It’s been over two weeks, and insomnia has taken over my life. My husband and son laugh at this time each year when I can hardly keep my eyes open at dusk, and my body turns me into a cranky, yawning sleep-deprived mess.

Damn you, Daylight Saving Time.

It’s not that I don’t WANT to sleep – I’d like nothing more than to drift off at a normal hour (say, 10:00 p.m.), snuggled up under my soft down comforter for eight hours of uninterrupted bliss. I’d love that, honestly. Imagine, eight hours of sleep would find me wide awake at a decent hour – 6 a.m. – plenty of time to write, savor some strong coffee and center myself with vanilla scented candles flickering in the pre-dawn light.

Oh, the joy and rapture.

Roasted coffee beans

And don’t tell me to cut down on caffeine, or keep the room cool, or turn off electronics well before bedtime. I’m doing that! My afternoon coffee has disappeared, only occasionally to be replaced by some nice Bengal Spice tea. I’ve tried a nice PInot, a shot of Fireball, and cutting back on sugar. I’ve got the windows cracked and the laptop closed long before I turn out the light – or rather, my husband clicks off the light and removes my latest read from my fingers, slipping off my glasses as he says goodnight. At 8:00 p.m.

What is happening to me? Am I becoming my mother?

Do you know how quiet it is at 4:00 a.m.? I do. It’s dark, and I hear every squeak and moan of my 60-year-old house. I hear the spirits as they come to the door, the thoughts that tumble around my brain as the wake me far before they should. I’ll get my eight hours, for sure, but this is ridiculous. I know you’ve been wondering why my tweets and texts come at such incredible hours – and no, I’m not reliving my college all-nighters, I’m simply suffering from middle-age adjustment issues.

Do I hear any ‘ayes’ in agreement out there?

sunrise over the Salt Flats

There must be some sort of infomercial, some ‘As Seen On TV’ product that will solve my issues. I just want to stay awake like a normal person, watch a little prime-time TV maybe, and wake up AT dawn, not before. I don’t need to hear the early morning garbage pick up, or turn off the delay on the coffee pot to make the dark roast happen right now. I stubbornly set my alarm for 6 every night, hoping against hope that the quiet tunes of ‘Radiate’ will ease me into wakefulness. And every morning it’s the same old, same old – by the time my alarm is off, I’ve read my Facebook feeds, tweeted and texted and updated myself on all the news that I missed overnight.

It’s a vicious cycle, I tell you. But I have hope. I’ve got a good four months to get back on track before, well, you know. Please tell me I’m not the only one. Reassure me that I’m not just hitting that annoying part of middle age. I simply want to sleep.

Damn you, Daylight Saving Time.

Jennifer Wolfe

Jennifer Wolfe, a writer-teacher-mom, is dedicated to finding the extraordinary in the ordinary moments of life by thinking deeply, loving fiercely, and teaching audaciously. Jennifer is a Google Certified Educator, Hyperdoc fanatic, and a voracious reader. Read her stories on her blog, mamawolfe, and grab free copies of her teaching and parenting resources.

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I sure wish I had the guts to ask a psychic about what my future holds. It’s kind of funny, really- as a kid I was never one of those people who knew exactly what I wanted to be when I grew up. I didn’t have driving passions throughout high school- unless you counted my passion to get out of there as quickly as possible. In college I switched majors three times, and didn’t decide to become a teacher until the second semester of my senior year. I absolutely didn’t have life planned out whatsoever. I guess back then I was somehow OK with that. Young, naive, I’m not sure.

But now, I’m realizing  I’d rather not know all the details about my future. I understand that to let grace happen, I need to trust that for now, things are happening as they should be. Teaching for 25 years has challenged me to both plan ahead and practice flexibility. I’m consciously trying to live in the present, which for a type-A-control-freak like me takes tons of energy. I’m realizing that being a teacher plays well into my style, but the negatives of always having a “lesson plan” can be super detrimental to other parts of my life. If becoming a mom taught me anything, it was that we can’t control other humans – no matter how hard I tried to get my first born to follow my lesson plan, she always had an idea to do it her way, and that’s exactly the way it should be.

OK-I’ll be honest – as much as I’m realizing it’s best not to “future trip”, I’d love to just have a teeny, tiny peek into what might be coming up next for me. I’ve been feeling these stirrings in my heart for the last few years- and I’ve been trying to acknowledge them and allow for openings in my work life. Teaching is hard, and it’s getting to the point where I just can’t imagine continuing like this until I retire. I’d love for someone to ask me to write a book. About anything. And pay me, so I could back off from teaching 120% and just teach part time- or not at all. One thing I know, is that I can’t last teaching like this until I can retire at 65. I’ll have nothing left of me.

So I push myself to talk to new people, figuring that I never know what serendipitous moment the Universe might be offering me. I’m a natural-born introvert working in a very extroverted job, so my favorite icebreaker question is “What are you reading?”  I’m one of those people who connects with people through books. When I go to someone’s house for the first time, if I don’t see stacks of books I get worried. I’m most comfortable scanning bookshelves for something to share in common with a new friend; their book titles will show me their values and interests and let me know if we are like-minded. And if I realize their books are just for “show”- well, that’s a real deal breaker.

So for now, I’ll skip the psychic and trust the marvelous mystery of the Universe. I’ll shorten my life lesson plan to just the next week or so, and be sure to build in moments for grace to step in. Heck, we never know who the person we’re standing next to at a lacrosse game might turn out to be, or where the person holding the door open to the next opening in life might show up. It’s always best to be alert, watch out of the corner of my eye, and see what these folks have to say. Grace shows up once in awhile in the most extraordinary ways, and I’m ready to see what the future holds.

Jennifer Wolfe

Jennifer Wolfe, a writer-teacher-mom, is dedicated to finding the extraordinary in the ordinary moments of life by thinking deeply, loving fiercely, and teaching audaciously. Jennifer is a Google Certified Educator, Hyperdoc fanatic, and a voracious reader. Read her stories on her blog, mamawolfe, and grab free copies of her teaching and parenting resources.

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Sometimes I wonder if I’m the only one who feels the pain of being in two worlds at one time. I remember thinking when I was in my twenties that finding a job with dyed green hair wouldn’t be easy-so I got a job as a barista, long before Starbucks surfaced. When I started teaching middle school, I learned how to balance my school persona with my “real” self, and although the green hair was gone, the green haired girl wasn’t. When I tell this story today most people don’t believe me. I’ve been wildly successful at wearing my teacher hat and keeping that other girl quiet when I’m at work. But those who know me well often get a glimpse at her- she surfaces when I see injustice, discrimination and sexism and has a hard time shutting herself up

But at least I don’t forget her. I remember her when I look into someone’s eyes that I’m trying to understand. I remember how much I wanted to have someone understand me, to think about the girl inside me who didn’t want to be ‘normal’. I think about all the masks women wear every day, and all the back stories that lurk behind our lashes. Green-haired girl is there, reminding me not to judge, not to assume, not to for a moment presume guilt before assuming innocence.

My quirky side pays off when I find myself in situations where I’m the “other”. Green-hair girl can show her courage and surprise me with her fortitude. She can connect with the unconnected, and sometimes even know the right thing to say when someone- usually a teen- needs it most.

Being normal, for me, is feeling like I’ve got both slices of myself at odds, and my fingers in too many things at one time. It’s normal to be juggling teaching and mothering and marriage and self, and not sure which one is going to take control. Being normal, today, is remembering that girl, the one who lingers inside, and letting her out once in awhile.

Jennifer Wolfe

Jennifer Wolfe, a writer-teacher-mom, is dedicated to finding the extraordinary in the ordinary moments of life by thinking deeply, loving fiercely, and teaching audaciously. Jennifer is a Google Certified Educator, Hyperdoc fanatic, and a voracious reader. Read her stories on her blog, mamawolfe, and grab free copies of her teaching and parenting resources.

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It’s Friday afternoon, and I’m still in my classroom, clearing the debris that is left behind from 100+ 8th graders passing  through my door in one day. I’m tired. I’ve been with teens all day, helping and teaching and motivating. Trying, sometimes successfully, to connect. Glancing out the window I notice the sky is turning dark; if I’m lucky, I can catch the sunset on my bike ride home. I consider locking my door – if I’m left alone I can work so much faster. I hate to be that way, but socializing on a Friday just isn’t my jam.

My brain momentarily flashes to mommy mode – I’ve got my own teen to worry about. Surely no good can come from him wandering around on a Friday night without checking in with his mom. Hesitant to call to connect, I text instead. No teenager wants to have a conversation with their mom in front of all their homies. Texting is the ultimate connection tool with teens.

I start out on a positive note – no need to give him the third degree off the bat:

4:48 p.m.: “Plans? I’d like to take dad out to dinner to celebrate.”

5:09 p.m.: “Celebrate what? And I’m with the guys. At Casey’s house.”

5:09 p.m.: “No cancer. And until when?”

5:10 p.m.: “Idk. late.”

His complete disregard for the dinner invitation is so annoying, not to mention his lack of mentioning that his dad’s melanoma hasn’t spread. Sheesh. I try to connect again, this time more directly:

5:49 p.m.: “Do you want to go out for dinner tonight?”

6:10 p.m.: “I was hoping I could spend the night at Neil’s.”

6:12 p.m.: “You know, spend actual quality time with my friend.”

6:13 p.m.: “Neil’s parents are in Hawaii.”

Seriously? Are we texting about the possibility of a 16-year-old spending the night without parental supervision? Does he think I’m not on social media? Does he really imagine I don’t know his parents aren’t home. Surely he’s not trying to pull a fast one…

6:18 p.m.: “He has a babysitter tho and she’s coming over soon.”

Phew. At least he’s honest. Crazy, but honest.

6:19 p.m. “Not this weekend. You’re welcome to have your friends sleepover at our house. That’s totally fine.”

6:20 p.m.: “…”

6:23 p.m.: “I mean we’re hanging out…”

How am I supposed to get any work done with this insane conversation? Correcting vocabulary tests while arguing with a teen while texting pushes multitasking to its limits.

6:46 p.m.: “I can come home too but I’d just rather be with my friends.”

6:47 p.m.: “I mean you’re my mom…It’s up to you but just remember my happiness.”

6:48 p.m.: “I could be one of those kids with no one to play with but I’m trying to make a life for myself. Your choice.”

OMG. Who raised this kid? His logic skills are epic. I think I let him listen to too much NPR when he was little. And seriously. He hasn’t dialed my number yet? We’re negotiating non-negotiable rules over text?

6:54 p.m.: “Don’t guilt trip me. Just bring ur friends over.”

I’m done. The screech of the copy machine just adds to the dull ache in my brain. Should I just call him and get this over with?

6:57 p.m.: “Well they’re already planning on being there so if I come home I’ll be alone.”

6:57 p.m.: “I’m sorry. You can sleep over at Neil’s house when his parents are home.”

6:58 p.m.: “Ok…I don’t see the difference but whatever.”

6:58 p.m.: “I’ll be home soon then.”

6:59 p.m.: “I guess.”

He’s relentless. All I want to do is get home. I want this conversation to be over. I want my jammies and my big glass of pinot and…I want my little boy back.

7:06 p.m.: “Alrighty.”

He’s slowing down. One last text, one last grasp for me to change my mind? Prepare for the silent treatment.

7:18 p.m.: “I’m making my way home/:”

Yes! I held strong.

7:18 p.m.: “Do u need a ride?”

Please, let him say yes. We need car time – we do some of our best conversations in the car, both of us staring ahead.

7:23 p.m.: “No.”

Well, OK then.

He walked through the door about 20 minutes later, heading straight for his room. The door shut with just a touch of attitude; best to leave him alone, I think. How long do I let him sit there? Do I try to connect with him, to give him my best explanation of why there was no way he was sleeping over there tonight? Should I just be glad he’s home and leave him be?

Twenty minutes later I tap on the door. The music stops as he calls, “What?” from the other side. I recognize the tone, and know he’s not quite done being mad, but I’m going in. “What’s up?” I question. “Do you want dinner?”

“No. I’m doing homework. I’ve got nothing else to do.” Oh, the sting. I’ve ruined his social life, so he might as well study. I fight back a smile.

“Ok, cool. Have fun with Macbeth,” I reply, and back out the door.

Pinot, here I come.

Jennifer Wolfe

Jennifer Wolfe, a writer-teacher-mom, is dedicated to finding the extraordinary in the ordinary moments of life by thinking deeply, loving fiercely, and teaching audaciously. Jennifer is a Google Certified Educator, Hyperdoc fanatic, and a voracious reader. Read her stories on her blog, mamawolfe, and grab free copies of her teaching and parenting resources.

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I feel a little outnumbered these days. It’s always been an equal gig around here- two girls , two boys. Two kids, two parents. Now, with one boy kid left at home, the balance is all out of whack. And some days I really feel it.

We’d planned to stay late at his first lacrosse game to see the super moon. It’s a once in decades kind of thing, but the cloudy evening forced us to scrap the plans and head home early. And the boys conspired against me and before I knew it, my 16-year-old driver-in-training had slipped behind the wheel and was ready to roll onto the freeway. Driving into the sun. On the night of the mother of all celestial distractions. I was out numbered. I gripped the arm rest as he guided the Prius down the wrong street towards home.

“Don’t change lanes!” My shriek came out slightly louder than I intended.

“Actually, you can get over,” my husband countered from the back seat. “Those green signs tell you where the freeway on ramp is coming up.” I know he’s trying hard to be extra calm to make me look bad. It’s a boy thing.

“Do you know about the power boost button?” I questioned as the car strained to reach freeway speed as he navigated the on ramp like he was on a giant slalom course.

No response- not even from the back seat. At least he’s got his blinker on.

Outside his window, I’m noticing a pink tinge to the sky. Not that I’m going to say anything to anyone – just enjoy the beginnings of the super moon myself.

“Cam is driving on the freeway. I might throw up. I love you ❤️,” I quickly text to my daughter. I don’t remember driving so aggressively at 16. Maybe it’s a boy thing.

“Did you know the Pope can speak six languages?” My husband asks from the backseat. No questions, I think. No music, no distractions. Nothing but eyes on the road for 30 minutes, I silently plead.

“Wow- I wonder which six? Why don’t you ask Siri?” Cameron replies. “Should I change lanes?”

“No- stay right here.” My hand thrusts out into some sort of warning gesture. “This is where you should be. Not in the fast lane. Not in the slow lane. Right here. Go straight.”

“Wow!” he exclaims from behind. “I just typed in what languages and Siri added ‘does the pope speak!'” He is so easily amused. Doesn’t he sense the danger here? “Spanish, Italian, Portuguese, English, German and Ukranian. Really?” I notice the golden glow off the Sacramento skyline. The clouds are the color of raspberry sorbet, but I keep quiet.

“Slow down!” My God, where does this voice come from? I honestly don’t mean to be so shrill. “When you see brake lights you need to brake. Always look ahead!”

Silence from the backseat is broken from the drivers side. “Mom, I know. Stop stressing me out. When you yell it distracts me.”

The sky is like stripes of pink cotton candy against the darkening sky. I can’t see the super moon from the side mirror. We can’t see a thing except the southern sky through his driver’s side window.

“The clouds look really pretty,” I say, barely more than a whisper.

“I know,” he replies, his eyes not leaving the road. “I noticed.” I swallow my comment about why was he looking at the clouds instead of driving, try to relax into the seat, and enjoy the ride. I know it will all be over soon, and not surprisingly, I’m sure I’ll miss it. Moments like this only come around once in a super moon.

photo credit: Lunar Eclipse Rising via photopin (license)

Jennifer Wolfe

Jennifer Wolfe, a writer-teacher-mom, is dedicated to finding the extraordinary in the ordinary moments of life by thinking deeply, loving fiercely, and teaching audaciously. Jennifer is a Google Certified Educator, Hyperdoc fanatic, and a voracious reader. Read her stories on her blog, mamawolfe, and grab free copies of her teaching and parenting resources.

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