The Day I Decided to Write

It’s what I am, so why isn’t it what I do?

I consider myself to be many things. I am a person, a woman, a friend, a sister, a colleague, a shower singer, a geek, a slob, a lover of art, a reader, a cat fancier, a poet at heart, a believer, a skeptic, an optimist, a depressive, a disorganized mess (at times), an intuitive thinker, a closet romantic. Really, the list can go on and on.

There are two things, however, that I have always considered myself to be, always, a teacher and a writer.

I am a teacher. It is what I am. It’s what I do and what I’ve done every day of my working life. I could never stop teaching even if I tried, and really, I can’t imagine ever trying. When people ask what I do, I hold my head up proudly and I say without any shadow of doubt, and with more than a little pride, I teach.

Sometimes when people ask me what I do, you know, when I’m not teaching, I say, “I am a writer.” But something strange always happens when I do that. My head that was held so high bends down a bit, and my voice that was so confident in my career gives way to a bit of a stutter, and suddenly the pride gets pushed out by guilt and self-doubt. I’m not lying, I tell myself. I am a writer. I write all the time, every minute of every day. The problem is the words never seem to make it from my head to my fingers.

Please keep on reading!


Well, shut my mouth.

I woke up this morning after going to bed earlier this morning. Needless to say, I was a bit tired.

My normal Sunday begins in an almost ritualistic manner.  I shlup to the kitchen in my jammies and big soft slippers, get out my french roast pot, my extra-large coffee mug, fill one with coffee and the other with expensive pretend sugar and creamer. Then, as the water bowls, I try to wake up. I’m not always successful.

This morning, when the kettle clicked off, I lifted it from the heater and poured the contents into the pot. Or at least I thought I did. When I looked down, I realized I had poured it into the mug and had ruined the extensive sweet mix.

I did the only thing I could do. I shouted “ShitFart!”

Then I laughed.

I have no idea where the hell that word came from. Now mind you, I can swear with the best of them and because I’m a preschool teacher I have a lot of imaginative, yet harmless, swears including Holy Cats, Cheesy Peesy, and my favorite, Well, Bummer! At home, however, I can make a sailor blush.

Never once have I shouted, “ShitFart!” before today. Normally, “f” word is THE “f” word and as we all know shit floats alone.

Perhaps I’m just easily amused, but I made myself laugh this morning and I now have a new expletive for some character to use.