As we plan to wrap up our life here in the US and move to Colombia this summer, I find myself appreciating:
As we say our goodbyes to our home of 7 years, I am happy to be leaving:
As we prepare and look forward to the near future, I get excited about:
As I wrap up this 4th year of the Slice of Life Writing Challenge, I am grateful for:
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I vividly remember my high school as a polling place when I attended. I thought it was cool, seeing the democratic process in motion. The voting booths were set up right in our front foyer, and we’d walk past on our way to gym, government classes, and the cafeteria.
Next week Tuesday, my son’s district is having an E-learning day because they are a polling place. I’m relieved. My own district, on the other hand, is staying open. Students will eat in the classrooms for the day, and we were assured there would be a police officer stationed outside the. I’ve known this for two weeks, and I’m anxious. Yesterday we received an email from our superintendent notifying us he would be emailing a letter to parents regarding the shooting at Covenant School in Nashville. This is typical for him after a school shooting. He goes through our district’s safety procedures, precautions, and work with the city police force. This email was different. He stated many parents had reached out asking for an E-learning day on election day, as 3 out of 7 schools are polling locations. So in addition to going into the typical safety procedures, precautions, etc, he responded by telling parents there would be an increased police presence at each of our schools over the next week. The schools would are polling places would have police officers stationed inside throughout the day. As a teacher, I’m more anxious. And I wonder. I wonder if parents know that teachers are anxious. I wonder if they know that after a school shooting we are hesitant to go outside for recess and dismissal. I wonder if they know we feel like sitting ducks. I wonder if they know the reality that despite our best efforts, a shooter can still get into the building if they really want to. I wonder if they know some of us are debating whether staying in a profession we love knowing we might die doing it is worth it. I wonder if they know our annual staff talks with the police include questions regarding students trapped in the hall. I wonder if they know the police say it’s an impossible decision, but that opening the door to save one child endangers the lives of 20+ others. I wonder if they know how scared we actually are, despite the brave face we put on to make it seem as business as usual. It wasn’t always like this. And there is a solution. But that would disrupt “Business as usual,” now wouldn’t it? *I’m borrowing the phrase ‘business as usua’ from Mazerly Musing who’s slice is honestly the best educator response I’ve ever seen written down. Last night, as I reflected on the past two days of Spring Break, certain there was a story to tell, my brain kept pulling me down the writer’s trap of the running record of things we’ve done. Dry and uninspired. I realized what my brain was trying to convey could be better represented by what these events capture about who we are as a family.
In no particular order… We’re games people. We’re zoo people. We’re read all the books people. We’re eat popcorn while watching a movie people. We’re talk while we roadtrip, no tablets in the car people. We’re plan out our meals and groceries people. We’re see all the things while on vacation people. We’re spend time with Grandma people. We’re explore new places people. We’re don’t wake up too early, but don’t waste the day away either people. We’re pack your own lunch people. We’re save room for the cookie people. We’re visit every room in the museum people. We’re touch all the sea creatures people. We’re play with balls inside the house people. We’re indoor and outdoors people. In between bears and dinos, we sit across five bench seats in the St. Louis Zoo, watching the trains go by, eating our ice cream bars.
Somehow after an enjoyable walk through apes, a brilliant sea lion show, and a climbing adventure to mimic the life of a primate our kids' moods soured. “I’m not the one who said we should see the monkeys.” “We have bears at our zoo, so I’m not looking at these ones.” “It’s so hot. Why is it so hoooooooooot?” “When are we going home?” And their moods brought the adults’ moods down. One by one we teetered, tottered, and tumbled. Just like that, we were the family we’ve mildly poked fun of: the ones who attend somewhere, certain it will be fun, expecting it to be fun, and then are dragging pouty, crying children around, trying to convince them it’s fun. We weren’t quite to that point, but the downward spiral was real, and I was watching the impending crumbling of the afternoon as it barrelled towards us. Despite my husband’s ruffled feathers at rewarding whiny children, we invested in $20-worth of ice cream bars. Whether it was the 20 minutes off our feet, the sitting in the shade, the watching of the train come by in routine loops, the watching of other people with their own children melting down, the stop at the bathroom, or the time off from following “the plan” - the sweet treat righted the world again. Smiles returned, jokes weren’t met with scowls, and everyone was genuinely eager to tackle the last bit of the zoo. Off we went to discover the Butterfly House (which was closed for remodeling), the Andean bear (which apparently escaped twice and had to be rehomed at another zoo), the amazing hippos who “swam” past us repeatedly, the elusive cheetahs (who we finally find after a full day at the zoo), and the unexpected gift of an Asian elephant 10 feet away from us. It was an excellent end to a very good day, made possible by a blip and ice cream somewhere in between. We exit the library, our booty stashed in a sturdy canvas bag. Nathan carries his prized possession (a PS4 game) out in his hands, studying the back.
“What?!?” he says in disbelief. “How is this on every one?” This kid is bright, so I love when something truly catches him off guard. “What are you talking about?” I ask. “Doosh-lock,” he says. “I’m sorry- what?” “You know - Doosh-lock.” I look at the back of his head, trying to figure out if this is English or Spanish. But I’ve got nothing. “I’m gonna need you to repeat that again.” He stops and looks at me. “DOOSH-LOCK. It’s on the back of all the games.” I stare at him, nothing computing. He rolls his eyes (oh, hey there almost 8-year-old) and shoves the box in my direction. “Right here.” I look. Nothing. Nada. My eyes continue scanning. Number of players… Rating… Something I don’t understand… Dualshock4… Wait- Dualshock4. I burst out laughing. “Nathan. Nathan, are you talking about this?” I point. “Yeah. Doosh-lock four.” I can hardly contain myself. It’s magic. What a gem. Completely unexpected. DOOSH-LOCK. I love this kid. “It’s Dual-Shock, bud,” I say. He looks at me like I’m crazy. “I promise. Look.” I cover ‘shock’ and point out ‘dual.’ “WHAT!” he says. “That did not say that a minute ago.” I wipe a tear from my eye. He giggles. “Well… I’m still going to call it doosh-lock.” "I like it." This post was inspired by wahooliteracyteacher. I took some liberty to change the location of focus from the four corners of her classroom to the four corners of our backyard.
I sit on the L shaped corner sectional on the patio. I love this patio. We saved for five years after moving in to pay for this patio, using the failing deck until we were ready. Part of the reason I love it is because it’s exactly as we wanted - something that we planned, not inherited. A patio that can house everything, stay organized, require minimal upkeep, and allows us to step right out onto the grass. As I sit on the patio, my back to the house, I enjoy the view. Front Left There’s the shed, painted beige and grey to match the now absent deck. It holds everything our two garage can’t. It’s still jam packed from the winter - things stacked to the ceiling, packed backwards so the things we’ll need first in spring are accessible. But once backyard spring cleaning and full patio set-up happens, it feels huge, containing some gardening supplies, the lawn mower, and the boys' quads. My mom has long joked that when she retires and runs out of money, she’ll run electricity and heat out there and have a one-woman sanctuary. The shed is where the chipmunks live (we think). Seven years in, we’ve chosen to accept them as part of our lives, and we enjoy watching them scamper through the yard. (There’s only two, which is likely why we are apt to let them roam freely.) Behind the shed runs a twenty-five foot flower bed. When we first moved in, it took a full week to tame the overgrowth. Now it’s home to orange day lilies that are our first signs of spring. Front Right A dark, dirt circle and the climber. After the pandemic, we bought a small 10 foot in diameter pool. My husband agreed to kill a circular area of his well-manicured lawn in exchange for fun with our little kids. It has been one of the best decisions we’ve made as parents. The climber we inherited. It has been a place of learning how to climb ladder rungs and slide, fighting off pirate ships, snowball fights (and building amazing forts below, and games my adult mind couldn’t even begin to grasp. This too we have changed, extending one side out to add multiple swings in a row and make it stronger. It needs to be power washed and restrained, but this too is just how we would have wanted it. Back Left The area of the yard which has changed the most, it now hosts: a sit wall which curves around the air conditioning unit, our patio table and chairs, a planned grill space, and paired down flower beds that host flowers I can neither kill nor need to tend to. Our newest addition has been the bird feeders - one squirrel proof feeder, one finch feeder, and one cylinder feeder. The past two years, these have added to some of my favorite memories of my kids. They love keeping an eye at who is visiting, from finches to cardinals, pesky grackles to wrens, mourning doves to sparrows. Our most coveted visitors are the woodpeckers and nuthatches. Back Right And then there’s the most functional part of the yard. There’s the gate that gives us access to the back yard, the rain barrel that waters the garden and keeps our water bill down, the yard waste bins, the moveable fire pit, the hose reel, and the toy chest. They sit tucked along the house, partially hidden by a row of grasses that were supposed to be 5-6 feet tall, but have only seemed to hit 3 feet each year. Recess duty as a teacher goes one of two ways: quietly uneventful or filled with stories to share later. From my mere two days outside this last week before break, the highlights are:
Interaction 1: I hear, “I’m having a baby!” I turn around to say something, when the student corrects, “I’m a rat having a baby!” Interaction 2: Chalk writing on the side of the building says: Goodrich (another school). The nearest students try to convince me we have invaders, are under attack, and must call police for backup. Interaction 3: After talking to a student about crossing the bike path to get balls, I walk away. Thinking of something I forgot to say, I turn around and poke him directly in the eye. Of course, he’s a student who is convinced I have now blinded him. We walk to the nurse together. Interaction 4: A student asks me to push him on the swing, which is against our recess rules (safety of kids getting hit while pushing). He’s one of our ELs in 1st grade, who did not have swings at his school in Nigeria. I teach him to pump his legs. Interaction 5: I remind a group of students we can’t play “kill” anything at school. They counter that they are scientists doing experiments on rats. The rats keep escaping, therefore they must be injected with sleep serum to return them to their cages. (Interaction 1 now makes more sense.) Interaction 6: I see a new chalk message on the sidewalk. It reads: I love broing. I interpret this to mean “I love bro-ing.” As in “Hey, bro!” “What’s up, Bro?” or “Woah, bro, you can’t do that.” Then again… two of the smiling suns are crossed off. So perhaps they don’t actually love the bro-ing? You should be going to bed. You’re sick and should be exhausted. You should be easy to put to bed tonight.
Instead, we dance “The Dance”. The “It’s time to sleep” put you in your crib and close the door dance. The lay down for five minutes and then sit up and play dance. The “Mommy. Mommy. Mom-myyyyyy!” dance. And then the “Mommy. Moooooom-my. Papi!” dance. The “Okay we can rock for a few more minutes dance, but just because you’re sick and can’t breathe” dance. We rock. You poke me in the eye and giggle. You push your fingers into my mouth saying, “Teeth! Teeth!” You want your blanket. Don’t don’t want your blanket. You ask for song after song. We run through Baa Baa Black Sheep, Twinkle Twinkle, the ABCs, Rock-a-Bye Baby, and Jesus Loves Me. Then you bust out Baby Shark with full motions. At this point I figure, Hey- why not? And we get out the energy. The Wheels on the Bus, Itsy Bitsy Spider, and anything else with motions. Your hands find my hair because it’s your current favorite discovery. It moves! You can weave your fingers through it! It tickles your face! What fun! I can tell you’re fighting sleep with long blinks and lots of eye rubbing. We switch to humming, and I coerce you back to your crib. Blanket on. Lights off. Close the door. Cross my fingers that's the last dance of the night. It’s late. I’m tired. The boys are in bed, I’ve got a load of laundry in the washer, and I’m ready to sit and decompress for a few minutes before bed. But I know you’ll be waiting.
It doesn’t matter how long I take to get back downstairs - ten minutes… thirty… an hour. I’ll turn the corner to do a final sweep of the kitchen for toys, and there you’ll be. My husband can have finished clearing the dishes, the dishwasher loaded, the counters wiped, and the lunches prepped for tomorrow. But you’ll still be there. Most nights I expect you. Honestly, at this point it’s routine. But other nights, you catch me quite off guard. Perhaps I don’t follow my typical path downstairs; maybe I pause to pick up a few stray toys or backtrack to put gloves back into a school bag. Usually this happens on nights when the lights are off, and I assume there’s nothing left to do. On my way through the kitchen, you’ll stop me in my tracks. I’ll think there’s random clutter all over the counter next to the fridge. But no. It’s just you. THE TUPPERWARE. For it’s an unspoken agreement in our house. My husband does not put away the tupperware. If they’re in the dishwasher, he’ll dry them and stack them. Or he’ll handwash, dry, and pile. Either way, one thing is for certain: the tupperware will always be waiting for me on the counter right above the drawer they call home. I can’t quite remember how this came to be. Was it initially laziness on his part? Or maybe once he had it off to the side, it was out of sight out of mind? Or maybe the drawer that’s too small and too full was also too daunting to tackle? Regardless of how we ended up here, I just know it’s where we are. The unspoken agreement. You stack them; I’ll store them. One of my favorite formats is “After that…”. I’m feeling the pressure of all the things that must be accomplished this week, but so many are contingent on the previous thing. So today, I decided to flip the format to “Before that…”
Our house needs pictures taken while we’re gone for spring break, so we’re ready to list it for sale in May. Before that we need to have the car packed and hit the road. Before that we need to dust and vacuum our way out of the house so it looks unlived in. Before that we need to pack for vacation. Before that we need to wash, wash, wash and fold ALL the laundry. Before that we need to switch out some nightstands so they are more complementary than the current situation. Before that we need to move boxes from our bedroom to the garage. Before that we need to pay the company who did our water damage mitigation. Before that we need to get our insurance checks co-signed by our lender at the bank. Before that we need to go to a second opinion for orthodontics for Adam. Before that we need to remove all cleaning products from the laundry room and all coats and shoes from the entry closet so they can be painted tomorrow. And in the midst of all that, we need to go to work daily, drop kids off and pick them up from day care and school, feed them all, and keep track of baths. |
AuthorHeidi. Archives
March 2022
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