Cabin Fever

Yes, I love my family, and yes, the births of my children are the two greatest days of my life. It is beyond question that I would do anything at all for my family, up to and including "taking a bullet."

Now let me qualify all those lovely and true sentiments with an even truer one: We have spent these past two weeks plus together and we need some TIME APART. As much as we all love each other, we have spent, essentially, 100% of our time in each other's presence, since Friday, 12/23. And I don't care what they tell you, that's just not right. Parents and their children are not meant to spend all their time together. If you don't believe me, go rent two films that illustrate the point: Mosquito Coast, in which Harrison Ford decides to take his family "off the grid" and Tempest, Paul Mazursky's re-telling of Shakespeare's tale of Prospero, played in this version by an amazing, scenery-chewing John Cassavetes, at the end of his life and the height of his acting powers. In both instances, the notion that a family can spend all its time together is de-bunked, to tragic (and comic) results.

I suppose one could make the argument that there are "other cultures" in this world -- pygmies and the like -- who keep their young 'uns with them always. I have no doubt this is true, but it's a cradle-to-grave thing. We're a modern American family. We are social creatures outside the nucleus of our little gene puddle. For the children, school plays an important role in this regard. It's not only the place where they learn to read and write and do math; it's where they practice navigating relationships, without the help of their adoring parents. It's practice for real life.

As for me, I'll be honest: I like working. If I'm in a place that feels professional and that values what I put into it, then I tend to get more than my share out of it. My present job has me feeling more comfortable and "at peace" ( not something you hear from an AP all too often) than I have since I left Satellite Academy in 2004.

I can't speak for my wife except to say that I know she feels valued at work, despite all the challenges it entails. She has been good enough to look after those people for the past couple of days while I have since gone back to work, breathing a sigh of relief as I backed the car out of the driveway on Monday. I'm sure Mrs. Fuchs will do the same thing later this morning.

Let me repeat: I love my children dearly. For those of you who look, starry-eyed, at your little ones as they slumber in their cribs, wishing you could spend 24/7/365 with God's Little Blessings, I say three things: 1) more power to you, 2) please try not to judge me, and 3) BE CAREFUL WHAT YOU WISH FOR . . .

Introspection Time

Yes, Christmas has just come and gone, and there are only a few days of the current calender year remaining. So, as is my bent, I turn my reflective eye inward and take a look at this year gone by.

So far, I have written 258 O.S.N.G. blog posts, something of which I am quite proud. The goal was to write 365 for the year, and I'll be about a hundred short of that. But I'm up from 11 in 2010 and 3 in 2009, so I'm happy about my productivity. Not every post is a pearl; some are downright clunkers as far as the writing goes. What these posts all provide, however, is a record for my children of what was important to their dad, as well as some real-time snapshots of who they were at ages 8 and 6 respectively.

There are some thoughts on education, a little bit of politics, maybe a dash of religion here and there, all of which will give Diego and Jackson a feel for what the world was like in their childhood days of the "early-to-mid-aughts."

This year I took a technique of my father's, scribbling ideas ("early tweets," I called them in a 2010 post) on 3 x 5 cards, and ran with it. For a while there I kept the cards in my pocket at all times, coming home with two or three good journal/blog ideas each day. For a few months I averaged a post a day on Blogger, and I've gotten encouragement from a range of people I respect. At my high school reunion in October, several people who have never left a comment on my blog made it a point to tell me how much they enjoy reading it.

Thanks to the technology available to me -- the Internet in general and Facebook and Twitter specifically -- my writing has an "audience." This humbles me and makes me aware of how important honesty is to what I write. Used to be that what I wrote was between me, the void, and whomever I chose directly to show my work.

Now I can pretty safely assume that if I put my writing out there, via Facebook status update or tweet, that someone will read it. So it has to be good, if I want those readers to continue to view my stuff.

In the realm of the professional, I've just recently changed jobs -- moving back into the school arena. I feel back in my "comfort zone," working with young people and their teachers, trying to help them through the maze of school. It's much more difficult than the work I was doing at Region 13, and the change is part of the drop off in my blog's productivity during the fourth quarter this year. But I like the hard work. It makes me think back to my foreman, the poet Keith Althaus, who was in almost constant motion when we worked together at the MarSpec warehouse in Provincetown, Massachusetts during the summer of 1984. He was always working -- so much so that I cannot recall Keith without seeing him walking quickly, or checking his paperwork, or operating a forklift, moving inventory. He wasn't joyless, by any stretch; in fact, I still giggle at some of the snide remarks he came out with, always in motion, with his nose to that proverbial grindstone. My favorite was his sarcasm regarding the Olympic Games that summer. The Soviets boycotted the L.A. games, bringing down the level of competition considerably. Keith came in one morning and said, "Did you guys see what we did to Guam last night? We crushed 'em."

I once asked Keith, over a quickly-devoured sandwich, why he never stopped moving. "Makes the day go faster," he said. And he was right. In the past three months, I've come to understand that a high school assistant principal's day goes by extremely fast.

And on the home front, the self-esteem that comes with the new job (although wrapped in a significant pay cut) has paid dividends. I'm able to be more "present" for my family, all of whom appear to be thriving, thank God. Sure, I have my goals, particularly in the areas of personal finance and fitness. All in all, though, 2011 has turned out to be a very good year indeed.

Having Something Left

It wasn't until I pulled my car out of the parking lot that I finally exhaled. That was the kind of day it was at Cedar Ridge High School.

After a good early-morning meeting with my old boss, who now serves as our external coach, I found myself in Z.J.'s annual Admission, Review, and Dismissal (ARD) meeting. Z is a complicated young man with a host of issues, and he's also the first student to latch onto me the way students sometimes do. The meeting was going well, until Z and Dad got into a disturbing verbal confrontation that included Z's father claiming Z's grandparents feared him. I don't doubt that this is true, as Z can be unpredictably explosive, but those words -- "They're afraid of you, Z" -- were like five daggers; I could almost hear them piercing the boy's heart. As often happens with Z, he began crying, and the meeting was adjourned, to be continued at a later date.

The day snowballed from there. Two Downs Syndrome students got into a physical fight in the Life Skills classroom, a girl was stumbling drunk, I busted a kid for smoking in the bathroom, and a colleague was physically threatened by a student.

In addition, I had to fit in two classroom walkthroughs, participate in a learning walk with our coaches and discipline several other students.

I suppose the good news is that the world kept turning and all of us survived -- albeit wearily -- to see another day.

The most important test I passed came after all of this was over, after the aforementioned exhalation. When I picked up the children, Jackson was beside himself, inconsolable that we'd moved him into the ACE after-school program, without informing him he'd be leaving LEAP. I inhaled again, and the breath stuck in my chest. There was a clearly defined moment when time stopped, I stepped out of my body, and made a decision. It was when I walked around to Jackson's side of the car to help him into his seat.

The burning anger, the wish to lash out made its way toward the surface, and before reaching for the door handle and yanking it open, as (I'm sorry to say) I've done before, I imagined the day's troubles rolling off me like raindrops off a newly painted automobile.

(Breathe out.)

"Jackson?" I said in a calm, measured tone that made him stop and look into my eyes. "Would you feel better about ACE if we went to look for some vampire teeth?" (He's been asking for them since Halloween.)

"Yes," he said, smiling through watery eyes. "And Daddy?"

"Yes, Jackson?"

"I'll give ACE a chance."

The three of us went on to have a pleasant, fun evening together, which helped remind me that there's much more to my life than ZJ's tears or kids getting tickets for smoking in bathrooms, or sitting with a crying boy who can't understand why he'd been hit in the temple by a bully. That simple choice to let out that deep breath and give my son the love he needs fortified me, built me back up and made it possible to come into work this morning with a smile on my face.

(And ending my evening last night with a shot of Cuervo and a cold Lone Star chaser didn't hurt either....)

One Chapter Ends, Another Begins

I spent most of the day on Friday packing, sorting through the professional detritus of my career -- books and articles, keepsakes and photographs that have some connection to my working or family/personal life.  Occasionally a colleague stopped by to chat and wish me well.

There was the usual bittersweetness of a Last Day -- the "bitter" manifesting itself as an emotional tug in the gut and throat, suggesting that under the right conditions I could shed a tear for Education Service Center Region 13 and the people there I'll be leaving behind.

And it has been a good run, I must say.  As I stated in the now perfunctory "all-staff" farewell email, my co-workers have been nothing but kind and helpful during my 21 months there.  The place has a great reputation for customer service, due to the people they hire.  I'm proud to have been one of them and grateful for all that I learned.  Now it's time to put the learning to good use in a school.  And who knows?  Maybe I'll work at Region 13 again one day . . .

Where I Work: Taking Great Pride in "Cubicle World"

I returned to Cubicle World yesterday, after yet another three-day absence. This time it was due to two off-site training days and a day off, instead of the monthly flight to Dallas. In fact, during the summer months my travel diminishes, as one might expect, and I spend more time in Cubicle World -- one of the sadder realities of working in the service of schools (as opposed to in the schools themselves).

Don't get me wrong: I love where I work. The Education Service Center at Region 13 is, I believe, considered the flagship of the twenty regional service centers across the state. Because it sits so close to the seat of government, and houses a number of statewide initiatives, ESC 13 needs to be a cut above the rest, which we are.

The first thing one notices about our building is its physical surroundings. Nestled in the rolling hills of northeast Austin, the Service Center commands an imperial post, like a modern bastion, quite literally, of stalwart dedication to improving the educational lives of the young people of our state.

There’s a great deal of institutional pride in our organization and it hits all levels. The maintenance staff keeps the place spotless. The cafeteria and catering services are top-notch. Our Executive Director, Dr. Terry Smith, takes every opportunity to impress upon us the importance of customer service, often sharing positive words that have been passed on to him by a satisfied client.

In the local education world of Central Texas, there’s a certain amount of “cache” one holds in being able to say they work at Region 13. There’s a sense of having arrived at a good place, both figuratively and literally. I’m personally proud of being associated with the organization. It tells me I’ve been paying attention over the course of my career, and that what I’ve learned is being put to good, helpful use.

The cubicle thing, in and of itself, is not ideal, obviously. It’s nice to have a place to hang my proverbial hat in between my monthly flights to Big D. I don’t do well with the Open Concept, however, and as much as I enjoy and understand the emphasis on having access to my colleagues, I’m an easily distracted individual. I wouldn’t say I eavesdrop exactly (although being a writer does have my ears in a constant state of surveillance for an original line), but I do overhear every phone conversation and cross-cubicle chat in my immediate vicinity.

For this reason I do best sitting at my computer, my “iBuds” in my ears, plugged into my iTunes or iPod, minding my own iBusiness, and working my way down my To-Do list as best I can.

Occasionally, when the Fanny Fatigue sets in, I walk over to the wall of floor-to-ceiling windows and look out over the impressive vista. I can, literally, almost see my home from there (nod to Sarah Palin), and watch for a moment as the hawks and buzzards circle below me, and above the impressive stand of trees that stretch for acres. I’m not quite certain how I landed here, or how long it will last, but I smile and take a breath of appreciation, before getting back to the task at hand.

Real Tears for a Traveling Dad

It takes some time for me to get geared up for these monthly flights to Dallas. (I'm leaving for another one tomorrow morning.) Not to bore you with the details, but there's some preparation involved -- both in terms of paperwork, and also getting ready emotionally. Even though it's only two nights and three days each time, it feels like longer.

Tonight was the real kicker. Still tired from an after-school nap, Jackson, my five year-old, sat next to me at the dinner table, kind of leaning on me. My seven year old was on my other side, also leaning, when he said, "Jackson, why are you crying?"

When I looked over at Jackson, there were real tears running down his cheeks. "I don't want you to go, Daddy. Please don't go."

This was a new reaction for him. Normally, there's something like a disappointed "Awww," which moves quickly over to extortion, as he begins to make a play for a present. This time, that other shoe never dropped. He just cried. My heart heaved, and I nearly joined him.

"It's okay, baby," I said, "don't cry. I won't be long. Just a couple of days."

I wanted to explain to him that Daddy is not only lucky to have such a good job, that he likes, he's lucky to have any job at all in this economy. A child will not understand it, and besides, he's crying for a very basic reason. And it's something the whole family can relate to, because we're all hitting it at more or less the same time.

The fact is I've been taking these trips for a year now, and it's been hard on all of us. Jackson, being the youngest, is expressing it more directly than the rest of us are. I want to tell him and Jeanette (Diego seems to be taking it best) to just hold on for one more year, till the grants I'm managing expire in February 2012. At that point my work will likely be more rooted at the service center, with only occasional trips.

Until then, we'll need to hang in there. We're taking our own trip at the end of April, as a family, and I think that will help, too. It isn't just the fact that I'm going on an airplane that bothers Jackson; it's that I'm going on an airplane without him.

The Whole Guilt Thing...

So I guess what I'm getting at is that I had come to embrace the idea of being a writer by seeing myself through the eyes of others. And not just anyone, but people whose opinions I respected -- like Ruben Howard, Gayle Saks, Tobias Wolff, Kathleen Kirby, James Savoca, Jem Aswad and Stephanie Oakley, to name a handful. But there was always that cloying, clawing self-doubt, whispering to me about how wrong these good people were about me and my so-called "talents." I was a poser, according to this whispering presence, and if I had any talent to speak of it was in the area of being an adept impostor.

Don't get concerned; I'm not saying I heard actual "voices," per se. But when I'd sit down to the "work" of writing, I invariably experienced this conversation with myself.

Probably the most profound example of my guilt at being a pretender came some time in the late 1990's, when Toby Wolff came through New York City to promote The Night in Question, a collection of stories. He was doing a reading at a SoHo bookstore, and I took Jeanette there to meet my mentor. When it was our turn at the signing table, he gave me a warm hug, and another to Jeanette, and then immediately asked me, "And how's your work going?" I was a little stunned by the question, probably because I hadn't remembered discussing my teaching career, then in its fifth year, in the letters we'd been writing since I graduated. "Um, good. I'm actually teaching This Boy's Life this semester." Almost before I got the sentence out, he said, "No, I mean your work."

I explained that despite a few abortive attempts at some longer pieces I had not been writing much these past couple of years. "Well you're too good not to do it," he smiled, and that was the last we talked of it. We had a pleasant Italian dinner at a nearby restaurant, during which Toby filled us in on his two sons and asked Jeanette questions about her own life and work. It was a great evening. But that whispering self-doubt was snickering at me the entire time.

All of this comes down to one simple fact: Like most things in life, writing is about work, which makes Toby's word choice particularly interesting (and characteristically accurate). There are those of us who allow the circumstances of our lives to prevent us from finding the time to do the work of writing. There are countless "becauses" when I ask myself why I'm not writing. But then there are the people whose work ethic I admire so much; my friend the filmmaker James Savoca comes immediately to mind. He has steadfastly produced work, often making significant sacrifices in the process. Music journalist Jem Aswad,, too. And Toby Wolff, of course.

All of this boils down, I suppose, to the annual New Years resolution: Work, work, WORK. It's not about what others think or feel. It's not about whispering self-doubt. It's about the work.