Endings

Today brings to a close my seventh year of participating in the Slice of Life Story Challenge. Each year, it seems, I learn something new. 

As I reflect today on this year's experience, it seems only fitting to be writing about endings. Endings were my biggest challenge this year. Sometimes the endings flowed naturally. Sometimes I knew how a piece was going to end before I even knew how it would begin. More times than I was comfortable, though, I sat and stared at the computer, wondering what on earth I was going to write to wrap it up. I'd type a sentence, backspace it away, and try something else, which often ended up being erased as well.

One day I was so frustrated, I posted on Facebook, "Looking for an ending. If anyone has any to spare, please send them my way. I've got a deadline!" Several friends and family members offered suggestions, which didn't really help me out with my piece of writing (I never did come up with an ending I liked for that one), but their suggestions lightened my mood and got me thinking.

One friend shared an old standby for elementary students: "And that's my story. I hope you liked it. The End." I laughed when I read it because it was all too true. How many stories had I read with exactly that ending? Whenever I encountered it while I was grading assignments, I would groan out loud and wonder why they wrote such a terrible ending. Weren't they paying attention when I taught them about writing conclusions in class?

Wasn't I payimg attention? Because here I am with 242 published blog posts and I still have trouble occasionally writing a satisfying ending. Why is that? 

It's really no great mystery. Each piece of writing is unique. How you conclude a piece depends on so many different variables and those variables change from piece to piece. It's no wonder that students fall back on something they know, something that gets the job done. 

For the first time, it occurred to me that as painful as that particular conclusion is, these students at least recognized what a conclusion was and that their piece of writing needed one. More practice and studying how experts do it will give them the opportunity to do better in the future. But, as I can attest, it most likely will always be challenging.

And that is one of the things I love about taking part in this month-long challenge each year. It reminds me just how difficult writing can be. That even experienced writers have bad days and struggle to find the right words to put their thoughts together. Even experienced writers are tempted to slap "The End" to their story just to be finished.

It is this renewed perspective that I bring back to the classroom each year. Knowing that the struggle is real. Knowing that when you care about what you're writing about, you're willing to work harder on it. Knowing that every piece isn't going to be perfect, but there is good to be found in each one. Knowing that endings can be hard, be they in writing or in life, but invariably they lead us to a place where we can begin something new.

Bear Hunting

 

Last summer, like a lot of people, my husband, son, and I began to get a little stir-crazy. (My younger son, not my older one; sometimes I wasn't sure the older one actually knew there was a pandemic.) My younger son and I had been home since the schools had closed their doors in mid-March. My husband, a grocery store manager, had been working extra hours and under rather insane conditions, what with all the toilet paper hoarding and all. We decided that what we needed was to get out of town and go bear hunting.

It was mid-July, when the temperatures in the Sacramento Valley can get pretty unbearable. (See what I did there?) An escape to the cooler temperatures of Lake Tahoe were welcome relief. Actually, just being in the car heading out of town was a relief. I didn't really care where we were going as long as we were going somewhere.

We had a good idea where we could find some good bear hunting. We had seen many of them gathered across the street from our favorite pizza place in South Lake Tahoe, so that was where we headed first. Sure enough, there were what seemed like hundreds of the them standing around, like they were just waiting for us to show up.

My husband, son, and I walked around, looking for just the right one. Finally, we found one we could all agree upon. He was about the right size and he had a sweet little grin on his face. He looked like he would be pleasant company. I was a little hesitant at first, though, about the sign he was carrying. "Go away," it said. I had imagined something a little more welcoming . . . like "Welcome" for instance. But my son convinced me that this was the one. Once I thought about it, I came to appreciate the humor in it.

My son decided that we should name this bear Jeff. So, we put Jeff in the car, fastened his seat belt, and headed back home, thoroughly satisfied with the success of our bear hunting trip.

All strapped in, ready to go

It's been almost a year now since Jeff came to live with us. We brought him in to hibernate for the winter, but now that the weather is warming he seems quite content in more natural surroundings. 

Jeff seems to like his new home.

I think we can all agree that 2020 was a pretty messed up year. But there were some bright spots and one of them for our family was Jeff.

Dear Mrs. Regan

The plan was to not look at work email at all during Spring Break. That lasted for about one day. Checking email is a bit of a compulsion for me, I admit. I regretted not having greater control last week when I discovered a notification of a Covid case at school. Yesterday, however, I came across this gem in my inbox that reminded me of why I love teaching.

Mrs. Regan I don't like the way my writing assignment is going on making a yummy lunch. I decided to do a new one on making a yummy breakfast. I have a pretty good Idea in my mind. I only have one question though for the topics related to the main idea: do you have to describe the topic or put the ingredients?

There is so much I love about this, aside from the fact that during Spring Break a third grader was actually thinking about an assignment we began a couple of weeks ago. 

First, there's the "I don't like the way my writing assignment is going." Ironically, I was working on my own piece of writing when I read this, and I didn't like the way mine was going either. In class, this student had dissolved into tears while planning her writing, so not liking the way it was going was a bit of an understatement. To me, her comment shows honest reflection and a real commitment to her writing.

Next, I love the way she boldly states, "I decided to do a new one." She doesn't ask, she tells. This is a writer who has identified a problem and knows how she wants to solve it. More importantly, she feels empowered to do so.

Finally, I love the statement, "I have a pretty good idea in my mind." This shows me that she has begun to think through her writing in her head and feels confident about what she wants to say. 

Now, I realize that this is just one out of twenty students. I'm certain the other 19 haven't given a passing thought to their writing or anything else we have been working on. But this one has. One out of twenty may not seem like much, but I'll take it. 

Today

Today

I leave my worries behind

and follow a road winding west.

Where it ends

gentle waves break upon the sand.

A horizon, murky and uncertain, 

stretches above an ocean dressed in battleship gray.

My footsteps trace the water's edge

but it is a feeling of peace that washes over me

Today.

Sweet Dreams

It seems like I've been having more than my fair share of bizarre dreams lately. Analyzing the one I had the other night, I think it would be fair to say that, while I may have managed to gain control over my stress during the day, it still haunts me at night.

My dream two nights ago began with some kind of meeting with the teachers at my school. None of the people in my dream are my actual coworkers, but I accept them as such.. I must arrive late, because everyone else is already sitting in chairs arranged in a semi-circle. I don't remember if I say something first, but a teacher a few chairs down from me looks at me and says, "You look like your whole body is falling apart." Ouch.

"Fuck you," I respond, standing up and starting to walk away.

There must have been some gasps because I recognize they are shocked by my response. Over my shoulder I call back, "When you say something like that, don't be surprised if you don't get a polite response."

I arrive at my classroom, which looks nothing like my actual classroom, to find a campus supervisor, who looks nothing like any of the actual campus supervisors at my school, watching my kids. I notice he and many of the kids have their masks pulled down below their chins. He speaks to me, but I don't remember what he says. I'm probably too distracted by the maskless faces around me.

Then, "Nick" walks in. He doesn't have a mask at all. When I tell him to put a mask on, he shakes his head. I ask if he has one and explain, like I have so many times in real life, that it's a rule that everyone wears a mask over their nose and mouth on campus. 

It is about this time that I become aware of a woman standing behind him. I recognize her in my dream as his mother although this woman looks nothing like his mom in real life. She, too, is maskless.

"How are you feeling?" I ask, aware that she has recently been sick.

She leans toward me and says quietly, "He has the cough Covid, but he's treating it with cough drops."

She has a big smile and she coyly shrugs her shoulders as if she's just shared the cutest thing ever.

I am horrified.

"He can't be here! If you have symptoms, and a cough is a symptom, you can't come to school," I say.

She doesn't seem to take me seriously and continues to talk about other things. I seem to remember at one point she pulls out a book and starts pointing to different recipes that she has tried. All the while, she is dipping her head and lifting one shoulder, then the other, as she shifts her weight from one side to the other. I begin to wonder if she's on drugs.

"You need to go to the office. Maybe I don't have all the information and they'll know the right questions to ask," I say. I doubt this is true, but I am desperate to get her and her son with the "cough Covid" out of my room.

Sadly, I don't remember what happened after that. And while my husband and I got a good laugh when I shared it with him in the morning, I'm really hoping my return to school after Spring Break bears no resemblance to this crazy scenario created by what must be a deeply troubled subconscious!

A Laugh to Start the Day

This morning I woke up around 3:30, sneezing. I got up, blew my nose, and hoped that would be the end of it, but no, as soon as I was back in bed, it began again. Why was I sneezing in the middle of the night? The random thought that a spider or some other creepy crawly had found its way into my nasal passages sprang from my all too vivid imagination. There was no going back to sleep after that. Not wanting to disturb my husband with the racket I was making, I grabbed my pillow and a blanket and headed downstairs.

It wasn't until just before daylight that I finally fell back to sleep. I awoke not much later to noises of doors opening and closing upstairs and to the sounds of cats doing something they surely needed to be scolded for. I was surprised, however, that neither my husband nor son had appeared in the kitchen. Thinking that maybe they were simply trying to let me sleep, I decided I had better go upstairs and let them know that I was in fact awake.

When I reached the top of the stairs, I could see that my bedroom door was open a crack. I figured my husband had opened it so Benny and Emma, two of our cats, could have a conversation. I was surprised, however, when a hand, most definitely human in form, reached out through the opening. I recognized it instantly as the hand of my younger son, Jack. He must have gone into my room to visit Emma and was attempting to play with Benny.

To be funny, I reached my hand in and quickly withdrew it. The joke was on me, though, as there was no response. I leaned over to peak inside my room. Sure enough, there was Jack sitting on the floor next to the door. His head, though, was bent down and he had his AirPods in, which explained why he hadn't reacted when I had reached my arm into the room. I reached in again, only this time I made a brain-sucking motion on top of his head. I saw him turn his head to the interior of the room as I retreated. I imagined he was expecting to see his father behind him. It must have been a surprise to see his dad still lounging on the bed.

"What?" I heard him mutter quietly, his voice imbued with utter confusion.

That's when I burst out laughing and revealed myself. Jack's eyes said, "How could you, Mom?" but the smile that could not be fully contained despite his best efforts said, "Well played, Mom. Well played."

Where the Wind Takes You

Outside my window, the wind blows and leaves, unable to hold on tight enough, tumble from their branches and scatter, bouncing around here and there before being unceremoniously dropped to the ground and forgotten.

Life can be like that sometimes, I suppose. It rips you from the familiar and tosses you around unthinkingly. In those moments there is little else to do but ride the currents as gracefully as you can and see where you land. But unlike the leaf, what happens at that point is to a certain extent up to you.

You can choose, of course, to lie there among the other discarded leaves, feeling hurt and angry, ruefully reminiscing about days gone by. You can cast about for someone to focus your anger on. Surely, it isn't your fault that you are in your current predicament. The fault
must lie elsewhere. And there, caught up in a cycle of anger and blame, your spirit dries up and crumbles into meaningless debris.

We are not leaves, however; a desolate end need not be our fate. We can, instead, accept our circumstances and simply move on. Memories of the past can nurture and sustain us rather than fuel our resentment. We can accept that change is inevitable and can be seen not as a punishment but as an opportunity. An opportunity to change and grow. An opportunity to experience the world from a different perspective. An opportunity to lay down roots somewhere new and maybe, just maybe, make the world a tiny bit better than it was before.

Things Could Be Worse

Today I hit a wall. Not literally, mind you. It has become abundantly clear, however, that I was not cut out for manual labor. My arms and shoulders were sore this morning from the previous days' activities of digging and planting, and this afternoon my lower back began shouting warnings that I had better stop if I had any hope of being able to function at all tomorrow. 

My husband was feeling it, too. So, while I cleaned up the kitchen that had been sorely neglected for the past few days, he relaxed on the couch in the adjoining family room, perusing the headlines. Suddenly, he called out to me.

"Missing woman found naked inside a Florida storm drain."

"Um, okay. And why was the woman naked in a storm drain?" I asked.

"It doesn't really say. Her mom is quoted as saying she does strange things when she does drugs."

"Ah," I said, like that explained everything.

"The woman said she wandered into a storm drain and got lost."

"Yeah, I hate it when that happens," I replied.

"She was missing for three weeks," he added.

"Nooooo," I laughed.

Naked and lost in a storm drain for three weeks. What a bizarre story! Yet after hearing it, I couldn't help but think that I am incredibly fortunate to live the life I do.

Child-Hater Bush

 "What do you think of this?" I asked, pointing to an euonymus. My husband and I were on our third daily excursion this week to the nursery, picking out plants for our yard.

"I like those. How many?" he responded, getting ready to put some on our cart.

"I'm not sure that's what I want yet," I explained, but my protestations proved to be useless as two plants were added to our cart anyway.

"We also talked about barberry," I said. "I think they are down this aisle."

We steered the cart further down the aisle to the barberry, where I pointed out the one I had seen online during my hours of research.

"I like it," he said.

"Well, I'm not sure that it will work in that spot," I cautioned.

"Let's just get it. If it doesn't work there, we'll find another spot for it," my husband said.

I had to laugh. After many years of joking about it, it looked like we were finally going to plant a "child-hater bush" in our yard.

That was the name my husband had given barberries many years ago after becoming acquainted with them at my parents' house. I had grown up with the two large barberries at the end of the driveway, one on either side. If you are familiar with the plant, you will realize it was quite an odd choice for the parents of five children. Barberries are covered in thorns. My parents swore that they liked the foliage, but I suspected that it appealed to some inner sadistic impulse on their part. I couldn't tell you how many play balls ended up flat after a misguided throw landed them in the evil clutches of the barberry's branches. Worse than that was the one time I decided it would be cool to ride my Big Wheel in the driveway with my eyes closed. A painful decision I learned quickly to never repeat. 

I hated those bushes as a kid and now here I was happily bringing one home to plant in my own yard.

After we were done planting for the day, I stood back and admired our work. Looking at the barberry, I had to admit it did have beautiful foliage. Turns out my parents were right after all.

Evening Haiku

The day is ending

Twilight softens hard edges

And I am content

A Perfect Sunday

Today might just have been the perfect Sunday.

While there were things my husband and I wanted to accomplish, there was no sense of rush, perhaps because today was the first day of an entire week off together. We allowed the day to simply move at its own pace. 

I awoke before 5:00 a.m., much earlier than I intended, but that gave me time to burrow under the warm covers and finish the book I was reading, a luxury I can't often afford when school is in session.

The rest of the day was spent alternating between visits to the nursery and working in the yard. Green beans, cucumbers, onions, and strawberries were planted and many, many weeds were pulled. Ordinarily, I'm not a fan of weeding, but today it felt good. Being immersed in nature lifted my spirit.

The highlight of the day was when a beautiful yellow butterfly came to visit. She fluttered gracefully the length of the yard, then came to rest on the ground not far from where we worked. It was like she was keeping us company, encouraging us to continue even when our backs began to ache. 

By the time we had filled our yard waste container, just in time for tomorrow's pickup so we'd be able to fill it back up again, we were tired, but it was a good tired. A tired that felt satisfying.

Although we didn't work side by side exactly, my husband and I spent the day in quiet harmony. Occasionally, we spoke of our plans for the yard and our plans for the future. Mostly, though, we just lived in the moment, feeling grateful for everything good in our lives.

Today's Forecast: A 100% Chance of Worry

This weekend had all the potential for being glorious: mostly blue skies, golden sunlight, and the beginning of a two-week Spring Break. Only problem? My son has decided to take off with a couple of friends and go to Santa Cruz. A dark cloud of worry suddenly mars the forecast.

I try not to let my anxiety ruin his excitement. When he comes into my room to exchange car keys (he's taking my car since it's newer and gets better gas mileage than his), I temper my words of caution with wishes for a fun weekend. He hands me the keys and leans over to give me a hug. Not a quick, gotta-go hug but more of a I-know-you're-worried-love-you kind of hug.

"Be careful," I say. "You are my life." 

He releases me from his embrace and steps back.

I smile as I add, "Even if you don't want to be."

He gives me a look. He doesn't leave the room, though, but hangs around for a few more minutes talking about his friends and who has been vaccinated and what their plans for the weekend are. He finally ends with another goodbye and walks out the door.

I close my eyes against the tears that are threatening to form. "Watch over him," I pray, foolishly not to God but to my dad, who I am convinced watches over all of us any time we are in the car, a belief derived no doubt from the countless road trips with my dad in the driver's seat.

The bedroom door suddenly opens.

"I'm back!"

"Wow. How was your trip?" I joke.

He grabs a mask from the pile I keep on my dresser, walks over to me, and gives me another hug goodbye.

"Be careful," I say again.

"Of course." He turns around at the door and gives me a goofy grin and a wave. Then he shuts the door and he is gone.

One Step at a Time

A revised list of job openings was posted today. My principal had texted me last night to let me know it would be coming out today, so I had had one eye on my email all morning. When it finally arrived, I was relieved to see multiple positions had been added. Maybe the perfect job for me was somewhere on the list.

I printed out the list, snapped a quick picture, and sent it to my closest friends. "Here are my choices," I wrote. "Thoughts?"

Right away one of my friends texted back. "What does your heart want?"

Ah, that's the tricky part, isn't it? 

I don't know that I have paid particular attention to my heart in recent years. I rely on my sense of responsibility and logic to lead me through life. Which probably explains why I've been stuck in the same position for 14 years now. It's safe and it's familiar, but is it what my heart has wanted? That I'm not so sure of.

Anyway, is your heart really all that reliable? What if your heart only thinks it knows what it wants and ends up leading down a most regrettable path? 

Which is where I am in my thought process right now, wondering if the direction my heart seems to be leaning is truly the right direction. Self-doubt creeps in, whispering that pain and suffering and failure lie at the end of that path. 

But I have been here before. I heard that voice many years ago when I first set out to become a teacher. I had graduated from college and was working in a clerical position at a financial consulting firm, but I had the good sense to know that wasn't where I wanted to be. Signs were pointing me toward teaching, but I feared that I wouldn't be able to do it. I couldn't picture it.

I reached a point, however, where I knew I had to try. So, I took it one step at a time, focusing on the step right in front of me and ignoring the frightening and overwhelming future it was leading me toward. One little step really isn't all that scary.

That was over 25 years ago. I admire the young woman I was then for being able to conquer fear and self-doubt and for listening to and understanding her heart.

Perhaps I need to take my cue from her by trusting my heart a little more and then just taking that first step.

A Slice Is Born

 "Maybe I take the night off," I say to my husband. 

I've been sitting for what feels like hours in front of my computer, struggling to put thoughts into coherent words. It's not that I have a lack of ideas, it's just that everything that comes to mind needs time and nurturing, two things in short supply tonight.

"Unh-uh," my husband responds.

"What?" I'm a bit taken aback. He's always been supportive of my writing, but I wasn't expecting him to be this supportive.

"Nope. Write a short poem or something. Taking one night off is easy to lead to two or three. Stay the course. That's what the Crown would do."

I laugh at the tie-in to the show we've been watching lately. I'm not sure I see a connection, but okay. Besides, my blank screen has suddenly filled with words. And once again, I owe my husband a debt of gratitude for his support for this crazy annual endeavor of mine.

Now What?

Have you ever felt pretty sure you knew what was what and told yourself you were okay with it? Then, you got confirmation and you felt yourself completely flattened by it? Like, you knew in your heart what was coming, yet you feel caught off guard when the moment actually arrives?

That was my experience today. My team was informed on Monday that we were losing a third grade class next year, so one of us would be involuntarily transferred. Everyone else has been there longer than me, so I knew it would be me. I told myself that I was okay with that.  And I was.

Until today.

Today confirmation was delivered. After twenty years I am being forced out. 

It hit me harder than I expected.

Tomorrow, I will begin to contemplate all the possibilities that lie before me. Tonight, I thought I'd allow myself a minute to grieve and worry about what comes next.

"Is it okay if I'm just depressed and feel sorry for myself tonight?" I asked my husband and son.

"Of course," my husband replied.

My son came over and rubbed my back, a look of concern in his eyes.  "Remember, we have Lucky Charms'" he said. "They're magically delicious!"

I laughed.

"They didn't work for Mom; she still lost her job," my husband added.

I laughed even more.

Who can stay depressed when surrounded by such wit?

Cheerful Anticipation

 Outside

Clear blue skies

sparkling sunshine

white blossoms swirling on gentle breezes

Inside

Smiling faces

lightened hearts

laughter ringing in cheerful anticipation

Spring Break is on its way

An Act of Obstinance

Today was the kind of day that left me with thoughts swirling around in my brain, none of which wanted to stick.

"I don't know what to write. Maybe I just won't write tonight," I told my husband. 

No sooner were the words out of my mouth than I realized that I had to write.  If I were to give up tonight, what would make me come back tomorrow?

One thing I know to be true about me is that I am not one to give up. I may ask that you give me five minutes so that I may wallow in self-pity, but then I'll be back full throttle. Defeat is something I will not admit.

So, even though I did not have any solid train of thought and my writing most likely would run right off the tracks, I sat down to write. It was an act of obstinance, perhaps, but I'd like to think it was also an act of courage, an act of faith. 

Slow-Moving Sunday

I woke up this morning and looked at the clock. 6:00 a.m. Only it wasn't really. It was actually 7:00. Sadly, an hour of my day was gone just like that. I don't know whose brilliant idea it was to have Daylight Saving Time take place in the wee hours of a Sunday. Sundays already go by too fast as it is.

A storm is slowly moving into our area, so skies are gray and imbue the day with heavy resignation. There is much I should do; little I am interested in doing.

It is the only day off that my husband and I share, so we work together to build some planter boxes we had ordered and have been sitting in the living room waiting patiently for us to assemble. It feels good to create, and even better, we now have an excuse to go to the nursery, one of my favorite places to go. We know what we are looking for, but I find reasons to wander, weaving up and down the aisles of greenery. I feel my spirit buoyed by the beauty that surrounds me.

Then it is home again, to plant and eat lunch while watching a bit of The Crown, our latest guilty pleasure. We order our groceries online, one more household responsibility that can be checked off our list, so we can claim that we have been productive. There is laundry to fold and bathrooms to clean, but I stall by writing instead. I have no epic or grand adventure to share, only the tale of a quiet, slow-moving Sunday. Which was exactly what I needed.

Some Evenings Just Call for Wine and Chocolate

Life felt heavy yesterday. 

I'm not sure exactly why. Maybe it was a subconscious thing, recognizing that it was the one-year anniversary of getting the word that our school was shutting down due to the pandemic. 

Maybe it was experiencing a second bad day in a row with N. It had started off promising, with him declaring that he had actually eaten breakfast, but it wasn't long before I noticed that once again he was putting his head down on his desk, refusing to follow directions.

Maybe it was realizing that for the fourth week in a row, only six students had completed any of the optional homework assignments I had made available. 

Maybe it was getting to the end of the day, wanting to go home before five o'clock, but realizing that there were Chromebooks and library books that needed sanitizing, piles of papers that needed grading, emails to send, lessons to plan, and an engagement report that needed to be filed.

Maybe it was receiving word that our principal wanted to meet with our grade level on Monday to talk about next year's staffing and experiencing that sinking feeling that I will end up being the one asked to leave as we lose a third grade class next year.

Maybe it was learning that the eagles' nest that my students and I have been observing all year had suffered a tragic loss, all three eggs, just days away from hatching, destroyed by ravens.

Maybe it was all those things and a million other little, unidentified worries and wonderings that when piled on top of one another, just proved to be too heavy a load to bear.

Whatever the reason, by the time I left work last night I felt empty and spent. 

A glass of wine and some chocolate seemed to be in order. to try to mend my broken spirit. After that, all that was left to do was to pray that when the sun rose in the morning my strength would be restored, and I would once more be able to lift up the burden and carry on.

A Most Unusual Habit for a Cat

Meow, meow.

"Just a second, Emma," I say.

I walk over to the shower, open the door, and turn it on. The black and white bear of a cat that formerly belonged to my mother, pushes past me and gets in. There she sits, lapping up water from the bottom of the shower or licking it off her paws. Then, she turns her face up and drinks in the drops as they cascade down on top of her.

"Okay, Emma. My turn," I say after a few minutes. Usually she dutifully lumbers out on cue. Sometimes she needs to be coaxed. Her head glistens with the tiny drops of water that cling to her fur and whiskers. As I walk past her, she gives her head a shake, sending those drops of water, now cold, directly in my path where they land on my legs. A shower before my shower.

"Crazy cat," I mutter as I take my place in the shower.

She walks away to settle down somewhere to lick the remaining drops from her fur. But when it's time for the next shower, she'll be back.

My Miracles

I lay awake in the dark bedroom, minutes before the alarm was scheduled to ring. Too late to try to go back to sleep, I followed the meandering path of my thoughts, which led me to what is now a fairly distant memory. It was a happy one, so I immersed myself in its warm embrace.

Many years ago, I decided to perform an experiment. To better understand the reasons for my experiment, I have to wander back to an even more distant memory. After struggling for years with infertility and suffering a miscarriage, almost nineteen years ago I successfully brought a beautiful baby boy into the world. Needless to say, that was one of the happiest days of my life. Within minutes of giving birth, it seemed, my husband was talking about having another baby. But I was content. I had my miracle. How could I possibly want for more?

A few years later, I was surprised to find myself experiencing that longing to feel a child growing within me and to hold a newborn in my arms. I blame it on the fact that we were experiencing another rash of pregnancies at work. Whatever the reason, I began to think more and more about having another baby. But given everything we had gone through before our first, did I really want to go through that again?

A funny thing had happened, though, in the years following the birth of my son. My body had finally settled into a rhythm that I thought I could recognize. I was curious to find out if I was right.

Now, we are all adults, so I am confident that I don't need to describe what this experiment entailed. I will say, however, that a few weeks after my experiment, the visitor I was expecting had failed to arrive. I was dumbfounded. There was no way that after all the struggle to get pregnant the first time I had managed to get pregnant on the first try. I actually felt foolish buying a pregnancy test. I'm being stupid, I told myself. There's just no way.

Except there was. The test was positive. I remember walking out of the bathroom completely stunned. My husband happened to be there, unaware of what was going on.

"I think I'm pregnant," I told him. I don't think I have ever seen him so overjoyed.

Nine months later, I cradled in my arms a second precious son, a second little miracle.

The Extra Mile

"I had a customer in tears today," my husband said to me.

He had told me earlier about all his registers crashing during the day and the chaos that had resulted as IT worked to get them back up. As you can imagine, inoperative cash registers in a major grocery store is not a good thing. I could easily picture a customer, standing in a long line with a cart full of groceries and perhaps a young crying child, dissolving into tears herself in that situation.

As it turns out, my imagining was far from the real story.

The customer my husband described was actually a man in his mid- to late-sixties, and he wasn't crying out of desperation or frustration. He was crying out of gratitude.

My husband had seen the man many times shopping in his store, always alone. What he didn't know until this day was that this customer was alone because a disability made it difficult for his wife to shop with him. In fact, it made it difficult for her to even come into the store.

On this particular occasion, the man had come not to shop but to get his Covid vaccine. While he was there, he told the pharmacist about his wife. She was in the car, but unable to come in to get a shot herself.

The pharmacist could have said that's too bad. He could have said he'd be happy to give her a shot if the man could find a way to get her inside the store. He didn't say either of those things.

Instead, he gathered up the necessary supplies and followed the man out to his car and gave his wife the injection.

It was a small act of kindness and compassion, but even small acts have the power to move a man to tears.

An Unexpected Act of Kindness

I opened my classroom door to welcome my students. Although the bell had just rung, the girl who is usually first through the door was already standing there. In her hands, was a bunch of roses.

She walked into our classroom, turned around, and held the flowers out to me.

"Are these for me?" I asked. I was somewhat bewildered. It wasn't Valentine's Day and it wasn't my birthday. I couldn't think of a single reason for this gift.

"They're for International Women's Day," she responded before heading to her desk to get settled in for the day.

"Thank you, they're beautiful," I said.

And just like that, my day was turned around. The residue of my Monday morning grumblings of "I don't want to go to work" instantly faded away and the weight of the day and all I needed to accomplish suddenly didn't feel quite so heavy.

It's amazing what a simple act of kindness can do. 

There's Always the Tent Trailer

One-something a.m. and I'm wide awake staring at the ceiling, wishing desperately to go back to sleep. It's Sunday, the only day of the week we don't have to set an alarm, and I want a good night's sleep, dammit.

But sleep isn't coming. Instead, a steady unnnnnk-shoo rises and falls just next to me in bed. My exaggerated rolling over is doing nothing to interrupt the rhythm. In defeat, I grab my pillow and a blanket and head downstairs to the couch, praying that the sound won't carry through the ceiling. Pulling my blanket around me to protect myself from the cold, I close my eyes and sigh. Peace and quiet at last. . .

"Good morning, honey," I say when my husband enters the family room several hours later.

"Couldn't sleep?" he asks.

"Not really. It was a little noisy in our room last night," I explain.

"You should have told me to sleep on the couch," he says. "I was the one snoring."

"Exactly. You were sleeping peacefully, I was the one with the problem. It made more sense for me to come down here."

"How did you sleep?" he asks.

"Okay. Until the cats started jumping on the couch and Benny had to be shooed away from the Christmas cactus because he was eating it. Then he started eating the fern. Later, he and Penny both got on the couch and wanted to be in the same spot next to my legs on the blanket, so they started fighting."

"That doesn't sound too restful," he says.

"Not really. What I need to do is get a more comfortable mattress for the futon in the office. I'm not sure that's far enough away, you do snore pretty loudly, but at least with a wall between us it may dampen the sound enough for me to fall asleep."

"Well," he says, laughing, "there's always the tent trailer."

I laugh. Yes, I think, there's always the tent trailer. I just hope it never comes to that.

.

Overdue

Ugh.

Another automated notice from my son's school that a math assignment that was due on Friday is late.

I don't know why, but he has struggled all year in this class. Not so much with the material, although I think that, too, has been difficult, but with getting things turned in on time. Jack is very responsible about completing his work, so I can't quite figure out where the disconnect is. There is definitely a disconnect, though, in this class at least.

I am tempted to blame it on this crazy year. Like me, he started the year full distance learning before moving to a hybrid schedule of half the school attending in-person alternate days. Then, for some strange reason, they changed to a different hybrid schedule. He now goes to school every day, but for only half the day, so he attends only half of his classes each day. Which means, of course, he is still only attending his classes every other day and half of his work has to be completed asynchronously. 

When I tell him that I have received a notice of an overdue assignment, I see the frustration and stress settle into his face.

All I can think is, this school year can't end fast enough.  

Boys Being Boys?

I grew up in a predominantly female household. My only brother is sixteen years older than I am, and he had moved out of the house before I turned four. So, when I gave birth to two boy babies, thereby forever securing my position as the only female in the house, I created a very unfamiliar situation for myself.

I had often heard the phrase, "boys will be boys," but I didn't really understand what that meant until I was surrounded by them. They're just, well, different. Luckily, my boys aren't particularly rowdy, but even so, there have always been differences in how they play, what they do for entertainment, and their perception that openly farting around others is perfectly acceptable. I think I've done an okay job of accepting these differences and just rolling with them.

One thing I still have a hard time understanding, though, is sleepovers. Maybe I'm unusual in my desire to sleep in my own bed and not be surrounded by others, husband excluded, of course. My older son, however, is often asking if he can sleep over at a friend's house. (Yeah, I know what you're thinking, but I don't think they're up to no good. I hope.) We don't really have the space in our house, and with the pandemic, my son knows that I don't like to have a lot of different people in the house. He came up with a solution to both problems: our tent trailer.

It started last summer. He wanted to have his friends over after graduation. Since he had missed out on so much - senior prom, grad night, senior trip to Disneyland, an actual graduation - how could I say no to such a small request? So, we pulled the tent trailer out of the garage and set it up in the driveway, where he and a couple of his friends spent the night. They loved it!

I was a bit surprised, though, when he asked a few nights ago if he could have his friends over to spend the night in the tent trailer. It's still pretty cold at night, down in the low 40s or upper 30s, so that didn't sound like an enjoyable experience to me. But what do I know? Permission was granted and once again the tent trailer was hauled out of the garage and set up in the driveway.

Since these events start after I go to bed, it wasn't until I looked out the window Friday morning and saw the extra cars parked at the end of our court that I knew for certain that the sleepover had occurred. They had had a sleepover a few nights before and survived, so I was fairly certain I wasn't going to discover frozen college students in my driveway when I left for work. I also wasn't expecting to discover what I did.

As I headed to my car, parked next to the tent trailer, I realized that there was someone standing outside the trailer on the other side. All I could see was the bottom of a pant leg. Well, that and a stream of urine arching into the bark on the side of the driveway.

I'm not sure, but I may have gasped out loud when I realized what I was witnessing. I stopped in my tracks. What should I do? If I continued around the front of my car to the driver's side, that might expand my view and lead to an awkward encounter. Quickly, I changed course and went around the back of the car instead, got in, and backed out of the driveway.

Needless to say, I was disgusted and mortified by what I had seen. But I have to confess, I had to chuckle when I thought about what that kid must have been thinking when he heard me get in my car.

Friday Tired

I'm tired.

This isn't an unusual thing for a Friday. By the end of the week, I generally feel like I'm limping to the finish line. If it's been a particularly bad week, I'm crawling. Today, though, it's more than just the end-of-the-week tired. It's more like I've-had-enough-of-this-past-year tired.

And honestly, who isn't? I think we have all had enough of this past year. It has been mentally and emotionally exhausting. If I hear the words "flexible" or "self-care" one more time, I'm pretty sure I'm going to explode. "Flexible" has been overused for years whenever someone wants you to do something no one in their right minds would want to do, but they don't want hear any complaints. And we all know that "self-care" really means "take care of yourself because we have no intention of doing anything to make your life easier."

Take my district's latest move for an example. Rumor has it that they are planning on moving us to a normal schedule (all students, all day, five days a week) after our spring break. Okay, I get it. There's a lot of pressure to make sure that kids are back at school and since the powers that be have decided that standardized testing is an absolute must in this year that has been anything but standard, we need to have more time to sit them in front of computers to take nonsensical tests. But we just changed our schedule in the last few weeks to all students, five days a week, for four hours a day. That leaves us with two hours left of our contract time after the kids go home. Rather than acknowledge all the hard work and the stress of this near-impossible year (we started with distance learning and moved to hybrid - 1/2 class in the morning, 1/2 class in the afternoon - before changing to our current schedule) and allowing us this time to plan and prepare for the upcoming change I am convinced they knew was coming, our administrators demanded that we hold interventions for struggling students. It's not that I mind helping my students. I actually enjoy the opportunity to work with them in small groups. The frustration stems from the fact that after all the planning, all the inconvenience to students and parents to have them either return to school or hop on Zoom each afternoon, we will end up doing it for just two to three weeks before the new change in schedule.

Why? Do they not understand what effect all of this has on their staff? Or do they simply not care?

Don't get me wrong. I know that there are teachers out there who have it way worse than I do. I cringe in horror anytime I read about teachers who are instructing in person and over Zoom at the same time. That would have thrown me over the edge for sure.

I realize that this is sounding an awful lot like a rant, and if you read my blog on the first day of the Challenge this year, you may be wondering, "Where's the gratitude?" It's a fair point. Not too long ago, a family member chastised me for expressing my fear of being in a room all day with people outside my household and the constant stress that the situation presented. I was told I should be thankful I had a job because there were mothers wondering how they were going to feed their children. 

Of course I was grateful that my husband and I both had jobs. I can't even imagine the amount of stress that some families have had to endure over the last year. But does that invalidate my feelings of apprehension? Does practicing gratitude mean you never experience any other emotion?

I don't believe that to be the case. No matter how grateful you are for the blessings in your life and how often you express that gratitude, there are still going to be situations and circumstances that are going to prove trying. Things could be always be worse than what you're  experiencing. But would you really think to say to someone who has, say, lost a limb, "Well, just be thankful you didn't lose two." I don't think so. And if you would, you might want to avoid talking in those types of situations. 

My point is this: you can be grateful for what you have and still recognize what is wrong in your life and in the world. I do believe it is possible to hold two feelings, even conflicting ones, at the same time. We can see all that is good in the world and still recognize what remains to be improved. My feeling nervous being in a classroom and possibly getting a serious illness as a result did not negate my gratitude for still being employed. Gratitude does not eliminate negative emotions nor does it shield us from the stress and sorrows of living, it simply gives us the strength to endure the burdens that life sometimes bestows upon us.

This Mother's Heart

Today has begun like most days do. The cats have all been fed and there's hot coffee in a mug on the table beside me, as well as more in the pot in the kitchen. The date on the calendar has been changed and the thermostat turned up to a suitable daytime temp. A quick check of the driveway confirmed that my son made it home safely last night. All the little routines that generally bring me a sense of order and calm have been performed. Yet, I sense a bubble of apprehension deep inside. 

Maybe it's because I was off yesterday, and there is always a fear of not knowing exactly what you'll find when you return to your classroom the next day. Did everything get done? Did I leave something vital out of my plans? Did the kids rebel in my absence? In over 25 years of teaching, I've experienced it all, so any apprehension in that regard would not be misplaced.

I think, however, my worry is a bigger and more personal one. Today, my son is getting the first dose of the Covid-19 vaccine.

His father and I have both been vaccinated as have my in-laws and several people I work with. Personal experience should ease my mind. But one word pops into my brain whenever I connect the vaccine with my son: anaphylaxis.

Ever since I learned that some people experienced an anaphylactic reaction to the vaccine, I've been worried. The memory of my son's own anaphylactic reaction to a peanut butter cookie when he was not quite two years old still resides vividly in my brain. The fear was so strong watching my baby cough and wheeze that just recalling it all these years later brings tears to my eyes. What if it happens again and I'm not there to make sure he gets the care he needs?

********************************************************

It has now been over seven hours since my son's appointment. Happily my fears were not realized. He made it through with nothing more than a sore arm, at least so far. 

And this mother's heart couldn't be more grateful.

Sick Day

 "Bye, honey," my husband said this morning before heading off to work. "Have a good day. And don't feel guilty."

Ah, he knows me so well.

Guilt was exactly what I was feeling as I sat on my bed, still dressed in my pajamas. After spending the entire previous day experiencing the side effects of my Covid-19 vaccination--chills, a dull headache, and fatigue that had urged me to go to bed at 6:30 p.m.-- I had made the decision to put in for a sub and stay home today. I had awakened feeling better, although the fatigue still lingered. The moment I woke up, I checked to make sure I actually had a sub, figuring I could go in if I had to. I was relieved to see a sub had accepted the job. Relieved but guilt-ridden.

I'm not really sure why I'm feeling guilty. I have only missed one day this year, a personal day taken to attend the virtual parents' weekend for my son's college. And what am I spending my day off doing? Working. My district has mandated that we hold interventions in the afternoon after the kids go home at 12:45, so I am busy today planning for my reading group that begins tomorrow. Later on, I am sure I will begin working on lesson plans for next week. So, really, what is there to feel guilty about? I may be home, but the work continues.

This is the way I have always been, though. I remember one time in high school I was sick and I asked my mom if I should stay home. She told me it was up to me. Not the answer I was looking for. I needed permission from someone else, someone older and more responsible, to stay home. I needed someone to tell me I was making the right decision. I realize I still do. Last night I turned to my husband for reassurance that it was okay to stay home, okay to put me first and take care of myself.

Why do I need reassurance that taking a sick day is not some sort of mortal sin? Is it the result of a heightened sense of responsibility? Do I believe that my presence is so vital that I'm letting others down if I don't show up? And why does that reassurance do nothing to assuage the guilt?

I suspect that there are many women, perhaps mothers especially, who can relate. We feel it is our responsibility to show up no matter what. Others are depending on us. Being responsible and dependable are certainly admirable traits. This mindset, however, often comes at a great expense to ourselves. Yes, there is great satisfaction in giving to others. But we need to be able to step back every once in a while, take a moment to ourselves to nurture and refuel ourselves, and to do it without guilt.

I know that tomorrow I will be back at it full force. I will have both the energy and the patience that is needed to deal with 20 third graders (one in particular) all day, all because I took time to take care of myself. That sounds like a win-win situation to me, something to be applauded, not something to feel guilty about.

The Second Dose

 Two hours should have been plenty of time to prepare for the next day. The clock, however, doesn't lie, and its hands were telling me it was almost time to leave if I was going to make it to my appointment on time. Frantically, I looked about me. There were still piles on my desk that needed to be addressed, lesson plans that needed a final once-over, and a stack of Chromebooks that needed to be sanitized before being put away.

Although there was still more to do, I had accomplished the absolute bare minimum by the time I walked through my door and hurried to the parking lot. Glancing at the clock in my car, I thought I might still be able to make it on time.

I didn't. Not exactly. It was a couple of minutes after my 3:15 appointment time when I pulled into the Safeway parking lot. Driving down one of the aisles, looking for a parking place, I spotted my masked husband walking down the aisle toward the store. He had made it!

Dan had told me the day before that he would try to leave work early so that he could go with me to my appointment for my second dose of the Covid-19 vaccine. Though well-intended, it was a promise I wasn't sure he would be able to deliver on. His is not a job from which he can always make a quick getaway. I honked as I drove past him and pulled into a spot. Smiling, I got out of the car.

"You made it," I said.

"I wouldn't miss seeing someone cause you pain," he responded as he reached for my hand.

"Ah, so the truth comes out!" I laughed.

I don't know why I was nervous, but I was a little. I had experienced nothing but a sore arm after the first dose and I knew any side effects wouldn't occur until later. Yet, there was something about being alone while having a needle jabbed into my arm that didn't really appeal to me. I mean, what if something did go wrong and I ended up on the floor in the middle of the grocery store? At least this way my husband would be there to take care of the clean-up on aisle 10.

We walked to the back of the store to the pharmacy. There were several other people standing around waiting, so I guess it didn't really matter that I was late after all. When it was my turn and I had stated my purpose, I was asked, "Do you have your card?"

"No, I wasn't given anything at my last appointment, " I explained. I hadn't realized until I left the store the last time that I hadn't received the little card with my vaccination information on it. I didn't think at the time it was a big deal. Apparently, it was.

"You didn't get an immunization record?" she asked, holding up an example of the card that I should have been given but most definitely was not. She had a look of exasperation on her face.

"No, I didn't get anything," I said. Hadn't I just told her that?

She turned away, presumably to find a solution to the non-existent vaccination record. I sat down in one of the designated folding chairs casually set up in the middle of the aisle to wait my turn for torture. Before too long, the pharmacist opened the door and came out. 

"We can do it here, Your left arm okay?" he asked.

"Yes." I obediently took off my cardigan and offered my arm. A quick swipe with an alcohol pad, a forceful jab of a needle that my husband seemed to take pleasure in informing me was really big, and the slap of a Band-aid to cover the hole in my arm, and I was good to go. Well, not exactly.

"Wait here for 15 minutes," he said, handing me my new and complete immunization card, and he walked away.

I started to swing my arm around as soon as he left.

"A nurse told me that if you move your arm around after a vaccine, it will keep it from pooling in your muscle, or something like that, and it won't hurt as much," I explained to my husband who was in the process of moving away from me, pretending not to know me. "You won't be laughing tomorrow if my arm doesn't hurt," I said.

"What if it hurts worse?" he asked.

"Well, then we'll know it doesn't work."

We were in need of food for dinner, so my husband urged me to use my 15 minutes to shop for groceries.

"But the pharmacist said I was supposed to wait here," I explained. I tend to be a bit of a rule follower.

"He doesn't care. Come on." Rule following is clearly not as important to my husband. Equally clear is the fact that I am easily led astray, for I stood up and dutifully followed him out of the pharmacy area.

By the time we had shopped for our groceries and paid for them, my 15 minutes was just about up. I had made it this far; hopefully there would be no awful side effects in my near future.

In the parking lot, my husband got in his car and I got in mine. I followed him the few short blocks to our house, thankful that the second dose was now behind me.

My arm might be hurting (I'm beginning to suspect that nurse told me to swing it simply for her own amusement), but I have no problem finding reasons to feel grateful.. I feel grateful for scientists who devote themselves to solving puzzles, grateful that I was able to get vaccinated without jumping through hoops like so many others have had to do, and most of all, grateful for a husband who can be counted on to see me through my anxious moments.