Thanksgiving and my birthday always seem to go together in association. Every couple of years my birthday will even land on Thanksgiving. This year, however, it landed on black Friday. Still–when I think of my birthday, because its so close to Thanksgiving, I think about the past year of my life, the good and the bad. Then I give my thanks for the good and think about how to make light of the bad.

So as of now, I have lived 29 years and I must say, this year it finally shows. Sure, I have been plucking the three white hairs I have from my crown the last few years, but this year, something extra special has happened. Yes—on birthday I did not get carded. I ordered a glass of wine at PF Changs with my mother, my friend Lael, and my brother and his girlfriend. I did not say it was my 29th birthday. The bartender wanted everyone’s ID’s but mine and my mother’s. I laughed…it happens, right? Then on Saturday, when I had my big birthday dinner with all my beloved friends and family—I did not get carded. Nor did I get carded afterward when a small group of us went out for cheese and wine. And then on Sunday when I went grocery shopping–I bought a bottle of wine for when my friend Bethany comes over for dinner—and they did not card me then either. One time here and there can be a fluke. But four times in a row?—well that is two things. One–I officially look old enough to not get carded. And two—I drank too much this last weekend. Both of these things I am not used to. One I will have to get used to. And the latter will go back to normal now that my birthday weekend is over. Who knows—maybe the fact that in the last year, I’ve recovered from my dogs being malled half to death, Kanan’s back-to-back ear infections, moving out of the barrio, moving out of the beach house in the rain on the coldest weekend in December, separating from Mike, moving out of his house, moving in with my sister, practicing being a single working mom, moving out of my sister’s house, and moving in with my folks, and now continuing to mother and work and be alone. Yeah, I think that might add a couple of wrinkles to one’s eyes, a prominent frown line, and somehow through it all—a permanent laugh line on the right side of my mouth. (wink wink…..but not too much! Don’t want to make the fourth crow’s foot show! 😀 ) But that was the negative—and there is still much to be thankful for.

1. My Lord and Savior Jesus Christ who wooed me back into his loving arms and has since blessed me soooo much! He answers so many of my prayers and lets me know when I need to wait on others. Who also continues to convict me of my daily wrongs and shows me how to change and be more like him.

2. My loving family who gives me strength and encouragement.

3. My amazing son who has taught me how to love with Jesus’s agape love he asks of us.

4. My wonderful friends who love me for who I am.

5. My two newest friends Lael Lloyd and Kelly Cook—both answers to my prayers.

6. The opportunity to pay off my debt and save money for my own place while living with my folks temporarily.

7. The opportunity to have my Grandmother Lois now live so close;  I now have a weekly date with her on Thursdays. So awesome!

8. My job—during such a terrible time in the economy, I could easily be one of the many who have lost their jobs, but by God’s grace, I am still working.

9. Gas prices dropping! Yipeee!

10. The time to be able to write, paint, and now act again—something I’ve been wanting to do again for years! My church performs “Christmas Cliche” in a couple of weeks. I am so excited and thankful to be in such a powerful and fun play.

Alright 30, I can handle you. Give me your worst or your best. I’ll make the most of it!

One of my students, Jonathan, didn’t come to school yesterday because he left in search of his girlfriend who moved to Tijuana overnight without a call or a note or goodbye. He has not heard from her in weeks and in desperation fled to roam the streets of a city as large as Los Angelas to find a 17-year-old girl with whom he madly loves. When it was his turn today to practice his English by sharing a story with the class, he said he wasn’t prepared. I told him to tell us the story of what happend yesterday. In my ignorance I assumed he could share without it hurting—who knows maybe he even found her. But when he lifted up his head and his brown eyes sagged and brimmed with tears, I knew I was a rotten, careless woman. He said he couldn’t find her and asked if I could let him pass. I felt so terrible for him. So sad for his loss. I know that despite his young age–he loved this girl more than anything. She was his love of his life. And she was gone. And he may never see or talk to her again. And I just cheapened it by asking so carelessly for him to share—as if it were just a story and not his life, bleeding from his veins. In my regret, I apologized to him in front of the class. And I told him that because I believed in love, I would not only let him pass, but excused him from the assignment altogether without a negative effect to his grade.

To see a shy, 17-year-old boy flee the country in search of his love. To see him come back defeated and hopeless. To see a 17-year-old boy cry in front of an entire class of peers. It breaks my heart. I do not know what to tell him. Did she not tell him because she didn’t love him anymore either? Or did she not tell him because her parents moved her to get away from him? Regardless, I know he hurts. And our whole class hurts for him. She was not only his girlfriend, but my student, and their classmate. A girl we had all grown to love over the last year and half as this group of teenagers started in ELD 1 last year fresh out of their countries and now in their second year of English language development. Jonathan had been with her for almost that entire time. I remember when he came into my classroom the beginning of last year, asking if he could use my computer to type up a love note to Pricilla asking her to be his girlfriend. The next day I caught them whispering and laughing and holding eachother in the hallway. Apparently, his note worked. They had been together ever since.  

 Somehow, the young romantic in me hopes he finds her and they run away together and get married and live happily ever after. But if not, I hope he heals. That he lets his heart love again. He is a sweet and attractive young man. He will not have a problem with moving on if he lets himself do so. But between now and then, I feel for him. We all do.

I’ll be 29 years old in about a week. And apparently, my scarred heart has not given up hope on love either. Sometimes I think I have become jaded, but it is stories like this that make me know, we do heal. We heal and we move on, and life continues to surprise us. So many times in my life, my heart has shattered to the point I never thought I could put back the pieces. But with time, it has. Sure my heart is not the heart of a 17-year-old anymore, but it hasn’t lost its ability to love. We need love to live. Similarly—the heart is a strong muscle—and its very instinct and purpose is to keep us alive.

Me sporting my short hair and glasses with my friend Kelley at Chevy's last night

So my wild locks have been growing out of control for some time now. They had grown to the middle of my back and while that length is pretty when healthy, my over-grown layers and split ends kept me constantly putting it into a ponytail unless I was going somewhere and needed to look nice, in which then I straightened to a more controled state. So I decided to get a hair cut. Nothing extreme. I just wanted the dead ends trimmed and some layers cut again to take away the weight. When I asked the hair dresser how much would be necessary, she showed me about an inch and a half of my ends. I thought—okay, I can handle that. Then I told her “please keep the length as much as you can and cut the minimum amount necessary.” Then I showed her a picture of the style I was hoping for and off she went. When she was done, I couldn’t believe what I saw reflecting back at me. My hair looked nothing like the picture. Two days later I grabbed my eyebrow scissors and cut off the bottom layer of my haircut to make it look better. It was a bold move, but I was broke and couldn’t get it fixed professionally. If I held back, I would still be walking around with hair that looked like a bob-cut in the front but with a thin longer layer in the back that didn’t fit and made my hair look like a strange rendition of a mullet. Between the hair and my new glasses (darker, thicker, and squarer) I’m having to get used to the new me. I feel a bit more mommyish and a bit more simple, but at least my hair is easier to manage. I’ll just have to start over in my attempt to grow out my hair and next time, I won’t cheat on my regular hairdresser.

This last year was truly one of the best years I spent teaching. My first year and my fourth year are definitely my two most memorable so far. My first year’s special group were my ELD 2 kids. We became like family that year and each of those students still hold a special place in my heart. This year, my fifth period class and I formed a special relationship that I will never forget. They laughed at my jokes and they even made funny ones as well that made teaching so much fun. But most of all, I think we all learned so much from one another. They taught me as well.  On the last day of school they wrote some goodbye messages on my board. I’ve included the picture I took of it. Oh yes, and if my student Demi ever finds this page….uhmmm, I’m still waiting for our class picture young lady!