We have four humans that frequent our field.
They’re not necessarily wanted. They build barriers; they put up fences; they leave shavings of some sort around our favorite flowers. We have four humans that keep barging in. They charge out of the door without warning; they tromp across the deck; they leave balls and other bizarre objects strewn across the field. We have four humans that have decided they own the place. They startle us at all hours; they disrupt the peace; they take over for hours on end. These humans have been here as long as we can remember, though there are days we don’t see them at all. Those are the days we soak up the field as long as we can. Because we know they’ll be back. They always come back. Their favorite spot is on the other side of the glass square. I’m certain they’ve chosen it because they can watch us closely. Lucky for us, they’re close enough to observe, but somehow unable to reach through and catch us. We’ve passed a quiet winter without them in our burrow. I honestly almost forgot about our humans. I truly imagined they might have moved on and the field might be ours again this summer. Until Sunday. Sitting between the bushes and the fence, I looked up. And there they were. Four humans. Standing on the other side of the glass square. Looking at me. We have four humans who never left. Once again, they frequent our field; they keep barging in; they’ve decided they own the place. We have four humans.
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We have two rabbits that frequent our yard.
They’re not necessarily wanted. They nibble on seedlings; they hack off flower buds; they leave jagged stems shooting up towards the sky. We have two rabbits that have set up shop. They hide under the deck; they wear escape routes under the fence; they leave droppings throughout the yard. We have two rabbits that have claimed their stake. They throw the dog into a frenzy; they leave their scent; they dash away. These rabbits were born last year, somewhere else in the neighborhood. They’re two of the five bunnies who showed up daily. Until one by one, they stopped coming. Except these two. These two are ours. Their favorite spot is the grassy patch between the flowering bushes and the fence. I’m certain they’ve chosen it because we can see them from the kitchen window. Close enough to observe, but too far from the door to actually do anything about it. It’s been a quiet winter without them. I honestly thought they had moved on. I honestly imagined our yard would be ours again this summer. Until Sunday. Standing at the kitchen sink, I looked up. And there they were. Two rabbits. Sitting beside the flowering bushes, still bare. Looking at me. We have two rabbits who have returned. Once again, they frequent our yard; they’ve set up shop; they’ve settled in. We have two rabbits. My youngest son has a make believe friend. He just appeared one day after reading a story about a lion. His name is Roarie, and he’s small enough to fit in the palm of my 2 year old’s hand.
Roarie spends most of his time outside our dining room window, unless he’s being used to convince Adam to do something. “Roarie? Do you want some chicken?” “Roarie? Why don’t you come and put on your shoes?” “Roarie? Come jump in the bath!” One day, we were playing in the family room. Adam, per usual, was being a stinker, refusing to come by me for some reason or another. “Oh look, Adam, I have Roarie here!” I held up my open-palmed hand and smiled. Adam squealed and came running. Much to my dismay, Adam reached out his hand, plucked Roarie from my palm, and proceeded to pop the poor lion into his mouth. “Adam!” Nathan yelled, his mouth hanging open. “Did you just eat Roarie?” Adam grinned - a toothy, triumphant smile. Luckily enough for Roarie, he was immediately spit back into my outstretched hand, apparently unscathed. Since then, Roarie has materialized through walls, multiplied exponentially several times, been eaten and regurgitated more times than I can count, been at the center of many a magic trick, and provided endless hours of amusement. I’ve always known imaginary friends can’t be explained with logic, but I always wondered how they are invented. Turns out they simply appear one day and adeptly defy the laws that bind the rest of us. I spoke with friends in Malaysia on Wednesday.
“Life has definitely changed. Right now school has asked us not to have any international visitors as they would have to pass through airports, possibly putting our community at risk. At this point, we’re hoping we’ll be able to come home this summer for break.” I spoke with my friends in Vietnam on Friday. “Schools have been closed for 5 weeks; and we’ve been operating with virtual lessons. Staff still go in daily to lesson plan and post for students. Today we’re simulating a quarantine situation to see if we can work from home, accessing Zoom and Google Meets. It’s pretty crazy.” I spoke with my brother and sister-in-law in Switzerland today. “A colleague at my school has tested positive. School is cancelled tomorrow, but teachers are going in for a meeting, but there’s no confirmation that we’re closing as of yet. We’re feeling an intense moral dilemma of whether or not we should self-quarantine. We feel like if we walk down the street, or into a bakery, and pass an elderly person, we'll inevitably pass this on to someone who might be severely impacted.” “I mean… should I go into work tomorrow and expose the faculty and student body? We feel responsible for our actions, but there’s not really any hard fast rules yet. We’re not worried about ourselves getting sick, we’re worried about other people who might not be as healthy as us.” I mull over comments by WHO director-general Ghebreyesus. “This is not a drill. This is not the time for giving up. This is not a time for excuses. This is a time for pulling out all the stops. Countries have been planning for scenarios like this for decades. Now is the time to act on those plans.” I follow the events in the Kirkland nursing home. I watch New York City’s response. I take in the quarantine of cruises. My mind skips to my Grandma, who lives in a retirement community with some of her best friends. It jumps to my mom, who is over 60 and has struggled with respiratory issues for the past three winters. It passes over the other people in my life, who fall into the “high-risk category,” and it makes me pause. People I’m not ready to say goodbye to. I realize the fear comes from the unknown. I’ve lived abroad and know first hand that an alarmist reaction helps nothing. I know that panic has no solutions. And yet... I find myself hoping that we, as Americans, can stand united. I hope that we can take the lessons pouring out of China, Iran, Italy, Southeast Asia, Europe... I desperately hope that people look beyond, “It’s just flu-like symptoms. No big deal,” and realize that doesn’t hold true for our entire population. I hope we can do this not for ourselves, but so that we can protect the weakest among us. Most of all, I hope we act instead of react. And so it begins. THE TANTRUM.
Small protests at first, barely audible. A quick grunt. A raised shoulder in tiny defiance. A shoved pea which totters and falls off the plate. The refusal to look at another human in the eye. The escalation is slow. Calm demands: “More food. No more food. More food.” A body twist to get as far away from the food as possible. “Agua. No agua. Agua.” A flick of the wrist sends the sippy cup flying. I know my attempts to disarm the building tension are futile. This second child is always determined to have the last word. I grab the wash cloth, hoping to persuade him that playing before bath time will be fun. This, of course, is all it takes to break the dam. GIbberish among screams of NONONONONonononononono fill the air as arms flail, searching for anything with which to come into contact. My calm voice and reminders about how to touch other humans go unnoticed. I can see the tired in his eyes, feel him teetering on the edge. I reach for him, and he spins out of control. He is a whirling dervish in my arms, dangerously close to falling, a force to be reckoned with. My voice turns stern, even though I know it is useless. This is an exhaustion tantrum, and we’ve passed the point of no return. He writhes through his clothes being removed, screams through his bath, hits through lotion, and tries to fling himself to the floor through PJs. The tears are streaming down his face, and his voice is hoarse. I wrap my arms around his trembling body, dim the lights, and sit in the glider. He shudders, sucks in a ragged breath, and wipes his eyes. “Book?” he asks, as if the past 20 minutes belong to someone else. This is two. I think we sometimes forget that we are the key to unlocking the magic for kids.
Today was a logistical day with my 3rd graders, and by all measures, it should have been less-engaging than usual. They’ve been close-reading informational texts and taking notes, first starting with small details, then grouping them into common themes, then labeling the categories they had created. So today was a bridging day from notes to crafting on their Chromes. As they’re 3rd graders, typing is often laborious, and they’re not all that familiar with navigating Google Slides. Today we were walking through each step, bit by bit, practicing the vocabulary so that when it is used in their gen. ed. classroom, they won’t be thrown. In the last 5 minutes of class, I pulled my 4 students to one table, to quickly record facts I knew about sugar gliders. → white, black and grey fur → mammals → marsupials → big black eyes → nocturnal “What’s nocturnal”? Jaime asked. “Oh! Oh! Um… isn’t that… I think that’s when…” Fredy hesitated as he tried to gather his thoughts. I held up a hand so no one would cut him off. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure that’s when animals aren’t awake during the day. And then they don’t sleep at night.” “Exactly!” I said exchanging a high-five. “Nocturnal means an animal is usually awake during the night and sleeps during the day.” “Like bats!” said Maria, as Melissa shuddered next to her. “Just like bats,” I confirmed. “And that’s one of the reasons their eyes are big - to help them see better at night.” Blank stares. I smiled and stood up. I flicked off the light switch, grabbed my phone and turned on the flashlight feature. “Let me show you how your pupils work.” Amidst oohs, aahs, and eews, I proceeded to demonstrate on my own eyes how the human pupil dilates. They were enraptured. This part of the lesson was unplanned, unexpected, and cost me less than 2 minutes. And yet, it had the biggest impact. It strikes me as ironic, this day that I was sure would be unremarkable, is most likely the one that will be seared in their memories for all of time. I walked into daycare, like any other day. I smiled and waved to Ms. Melissa, like any other day. I signed into the iPad, like any other day. And then I realized that today was most definitely NOT like any other day.
Staring back at me on the screen was the message: Nathan→ checked in Adam→ checked out But I paid it no mind. How bizarre, I thought. Someone must have signed him out on accident when they logged a diaper change. “Hi, Mommy! Where’s Adam?” Nathan asked, bouncing his way through pockets of kids sitting on the floor playing. He’s a ball of energy when I get him after school, his body wiggling and dancing all over the place as it awkwardly also tries to hug my body. And that’s when it hit me: Adam’s not here. Not because someone had taken him. No, no, this was all on me. The image of me kissing him goodbye at his other daycare flashed through my mind. It’s taken 6 months, but it’s finally happened: This was the day I forgot that some days, my kids are split between day cares. Parents, in case you didn’t already know this, you can’t win them all. We piled into Adam’s room: me, Nathan, and the dog.
“Too light!” came his cry from the crib as light poured in from the hallway. Nathan ran to shove the door shut and then to settle into his “cozy corner” of the room, hunkering down between the glider and the nightstand. I hoisted my bleary-eyed toddler from his crib and set him on the floor. “Hi, Riley. Hi!” he said, remarkably cheerful for his first 15 seconds of the day. I sat down, and Adam promptly backed onto my lap. I chuckled to myself, wondering why he never walked to me to turn and sit down. Nope, it’s always a back-up, like a semi reversing into its dock. I began the routine of unzipping his sleep sack and footed pjs, pulling out his arms and legs, hanging it on the giraffe coat rack behind us. He’s usually a difficult one to get dressed (strong willed about what he will and will not do in any given moment), but today’s process was going smoothly. “Licking! Licking!” Adam squealed as Riley slobbered her tongue over the toes on his left foot. He proceeded to plop that foot down and pick up his right foot, presenting it to her like a prize. Riley, never one to pass up free skin to lick, obliged. More squeals. Pure delight. And so he continued through his body parts: left hand, right hand, belly, left knee, right knee. Satisfied about his morning bath, Adam looked up at me, “Me clothes. Me do clothes.” It’s his tiny voice, the way he has begun to string words together, the ease of dressing him today, the joy in a dog’s like, the 5 extra minutes with my boys. It’s the tiny pockets of our day that hold the most goodness. I rolled over.
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AuthorHeidi. Archives
March 2022
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