“Housekeeper, Bank, and the Ghost of Milk-Gum Past”

There was a time when they needed me. Really needed me. For cuddles, for kisses on boo-boos, for bedtime stories with ridiculous voices. Now? Now I’m the unpaid housekeeper, on-call ATM, and emotional support punching bag for hormone-fueled eye rolls.

I spent this weekend spring cleaning my boys’ rooms and their bathroom. And by cleaning, I mean entering a war zone. At one point, I scraped something off my 11-year-old’s floor that I can only describe as a cursed concoction of dried milk and gum. I paused. I stared. I briefly considered burning the house down and starting over.

Then there’s the toilet. Always the toilet. What is it with boys and their inability to aim? I’ve never once missed a toilet seat in my life, yet somehow these tiny men treat it like a carnival game. Pee on the seat, poop in the bowl—unflushed, naturally. It’s like living with raccoons who have access to body spray and Wi-Fi.

And don’t even get me started on the laundry room. Or as I call it: the claustrophobic hell closet. It’s smaller than a porta potty, and I am not exaggerating. When we bought this house, I was nine months pregnant and fully convinced I would be pregnant for the rest of my life. At the time, all I cared about was having a laundry room upstairs near the bedrooms. I didn’t care that I could barely turn around in it. I was like, “At least I won’t be running up and down the stairs with baskets!” Like a damn fool.

Fast forward to now, and I’m elbow-deep in mystery stains and socks that have somehow merged into one super sock with no mate in sight. I have to back out of the room just to turn around. Doing laundry feels like a punishment for a crime I don’t remember committing.

And yet… I miss when they were little. I miss being more than the woman who restocks the snacks and magically makes their favorite hoodie reappear, clean and folded. I miss being needed—not just for basic survival, but for comfort, for presence.

But every once in a while, I still catch a glimpse. A tired head on my shoulder during a movie. A “thanks, Mom” that slips out with just enough sincerity to make me stop in my tracks. That’s when I remember—I’m still their home. Even if it smells like Axe body spray and forgotten towels.

Be sure to read the blog post before this so you are caught up.

Mrs. Thethian? She was the best thing that happened to me. My parents made the right call, and this was the year I learned confidence.

Second Grade: The Smelly Realities of Life

Ah, second grade. The year I met Amy R.

Amy R. was my new Jerome, except instead of karate-chopping kids, she smelled like pee.

We didn’t know what neglect was at the time. We just knew that Amy always smelled like she had been dunked in a public bathroom. Her hair was never brushed, her clothes never changed, and when kids started bullying her for it, I felt sick.

Then came The Moment.

One day, our teacher, Mrs. Rinaldi, showed us a video on inappropriate touching. At the end, she asked if anyone had ever experienced something like this.

Amy raised her hand.

And in one deafening second, the class went silent.

“Mrs. Rinaldi… my mommy’s boyfriend touches me like that.”

Boom.

A teacher’s worst fear, playing out in real time. Mrs. Rinaldi handled it perfectly. She immediately wrote Amy a pass to the nurse, her face unreadable—but I felt her dread.

It was the first time I physically felt the weight of someone else’s trauma.

Mrs. Rinaldi was Amy’s hero that day. And that moment? It shaped me as a teacher. You do not let kids fall through the cracks.

To Be Continued…

Each year, each experience—it was all shaping me. And as I moved through school, my abilities as an empath only got stronger. Some teachers were Gremlins, others were angels. Some kids were bullies, others were lifelines.

And eventually, it would all lead to Gremlin.

But we’re not there yet. There’s still more to tell.

Third Grade: The Year of Chair-Throwing and Bowties

If I had rolled the dice in a teacher lottery, I lost big time in third grade. My teacher, Miss T, was a plump woman with thick ankles who had zero patience and a penchant for hurling chairs.

Yes, chairs.

Her teaching style was the classic Old Testament approach—“Thou shalt listen, or thou shalt fear the wrath of airborne furniture.” If she wanted attention, she got it. The second you heard the screech of metal legs against linoleum, you knew: it was time to sit up straight and pray.

But the real nightmare? My reading teacher, Mr. Plato.

Now, imagine Pee-wee Herman meets a Bond villain. Bowtie? Check. Twisty mustache? Check. Unsettling energy that my little empath self couldn’t quite place? Big, fat check.

Mr. Plato taught us alliteration (Sally sells seashells, blah blah blah), but mostly, he taught me humiliation.

One day, I was feeling extra anxious—most likely picking up on someone else’s energy, because my stomach was doing backflips for no reason. I kept glancing at the clock, willing time to move faster so I could escape his creepy aura.

And then—BAM!

Mr. Plato slammed a yardstick on my desk with the force of Thor summoning lightning.

“WHY DO YOU KEEP LOOKING AT THE CLOCK? ARE YOU LATE FOR A DATE? GET OUT OF MY CLASSROOM!”

I froze. Dead silence. My heart pounded in my ears. My classmates? Wide-eyed, holding their breath, probably wondering if I was about to get struck down by the Wrath of Plato.

“GET. OUT.”

I practically levitated out of my chair, ran back to Miss T’s classroom, and collapsed in my cubby.

I stayed there for what felt like an eternity, until Miss T found me, looking annoyed but mildly concerned.

After I word-vomited my trauma, she went full Viking mode.

I watched her march down the hallway, her cankles moving with righteous fury. At that moment, I knew: Mr. Plato was about to experience the wrath of an ankle-strong warrior woman.

And I? I would forever associate bowties with terror.

Fourth grade was the first year I truly hated school. It wasn’t just the shift from playful primary years to serious “intermediate” hell. It was also the year I experienced real loss.

My great-grandma Adele passed away. Our family dog, Holly, got hit by a car. And worst of all? The Challenger exploded on live TV.

My teacher, Mrs. W, was rumored to be the Wicked Witch of Intermediate School. She was strict as hell, cold as ice, and had zero patience for nonsense. But unlike Gremlin, she wasn’t evil, just tough as nails.

This was also the year I met Patrick.

Patrick was a quiet, well-dressed boy who looked like a leprechaun who had misplaced his pot of gold. He had polished shoes, neatly combed hair, and the constant look of a kid who knew a dark secret about the universe.

Patrick also had a gastro issue. We didn’t know what that meant as kids, only that Patrick always smelled like he had a little accident.

Now, let’s add Amy R to the mix, and suddenly, we had a pee-scented and poop-scented duo that kids relentlessly bullied.

And leading the charge? Ann S, Queen of Mean.

Ann was the self-appointed Regina George of fourth grade, and her mission? To make Patrick and Amy miserable.

The kids even made up a game—if Amy or Patrick sat in your seat, you had to spray “cootie spray.” It was cruel and disgusting.

This is when I started realizing my future as a teacher. Because even then, I hated bullying. And even now, I don’t tolerate it, not from kids, parents, or other teachers.

You know your old when your kids innocently ask what life was like in the 19’s. As if y reply is one simple word. “Fun.”

Thanks for joining me!

Good company in a journey makes the way seem shorter. — Izaak Walton