Hallelujah Baby

Paola @ 16 months old

Paola arrived four days ago from Haiti.  She showed up on our doorstep with her bottle, blue ribbons in her hair, and two diapers.  She was wearing a pretty little blue dress with patent-leather shoes and frilly little socks.  The folks that brought her are volunteers for Mercy and Sharing, an organization that helps children in Haiti.   They had never met little Paola, but fell in love with her during the trip from Miami airport and are already planning a return visit.  We too fell in love with Paola immediately.  What a little doll she is!

Paola has a cleft lip and a cleft palate as well as some other birth defects. Her mother gave her over to the orphanage because in Haiti (where voodoo is a way of life) a child with such defects is considered cursed. She weighs a measly 16 pounds at sixteen months old.  She will have to undergo numerous surgeries to correct her problems.  But, it is not the imperfections that you see when you look at this little bundle of joy. You might expect to see a baby who’d be sad and cranky however, instead you see gorgeous brown eyes and a ready smile that lights up her whole face.    She laughs and interacts with everyone and everything around her.  She already has won over the hearts of our whole family.  Yesterday all the children were gathered around Paola breathlessly waiting for her to throw her arms up in the air and yell Hallelujah!  Oh the cheering the ensued when she finally did it!  The noise was deafening as the children clapped and laughed.

I watched this celebration and wondered to myself, “how does a baby with all these problems have reason to rejoice?”  Then I thought about the country where she came from where you are considered lucky if you end up in an orphanage.  In Haiti many of the children live in rat-infested streets where raw sewage runs freely.  At least in the orphanage they have someone to care for their basic needs.  In the orphanage they rejoiced over simple things that we take for granted in our country of plenty.  In the orphanage they yelled “hallelujah” when diapers or formula arrived.  They yelled “hallelujah” when a baby went to a new home.  They yelled “hallelujah” when they had fresh water.  They yelled “hallelujah” when a doctor or nurse came to minister to them.  I suspect that some may have even said a silent “hallelujah” when the sickest little ones stopped suffering and returned to God.  I am sure they all said “hallelujah” when little Paola left because they know that she will be loved unconditionally and she will thrive.

So now we have our little “hallelujah” baby, and together we celebrate smiles, laughter, crawling, standing, clapping, and swinging. We celebrate smelling flowers, picking up the telephone, and sleeping on freshly washed crib sheets.  We celebrate toes that wiggle and fingers that point.  We celebrate the sunrise and the sunset.  We celebrate rocking chairs and rocking horses.  We celebrate baths and baby powder.  We celebrate arms that hug and voices that soothe…You name it, we celebrate it!  Hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah!

Paola now @ age 10

Author's note: Hallelujah Baby was published in Chicken Soup for the Adopted Soul in 2008.

Update:

Paola is 13 years old now and is thriving.  She has been our legally adopted daughter since she was 7.  The adoption process was very long and cumbersome because we were told we would have to take her back to Haiti.  After six years of explaining her medical issues and the dangers of traveling to Haiti where she could contract any number of infections, we were finally permitted to legally adopt Paola without leaving the US.  Now, seven years later we are back in a legal limbo.  She has been denied US citizenship because she entered our country on a visitor's visa for medical care.  Even though she is the daughter of two US citizens and she is under the age of 16 and the US is the only home she has ever really known, we are being told once again that we will most likely have to take her back to Haiti to the consulate in order to request citizenship on her behalf.  The absurdity of this dilemma is truly mind boggling!  I don't know what the future holds, but I know that Paola is and always will be our daughter and that I will fight whomever, wherever, whenever for as long it takes to ensure her legal right to be a US citizen. 

Toilets, Plungers and Knives

This story is an excerpt from my book: Melody of My Heartstrings.  I'm posting this especially for Nurjahan :-)  It still makes me laugh when I picture her trying to "keep the toilet water in".  This story is all true - I couldn't make this up!  Hope you enjoy it.  

Have you ever tried putting your chin on the dishwasher while it’s running?  It’s quite a nice feeling.  I recommend it to anyone who is feeling especially stressed out.  It causes a soothing sensation over your whole face.  I imagine, if I were only two feet tall, the soothing feeling might send little tingles down my entire tiny body.  I guess that is why Lulu is so enamored with the dishwasher.

I noticed Lulu’s strange fascination with the dishwasher one Saturday morning while I was sprinting with a plunger between bathrooms on either end of the house.  As I ran back and forth from one bathroom to another, I could not help but observe that Lulu had pinned herself to the dishwasher and was oblivious to the commotion all around her.  Her diapered behind was swaying back and forth with her face plastered on the front of the dishwasher.  At first, I thought she must have had her tongue stuck or something but, upon closer inspection, I saw that she was holding her chin against the machine as it vibrated.  I hoped the cycle had just started as it would keep her busy while I plunged.  Currently, there was toilet water “falling out” of two toilets simultaneously.

While Lulu was preoccupied with the dishwasher, Jennifer was in one bathroom screaming, “Mom the toilet is overflowing!”

And Nurjahan, our little girl from Bangladesh, was in the other bathroom yelling in broken English, “Oh my gosh!  My toilet water falling out!”

How could I deal with such catastrophe when I had not even had my first cup of coffee yet!  My eyes were still blurred and crusty from sleep!  I was unprepared for such a rude awakening.  I had to think fast.  I grabbed the first thing I could find in the kitchen; I reached for a spatula.  I ran to Jen’s bathroom and quickly jammed the spatula under that bulb thingy to stop the flow of water. (I have absolutely no idea why I did not think to turn the water off, but I didn’t).

Then, I rushed to Nur’s bathroom (stopping momentarily to grab a couple of carving knives while making sure that Lulu was still worshiping the dishwasher).  Quite a sight met me when I reached Nur’s bathroom: Nur was straddling the toilet pushing with all her might on the lid trying valiantly to stop the water from “falling out”.   Strands of her long jet-black hair dangled in her face and she was so out of breath I thought she might pass out from her herculean effort.

I quickly rushed into her bathroom with my knives to the rescue.  I wedged one knife under to bulb thingy and the water soon slowed to a trickle.  Nur slid off the toilet to the floor and started laughing.  I soon joined her on the wet floor giggling at the absurdity of using a kitchen knife to stop the toilet from overflowing.  Suddenly, the doorbell rang.  “Now who could that be so early in the morning?”  I asked myself as I made my way to the front door.

I opened the door.  I must have scared the bejesus out of the man standing in front of me.  I’m sure he didn’t expect to see someone in sopping wet smiley face pj’s holding a plunger in one hand and a large carving knife in the other.  The carpet cleaning man eyed me suspiciously then he spoke, “What’s that buzzing noise?”

“What buzzing?” I asked.

“That loud buzzing noise that seems to be coming from your back yard.” He said.

“I don’t know.” I said.

I threw him the plunger (good thing it wasn’t the knife).  “Hold this!” I yelled as I ran toward the backyard slamming the door behind me.  I don’t know why I hadn’t noticed the buzzing sooner as it was loud enough to wake the dead.  It was coming from the septic system alarm.  I deduced, even in my coffee deprived state, that the alarm might have something to do with the overflowing toilets.

I silenced the alarm, called the septic company, checked on Lulu (who was still stuck to the dishwasher), made sure Nurjahan and Jennifer were okay and was pouring my coffee when the doorbell rang.  “Now who could that be so early in the morning?”  I was thinking to myself when I suddenly remembered that I left the carpet cleaning guy at the front door holding the plunger.  I went back and opened the front door apologizing profusely for my oversight.  He was still holding the plunger.

“Rough morning?” He commented.

“Yeah.” I sighed as I opened the door for him and reclaimed my plunger.

After I had shown him all the carpets that needed cleaning, I said, “If you need me, I will be in the kitchen with my chin on the dishwasher.” 

Mrs. 'P'

Mrs. "P"

“Mrs. ‘P’ was made in the 1980’s.” seven-year-old Ben said as bits of his peanut butter and jelly sandwich sprayed from his mouth landing precariously close to my lunch plate. 


“She was bornded on the same day as me!”  Shayla chimed in, “On number 23. I was bornded on the number 23 too, but in February and Mrs. ‘P’ was bornded on the number 23 in March.”  She grinned at me revealing a gaping hole where two teeth used to be.  In fact, most of my lunch table companions were missing at least two teeth.

“Were your there when Mrs. ‘P’ was borned?” Jacob asked.


“I remember it well,” I replied as pictures of the delivery room danced in my head.  Mrs. ‘P’ was refusing to be bornded so the nurse was straddling me pushing on my belly as a last ditch effort before rushing me to surgery for a “C” section.  Luckily, the nurse’s Herculean efforts paid off and Mrs. ‘P’ was bornded - only back then her name wasn’t Mrs. ‘P’; it was Jennifer.  “I’m Mrs. ‘P’s’ mommy,” I explained. “So, I was there when she was born.”


“Mrs. ‘P’ has a mommy!” Josh exclaimed.  Some of the more worldly children at my table patiently explained to Josh that everyone has a mommy - even Mrs. ‘P.'

The reason we were all discussing Mrs. ‘P’s’ birthday is because she just celebrated her twenty-fifth birthday a few days ago.  In the world of seven-year-olds birthdays are ranked first in the top ten most important life events; followed closely by losing teeth.


“So,” I asked my table of munchkins, “can anyone tell me where all your teeth went?”


“The tooth fairy took mine,” Elizabeth yelled from the end of the table.  Even though she was yelling, I was finding it hard to hear her over the chatter of the surrounding lunch tables.  It didn’t help matters when they all started talking at once; "I got five...once I lost three...the tooth fairy left me...dollars...teeth...a note...at once...when I fell off my bicycle."

As the children clambered for my attention, I glanced over at Jennifer who was sitting at another table eating lunch with the rest of her class.  The chatter going on at her table was as lively as mine.  I had to smile as I observed the adoring faces of the children surrounding my daughter.  It seems like only yesterday she was sitting on the floor of her bedroom with all her stuffed animals surrounding her.  I remember vividly one particular day: She was telling her furry kindergarten class the story of Goldilocks and the Three Bears.  She couldn’t have been more than five herself - in fact I think she was still in preschool.  She had set up a makeshift chalkboard (a piece of cardboard), and she was holding her pointer (a stick from our yard).  By her side, she had a box of stickers (a must have for all kindergarten teachers).  As she told the story, she periodically pointed to the invisible scenes on her chalk board while asking questions of her well-behaved students.  I noticed that most of her stuffed animals were covered in “great job” stickers - all except one.  Then, I discovered why.  I didn’t know that Jennifer was aware of my presence in the doorway until she turned to the stickerless dog and sternly informed him that the principal was here to get him.  I took that as my cue and entered the classroom.  “Miss Jennifer,” I said in my dour principal voice, “Do you have a student who is misbehaving?”


“Yes,” she replied, “Will you please take Jason to the office and call his mother?  Tell her that Jason keeps interrupting our story.”


“I will,” I said gruffly as I took Jason by the paw and escorted him out of the room.

Jennifer is married now to a Jason (who I’m guessing was as well behaved in school as the Jason I escorted out of her classroom twenty-some years ago).  I still marvel at the fact that she has never wavered from her dream of becoming a teacher.  She would come home from school and play school.  Even on weekends she would play school.  In fact, the neighborhood kids would send their stuffed animals to Jennifer’s school!  Jennifer didn’t “become” a teacher.  Jennifer was born a teacher.

Now, I have the privilege of volunteering in her class (and I don’t even have to play the part of the gruff principal).  Today, as we were walking to the lunchroom, I noticed how happy all her students were.  They didn’t walk to the lunchroom, they bounced, hopped, skipped, spun and laughed.  They weren’t misbehaving in line; it was just a happy line.  I commented to Jennifer that they were a merry bunch.  She laughed and said that she’s been told by a lot of teachers that her class has become transformed since she took over. The previous teacher became ill and had to retire in the middle of the school year.

Mrs. ‘P’ didn’t fly in like Super Woman, and she doesn’t even wear a cape but, to her students, she is a hero.  Her classroom is a place of joy where the children feel safe and loved.  She’s my hero, too.  She has grown into a beautiful, kind woman who I have the honor of calling my daughter.

We were getting up from our lunchroom table when I heard a voice at my side, “Are you Mrs. ‘P’s’ mommy?”  I looked in the direction of the tiny voice and saw a small child who must have been about five.  “I want to be in her class when I grow up,”  The voice continued, “because she is the bestest teacher in the whole school!”

Most of us can point to that one teacher that had a profound impact on our lives.  I know Mrs. ‘P’s’ students will remember her for years to come.  She may even be the “bestest teacher in the whole world” to that one child who just needed someone to care.  Perhaps Kyle summed it up best as I sat next to him during reading instruction.  “Before Mrs. ‘P’ came, my reading was broken,” He confessed.  Then he grinned proudly and pronounced, “But, she is helping me fix it.  She is fixing all my broken spots.”

Restored

I placed the necklace around my neck and stared at its loveliness in the mirror. It belonged to my grandmother. I remember seeing it around her neck many times and thinking how pretty it was. When she died, I was going through her jewelry box, and the sunlight in the room reflected off its silver. I almost felt as if it was calling to me. As I took it lovingly out of the box, I thought of my grandma and how much she loved her beautiful jewelry.

The jade was still beautiful even though it survived for over 100 years. My grandmother loved jade, and this piece was the one that invoked so many memories of my grandma. I remember her wearing it when we played cards, sitting with me and telling me stories, making her latch-hook rugs, or reading. She would always wear her jewelry – more often than not, it would be jade. I wanted to wear this in her memory as a constant reminder that she would always be close to my heart.

Over the years, people have often commented on how lovely it is. Every time I placed it around my neck, I considered myself privileged to have the opportunity to wear it. My husband had given me a sturdy chain so I wouldn't lose it, and I relied on that chain to protect it. That is why it came as a complete surprise when I reached for it one day, as I often did, and it was gone.

I frequently pray when driving and reflexively reach for the jade cross as I pray. This day I was in the driveway just arriving home from the store when I felt for the cross, and it wasn't in its usual place around my neck. I panicked. My heart pitter-pattered as I tried to remember the last time I saw it around my neck. I searched the car, my clothes, and the grocery bags. I traced my footsteps throughout the day, trying desperately to remember when I saw it last. I never take the cross off, and I had become so accustomed to its presence that I just could not figure out when I lost it. 

I enlisted the help of my family and called my friends to try and pinpoint when I might have lost it. We all searched fervently for it, and I retraced my steps a thousand times – all to no avail. I had finally chalked it up to losing it forever and had a good long cry. 

I cried over losing the cross because it represented so much to me. It was my constant tie to my grandmother and my constant companion when I needed to reach out and touch God. I felt like I had lost my grandmother all over again. I felt like I lost my faith in God because He knew how vital that cross was to me, and He just wouldn't allow me to lose it. I felt like I had lost a piece of my heart that day. 

In fact, I remember the day I lost the cross like it was just yesterday. It was a day that I was feeling despondent. It was close to Christmas, and our family had just lost our brand-new mini-van to an engine failure. The van was repossessed because we couldn't afford the $6,000.00 to fix it and couldn't continue to pay for something we could not drive. We had just moved back into our home that we had rented out to a tenant who had brought our little house to the point of ruin where it was almost unlivable. We hardly had any money to fix the place up, buy a new car and have Christmas for our three children and the two children we cared for from Healing the Children. The two children had been with us over the past year. They would continue to be with our family throughout their extensive surgeries. My husband, Bill, and I struggled with how we could continue caring for them. So, for these reasons, I was praying in the driveway for God to help see my family through this difficult time. I wanted to go into my ruined house and somehow find the strength to give myself and my family hope. Instead, I walked into the room in tears and told my family I had lost my cross. It was like the final straw in my life's series of little tragedies. I was in darkness, unsure I would ever see the light again.

The cross was missing for many weeks as the Christmas season drew nearer, and my heart grew heavier with each passing day. I struggled with the bills and the knowledge that Christmas would come and we would not have much, if anything, to give our children. I was still angry at God for letting me lose my cross and not answering my prayers. I was mad at Him for everything happening or not happening in my life. Then, amid all this chaos, our old car broke down, and we had it towed away. I stood in the driveway, watching the car fade in the distance, and I gave it to God! 

"How," I cried, "can it get much worse than this!" "What," I screamed, "would you have me do now!" 

The answer He gave was simple: "Nothing." 

I could do nothing. It was out of my control. I had no choice but to say "uncle." It was about three weeks before Christmas, and I had no idea where, when, or how anything would happen, but I gave it to God and said (more like screamed), "It's yours!" 

It wasn't more than an hour later that I got a phone call from the folks that had our car in the shop. They had an old van sitting there that they were wondering if we could use. They wanted to give it to us because they thought our work with Healing the Children was terrific, and they knew we had to stockpile the kids in our current car. Bill and I graciously accepted their offer. Then, the same people talked to their church about us and gathered up a collection to help us pay for the car's repairs. 

It didn't stop there. A day later, a friend called and said she was drumming up help from her church for us. Soon, people from her church were donating furniture to our family. They helped us furnish our entire house in one week! It wasn't uncommon for me to drive up and see a dresser or couch in the driveway.  

But God's blessing didn't stop there. About a week later, I got another phone call from a friend, Jean, who works at Saks. She called me because every year their store does Christmas for charity. She asked the employees if they would consider helping us since we care for children from Healing the Children, and she knew we could use their assistance this year. Again, we graciously accepted her offer. 

But God's blessing didn't stop there. My son, Billy, was coming home from school one day when he noticed something glittering in the grass on the side of the driveway. One tiny bit of silver had caught the sun in such a way that he could find it. When he investigated, he found the silver on top of pieces of jade that used to be my cross. He gathered the pieces, brought them into the house, and handed them to me with tears in his eyes. I held the shattered cross in my hand and cried anew out of happiness for having it back and sadness because it would never be the same. I put the pieces in a box and thanked God for at least giving me that much of it back.

So much happened in the ensuing week that showed me how incredible God's blessing can be when we give our lives to him. We had a whole crew of men from our church show up at our doorstep to refurbish our house. They transformed our house back into a livable home in just two days. I was in awe of His special provision for our family. But nothing could have prepared me for what happened next. 

Christmas day came with a flurry. Thanks to the incredible generosity of the folks at Saks, we had more than we could ever have envisioned. Not only did they provide Christmas gifts, but they provided the tree and all the trimmings. I cannot find the words to express the kindness we were blessed with from people we didn't even know. My friend, Jean, was like our personal angel. What she did for our family went far beyond the material things of Christmas. She embodied Christ's love and spirit. 

There was one Christmas gift that Jean handed me herself. She just happens to work in the jewelry department at Saks, and she said this was a special gift she had picked out herself. I opened the box expecting some lovely jewelry, and I did. It was a stunning piece. I burst into tears when I saw it and cried for eternity on her shoulder because it was all wet when I pulled my face away. In the box was my fully restored cross – precisely as it had been before its tragic demise. This time, it was even more beautiful with its lovely polished silver. Jean explained how delicately the jeweler had to restore the broken pieces and that I would have to be careful. I couldn't believe it. I never thought that anyone would ever be able to put the details of my cross back together again. I was wrong. God can do anything if we just step out of His way and let Him. 

It took many broken pieces of my life that one Christmas for me to realize that God can take those broken pieces and make them into something much more beautiful than they were before. Every time I touch my cross, I am reminded that it represents the brokenness of Jesus and, at the same time, it represents His promise to us. Through Him, all things are possible. Believe it!

Senior Citizen Discount

Granted, it was a long, harrowing day.  One of my very best friends in the world had already hung up the phone on me, at least, ten times and I was tired, worn out and frustrated.  I’m sure I looked like hell warmed over.  I was standing in the check-out line at 7:00 PM buying dinner for my family of seven. The beer was in the front of the items I was buying.  Following the beer were the fish, meat, shampoo, rabbit food and I don’t know what else.  I was prepared for the question from the check-out lady.   I expected her to ask for my ID concerning the beer.  I had my license ready for presenting.

The six pack of beer was the real reason for my trip to the grocery store.  The other things were just an afterthought (or a cover-up depending on how you want to look at it).  I knew that I had to feed the kids and hubby something so I went through the motions of buying some essentials.  The rabbits hadn’t had food for about a week, so I figured the rabbit food and carrots would make up for my total lack of responsibility.

Anyway, as I was saying, it was a long, harrowing day.  I have a crucial job for which I get paid the big bucks, (by the way, while standing in the check-out line I received an emergency phone call from my daughter Katie informing me that there were no wipes to be found and my daughter, Lulu had a stinky pull-up).

Where was I?   Oh yes, I was saying that I have an important job.  My job requires me to be able to juggle twenty tasks at once while writing $100,000+ grants with last minute deadlines.  Not only am I expected to juggle twenty things at once, but I must also remain friendly, kind and cheerful to everyone I meet.  (Did I mention that Lulu needed wipes?).  Where was I?  Oh yes, I was talking about my job.  Normally, I can juggle twenty things at once, but this particular day I was “in training” to learn how to input data.  In my office, I’m known as the data queen.  I even have a pin that says “show me your data.”   I live to input data.

Unfortunately, this same day there was a $25,000 grant deadline.  My former friend, Linda, who was taking the brunt of writing the grant, had called me a minimum of six times before 9 AM.  I explained to Linda that I was in data training for at least the next four hours, but would do what I could to help during breaks.  By 10:00 AM, my former friend Linda and I had exchanged words, hung up the phone on each other and vowed never to write another grant together for as long as we both shall live.  I was frustrated because I was unable to help her with her terminal computer virus that kept infecting the grant and she was angry that my data training was taking up all my time.  Things were getting ugly!  We were at a point where we needed a referee to handle our phone calls.  Meanwhile, the data guy was trying to train me and three other ladies with weak bladders.  Needless to say, things were going a little slower than he had planned.

By 5:30, when I left the office, I saw the data guy turn his car in the wrong direction headed away from the airport.  I wondered how long it would be before he came to the conclusion that he was going in the wrong direction.  At that point, I realized that we hadn’t even fed him lunch.  All he had to tide him over, should he become hopelessly lost, was a stale donut and a cup of yesterday’s coffee.  Oh well, it was too late to help the data guy.  All I could do was hope he would realize the Gulf of Mexico was west of the airport and eventually turn around.

Meanwhile, I was on the cell phone with my no longer former friend Linda crying and making amends.   After I had hung up with her, I called my babysitter to ask if Lulu was still there because I forgot who was supposed to pick her up.  She informed me that Lulu was indeed still there.  I apologized for being late to get her and rushed to pick her up.  When I arrived at the babysitter’s house, my husband was already there getting Lulu.  I asked him to please take her to soccer practice with him so I could go grocery shopping and make dinner.

I drove home, grabbed my checkbook and left for the grocery store.  So, like I said, I was in line at the check-out counter when I got the phone call about the wipes.  I thought I had some in the truck, so I didn’t get more.  I stayed in the check-out line with my checkbook, driver’s license and discount shopping card in hand.  I was poised to begin writing my check for the amount shown on the register when the clerk scanned my card, looked up at me and asked, “Do you have your driver’s license?”  Yes, I said as I handed her the license to show I was old enough to purchase the beer.  “Shall I take off your senior citizen discount?” she asked.    “Oh I’m sorry,” I replied in my most sarcastic voice, “I forgot to get wipes for MY baby.”  Then, I turned, made a beeline back into the store and rushed to the hair dye section. 

Plastic

Author’s note: I wrote this little story for my students as an example of creative writing.  I invented this “plastic” teacher although she might have bore some resemblance to a teacher that most of my students knew (not me).  I didn't have the fake boobs in my student's copy of the story (I added them to this story).  Now, that didn't sound right did it?  As anyone who knows me knows - I don't have fake boobs!  Now I'm just rambling.  Anyway, I thought I’d post "Plastic" on my blog for fun.  This will be my last post for a while as I am heading to Texas to visit a good friend for a few days.

Plastic. That is how I'd describe her. Like a Barbie doll with fake boobs and slinky plastic legs that never need shaving. The perfect Barbie doll right out of the box before it gets handed to the doctor child holding the scalpel, scissors, and pruning tools awaiting surgery. She walks on stilts that crane her ankles to precarious heights where they struggle for air. Her skin is tanned, and turkey basted to a perfect roasted brown. Her lips bleed rose-red to match her perfectly shaped fingernails giving the impression they've been stained by the raw red meat she just tore apart. Her fangs must only come out at night, but I know they are there. My vampire teacher sucks the blood out of us and paints her nails with it at night in her musty black cave. 

We sit in her dungeon room with no windows and listen to her silky voice speak her insincere assurances that we all won't fail. Sometimes she falls off the tightrope shoes, and we all struggle to muffle the volcanic laughter threatening to erupt. No one dares break the thick stale air with laughter for fear of the walls crumbling from such unfamiliar rumblings. 

Her benign name belies her poisonous bite. Miss Collins will gnaw at you until you want to scream. She'll gnash at your brain until you spill its contents, hoping to find the answer amidst the mush. And, if you are lucky, she'll only make you write the answer a thousand times until your hand turns to stone and your fingers cramp into permanent curly fries that she'll want to eat next. 

"Jonathan." "How are you coming with your creative writing?" She asks in her fake southern drawl to soothe me into showing her my paper. "Almost done, Miss Collins," I reply in my super sappy, 'gotta love me' voice. She doesn't buy it. She's coming over. She's reaching out her wretched claws as my essay hurriedly retreats from the desk. She's snatching it from my gr---------------asssss------pppppppppppp. Too late.