Routines.

All through college, I longed for a set routine. Just as soon as I got used to one set of classes and alarm clocks, the semester changed and with it my schedule and routine. Grad school was the same, and internship almost killed me between internship, an after-school job, planning a wedding, and sharing joint custody of weekends with Alex, who was living in Birmingham at the time.

Now that I'm a grown-up with a grown-up job and grown-up responsibilities, I have at last found a set routine. Sort of.

Most of my days go like this...

5:50-- Alarm #1.
5:59-- Snooze #1.
6:00-- Alarm #2.
Turn on Home Improvement-- the only thing other than local news and infomercials on before 7 am-- and begin the process of getting ready. I have whittled this process down to as little time as possible by showering, packing my bag and lunch, and picking out my clothes before I go to bed. At 6:34, I'm rounding through the kitchen to grab my lunchbox and my usual breakfast to-go: peanut butter crackers or granola bar and water.

I clock in at DMS at 7:00. The latest I've been is 7:03 which is a pretty serious accomplishment for me.

At school, there's no such thing as a routine in the counselor's office. When I get to my office by 7:05, I usually have a student or two waiting on me, in need of a schedule change (most requests: denied) or a listening ear for a bully report. Before long, I'm paged to the office for a withdrawal or enrollment. Before the end of first period, I have usually met with at least one teacher and two students. If I find a moment when my office is clear, I file paperwork. We're being monitored this semester, so I have to be sure that every-- all 480+-- permanent record has exactly what it needs, from up-to-date blue slip to home language survey to birth certificate. The cycle repeats itself from period to period with an occasional exception: parent conference or phone call, sitting in on disciplinary action, or contacting DHR. And sometimes if I'm really lucky, I get to go in a classroom for guidance lessons.

This week when I asked a group of students what my job was, they replied, "You're the one that makes the schedules."

Exactly. That's why I went to graduate school: to learn how to make your schedules. Unfortunately, that kind of thing sucks up a lot of my time.

I say none of that to say that I'm super productive and efficient; in fact, I often can't finish one thing before something else comes up. I'm only saying that my schedule at school is chaotic on a good day.

But I love it. I love getting there at 7 am and getting so invested in my work that before I realize it, it's 6th period, and when I sit down-- or sometimes stand at the counter in the teacher's lounge-- for a quick lunch, I look at my phone to see that it's 1:45. If there wasn't for lots of snacking along the way, I'd starve to death over my daily half-eaten lunch.

I leave school between 4 and 5. If I leave closer to 4 than 5, I get home in time to change and go to spin at 5. If I leave closer to 5, I just assume that I've put in enough work for the day and go home and crash in front of a Gossip Girl rerun.

Alex's schedule has been pretty much as crazy as mine lately, so we usually get home around the same time. We cook dinner two or three times a week, and on other nights we have what my mom always called "Whatever You Can Find" nights. These usually look something like breakfast for dinner, PB & J, leftovers (a staple at my house growing up but something Alex is still grappling with) or the occasional outing to Subway or Domino's.

Alex has been playing basketball with a group of guys once a week, and Mom comes over on Wednesdays for Girls' Night: I cook, and we watch So You Think You Can Dance or catch up on my cousin Danielle's latest and greatest adventures as a contestant on Big Brother (she's in the Top 3! woop woop!).

At the end of the night, we try to fit in our quiet time right before bed. I know that I'm outing myself just by my phrasing: "try to fit in" isn't exactly the way we want our spiritual lives to work out, but that's something we're actively working on. I'm reading "Breaking Free" by Beth Moore (surprise!) and Alex is working through "Radical" by David Platt. I've read it before, so I know exactly what he means when he looks at me and says, "Well, I guess we need to pack our bags and move to China."

By 9:30, the bags and lunch boxes are packed and clothes laid out, and Alex catches up on sports blogs while I read (currently reading: Cleopatra, a Biography). And soon after that, it's lights out in the Ruggles home. Macy, of course, spends her time between 10:00 pm and 6:00 am vacillating between guarding the house and chasing her shadow. Sometimes I even wake up around 2:00 am to find her standing on my chest, just to make sure I'm still breathing. She's thoughtful that way.

Meanwhile, we make a pretty good pair when it comes to chores. Sure, Alex's standard of clean is what most people would classify as "just short of disgusting," but he is most helpful when asked. We tag team a lot of things: I cook, he cleans the kitchen. I do the laundry, he folds the cloths. I sweep, he vacuums. And so on.

On weekends, our routine has been pretty standard: get out of town. Not usually by choice, but because of weddings or ballgames or some other social event. I guess that's "by choice," technically, but what I mean is that we don't have some burning need to leave town. In fact, we often find ourselves wishing we had a weekend when we could just sleep in, play in our yard, get things done around the house, and just hang out. If we could get through wedding and football season, we may find one of those weekends... of course, by the end of football season, it'll be engagement party season and then the cycle starts over again with wedding season. I guess we'll just embrace that we are very blessed to have wonderful people in our life that keep our social calendar full.

So that's that. Friday night's routine changes from week to week: we either go to Birmingham to start the weekend festivities early, have supper club with "the gang," double date with other old, married folk, or have Date Night. And tonight's my favorite: Date Night.

Here's hoping your weekend is serendipitous.

Quarter Life Crisis

As I approach 25 at a neck-breaking pace (September 28-- you're gonna want to put that on your calendar), I'm getting somewhat reminiscent as I look back on my quarter-century lifetime. As many of you know, the soundtrack of my life for the past several years has been sung by America's sweetheart, Taylor Swift. From soul-mending break-up songs like "Dear John" and "Last Kiss" to the coming-of-age ballad "Never Grow Up" to the hopeful love song "Enchanted" (that one goes out to my boo thang, Al), Taylor has always sang as though she was literally ripping pages out of my diary. At her concert, Alex leaned over and said, "Is there seriously no song she sings that you CAN'T apply to your life??"

Answer: no.

That is, until now. It doesn't help that I'm painfully aware that in most senses of the word, I'm technically a grown-up: college graduate, gainfully employed, married. When Taylor announced last week that she would be releasing a new song, I only assumed it would be just like the others: about me. Something like, "Help: I'm an Educator," or "My Husband's Definition of Clean is Only Acceptable in a Frat House." Maybe that's a little far-fetched, but something along those lines.

Instead, I got "We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together."

Sure, the song is catchy. I sing along, and of course I support Taylor in all that she does. (although, admittedly, I'm a little concerned about her recent interest in a young Kennedy-- Taylor, google "curse.") But this is the first time in my T-Swift fandom that I've not been able to relate. And frankly, it's not doing much for my quarter-life crisis.

Allow me to use another obsession to relate the situation. For years after Wendy's first venture to Never Land, she returned annually with Peter to visit the mermaids, pirates, fairies, and more. But eventually, Peter comes back to find Wendy all grown up, unable to return. She has to explain to Peter that she can't return to Never Land because she is, at long last, a grown up.

Have I outgrown Taylor Swift? Is her next album my Never Land?

Lost.

A few weeks ago, we decided to start Lost. Both Alex and I managed to completely miss the phenomenon when the show was actually in production, but luckily my dad's Amazon Prime account is hooking us up.

Each episode (so far) has started by spot lighting a particular character and flashing back to that character's life before he or she landed on the Island (via plane crash, for those of you who haven't emerged from under your rock in the last decade).

We're on episode 22, or something like that, of Season 1. The survivors have been on the island for a little over a month-- that's a little over a month with zero communication with the outside world. Just sand, jungle, and the occasional polar bear (you read that right-- the show is straight up nuts).

I just spent the last 30 minutes looking for my phone. I pulled up to my house, sent a quick text to Morgan, loaded my bags and grabbed the mail, and headed into my house. Threw the junk mail away and took the garbage out, watered the plants, and came back in to text my husband and complain that he had done none of those things.

But there was no phone.

I looked everywhere. I went from scanning the room to tearing cushions out of chairs. I checked rooms I haven't even been in today.

Friends, I went outside and went through the garbage. Not once. THREE times. Then, I brought it in and moved the garbage piece by piece into a different bag. Piece. By. Piece. We're talking old grapes, lunch meat boxes, and the bag I marinated my chicken in last night.

I checked my car three times-- moved everything from the front seat to the back seat and back again. Moved both seats all the way backward and forward.

Googled how to trace an iPhone.

On the fifth car check, I found it: wedged between the console and the seat, undetectable to the human eye.

At this point I'm sweaty, uncomfortable, and on the edge of a meltdown as I realize that I don't have a landline-- other than my cell phone and email, I have no way to contact the outside world. I'd already emailed my husband and Morgan, and after 30 minutes neither had checked their email.

I was LOST.

Sweaty and irritable, I might as well have been wrecked with Hurley, Kate, and the Others on Mystery Island. I felt like all civility was lost-- without my phone, I might as well have to hunt my own food and build a fire with flint and bamboo shoots.

Maybe I'm too dependent on my phone. BUT. In my defense, EVERYthing from my certification process emails to my work contacts is on that tiny machine.

My heart has just now slowed to a normal beat after that brush with disaster.

never grow up.

When I was in Kindergarten and first grade, my dad taught at Cleveland High School. Kindergarten thru twelfth grade classes were all on the same campuses, separated by a breezeway and a shared cafeteria. So I never had to ride the bus-- until ninth grade, I rode to school with my dad. Kindergarten and first grade at Cleveland stick out to me though because I loved faculty meetings so much. Now, most teachers' kids dread these days because it means staying in that dreaded building for even longer.

Not me. Not with an arsenal of movies at my fingertips. See, like me, my dad is a lover of fine films, and he cultivated this love in me from a young age. On faculty meeting days, we'd walk down to the library, and I'd pick out a movie: Ricky Ticky Tavvy was common but it scared me unless my brother watched it with me, Cinderella was, of course, highly favored, and then there was Peter Pan.

Anyone that knows me can tell you that Peter Pan is my all-time favorite anything: the book, any adaptation of the movie, the play (my fabulous parents took me to see in Atlanta, and ohmygosh, I still remember when Peter took flight right in front of my very eyes), and even the ride at Disney World.

In fact, I found out today that someone had just returned from the Happiest Place on Earth. First question out of my mouth: Did you ride Peter Pan?! 

Here's what you need to know about Cleveland Elementary's copy of Peter Pan: this is not the Disney classic that you're familiar with. No, it's possibly better. I can never decide. The 1960 version of Peter Pan starring a 47-year-old, but ever-delightful, Mary Martin. From "I Won't Grow Up" to "I've Gotta Crow" (favorite line: "Oh, the cleverness of me!") to "Ugg-a-Wugg" my five-year-old mind was captivated by J.M. Barrie's fantastical universe: Neverland.

Sidenote: this version of Peter Pan includes the California Raisins as part of the previews; consequently, I crave Raisinettes to this day whenever I watch Peter Pan.

Today on my way home from work, Mary Martin's 'Never Never Land' came on my iPod.

Y'all, I nearly cried. The lyrics are perfection. The story, unparalleled. It's not like I didn't pretend to live in a castle and daydream about Prince Charming, but when it comes to favorite fairy tales, Cinderella can keep her glass slippers. Ask me for my favorite story, and my mind goes zooming to the "first star to the left, then straight on til morning."

you're never too old for summer camp.

During the school year, on top of being a substitute teacher and graduate intern, I started working for the school's extended day program. Mostly, we helped kids with homework, had snack, watched the kids play on the playground, and facilitated the occasional dodgeball game. In the summertime, extended day turns into a full on summer day camp: 7 am - 5:30 pm. And that, my friends, is my summer job.

At first, I was bummed about a 7 am job in the summer. I am, after all, an educator, born and bred to take the summers off after 9 long months of being a prison warden. But let me tell you: best. job. ever. And don't let anyone tell you different-- because the teenage aides my try to, but they don't know how good they've got it.

First of all, there are field trips. Hello, Birmingham Zoo and McWayne Center. Second, free movies (saw Madagascar 3 today-- very cute) at the Rave Theater. Third, afternoons at the pool every other day. In the downtown, we put the gymnastics mats out and watch a movie in the gym floor. I won't even mention the Oreos and lemonade because I'm trying to ween myself off camp snacks.

Now, if that doesn't sound like two tons of fun, I don't know what does.

Sure, I have to keep up with 17 fifth graders at every second of the day. They can get a little froggy, try to escape the playground from time to time and whatnot. And sometimes the girls yah-yah and the boys tussle. And sometimes there are tummy aches and skinned knees. But it's nothing I can't handle, and mostly it's a lot of fun.

Camp Lot A Fun.

Even on rainy days, it's fun. There's lot of coloring, and I've spent roughly 24 years perfecting my bubble letters.

In Sickness and In Health

You say that in your vows. You picture it years later, possibly decades.

But every now and then you're just lucky enough to have a husband who gets tonsillitis less than a week after the honeymoon.

Thursday morning, Alex got up at a most unattractive hour to get ready for work. Those of us that are working summer programs for the school were still in bed because programs don't start until next week. He fumbled and he mumbled and he woke his wife up. So I said my piece and went back to sleep, none too happy.

Later on Thursday, I get a text from my husband saying that he was sorry for his lack of consideration that morning but he was just feeling really groggy and kind of sickly.

This text was followed by several more expressing that he might have a cold and a fever. I had a job interview that afternoon, but when I got home I found a very sad sight on my couch. A grown man, huddled under a down comforter, decked from head to foot in sweats, and shivering to boot. I immediately went into nurse mode-- I've seen my mom do it many times as a result of my traumatic relationship with my sinuses.

I started with leftover wedding cake, which was received with pleasure. But the night just got darker.

By Friday morning, it was firmly decided (by the wife, not the husband): a doctor's visit was in order.

He screwed his face into more pout faces than I knew he had in him, and Friday morning I watched my 25-year-old husband regress into a grumpy 4-year-old. Women across the board say this is a common symptom among sick men. My high energy, quick witted man turned into a belligerent toddler overnight, refusing to eat or drink and throwing in a magnitude of grumbles and pout faces.

The first diagnosis was strep throat. When his fever still raged on Saturday morning, we headed up to an Urgent Care for a second opinion. This time around, the doctor thought that strep was a plausible diagnosis but the more likely culprit was tonsillitis. He offered a shot to quicken the antibiotic and for a brief moment my husband was back, manning up for a very painful couple of shots of antibiotic and steroids. And then, right back to four year old Alex.

By that evening he had briefly reached a fever break, so we thought we'd brave Erica and Dee's tool & gadget shower. We had already missed another friend's shower that afternoon, and Alex was bound and determined to make one of the two. So out we went. And within five minutes of being there, the chills and fever were back. The result: a multitude of people wondering what kind of monster would drag her sick husband out of the bed for a shower.

So... back to bed. There was some force feeding of soup and Gatorade: just picture a picky child refusing to open their mouth, shaking their head vehemently, accompanied by adamant "Uh-uh's."

But this morning, by some miracle, my husband is back. The magic of modern medicine! It's like the full moon is over and the werewolf has returned to his human form. We've even gone to Lowe's to pick out a mailbox and painted the post in our garage. Back to productivity and back to happy, healthy Alex!

Luckily for me, Alex only gets sick once a year. Unlucky for him, he'll have to deal with Sick Lindsey ten times over before I encounter Sick Alex again. And I give him full license to complain about it when he has to be Nurse Alex.

Holding It Together

I held it together all week. Even with a debilitating bout with two kidney stones resulting in a huge delay in all the things that needed to be done.

I held it together Friday night, when Lauren gave a speech that made the whole house misty-eyed. I thought at that moment that I wouldn’t make it through the weekend.

I held it together when Mom choked up while she prayed before our bridesmaids brunch on Saturday morning, as all my best girlfriends in the world piled into my house to get ready and help out with any last minute wedding needs (and believe me, they were put to work).

I held it together when Brian secured my mother’s veil on my head and showed Rachel how to take it off after the ceremony. That’s probably the first time I really got the, “This is it” feeling, the first time I really felt like a bride.

I held it together when I walked into our gorgeous sanctuary, awash with candlelight and decorate with meticulously arranged flowers, when I realized this is it—this is our wedding.

I held it together when Laura started getting weepy in the bridal suite right before we walked down the aisle, as the bridesmaids and my mother wrapped their bouquets with Kleenex. Then I knew this could get emotional very soon.

I held it together as I listened to Dr. Thompson’s emotional charge to Alex and the congregation, as Dad and I stood in the vestibule waiting to walk down the aisle. He set the stage for a holy service of worship, not a prelude to a reception party.

And even when the doors opened and I saw Alex waiting for me at the alter, I managed to hold it together. In fact, tears were the last thing on my mind as I couldn’t contain a grin that mirrored the one on Alex’s face. Just joy. So much joy.

And when my dad gave me away and kissed me on the cheek, I held it together.

During the first dance, the father-daughter dance, the mother-son dance, the cake tasting, and the obligatory Shout!, I held it together. Like a champ. But it’s not hard to hold back the tears when you’re having the absolute best time of your life.

When the sparklers lit up and our friends and family saw us off, I held it together. But barely. I was frantic to find my mom and thank her, to say goodbye to so many of my favorite faces, and goodbye to a night that will live on in our memories for the rest of our lives.

But when I got in the car with my husband. When we realized what we’d just done—that we’d gotten married in the presence of friends and family from all over the world, literally… we couldn’t hold it together anymore. I cried as I called my mom to leave her a voicemail thanking her for all of her hard work and endless hours budgeting, planning, and making all the right phone calls. And all my dad’s tireless work setting up sound equipment and the reception site and the get away car and anything else that falls under Dad Work. I cried as I talked about my family that came all the way from Sweden just for me. For us. To be with us and celebrate with us and just to love us. I cried as I thought about how beautiful my grandparents and grandparents-in-law looked—all of them such radiant pictures of love… people that absolutely glowed with genuine happiness. For us. And I cried because I’ve just never felt so completely overwhelmed by love. Love for my husband and from my husband. Love from and for our families. Love for and from our bridal party, our best friends in all the world. Just… so. much. LOVE. Now that’s the kind of thing that can make a non-crier shed a tear or twenty.

And to start our lives this way… so covered and smothered in love… I just can’t begin to say thank you. But in the next few posts, I’m going to give it my best shot.