those before. She also used some basic ASL signs but I wasn't confident with my abilities in that regard, either. I kept thinking there was no way I would be able to communicate with her and my self-confidence took a nose dive. 

Frankly, she scared me. I knew she'd be able to feel my unease and that's all it takes for a junior high student to get the upper hand. I had no doubt she was sizing me up from across the room, too. 

The game was on. 

I can't tell you how many weeks it was but what I can tell you is that something incredible happened between me and Emily. 

Emily taught me how to teach.

No, I didn't become an expert with the communication device nor did I become fluent in ASL, but we found a bond and a connection through humor that I wasn't expecting at all. 

Humor?

Yes, special education students can be funny. Because they are people like you and me. They have all the emotions and all the feelings every human has and they are simply waiting for us to notice! 

Emily taught me this.

No, we didn't have a breakthrough during one of Mrs. Nelson's lessons, either. Actually, what happened between us occurred in-between a lesson.

I had left the room to go into the hallway and as I came back in, I noticed Emily leaning over one of the desks. She often did this. She would bend in half (remember she was a tall girl for her age) and this caused her rear end to jut out into the path between her desk and another piece of furniture in the room. 

I have absolutely NO idea why I did what I did next.

It felt like the right thing to do in the moment.

As I passed by Emily's rear end jutting into the walkway, I playfully swatted at it as I walked on. A mere second in time. 

Instantaneously, Emily let out the loudest and deepest laugh I'd ever heard! 

It was more like, "Heh, Heh, Heh!" than a true laugh. But for Emily it was a laugh. 

I turned and looked at her and her mouth was spread wide in a smile. She didn't bother to stand up. She was still bent in half over her desk but she'd turned her head in my direction and was laughing and looking at me. 

Mrs. Nelson saw it.

Now, I'm not saying paras or teachers should go around swatting a student's rear end. I waited for a second or two to see how what I had done would be received by Mrs. Nelson. 

Kim smiled.

Everyone smiled. 

Emily's laugh was infectious and Mrs. Nelson must have known that this exchange was a breakthrough because miracles take many forms in a special education classroom. It's often the unplanned and the unexpected which become milestones for which we mark our students growth and success. 

In that moment, Emily taught me how to teach.

Our relationship after that was more than I could have hoped for. I looked at Emily differently and I think she saw me differently, as well. We connected.

Fast forward 20 years. Mrs. Nelson and I have reconnected, professionally. Except now I'm the teacher and she is my administrator. I don't know if I'd actually connected the dots of how Emily impacted me all those years ago until Kim texted with the news of her passing. 

I shared with my classroom staff yesterday that Emily was the student who scared me because I couldn't 'talk' to her. I told them how her size intimated me. How my insecurities and my inadequacies were highlighted because she was a challenging student. 

But, before all that, I told them she was my favorite. Because she was. She was special to me. 

Emily taught me how to teach.

It's one of my greatest regrets that I didn't see Emily again once I left Turner to go work at another school. Kim and I would say we should go visit her and yet I never made that happen. Life keeps moving on and you think there will always be more time. So, things get set aside.

I know Emily would be happy that today my classroom is an ode to her. 

We laugh.

We sing.

We dance. 

We smile.

We love.

We teach.

Emily taught me that teaching and all those other things are actually one in the same. Because of her, my students now have a teacher who is infinitely changed because of what a nonverbal student 'said' to her two decades ago. 

Now, you're probably wondering if I ever swatted Emily's rear end, again, right?

Let me tell you that kid tried and tried to get me to do it! 

When she'd see me coming, she'd immediately bend over at her desk and look at me with her big smile.

Yes! She wanted me to swat at her rear as I went by. 

How we would laugh about that! It became quite a 'thing' in Mrs. Nelson's classroom. 

But, what I haven't told you is when Emily truly worked her way into my heart. 

One day, it was me who was bending over at a desk...

It is what it is.

p

He changed who I was...

We weren't trying to have a baby.

He wasn't planned.

He was the start of our family.

He changed who I was.

Our oldest son was conceived after I had decided to go back to college. I was working on a degree and would go to school each day and get sick in the college restroom.  I kept thinking that I had the flu. But the flu doesn't last three months.

I was nearly four months pregnant before I took a pregnancy test and it came up positive.

Ed and I were having our first child.

We were young and scared to death. We still talk about how we brought him home from the hospital and put him on our waterbed. Yes, we had a waterbed back in 1990 and it rocked him softly until the waves settled back to stillness.

Ed and I looked at each other and wondered out loud how the hospital had let us bring this baby home with us. Didn't they know we didn't have a clue how to raise him?

I often say now that we made all our 'new parent mistakes' on Braxton. The familiar curse of the fist-born child.  He paved the way for his future siblings.

Braxton Edward Stewart made me a mom on October 11, 1990.

His first name was decided upon as we watched the Denver Broncos playing during a Monday night football telecast. A talented player repeatedly had his name mentioned and Ed said he liked the name. It was Tyrone Braxton. I wasn't sure if Ed meant he liked Tyrone or Braxton, but once he clarified, I fell in love with his choice. We had already decided his middle name would be Edward for Ed. Growing up without a dad of his own, I knew if this baby was a boy that he needed to have Ed's name. To be honest, I can't really remember what names we had picked for girls. I had felt this baby was a boy and I was right.

He changed who I was.

I never knew how totally and completely a mom could fall in love with her baby until Braxton. The times spent nursing, the times spent rocking, the times spent holding, and the times spent simply looking at this tiny human who I had given birth to remain some of the most incredible moments I've had on this earth. He was a combination of both of his parents. Such a miracle.

My family was still whole when Braxton was born. He was spoiled and cherished by us, both sets of grandparents, and some great-grandparents, too.

When he was about eight months old, the matriarch of our family began a battle with leukemia and she wasn't going to win. My grandma Daisy was such a role-model for me. She taught me how important family is and what unconditional love looks like. My brother and I were lucky enough to grow up with her in our lives and I was thrilled to share my own child with her and my grandpa.

I was struggling to be the kind of mom, to Braxton, that she was to my dad and his brother so many years before. But, I felt so awkward and clumsy compared to my grandma. Like most grandma's, no one can do what they can. End of story.

He changed who I was.

The last time I spoke to my grandma, we were in her hospital room after a set-back due to her diagnosis. She looked at me as I stood at the foot of her bed and told me it was bad.

I stood there.

The tears streaming down my face blurred her shape on the bed. But, her voice came through loud and clear. In her last moments, almost urgently, she told me I was a wonderful mother to Braxton. She said I was a natural.

I can't really explain the impact those words had on me. I almost felt an ease come over my body and a comfort surround me. She needed me to know I was like her. I could do this motherhood thing.

He changed who I was.

If I've said it once, I've said it many times in my blogs. I've only known two things for certain in my life. I knew I would marry Ed and I knew I wanted to be a mom.

I think all parents wonder if they are doing right by their children. We make multiple mistakes on countless occasions but we do the best we can. Looking back, I know I was a maniac with my obsession of keeping Braxton clean at all times. I don't think the kid was dirty for the entire first year of his life. But, I knew I was meant to be his mom. I knew now, thanks to my grandma, that I would be able to be the mom he deserved.

Braxton celebrated his 29th birthday last month.

That tiny human who made us parents has become more than I could have ever imagined.

How could I have possibly known the joy and the pride with which he would fill my heart?

His kindness and compassion astound me. His pure heart and clear vision for what's right and what's wrong is a constant example for me to follow.

What a gift he was then.

What a gift he is now.

He changed who I was.

He changed who I am.

Braxton Edward, I love you. I love you. I love you.

It is what it is.

p

"You are my sunshine..."

You are my sunshine, my only sunshine

You make me happy when skies are grey

You'll never know, dear, how much I love you

Please don't take my sunshine away.

She wasn't planned. We already had three sons within three years (Braxton, born in 1990; Blaize, born in 1992; and Brody, born in 1993) and had decided to 'wait a little bit' to decide whether or not we wanted to try to have any more children.  

God had other ideas.

September 1, 1995, Bentley Lynne joined our family and made us Stewart: Party of 6.

Most people assume we kept having children because we were trying to get at least 'one' of each sex. 

Not true.

The fact that we had three boys made the assumption even greater as nearly everyone would ask us if we would 'keep trying' in order to have a little girl.

Beni will joke that we, or I, 'didn't want her' because I often tell people that I always assumed I would be a mom to only boys. I loved raising our sons and I felt comfortable doing it. Our boys were so close in age that they did everything together and raising them was so natural that I really could not imagine how a girl would fit into the picture of us. 

Of course, I knew there was a 50/50 chance I'd had a daughter, eventually. Still, I never expected having one. Because, you know, I was only supposed to have boys! 

Or, so I thought. 

When we went for the sonogram and they were able to tell us the sex of our fourth child, Ed and I decided to go ahead and find out. 

Hearing it was a girl was such a surreal experience for me and I can remember it quite vividly to this very day.

I felt shaken and uneasy.

I remember feeling suddenly inadequate because I would be giving birth to a child I had no idea how to raise.

You are my sunshine.

There's this thing about parenthood.  All your insecurities and all your doubts seem to fade away once you look at your child for the first time.  The reality hits that they will depend on you to be there for them, to take care of them, to protect them, and to love them. You have to get yourself together quickly and accept the challenge.

Somehow. You do it. 

I've heard people say being a parent is natural. 

I agree. 

Your relationship with your child happens. And it happens, organically. 

There's no instruction manual for parents. How reassuring it would be to have a 'boy' manual and a 'girl' manual at our disposal. Imagine if the hospital sent you home with both your baby and a users-guide! 

You are my sunshine.

We brought Bentley home to our house in Murrayville. Her brothers all shared one room (with bunk beds for Braxton and Blaize along with a crib for Brody) and their playroom was the second bedroom of our three bedroom house. So, without a true room of her own, Beni spent her first months in a bassinet being wheeled from room to room at night. Braxton and Blaize liked to help push her around. 

My fondest memory of that Murrayville home, besides being the first one we ever owned, was the picture I see in my mind of all three of her brothers surrounding Bentley as she lay on a blanket on the family room floor. 

She was tiny.  She was perfect and pink. She looked like a doll.

Her brothers would take turns covering her up with her blanket and they would sing to her.

You are my sunshine.

Over and over.

You are my sunshine.

This little person had made our family complete and she'd given us more than any of us had ever expected.

Thinking back to that day we had the sonogram, as we walked into the hall to wait to see the doctor, Ed said he thought we were having a girl because my Grandma Belobrajdic had sent her to me. He knew how much I loved my grandma. She had died about 8 months after Braxton, our first child, had been born. I hated that she didn't see our two other sons but when Ed told me he thought she sent our daughter to me, I felt a peace come over my whole body. I knew, in that moment, that this little girl I was carrying would be a gift.  

What I didn't know at the time--there's no possible way I could have--was that my mom (whose first name was given to Bentley as her middle name) would be diagnosed with terminal cancer and pass away when Bentley Lynne was only 6 years old. 

Had my grandma known this, too? That I would be losing the other important female in my life? That both of my female role models and family matriarchs would soon be gone? 

Recalling Ed's words, again, I was more convinced than ever that my grandma made sure our last child would be the girl I would so desperately need in the years ahead.

You are my sunshine.

She sent me Bentley. 

Our boys like to tease her that she's always been spoiled. Moving from Murrayville into what would be our second family home on South Main in South Jacksonville, Beni finally had a room little girls would dream of. Even though the boys exaggerate, she did had a great room complete with real picket fence attached to the walls and a wall/ceiling mural hand-painted by our friend, Joyce Nelson.

She probably has been spoiled. I can't deny it. 

She's turning 24 today and instead of that tiny doll-baby surrounded by her brothers, I see the most beautiful woman. 

She's breathtakingly beautiful.  I'm not only writing of her physical beauty but also the pureness of her heart and the true kindness of her soul. 

She's the very best parts of both my Grandma Belobrajdic and my mom.

She gives me that female link which is so important. She's my best friend. 

Happy Birthday, Beni Lynne. I love you more than you'll ever know!

My one and only little girl. 

Oh. I don't think I mentioned how the boys changed a couple words of the song they sang to their sister:

You are my sunshine, my only sunshine

You make me happy when skies are grey

You'll never know, dear, how much I love you

Please don't take our Bentley away.

It is what it is.

p

Our daughter, Bentley Lynne, turns 24 today.