The writing teacher who never writes or Dad and gifts

I don't write enough.  I'm not sure that I can really blame it on a 'time' thing.  I think it's a fear thing.  this irrational, someone will realize I'm full of pooh and stink at my job, kinda thing.  See, I don't write that well.  I can read and analyze and construct, but I just don't write well.  I have ideas, tons of ideas, but they all end up coming out in a jumbled mess of misspelled words and run on sentences.  I write like I talk, fast and with out much thought.  That has gotten me into trouble a number of times.  But, I think it's time to challenge myself.  I will write more.  At least once a week, Sunday nights I will blog about SOMETHING.  My life is neither dull or unimportant.  I have just as much going on as the next mom, I just post most of it on Facebook :) 

Tonight, I think I'll write about Christmas, 'tis the season and all.  I hate people who shop this time of year.  Not just shop in general, but shop for themselves.  There was a time I had to tell my dad to NOT buy himself anything during December.  On a number of occasions he bought the gift my mom had already gotten him.  It would make her so super mad.  I just don't get it.  It's like he didn't want us to get him anything.  Maybe we should have taken the hint?

I have basically stopped buying him what he wants and just getting him something I want for him.  That's more fun for me anyway.  This year, I have no clue.  Mom gave me something he needs, but I want to pick something, but I have NO IDEAS!  What do you get for the man who worked two jobs to put you through college?  Who prayed for you every night?  Who worried when you were late coming home(even when you were in your 20's)?  the man who tried to teach you math, but just made you cry?  Who gives you, still to this day, almost everything you want?

I have a great dad.  He makes me vary angry sometimes, and he worries way too much.  But the old man loves me, and I love him. 

Wow, that train did not go where I thought it would, but that is life.  Trains get derailed, or maybe we just didn't know where we wanted to go?

#2 Why?

I feel that I should explain why I'm doing this. Why "blog?" Why the title "Their mom, his wife, their teacher, and me?" Why spend even more time on the computer and not cleaning, or grading, or doing something else productive?
I need to write. That's all there is to it, I need to write. I teach 7th graders in Texas. In 7th grade, my students have to take the Writing TAKS test and I have to teach them how to write for it! More importantly, I have to teach them how to write for life. Teaching writing was NOT what I started out doing. I was going to be the fun, creative History teacher, like Ms Simpson at Campbell Jr High, way cool and fun and energetic and with all KINDS of ideas!!! Instead, I got a job teaching Language Arts, and it turned out to be my place in the world. It's my spot, I fit and I love it, I'm changing the world, at least I like to think I am. But, I am NOT a writer! I have stories and loved to write them when I was a kid, but I don't write. I haven't written ANYTHING since teachers assigned them to me. I write when I have to but that's not really true.
I write in my head ALL the time. Little dramas that unfold in my mind, for example; today as I was driving from the grocery story to my house with my son in the car I saw a truck. It looked, for a millisecond, like my husband's truck. It wasn't, but I though . . . Ooooh what if that was Eric and he was going of to meet some hussy (he would NEVER)? I could picture it in my head. I'd follow him to her house and watching him get out and give her a big smooch (that I couldn't picture, like I said he better NEVER). I would then park a house down and take Patton out of the car and point out his Daddy and tell him to go say hi. Ohhhh so busted! Those are the stories that I see in my head, though not all so melodramatic. I realized that if I really want to teach writing, I have to do it.
So I'm writing.
I have no clue who is going to read this. Honestly, it will most likely be just me, but maybe, if I'm really lucky, I'll find my voice and I'll begin to feel like a writer and I might even share it, misspelled word and run-ons be damned. Maybe it'll be a Julie/Julia thing and I'll become a famous writer, but really ? ? ?
The other thing to explain, why the name? It's because: first I have to be their Mom; Ashlee, Joseph, and Patton, then I'm Eric's wife, then I'm a bunch of middle schoolers teacher, and last and least, cause there's not much of me left, I'm me. A girl from Texas who wants to do something that will last, something that someone will be proud off. Maybe?

#1 Story time

Every night, for the majority of my almost two year olds life, my husband and I have read to him. We read all sorts of childrens books, but we do have our favorites. "Goodnight Moon" is the last story he hears EVERY night. It's a good, now you know it's time for bed, book. But my "mommy" favorite is "I Love You Stinky Face." This is a story about a mom putting her little boy to bed and he's asking but mama questions, "But Mama, what if I were a big scary ape?" I loved it the first time Patton brought the book to me and said, "Read mama book." If he hadn't had it in his hand I would have been as confused as the time he aske me to sing the crying song, he wanted "Baby Mine," but that is a story for another time. I loved the book even more because it was the "Mama" book. Tonight, Patton made my sweet story even better once again.
I was in a bad mood at story time bacause Patton was being a little terd all day. He's definatly becoming a two year old. He was being an especially big pain at bed time while I was trying to get some stuff in his room moved around, and Daddy HAD to go to the store, so I was on my own. We read a couple of stories and I was getting into a better mood, and then it was time for "Goodnight Moom." Thankfully there was no fussing at this last story this evening. In fact, he snuggled in even closer, so I was REALLY beginning to feel the love. We quickly finish it and I was loving on him, getting some nighty-night Eskimo kisses and I told my little monster, "I love you my wonderful child, which just happens to be the first line from the before mentioned, "I Love You Stinky Face." My preciouse, precocious baby boy responded with, "But Mama, what if I were a big, scary Ape?" Seeing as how you may not know the story, this is the next line in my boy's "Mama" book. There is no bad mood left. My son has made all the bad disipate by being such a "wonderful child."