"So, Mom, can I have people over tonight?" my teenage son asked as I poured my second cup of coffee, trying to fight off the effects of waking up at 3:00 a.m.
"Tonight?" I asked, trying to hold back the Oh, God, no! that threatened to burst from my lips.
"Yeah. We have a meet tomorrow." Of course. Meet tomorrow means a house full of teenagers tonight. Can't race without carbo-loading the night before.
"What time?" I asked, still unwilling to give up my vision of a quiet evening recovering from the day's adventures in my third grade classroom.
"7:00."
"So, you're not making dinner?" I asked.
"No, I am," he responded.
Pause. How could I say no? I tried not to whimper when I acquiesced. "Okay, fine. But you have to make sure you clean up after yourself and not too late. Your dad and I have to get up early and go to work in the morning."
Where did this kid come from? I wondered, not for the first time. This kid who always has to be on the go, who loves having people over and cooking for them even though his cooking skills are somewhat lacking, and who is happiest when surrounded by his people.
In other words, this kid is nothing like me. Perhaps that is what I love about him the most.
So, here I sit tonight, struggling to hear the t.v. over the sounds of male voices and laughter leaping over and colliding with each other. It is the sound of youth and exuberance, of vitality and optimism. It is a sound I know I will miss in a few months when my firstborn heads off to college and takes the first step in establishing a life apart from me. The day I have to face that reality will come soon enough and I have no doubt I will experience a sadness unlike any I've ever felt before, but not tonight.
Tonight I feel nothing but gratitude for nights just like tonight.
I looked at my reflection in the mirror. Nope, no way to make this outfit look attractive. The white crew neck tee with the blue and orange logo large and spreading across my chest left much to be desired. I don't remember ever hearing in college that when you're a teacher, there will be days you'll be forced to put on clothes you wouldn't ordinarily wear out in public. Was that written in the contract and I somehow missed it? It was for a good cause, I supposed, and resignedly headed off to work.
As expected, energy was quite high at school as the students eagerly anticipated the main event of the day: the annual Fun Run.
The first indication that this day was destined to be a bit of a lost cause was when I was walking to class after the first bell and another teacher stopped me to fill me in on the misadventures of one of my students. Sheesh, the day had just officially started and already there were problems.
The fun continued when my class entered the room. Their Fun Run t-shirts were waiting for them on their desks.
"Put on your shirts and get ready for the run. We have to be out there in 15 minutes," I informed them. All around the room, exuberant third graders began to put on their shirts.
"I'm not going to wear this shirt," came a loud voice from the center of the room. I'd recognize that voice anywhere.
I walked over to K's desk.
"You need to put on your shirt," I repeated, trying my best to be patient. "We need to get ready for the Fun Run. Everyone's participating."
"I'm not participating. I didn't get any pledges. I'm not participating."
Ugh. This was going nowhere fast.
"Put on your shirt," I said one more time as I walked away. Fortunately, the girl sitting next to K somehow managed to convince him to put it on, so he was ready to go when it was time to line up.
I should have known it wouldn't end there. Watching the excited runners take off around the course, one runner caught my eye. There was K in the middle of the track, waddling like a one hundred year-old duck.
At the end of the race, everyone excitedly shared the number of laps they completed.
"I got 36!"
"I got 43!"
"I got 50!"
"I did 6."
Not bad for a one hundred year-old duck, I suppose.
After taking a class photo, we returned to our classroom for some much needed water, snacks, and rest. Maybe now that the kids had gotten some exercise and had a little recovery time, we would be able to get some work done.
"Mrs. Regan, my knee really hurts. I can barely walk," B said, with a wounded look on her face. She had told me the same thing immediately after the run, so I knew I wasn't going to be able to convince her that she would recover if she just sat down and rested for a bit. With a sigh, I reached for the health pass, filled it out and handed it to her, sending her on her merry way to the office.
"Mrs. Regan. . ." came another voice. "I have a blister."
Lifting up her foot, N slipped it out of her shoe to reveal her injury.
"You're not wearing socks," I pointed out.
"I know. We were in a real hurry this morning."
How do you not have time for socks? I wondered. Looking at her sad, woe-is-me face, I could see there was no way she would be satisfied with simply putting a band-aid on it. One more health pass and student number two was on her way to the office.
Even with two casualties, the show must go on.
"Okay, everybody, time to get out your math homework to correct," I said.
Looking around the room to make sure everyone did in fact have their math in front of them, I notice L. There he was, sitting quietly, ready to correct his homework, the paper cup from the water handed out at the run hanging off his ear.
Okay, a little strange, but we had just finished the run, so he was probably still just feeling the rush of the endorphins. Or something like that. I didn't really have a plausible explanation for why the cup reappeared on his ear after lunch and again after the final recess.
I have to say, though, that despite the resistance, the injuries, and the slightly odd behavior afterward, the Fun Run was indeed a fun event. For the most part anyway.
Exhausted, and just a little depressed to think it was only Tuesday, I sat at my desk eating my Chobani Flip and trying desperately to find the motivation to do something, anything, productive. I looked at the clock and sighed. 4:25. I really needed to get a move on. There were piles crying out to be tackled and bulletin boards several months behind the times waiting dejectedly for my attention. Suddenly, a thought exploded through my lethargy. Today was the first day of track practice for my younger son, Jack, and I needed to pick him up at 5:00. How could I have forgotten?
Quickly I finished my yogurt, gathered up my belongings, and headed toward the door. Knowing it would be a good hour before I arrived home, I decided it would be in my best interest to make a pit stop at the restroom before starting my drive across town. Turning away from the bathroom door after double-checking that it was indeed locked, I caught a glimpse of the thought bubble someone had attached to the mirror. (A basket of various sayings had appeared in both restrooms months before. No idea why.) Today's thought: What's stopping you?
Hmm, good question. What is stopping me? Stopping me from quitting, that is.
It makes me sad to admit that it is a question I've been asking myself a lot lately. As I drove through the streets of town to pick up my son, I began to compose a list of what does stop me from walking out the door never to return.
The first thing that came to mind was the fear of the unknown. I suppose this is what stops me from doing most things. If I quit, then what? I have no plans and really, no marketable skills. (I'm not sure how the equivalent of herding 25 cats all day translates in the world outside education. Unless there really is such thing as a cat wrangler.) The last twenty-five years have been devoted to teaching. It's all I know, all I'm really trained to do. To jump ship now and change course seems downright crazy. Courageous, too, perhaps, but undeniably crazy.
Another important consideration at this point in my life is the effect it would have on my retirement. I've spent enough time on the online retirement calculators to realize if I have any hope of receiving a decent pension, I need to stick it out for another 10 years. TEN. Some days I'm really not sure that I can last that long while maintaining my physical and mental health. But if I don't, I stand to lose out on thousands of dollars a month. Having seen how much money my mother had to spend in her final years of life, I know there's no way I could survive without that full pension. So, let's add fear of poverty to the list.
Then, there's the fact that I would be sacrificing having eight weeks off in summer. Again, I've been teaching for twenty-five years, and let's be honest, it's pretty nice having those weeks to unwind and rejoin the world of the sane. While I realize that 40 50-hour work weeks equal 50 40-hour work weeks, I think I'd miss those extra days of being able to skip the whole get dressed, put on make-up, and drive to work routine.
Sitting in my car, waiting for my son to appear after practice, one final answer shyly nudged its way into my conscious thought. Quite possibly, the thing that really keeps me holding on is the slightest glimmer of hope. Hope that behavior and standards and curriculum and district expectations and support will get better. Hope that I will find the joy and passion that I began my career with. Hope that I will find the energy I need to not simply get through the day but to embrace and enjoy every minute. Hope that I can be the surrogate parent to the kids whose real parents are just too busy to give them the attention they need. Hope that I can figure out how to satisfy the multitude of needs, both academic and social-emotional, that arrive in my classroom every day.
Fear may have the ability to stop us dead in our tracks, but hope is what keeps driving us on.
Even though it was Monday, the day started off full of promise. The sky was blue and the air had the feeling of spring, light-sweater warm as opposed to heavy-jacket cold.
Walking up to my line of students waiting to be led to the classroom for the school day to begin, you could feel the excitement. Many were carrying extra bags overflowing with pillows and stuffed animals and favorite books to read. We had decided last week that we would do nothing but read, read, read for the first hour and a half of school to celebrate Read Across America Day. After being out sick last Thursday and Friday, I was looking forward to a little quiet time to get caught up on the mountain of paperwork piled high on my desk.
I wasn't too surprised or too worried when it took my class a while to find their spot, lay out their blankets, and settle down. Settling down quickly is a skill this particular group of kids hasn't quite mastered yet. After a few "Okay, we should all be settled down and quietly reading" announcements from me, they finally quieted down and began to read. Well, mostly. I found myself on several occasions winding my way between blankets and stuffed animals, trying not to step on outstretched legs as I made my way to the other side of the room to remind students they should be reading and not talking. Or throwing stuffed animals.
On one of my many passes through the obstacle course of third graders, one of my students approached me at the back of the room.
"Mrs. Regan, my neck hurts," J. whined.
"I'm sure that's just because of how you've been lying on the floor. Change your position," I suggested.
He quietly went back to his spot to continue reading and I returned to my desk once again. It wasn't long, though, before I was making my way back to the rear of the classroom. Once again, J. followed me.
"Mrs. Regan, my neck still hurts. And I feel like I'm going to throw up," he said.
Before I could respond, he bent forward and made a heaving motion. Shoot, he wasn't kidding! Quickly, I grabbed the nearby trash can and placed it in front of him. Thanks to my split-second timing not a drop of the vomit that promptly spewed from his mouth landed on the floor.
After sending him off to the office, trash can in hand, I returned to my desk wondering what other unexpected pleasures the day held in store.
Honesty, I didn't plan to be here.
March 1 has loomed large in front of me like a dark, ominous cloud. For the last five years I have eagerly anticipated the start of the Slice of Life Story Challenge. The thought of writing, and sharing that writing with others, filled me with nervous excitement. And when I reached the end of the month having accomplished what I set out to do, I felt enormous satisfaction.
But not this year. This year, I have felt a sense of dread. I'm not sure I can do it. Not this year. I don't have the time or the energy. I don't want to be constrained by the rigid structure of narrative to tell my life's story. It's been so long since I have written, I don't know if I can even string together coherent thoughts anymore. Even if I can, I am not sure if anyone will want to read them.
There are so many reasons not to be here.
And yet I am.
For as loud as the voice has been shouting at me all the reasons why I shouldn't, there has been a small voice at the back, quietly urging, Do it.
I don't want to, the louder voice shouted back.
That's exactly why you should, came the response.
So I begin again, not sure that I will be able to make it through the month, not sure that the right words will materialize when I need them to. Such is life, I suppose. We never know what lies ahead or if we'll have the strength to meet the challenges that inevitably arise along the way.
But onward we go.
It's been a quiet, lazy morning, spent sipping my vanilla latte and watching The Ted Bundy Tapes while leaned back in our new recliner with a sleeping cat curled up at my feet. I will admit there is a twinge of guilt because, of course, there is a whole list of things that need doing today. But those things can wait. I think I'm finally learning it's wise not selfish to take care of myself.
It seems appropriate that this last day of March, this last day of the writing challenge, has arrived with bright blue, beckoning skies full of hope and promise. It is a welcome change from the churning gray and doubt and fear that has colored much of the month. Although nothing has really changed, today I feel that I have. On the days when the sky was dark and threatening, I learned to put up my umbrella and soldier on. I learned to look for rainbows and believe in their promise. I learned that every storm passes eventually and that blue skies are always on the horizon. It may not feel like it at times, but just hold on and wait and they'll appear.
During this month, I have read blog posts about needing to stay positive and watering flowers not weeds. All right and true words, and yet, in the face of some challenges, wholly inadequate. Demons, like weeds, sometimes do appear and need to be dealt with, not simply ignored with a cheerful expression plastered on your face. And there are times that demand our tears, no apology necessary. We just can't let those days defeat us.
The sun streams through the windows and the chirping of birds flitting through the air can be heard just outside. I don't know what the day holds in store. There is a part of me that is afraid of what waits just ahead. But in this moment, all I know is clear blue skies and the promise of a beautiful day.
And that is enough for now.
1...2...3...4...5. Five pairs of shoes strewn across the entryway floor. Which is interesting, really, because only four people live in this house and not a single pair of shoes is mine. The reason none of them are mine is because I've learned a secret that the others clearly don't know. Quite some time ago, I discovered that after I took my shoes off, I could pick them up and carry them upstairs. And put them away in my closet. I know, crazy, right? Who knew it was possible to carry things up the stairs?
It drives me crazy, these shoes all over the floor. You walk into the house and it looks like you accidentally walked into a shoe store, albeit an extremely messy one. It's not like they're neatly stacked in a corner, mind you. They are. all. over. the. place. Last night I didn't turn on the light before heading up the stairs and stumbled on an oversized pair of hiking boots sitting right in front of the bottom stair. My own fault, really. I should have assumed they were there. I mean, where else would they be? The closet?
The thing is, too, the boys of the house all know it drives me crazy. How many times have they heard me rant about keeping the entryway neat? I once bought a cute box for them to put their shoes in, figuring that if I couldn't get them to take their shoes to their room, at least they could be neatly contained in the corner. Do you think that worked? Of course not. The pile of shoes just grew until they overflowed onto the floor.
This morning before I vacuum, I will carry those five pairs of shoes up the stairs and deposit them in the room of their rightful owner. (Although, truth be told, the kids' feet have gotten so big, it's getting harder to tell them apart.) I will hope, once again, that my boys will get the hint: shoes are either on your feet or put away.
But I know how this story will end. You probably do, too. Later today, a curse word or two will be mumbled under my breath after I trip over yet another pair of abandoned shoes.
