Every March, I begin to wonder what other careers I might be qualified to do. Flight attendant? Bartender? Dog walker? Teachers are exhausted in March, because kids have spring fever and state tests are coming and the weather is rotten and there are no breaks. Special Education teachers are particularly exhausted in March, because the meetings and the paperwork double and the preparations for next year have to begin.
I thought I was going to write about all of that and try to be funny. But even if I attempt humor, my cranky exhaustion will likely shine through, and nobody wants to read a whiny blog post. Besides…. I know from experience that I’ll regret all this complaining in April when I love my job again.
So, instead, I’m going to write about what’s helping me get through this horrible month.
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Let’s start with Bea. For those of you who don’t know, Bea was my student for two years before she became our foster daughter. She’s been part of the family for almost three years now, and I couldn’t love this kid harder. This month in particular, she’s been struggling, too. Her story is not mine to tell, but given the fact that she currently lives with her former teacher, you can assume her life hasn’t been all rainbows and unicorns.
But she is fierce. She is brave. She is loyal and hard-working and diligent and considerate. And sometimes, she is all of those things for so long that she gets tired. And she gets sad. And when Bea is tired and sad, she wants to shut herself in her room and cry and watch Grey’s Anatomy so she can forget, for just a little while, that life is HARD.
We’ve been going to counseling together, which she hates, but I kinda like. The sessions are okay, but after the sessions, we often wind up talking about things that may not have come up otherwise. Last week, Bea opened up in a way that was new and heartbreaking and beautiful. (If you haven’t heard about Glennon Doyle’s idea of ‘brutiful,’ definitely look it up.) She’s starting to let me know what’s in her head, and that helps me try to help.
Parenting a teenager is hard. Parenting a teenager who hasn’t always been your child adds another layer of complication to an already difficult task. But the moments of connection make every worried moment worth it.
When she makes me try some terrible new food and laughs at the pained look on my face…
When she says, “Wait… don’t leave…” as I’m stepping out of her room.
When she catches my eye at the dinner table and we laugh because we’re both thinking the same slightly snarky thing that we won’t say out loud.
When she makes fun of my husband or chases the boys with a spray bottle or drops a piece of meat into the dog’s mouth under the dinner table.
This kid inspires me. She has climbed a mountain to get where she is. Every once in a while, she sits on the ground and says she can’t go any farther. And every time, she rests for a spell, complains quite a bit, and then hoists herself up and keeps going. Her strength reminds me that life is brutiful, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
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And then there’s Jack. As I write this, he’s in the kitchen, whipping up pancakes and bacon. Without him, I’d collapse in a puddle of my own anxiety. He’s the balance in my life. Where I might be inclined to settle, he’s imagining the possibilities. Where I tend to make excuses for the kids, he’ll hold them accountable. When I doubt myself, he’ll be my cheerleader. While I half-assed clean the house, he’ll take apart the stove and scrub every inch until it looks like new. When I’m stressing out and grading papers, he’ll pull out the guitar and play the background music that slows my blood pressure.
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I could keep going. I could write about each of my kids in succession. I could write about my church friends and my book club and my colleagues. I could write about my parents and my siblings and my dogs. These are the people (and pets) that I lean on when things feel heavy. These are the ones that help me carry my load in lots of big and small ways. Sometimes all it takes is a raised eyebrow in passing to know that somebody sees you and knows your struggle. A nod. A hug. A well-timed text. The muzzle of a tired dog resting on your knee. When the big moments are bad, it’s easy to forget the small, sweet moments that are so much more abundant. But we need to notice them. We need to appreciate them, so we don’t get bogged down in the tough stuff.
In those moments when we can look around and see the beauty, we can BE the beauty for someone else. Hold the door. Cuddle your kid. Check on your friend. Call your mom.
Because helping each other through the brutal stuff is how we create the beautiful stuff.