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Reformed Anti-Gamer Girl

I was raised believing that video games were evil.  There was no point to them, and they only existed to kill my brain cells.  I never even owned a Game Boy.  The furthest extent of my experience was playing Super Mario on the original Nintendo at my cousin’s house.

Enter my husband.  Gaming is a favorite pastime of his.  Our opposite backgrounds made for really interesting discussions our first couple of years of marriage.  I was convinced that I would never see any value in any sort of video game or gaming device.

I often refer to my spouse as a, “Techie Trekkie.”  Though, technically, he is one of those rare breeds that enjoys both Star Wars and Star Trek.  I have always thought that he would make an excellent writer.  He is an incredible speaker and a voracious reader. His imagination is unlimited and I am convinced that he has a photographic memory.

There is one game in particular that he has played for about a year, Trexels.  It is a Star Trek game specifically for mobile devices, such as phones and tablets.  He is part of the Trexels Players Advocacy Council, a Facebook group that finds glitches and provides suggestions and new ideas.  After he shared ways to create a mission to explain a current glitch in the game, the designers (who are based in India) asked if he would add a little more content in order to make it a completely new system in Sector 10!

If you’re anything like me, that last paragraph was a little hard to follow (and I wrote it)!  In simple terms, he created a whole new planet, Nooma (which is Greek–Pnuema, meaning spirit) and six events that take place on this planet following the parameters of the game (specifically, a couple of red alerts, an officer story, an exploration mission and a main event–the away mission where you beam down to the planet)!  And the best part?!  He was paid for it!

Once again, I find myself eating my words.  I am so proud of my mate!  He has officially written his first storyline for a video game!  And, surprisingly, I can’t wait to play it! 😉

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Word Power

The words you speak
Are heavy with blame
Like lava pouring forth from a volcano
They fall out of your mouth
Burning all in their pathway
The words you speak
Cut through the air
And linger with their strong stench
Hovering over shoulders like fog
Making the view distorted
The words you speak
Are forever etched in memory
And marked in spirits
Like scars
That will never leave
The words you speak
Drown the listener
With their raw baggage
And weighted accusations
Fingers pointed every which direction
The words you speak

Will haunt you.
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On Marriage

I have a favorite ring that I wear, almost religiously, on my right ring finger.  Sterling silver, simple, imported from Israel, with Hebrew writing, it reads: “This is my beloved, this is my friend.” (Song of Solomon 5:16, NIV)  And so it is with my husband and me.  In a world that emphasizes lust and random sexual encounters, it is easy to lose sight of what it means to be friends with your spouse. 
Maintaining a friendship in your marriage means completely being yourself.  When I was a single college student, my mentor, Sharon, told me to eventually look for someone I could be myself with.  This was a foreign concept to me then, a young lady that would freeze up and act like anything but myself in the presence of my crushes.  I felt like I could just be me around my husband from the very beginning.  We were friends before becoming romantically involved.  And now, after almost six years of marriage and two children, this still holds true. 

Maintaining a friendship in your marriage means communicating:  the good, the bad, and yes, the ugly.  I like spending time with my husband.  We’re best buds.  When something exciting happens in my life, he is the first person I want to run to and share it with!  When my spirit has been crushed and I am left devastated, no one else can comfort me as well as he does. 
Maintaining a friendship in your marriage means pursuing shared interests.  When Beau and I first met in 2008, I was at the end of training for my first marathon.  Beau could not run around the block without feeling winded!  But because he was interested in pursuing me (and needed ideas for inexpensive dates), we started regularly jogging together.  Eventually, we ran a marathon together!  Two children later, we no longer participate in marathons, but physical activity and being healthy are still important to us.  Our level of activity varies during different seasons of life, but we continue to make it a priority. 

Maintaining a friendship in your marriage means serving one another.  Few things impress me more than my husband doing the dishes or helping me with laundry without me having to ask him to.  When we were receiving premarital counseling, one of our assignments was to discuss expectations we had of one another.  I will never forget my husband’s response.  He said, “Love me, feed me, make love to me, and comfort me when I’m feeling sad.”  It sounded simple enough at the time, and I still strive to do those things. 

At the end of the day, Song of Solomon got it right; I cherish life with my friend.
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Minuet, No. 1

Prelude
The student sits, perpendicular to the piano
Back erect, fingers curled, knees just barely under the keys
Feet not touching the floor
Eyes bright with wonder
The finger strikes a note
Fermata
The sustained vibration echoes in the small room
Magic
Senses awaken
Souls Speak
Crescendo
The mind connects to the notes, to the eyes, the hands and heart
Staccato
Lightning bolts through the veins and out the ears
Electrifying all who hear
Sforzando!
A curious glance to the left
Towards the teacher, and a smile
Fine


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What’s in YOUR Child’s Potty?

Scene:  I am sitting on the couch, nursing my three-month old daughter, with the Boppy placed snuggly around my waist.  My 2 ½ year old son is quietly working on puzzles in the playroom.  That’s right, I think to myself, I am mom, hear me roar!  Becoming a mother of two has certainly had its challenges, but here I am, enjoying a sweet moment.
All of a sudden, my little boy rushes in and announces, “Poo-poo, pee pee!”  while doing what appears to be the Mexican Hat Dance, his feet dancing around on the floor.  “Poo-poo and pee pee” in his world translates into pooping in the toilet (he has no problem walking around with a soggy pull-up in his current stage of potty training).  Dozens of scenarios and options run through my mind in the span of a few seconds.  “Okay, let’s go!” I say.
I promptly stand up, still holding the Boppy, and my baby girl, who is contentedly suckling on my breast.  The three of us walk towards the bathroom, my boy beaming because he knows to open the door for us.  He quickly pushes his step towards the toilet and I help him pull down his shorts and pull-up with my left arm, while my right arm props my newborn and the Boppy up on the sink counter. 

It does not take me long to realize this will not work, with my daughter growing ever frustrated because her food source is on the move.  I quickly walk her over to the couch and place her in a secure spot, saying, “Mama will be right back.  I need to go help big brother.”  (Because, you know, she understands me in this final stage before her meltdown.)

Frantically, I reenter the bathroom as my son proudly stands up from the toilet.  “Look, mama, I made the letter A!”  I peek into the toilet to find, indeed, three strands of poop that have magically fallen together to form a capital letter A.
“Wow…” is all I can muster.  I go between being an impressed former educator because my son is constantly making learning connections, even with his poop, to just wanting the experience to be over so there is peace in the house again!  The letter game has become part of our potty routine. 

My favorite references are when he says he’s made a sand castle with his feces and quotes, “All the letters fell off the coconut tree!” when he can’t quite make them out.  I can’t make this stuff up.

I catch a glimpse of my future:  driving a minivan with a bumper sticker that reads, “What’s in your child’s poop?”
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Press Play

Press play
Another day
Of dishes, dirty clothes and diapers
                                                                                                Come play with me
Hold on…
The floor is sticky
Yesterday’s cheerios crusted over
Remnants of little hands on the table
What will visitors say?
                                                                                                Come play with me please
Their rooms
An endless supply
Of tiny traps,
Ninja turtles, dinosaurs and books
                                                                                                Come play with me NOW!
Sigh…
How did it come to this?
Me, not keeping up
Drowning
In seemingly simple tasks
                                                                                                I love you, mama!
Small arms wrapped around my legs
A tiny face, buried into my bottom
I reach out, kiss his forehead
Say I love you, too

And we play.
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The Master Gardener

The Master Gardener toils with the soil
Gardening gloves, a sun visor and pruning shears, her constant companions
Her hands pull the weeds from the already dead square-foot garden
Remnants of a tomato plant and basil deep below
What remains, a fresh canvas of possibilities
The tiniest seed is planted and covered up in great faith
A sprinkle of water and a healing touch to begin
A new crop
A season of waiting yields a small, green leaf that brings great joy
The gardener’s eyes ever keen as she turns and inspects the harvest
Careful to remove anything that will choke and devour
Her fingers smell of sweet basil and green beans
The gift of growing that will feed many
The gift of peace that comes
As soon as her hands touch the dirt
Each garden tells a story, of love and friendship
Moments of great joy
And seeds sown with tears
Each patch planted leaves behind
Evidence of her time there
A constant reminder
Of the lives she affects
Ever pointing upward
To the Master Gardener Himself
Dedicated to Angela McGowan Barnard
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The Shoreline

Take me to the place where
My toes meet the sand,
And my hands discover castles
Where the water rushes to the surface
There you’ll find me
With my feet sinking down, down
As I walk and splash, walk and splash
I can hear my mother calling
But it’s time for me to catch my wave,
My visceral wave consumes me
The euphoric song of the sea illusions me
And takes me to that deep place
The hard rocks
My feet slip and bleed
I get caught in the under current,
Marred by seaweed
The taste of salt burns my nose
As the water threatens to choke my hope
In the distance I hear a myriad of voices
That sound like crashing waves
On the horizon as the sun sets
The Voice calls
I fight and steadily race back to the shore
Gliding in on the suddenly peaceful waves
Crawling in on all fours
With my hands sinking down, down
There you’ll find me
And in the distance I see
A sunrise

A chance to begin anew

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Hog Nuts

I know, you couldn’t resist reading this story with a title like that!  It was the year 2005, my first year as a 5th grade teacher.  My classroom was on the second floor of McKinley Elementary in Des Moines, Iowa, a school built in the early 1900’s.  I still miss the wooden floors and rocking chair that became my second home.  If you had told me, years before, that I would have ended up a teacher, I would have laughed in your face.  Literally.  It seemed too simple… too predictable.  But more on that later.

My first 5th grade class at McKinley Elementary in Des Moines, Iowa.  This was our yearbook photo.  All the other classes had pictures with students lined up in neat rows and the teacher standing guard.  Not mine.  This photo perfectly captures that magical and eventful year!

I was seated at the back of the classroom at a table with a group of six students.  For an hour and a half each day, our school practiced SSR (or, Sustained Silent Reading, for you non-educators).  The students I sat with were the most advanced, talkative bunch you can imagine.  We were reading Charlotte’s Web, and were at the part in our discussion where they each got to share connections they made from reading previous chapters.  With this particular brood, staying on track took extra effort.  McKenzie raised her hand and was the first to speak.  “Ms. G., I was reading this nonfiction book about animals the other day.  What are pig testicles?!”  she asked intently.

I stared blankly at her for about one second, my mind racing to think of the best words to use to respond to her.  No college textbook, manual or student teaching had prepared me for this particular inquiry.  Before I could speak, Jacob jumped in and said, utterly shocked, “You don’t know what pig testicles are?!”  McKenzie shook her head, no.

Jacob proceeded to cup his hands like he was holding two big, invisible water balloons and responded, “You know, hog nuts!”  McKenzie’s face immediately went from confusion to dumbfounded amazement.  “Oh…” was all she said in response.  And knowing that she now knew the meaning of pig testicles, we went on with our lesson.