Month: March 2021

I went to a friend’s backyard for a little happy hour today. The five of us had our dogs there. I have the oldest; Sasha is 11, and the others range in age from just shy of a year to about five years old.

As we watched them play, we laughed at Cooper’s insistence on humping Roxy, Drexel’s desperate need for affirmation that he is loved above all others, Ginger’s severe ADD, and Sasha’s matronly tsk tsk when the play becomes too rough.

I met these women and their families, except for one I’ve known since before kids, when we joined the neighborhood play group about 15 years ago. A year or so later, we all sent our kids to the same neighborhood pre-school and have watched them grow up together.

Today’s backyard scene was not too different from what it has always been, though instead of chasing after our charges to prevent them from toppling off tables and chairs, eating mud, and asking them for the 10th time if they have to go to the bathroom, we kicked back and occasionally intervened when play became too rough or when one jumped up on a couch.

The kids used to have much less say in how they socialized; we’d scoop them up with the food and drink on our way to someone’s house, having no need to seek their opinions on how we were going to spend our afternoons and evenings. They were always just thrilled to have a different space to play in with other small people.

Now, here we are, and the kids have lives and plans of their own. So, I turn to Sasha and ask, “You want to go see Cooper?! Want to see Drex?!” Yes; yes, she does. And I didn’t really even have to ask.

I jumped on Wakefield HS’s plant sale right away this year. I waited too long last spring and was out of luck. I sat down beside Chris as I scrolled down the list with excitement.

“Should we get two lantanas or three? Three, I think. They’re so beautiful.”

“Okay. They’re pretty,” he agreed.

“Basil. One or two?” I asked.

“Two, I think,” I replied.

“Okay, two,” he agreed.

I didn’t dominate the order entirely; he picked out the feathery, brightly colored cock’s comb flowers.

The pick-up date isn’t until April 24th, but I am very excited for:

-lantanas and cock’s comb to brighten up the empty corners of the deck

-mint for my mojito

-basil for all manner of summer delights, such as pesto, tomato and fresh mozzarella platters, and homemade pizza

-jalapeños for poppers, tacos, pickling, and pizza

-oregano and thyme for, well, their uses are much valued and varied

I still need to seek out sage and chives, but this is a solid start.

You, too, can place an order! https://www.wosomoso.com/form/formview.cfm?formid=1138

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I was half asleep on the couch not 10 minutes ago, totally depleted and at a loss for what to write about tonight. The obvious is to write about my first day with kids, but I don’t feel like it.

I looked around the room, and my eyes settled upon Rick, our orange kitty, who is exactly one year old this week.

Rick sees every nook and surface as existing to serve him. I guess he’s like Goldilocks that way, except every spot seems to suit him just fine. He flattens out like a pancake on couches, basks in sunny window seats, huddles in small boxes, and perches overhead in Edwin’s loft bed.

After I finished unloading the bottom of the dishwasher yesterday evening, I turned back to find him in yet another cozy spot. This is Rick’s world, and we are just living in it.

Maxine, my 13-year-old, sometimes gets migraines. We took her to a neurologist a few years ago, who was able to rule out a physical issue, such as a brain tumor, but she could only guess at the causes. Hormone-induced? Light-sensitiveness? Diet-related? I began keeping a journal, noting her diet, the times of day the migraines would come on, the frequency, duration, etc., but we never really discerned a clear pattern. Then, they seemed to subside, and when one did return, she wasn’t in too much pain, and ibuprofen usually did the trick.

These past few weeks have seen a resurgence. Last night was especially bad. Maybe it was a full day of skiing in the bright sun? Too much gluten (grasping at anything here)? Another growth spurt? Whatever the cause, it knocked her flat. She was in bed by 7:30 and never made it down for dinner.

When I checked on her, her skin felt hot. She looked listless. I started to sweat and went for the thermometer. The tragic article I read in the newspaper a few weeks ago about children who had succumbed overnight to COVID started running through my mind. Did I do this? Have I been too lax since I got vaccinated? Did we spend too much time in the ski rental shop this morning? Wait, COVID doesn’t show up that fast.

I tried to turn on the thermometer, and it gave out a low battery notice. I kept pushing the power button and eventually got the beep I was waiting for. Three readings later, I was satisfied with the 96 degree measure (it tends to run low). I guess she didn’t feel so hot, after all.

“Mom, I’m tired. I just need to sleep.” After I lingered for a few more minutes, she reached out for a hug and said goodnight. That was my cue to leave.

As I closed her door and put away the thermometer, I marveled at how fast the dark cloud of COVID fear gathered over me, and my heart ached for parents and loved ones whose worst fears came true over this past year. We are beating the virus, but the fear finds a way to sneak back in when I tend to forget about it. I guess it serves as a sobering reminder to remain vigilant through the end of this.

I was up at 5:30 this morning to drink my coffee, make breakfast, and throw lunch together for a day trip to Ski Liberty with Maxine. I managed to get her out of bed around 6:15, and we were on the road by 7:00. She and I are the only true ski enthusiasts in the house, and it’s not a cheap day, so we were all content with it being just the two of us (Edwin got what he wanted: a trip to the Asian grocery store and a chance to drive the truck on the highway with his dad).

This is a very modest mountain, the one I learned to ski on in the 80’s. With only a handful of trails, you’ve pretty much seen it all in a couple of lift trips.

It was just what we needed: a road trip long enough to sing the entire soundtrack of Mean Girls on the way there and a good portion of The Book of Mormon on the way home, and one final taste of winter before the crocuses come up in earnest.

As I merged onto Washington Blvd, driving the half mile or so to my exit for Second Street yesterday morning, I found myself singing along to the music. It felt like old times. The sun was shining, I had my second cup of coffee in my travel mug, and I was going to my actual classroom.

I was eager to sort out the technology, organize books, and do some planning. Most of all, I looked forward to chatting with real-live people, face to face (at a safe, masked distance, of course).

I am past crying when I enter my classroom, as I did the few times I ducked back in last year to pick up books and whatnot. The paper chains proudly displaying books students had finished, books stuffed with laminated “Stop-Think-Jot” bookmarks, reader’s notebooks abandoned in their bins, the anchor chart from March 13, 2020’s lesson – all of these had me pretty much sobbing last year. Those feelings of sadness and loss have been replaced by excitement, anticipation, and a dash of anxiety.

After I had the tech ready to go (I think), Tuesday’s lesson planned, and books organized, I…stayed a bit longer. I had two blank bulletin boards in need of some bright paper and borders. “This is dumb,” I told myself, “Just go home; it’s almost 3:00 on a Friday.” I couldn’t resist. I just feels so delightfully normal to size and cut paper, staple it to a board, and then edge it with whatever border I still had left in my cabinet.

Once I was satisfied with the minor make-over, I picked up my bag, switched off the air purifier, and donned my mask – just like…new times?

I’ve been waking up around 4:00 AM this past week, trying and failing to go back to sleep, tossing and turning, half-heartedly practicing deep breathing that gets me nowhere. I’ve been thinking it’s got to be too many wheels spinning about this new way of teaching we’re embarking on next week. I am a little anxious, but I’m actually feeling okay about it.

Then it hit me: we’re coming up on spring. Every year, as we transition from winter to spring, my brain goes haywire. The cozy down comforter becomes too hot, the warm cocoon I’ve taken refuge in starts to feel confining. Last year’s plants in my garden, once dramatic against the winter sky, are now just scraggly and need to be cleared away.

New life is waiting to spring, and even more so this year: the 17-year cicadas are getting ready to burst upon the scene, and, of course, we humans are preparing to emerge from our year-long forced hibernation. Rebirth is in the air; it’s exciting, but I wouldn’t say no to a couple more hours of sleep in the morning.

Can I blame my flakiness on the pandemic? No, not entirely; I’ve always had a tendency to become distracted and sometimes interpret what I hear in ways that make people tilt their head sideways. Nevertheless, I have found comfort in placing some of the blame on the COVID haze that has engulfed this past year.

I misplace my reading glasses about every two days (location currently unknown). I went to the pet store for the express purpose of getting cat food instead of kitten food for our growing felines, and came home with…kitten food. It wasn’t until I got home that I realized my mistake. I was talking to my husband, telling him that I had been to the pet store to buy…what…the… “How did this happen?” I exclaimed as I set it down. I desperately searched for somewhere to place the blame. The newly adopted, sweetly enthusiastic pit bull in the store? The squeaking guinea pigs?

A few weeks ago, I walked out in the morning to find the back hatch of our car wide open. Who is responsible for this?! Uh, that would be me.

There have been other instances, but you get the idea. I had better get it together because I am (joyfully) running out of time to blame these hiccups on the pandemic because we are finally emerging from its grip. Time to tighten it up!

On my way in to work today, I stopped at Town Car Repair, just a block from the school, to drop off my car for an oil change. I was hoping to see the man who runs the place, with his easy laugh and lighthearted questions about how teachers put up with all the nonsense kids get up to. He was nowhere in sight, and after a few minutes, the mechanic emerged from the shop and helped me.

After looking at the previous oil change sticker they adhered to my windshield about a year ago, he kindly passed on some friendly advice in his thick Korean accent: don’t pay attention to the mileage; just come in every three months like clockwork, and you’ll never have anything to worry about. After he took my key, he called out the door after me, “Every three months,” with a laugh. I held up three fingers and smiled hard through my mask.

As I walked out the building at the end of the work day, I was temporarily disoriented by all the people. Teachers shuttled students to buses and to parents standing in loose clumps, as the elementary school across the walk was letting out on their second day of school. I felt for a moment that we were all just now emerging from hibernation; our eyes crinkled with tentative smiles as we squinted in the early spring sun, full of cautious hope.

I made my way back to the auto shop, and there he was! My guy! He saw the badge I still wore around my neck and exclaimed, “Is this my first teacher back?!”

“That’s right,” I said.

“This calls for a celebration! You all are finally back!”

I stayed for a few minutes and chatted with him about his efforts to get his kids out of bed in time to log in to classes and my efforts to keep students engaged when I can’t see their faces. A young woman who works at an alternative school in DC was also in the waiting room and recounted her utter frustration with a student who didn’t even have the decency to mute himself when playing “Call of Duty” during class. We shook our heads and clucked our tongues, agreeing that we so desperately need to get back to normal.

As he handed back my credit card, we bumped fists and wished each other well. It’s good to be back.

Edwin has his learner’s permit, and that means I have brand new opportunities to experience anxiety. I am actually becoming a less horrible parent passenger. I have only squeezed his arm and yelled the f word twice (yes, while he was driving – not proud of it). I am no longer wearing a hole in the floor on the passenger side where the ghost brake is located. I am practicing taking deep breaths and learning to trust this child who is rapidly approaching adulthood.

How did this happen so fast? Okay, so it does seem like a long time ago when he was driving around his Fisher Price Cozy Coupe with his feet, and a few years later helpfully lending his energy to propel our trail-a-bike forward. That was the best. He could help move the bike, but he couldn’t steer or brake; I had all the control. Then he graduated to a Lightning McQueen bike, and from there, he zipped though several until he needed a bike bigger than mine. I guess he does have a good eight inches on me now.

Now this boy of mine is behind the wheel of a car. Just typing that sends a chill down my spine. My baby. In a car. On busy roads with careless texters. I can easily spot them because, really, what’s so very interesting in that lap of yours, may I ask? No, don’t answer that.

This is quite a lesson on how to relinquish some control and trust that the world won’t eat my baby. Take flight, my boy (but CAUTIOUSLY).