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?

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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.

Indulging in the Journey

 It's late Sunday afternoon and I am finally granting myself permission to sit without guilt. The morning was spent cleaning house and doing laundry; the afternoon, writing lesson plans and doing more laundry. Now, it's time for me.

I've made myself a cup of tea that sits on the small table next to my chair. The sweet and spicy scent is comforting, just what I was seeking, as I rock gently back and forth. The room is beginning to darken, though I can still spot splashes of golden sunlight outside my window.

I now realize that I've been living in a state of panic for days, worried that come March 1, the first day of the Slice of Life Story Challenge, I would not know what to write. That I would have nothing to say. It's not really that I have nothing to say, just so many thoughts these days seem half-conceived before they evaporate and another one takes its place., only for it, too, to disappear. My inner-critic writes in red ink all over my brain, telling me my ideas aren't fully developed and I have not proved my point. Yeah, my inner-critic is a bit of a jerk.

So, I guess I'll begin this year's Slice of Life Story Challenge by being completely upfront and honest. I don't have any answers. You're not likely to find on these pages delicious bits of wisdom that were just what you were looking for to make sense of life and the human experience. More likely, you're only going to find endless questions and wild ruminations as I ponder what life and its daily miracles and mayhem might possibly mean.

It's only fitting, I suppose, that the quote on the tea bag tag dangling down the side of my mug is this: Life isn't a puzzle to solve but a journey to indulge in. (Amber Mejia) I am, I'm afraid, forever trying to solve the puzzle. And failing miserably, I might add. Where is the wisdom that was promised would come with age? All I've gotten so far is a bunch of lines and gray hairs. 

"Indulge."

I keep coming back to that word. What a joyous way to look at life! As something rich and decadent and on the verge of being forbidden. That is to live life with gusto, not weighed down by the fear of unseen forces that could knock you off your feet at any given moment or the thought that you owe anyone outside your inner circle more than what you're willing to give. It is to live life with appreciation, savoring every moment of the ride.

Which is another way to say, I do believe, that life needs to be lived with a grateful heart. It is appreciating all the moments, the good and the bad, too, perhaps. Some days this is more easily achieved than others, I will admit. On the brightest days, my heart swells with gratitude for all the blessings that have been bestowed upon me. Those are the days when indulging in life is a joy. Other days, well, it's a bit of a struggle. Irritations and disappointments seem to pile up before me, creating a mountain of bitterness blocking all else from view. Finding gratitude on those days is like trying to find the proverbial needle in a haystack. Those kinds of days are, of course, the ones when we need gratitude the most.

So, today I am grateful to be participating in the Slice of Life Story Challenge once more, where I will be compelled to savor the moments of each day, to find the richness in the simplicity, and indulge in this journey we call life.