Filling My "Whine" Glass

When I began teaching at RM Prep, I was a kindergarten teacher, and we were a K-5 school.  Each year a grade level was added, and as the grade levels were added, I moved up in the grade levels as well.  First was third grade, not my choice but I rolled with the punches and ended up loving it, wondering why I had resisted (perhaps because I felt moved like a piece of furniture).  But when I moved into the middle school, to teach 6^th grade, it was by mutual choice, the best of all possible worlds to me, teaching language arts and history.  And by the time we were a K-8 school, I was exclusively an 8^th grade language arts teacher.  I was also in the midst of graduate school, and had to solidly commit to my intended program of study: language arts or social studies.  I was equally split, but leaned towards the original love my English and humanities teacher/mother gave me—the gift of words, music, and storytelling—and I became an 8^th grade language arts teacher, one many times wooed to come to the high school, but one who staunchly resisted and sought to make herself known as one loyal to the cause, development, and heart of the middle.  I loved teaching 8^th grade!  I remember 8^th grade as my toughest year when I was in jr. high school (not middle school grades 6-8, but grades 7-9 in the days of yore), trying to navigate between being a kid and a young adult, the clumsiness, fear, and inquisitive wonder of it all, and that is the point upon which my students and I could meet.  We could laugh, never at each other, always with each other, and know that we could support and learn from each other—safely, abundantly, and without fear—in Mrs. Bunting’s Literature Heaven, Room 507 (at times Rooms 510, 509, 505, and 603 were all my teaching homes, too).  But Literature Heaven, Room 507, was where I lived, loved, and taught when I created the wikispace with that name for posting digital class projects and conversations.

I believe strongly that learning should be fun.  Having a sense of humor (never at the students’ expense, however) helped to diffuse many situations in the classroom, and generally brightened the hour that was spent in class together each day.  How can you stay mad with someone who genuinely cares for you and smiles when you are being a Joe or Joe Ella Knucklehead, coming back the very next day, still being nice and smiling—“Good morning, class”?  Kill ‘em with kindness, get more with honey than vinegar, temper it well with firmness and high standards—“I laugh and joke, but I don’t play”.  My students know that about me—that I was demanding and I had high expectations of them, but I was also caring and known for being kind, having a smile on my face, and creating a good laugh.  One lighthearted prop I was known for was my “whine" glass (perhaps not as famous as my coffee cup), pulled out on occasion when my students were whining and complaining about things we could not change, like, “Why do we have to wear uniforms?”, or things we had to make the best of, like the thermostat being out of whack and the room was too hot or cold.  The complaints, distracters from learning, get old really quickly.  Sooo… out comes a cheap little Family Dollar put-together champagne glass that I had from a New Year’s celebration.  I would set it out on my podium, pull out my air violin to serenade them with sad, classical music, and give instructions to commence to whining, get it all out in the next minute, so that we can get down to business and start class.  “Whine, whine, whine, whiiine…”  For the next minute, I fiddled, they whined, complaints burned…  “Okay enough of that.”  Laughter ensues as I put the glass away.  “It’s time to get to work.”  And life, lessons, and learning march onward.

Well, I need a minute or two to do a little whining about something that I cannot change, but need to get off of my chest—dealing with the battle scars of MS.  I am feeling in the mood for a good glass of whine, perhaps even a real glass of a potent potable as I watch the NCAA final game tonight.  But to the point, tonight my whine glass needs to be generously filled to the brim with all of the angst and self-pity that I feel for having to deal with this MS fiend, robbing me of my joy, and making me feel like not wanting to do anything.  Moving is so difficult, and I have been feeling quite stressed about it lately.  My muscles have been especially tight and heavy, so every movement is a graceless act, a chore that must be struggled through just to get up off of the couch to go to the bathroom.  I have to slide myself down to the left end of the couch, brace my arms just so against the left chair arm and the right side of the couch seat, and literally will myself to rise.  I talk to myself for encouragement, “Think up, Jan.  Just move in one big motion.  Raise your arm into the air and think, “And still I rise, I rise, I rise”.  You can do it.”  Awkwardly, looking just like the spectacle you imagine, I steady my nerves and rise, only to get halfway up and fall back down, two times, three, four, five…  By the time I get up and get to the bathroom, I’ve been holding it so long that I can’t go, and I have to sit there until I relax again, and then my legs have fallen asleep.  Just thinking about fixing myself something to eat seems so difficult my shoulders start to droop as I envision the short walk, because the kitchen, only a few feet from the den, seems a mile away.  Trying to take a heavy pot of leftovers out of the fridge is a very awkward act, performed with bated breath, praying I don’t drop it before getting to the stove so that I can fix myself a plate and pop it in the microwave. Usually, after my morning cup of coffee and breakfast, consumed when Duke leaves for work (around 4 a.m.), I do not eat again until 4:30 in the afternoon when Jalen gets home from school.  I have taken a couple of spills in the kitchen before, and thankfully someone has been there to help me up, even catch me once or twice.  I fear falling so much and lying there helplessly on the floor, unable to get myself up because there is nothing to hold on to, that I weigh very carefully whether or not I have the strength and the means to make it to the kitchen and back.  Most days, I wimp out on trying to get to the kitchen, like I have done for the last two weeks, and just sit all day in hunger.  A second cup of coffee in the mid-morning is out of the question because I have no way of getting it back to the couch without spilling it, so I can sit back and savor it, the way coffee is supposed to be enjoyed.  I can bring a plate or bowl of something back on the seat of my walker, place it on the couch, and then come around to sit down and eat.  I can’t do that with drinks.  So I just wait.

Most of all, the exacting toll of my puffing laborious movements depresses and steals the joy that I feel, or could feel, from spending time with my family and friends.  This weekend, I passed on another chance to go visit at my brother and sis-in-law’s house.  The fact that I expend so much effort to perform the simplest of tasks makes me tired, and for the last few weeks I have been exhausted, not even wanting to move.  Just thinking about wrestling with stairs, getting in and out of the car, struggling to walk with my raggedy cane through the narrow spaces where my chair won’t fit makes me tired just thinking about going anywhere.  That’s after fighting with my energy zapped self in the shower, and weakly, just barely vanquishing the consequent struggle to get dressed.  Already tired, by the time we would have gotten there, I would have been so tired that I would have been ready to come home in a couple of hours max.  So rather than spoil everyone else’s fun, I missed out, yet again, and stayed home alone, resting and able to put my legs up and massage them whenever they cramped, but childishly mad because I was home alone, missing out on all of the fun, pouting by myself.  Whine, whine, whine…  Very silly and shallow, I know, but tonight I just felt like whining.   I needed to “wallow with it” (to the tune of The Wobble song, hahaha) at my own little pity party for a bit. Thank you for your continued patience and understanding.  I do feel a little better.  And now I say to myself, as I used to say to my students, “Okay, enough of that. It’s time to get to work.”  And life, lessons, and learning march onward.