Month: March 2020

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Back to Work

I went back to work today.  Correction: Today I went back to the building I USED to work in, before we embarked on this crazy ‘teaching from home’ experiment. 

When we first found out about the closure, many of us struggled to answer the question, “How will we move our classrooms online?”  Inevitably, the answer was, “We’re not sure… but we’ll make it work.”  

Teachers began to gather resources and collaborate virtually and create shared documents for ideas.  We were slightly comforted by the direction that we weren’t required to present new material; only review to keep kids connected and engaged.  

When our district made the choice to move from optional, flexible online review to something more permanent and structured, the panic set in a little. How would we manage teaching with our own small kids at home?  What would the schedule look like?  What about kids without access?  Struggling learners?  We had so many questions, and not enough answers.  Once again, most conversations ended with some version of, “We’re going to have to make it work.” 

 Administration offered us the chance to come in and gather our materials.  Teachers signed up for time slots.  No more than ten of us could be in the building at once, and we had 15 minutes to gather what we needed and head back home.  We were asked to respect social distancing and not to gather and chat.  

I joked with some friends that this time would feel like the game show, “Supermarket Sweep.”  I expected it to feel a little frantic and silly. 

It did not.  

I had prepared myself with a list of materials to gather.  I had brought along milk crates and bags to load up.  I reminded myself to grab my hand sanitizer (purchased with my own money, for those who are concerned).  I thought I was ready for the task. 

But what I had not prepared for was the wall of emotion that hit me when I walked into my classroom.  The date and a graphic organizer were still written on the board.  Completed work sat in the bins to be corrected.  My planbook was on my desk, filled with notes and ‘to-do’ lists that were no longer relevant.  This space got frozen in such an optimistic time.  We had all expected to come back the next day and continue learning and working in this little community we had built.  

As I gathered materials, I came across lessons and projects that are a part of our classroom traditions.  The popsicle sticks to build a Trojan Horse- a project the kids look forward to each year that won’t happen for this particular class.  The poetry library that I won’t be able to share with them.  The Holocaust Unit that is too intense and emotional to teach virtually.  

I hadn’t fully considered these losses until that moment, and the ache moved from my heart to my throat.  I cried.  

The empty hallways and empty classrooms were further reminders of what we’ve lost.  A few teachers exchanged awkward greetings in the halls, staying a full 15 feet apart and pretending that everything is okay.  

As much as virtual teaching and learning is a struggle, thinking about what we’ve lost is even harder.  Today, I’m going to let myself mourn a little.  And tomorrow, I’ll unpack all those materials and do my best to figure out how to do amazing things with my students in a totally different format.  Because that’s what we do.  

We’re teachers.  We make it work.  

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Day… Nine?

These days are roller coasters.  Everything makes me cry lately.  My emotions are simmering just barely below the surface, and even a little jostle will put me over the edge.  A photo of an Italian hospital.  Tears.  A text from a friend.  Tears.  A fun family meetup online?  Also tears.  I’ve seen such beautiful things and such ugly things from my couch this week… I’m not really sure what to do with it all except show up in all the ways that I can and keep loving my people.  

Truth be told, I’m not really sure if it’s day nine.  I do know that it’s Sunday.  I know this because I got to go to church this morning.  I mean, not face-to-face, shake-people’s-hands church.  Virtual church.  Which actually brought me to tears.  I set up my computer in the living room.  I figured out how to mirror the screen to my TV.  I picked up the dirty laundry and threw it just beyond the frame of the camera.  I rallied my family.  Three of us were dressed; two were still in pajamas.  Two of us had coffee, one drank tea.  One sketched through the sermon.  Another listened while he worked on a puzzle.  I looked at my family, safe and warm and fed and healthy.  I looked to the TV to see a whole community of MY people, mostly healthy, safe, and praying together.  I didn’t realize how much I needed that until it happened.  More tears.  Tears of happiness and relief and worry all at once.  What’s to come?  None of us knows.  But at least we can be assured that we will be loved through it. 

After church, we loaded the kids in the car for a little excursion. I have teens and a preteen who typically like to groan and grumble at all my corny ideas.  Family game night?  Do we haaaave to? A hike in the woods?  I don’t waaant to!  Help me make brownies?  How about I just help EAT the brownies?  But something weird is happening to my children.  Today, they just said, “Okay” and got in the car.  

Something similar happened last night when I ‘made’ everyone play Pictionary.  We finished the game, and at the moment when one kid would normally say, “Can we be DONE now?” there was still a little bit of banter happening. I tested the waters with, “How about just one more?”  I expected groaning.  I expected eye rolling.  But what I got was enthusiasm.  They wanted to keep playing.  I didn’t understand what was happening, but I didn’t want to jinx it, either.  We played four more rounds.  It was beautiful.  

But anyway, I digress.  Jack and I knew the mission this afternoon.  We had discussed it at length.  Knowing that I’ll be home for the next few weeks, I plan to work on a decorating project.  There will be spackling and painting and rearranging… and as part of the plan we found a great piece of used furniture on Craigslist.  We had arranged to go pick it up.  But we’ve been really strict with our kids about social distancing and hand-washing and not spending time with people who aren’t family.  The kids haven’t liked these rules.  As a matter of fact, yesterday, I had to tell my 17 year old that she couldn’t go to her best friend’s house to provide comfort following the recent death of her grandmother.  I tried to be compassionate but clear.  It was still really hard.  I don’t think our teenagers really grasp what is happening out there in the world.  To be fair, I’m not sure I comprehend it.  But these kids need our help to make good choices in a time when very little feels safe.    

And as part of that lesson, Jack and I wanted them to come with us on this little trip.  We all loaded into the truck.  There was good-natured argument in the back, of the ‘STOP-TOUCHING-ME’ variety. That happened right before Bea rested her head on Lee’s shoulder, so I didn’t take it too seriously.  They joked and teased each other and argued about the radio. It all just felt, well, normal.

Until… we went to the ATM, where they watched my husband snap on latex work gloves to operate the machine and handle the cash.  We went to the drive- through, where they saw the workers sanitizing their cash register and countertops.  We drove past the mall and the arcade and a dozen restaurants and salons with empty parking lots.  When we finally got to our destination, they watched THAT guy snap on latex gloves to take our money.  They saw the adults have a brief conversation; us in the driveway and the sellers 20 feet away on their porch.  They heard the conversation, so they knew that the furniture had been disinfected just before we picked it up.  On the way home, we talked about a few things we needed from the grocery store.  We explained that we wouldn’t all go in; it wasn’t necessary and it wasn’t worth the risk.  My 17 year old asked to come.  My husband’s instinct was to say no, but I wanted her to.  I think it was powerful for her to see the empty shelves and the newly erected plexi-glass screens installed to protect the cashiers.  She watched a handful of stunned-looking people picking up bread and fruit and milk.  She observed that nobody was going near anyone else.  I think she was a little ‘shook,’ as the kids would say.  

I don’t necessarily want her to be scared.  I just want her to be safe.  Right now, all of our kids need different things.  Some kids need reassurance and someone to keep them safe and protect them from unnecessary fear.  Some kids need solid information and comfort.  But some of our kids, especially our teens, might need to be a little ‘shook.’  Because at that age, they are fearless.  They’re supposed to be.  That’s how God made them.  So in times like these, they need us to help them to step out of their self-centered sense of immortality and into the real world.  They need a healthy dose of fear to keep them grounded and safe and considerate.  

Today, I think my kids got a beautiful balance.  They participated in a worship service that assured them that they are loved and supported and part of something bigger.  They got a little family fun and a little holy spirit and also a little reality check.  They saw adults who modeled what it looks like to take care of your people in such a strange time.  

Today, they were a little shook, and I like to think they’re better for it.  

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Feelings

There’s so much panic-inducing content on social media right now.  I have to limit my intake, or else I’d be curled into a ball of despair and frustration.  

Until today, I’ve been mostly positive.  We’ve had a little break.  We’ve gotten some projects done and enjoyed some much-needed family time.  We’ve been in contact with family and friends.  We’ve been out in nature and learning online and exploring our interests a little more deeply.  It’s been good, and I’ve been sharing a lot of that in my social media space.  Yesterday was a little tough.  I shared that on Facebook, too; minor frustrations couched in humor are still socially appropriate.  

But today I stepped away from social media.  I didn’t want to share any of it, because today was crappy.  Not just for me, but for a lot of people I love.  I have two close friends with kids in the hospital… not virus-related, but frightening and made scarier by the increased possibility of complications and exposure.  My brother-in-law got laid off. A friend in the restaurant industry set up a go-fund-me to help pay her bills.  

And all of these heavy sadnesses take up space in the back of my mind; space that I need in order to manage this new, working-and-schooling-from-home reality.  And then, the little things pile on top. 

I broke my toe last night.  There’s not even a good story.  I dropped my phone.  It hit weird and wrong.  My whole toe is purple and swollen and I can’t move it.  It hurts to walk.  

Two of our pet guinea pigs died today.  Within an hour of each other.  We’re not sure why.  A virus?  The temperature in that basement room?  Maybe the iceberg lettuce that I fed them, not knowing that they should only have romaine?  There’s guilt there.  And sadness.  And that sadness touches an anxiety so close to the surface that the tears we cry contain multitudes, because they’re for so much more than our lost little pets.  

It rained here all day.  Jack came home at noon because they didn’t have enough work to keep him busy all day.  What if he can’t make 40 hours this week?  What if he can’t make 30?  

And then all of this weird sadness and fear pools in my gut to create a swirl of guilt because… my kids are healthy.  We still have jobs.  We have so much to be grateful for.  And others are struggling so much more. 

So where does that leave me? 

I’ve learned that I’m hesitant to let myself have feelings.  I’m a chronic bottler… I shove all those emotions down deep until I can no longer stand the pressure and then I explode.  

I’m trying to do better.  I’m trying to acknowledge my feelings and sit with them.  I’m trying to get curious about them and feel them, even when they’re shitty… Even when other people have it worse.  So today, I stopped trying to rally the troops.  I stopped being the cheerleader.  I told them I felt frustrated.  I told them I was in pain.  I held them and we all cried over those freaking guinea pigs.  We read some books.  We watched some videos.  We ate some lunch and washed the dishes, but I didn’t force a schedule.  I didn’t fight them.  We retreated to our own separate corners and then we came back together to grieve and breathe.  

I’m feeling a little better now.  My foot is less achy.  My heart is less achy.  I’m still saying lots of prayers.  I’m still uneasy about what the future holds.  But for now, this family can hold each other close and feel all the feelings.  The pleasant ones and the hard ones. And I guess I’ll be sharing on social media after all.  Thanks for reading.  

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Something to Give

The house smells like pizza.  My favorite insulated tumbler is full of sweet tea (I haven’t added the vodka just yet), and I’ve read half a novel today.  I woke up early, showered, made a trip to the dump and then took Lee on a Target run.  We laughed our way through the aisles and then returned home with all the fixings for a bake-a-thon.  I’ve talked to my mom, my dad, and my mother-in-law today, and I’ve spent the morning exchanging texts with my sisters and many of my close friends.  

I’m sitting in front of my computer, focusing on taking deep breaths. I’m prayerful and grateful.  

And I am also just a few breaths away from a panic attack.  

When I was a kid, I felt the panic coming on and then I panicked more.  I would spiral so badly that I couldn’t breathe.  I couldn’t move.  I couldn’t speak.  The tears rolled down my face and I felt certain that I was dying.  

This continued into my twenties and thirties, but as I got older, I learned to recognize the signs before they became paralyzing.  I know that the pain behind my rib cage on my left side is my ‘notice,’ if you would.  It tells me I need to pause and breathe.  I need to listen to my body and stretch and pray and summon a mental list of my blessings.  My body tells me what’s about to happen, and I’ve learned strategies for preventing it.  

But what nobody has ever been able to explain is what causes it.   The doctors called it ‘free-floating’ anxiety when I was a kid.  Which always seemed like a ridiculously cute name for something so terribly crippling.  And if it was so freely able to float, why wouldn’t it just freaking FLOAT AWAY?

I could never point to a cause.  I was never able to identify a particular stressor.  My anxiety would appear at the most unexpected times.  It was never when I was in the middle of a crisis.  It didn’t show up for breakups or finals or first dates.  It reared its ugly head in the middle of a lunch date with a friend, or just before band practice, or in a hotel spa.  I didn’t believe the anxiety diagnosis for a long time, because … well, I just didn’t FEEL anxious.  

I’ve been in and out of therapy since I was a kid.  I recently started seeing someone new.  She’s great.  She’s thoughtful and funny and makes connections that I can’t see until she points them out.  And she’s started to point out all the ways that I twist myself in order to feel liked, or wanted, or needed, or respected.  

She has helped me to see that I don’t let myself feel my own feelings, because I’m too busy anticipating the responses or needs of others.  

And I’m starting to notice it in a million little ways.  I haven’t made my own favorite meal in years, because nobody else really likes it.  I let my husband interrupt me, even though it drives me nuts.  I spend so much time worrying about what my readers might want to read that I stop writing altogether. 

All of this is so deeply ingrained that I don’t even know I’m doing it.  I suppress my desires so intuitively that I don’t even realize what’s happening.  That is, of course, until I explode. Sometimes it looks like tears in the shower. Sometimes it looks like a panic attack in the grocery store.  Sometimes it looks like angry screaming at my kids.  

On Monday morning, as I was getting ready to leave for work, Lee called for me.  “Mom…. I’m so sorry.”  Not a good sign. 

Instead of cleaning his room the day before, what he had actually done was shove everything under his bed… including a gallon container of Elmer’s glue.  The container, poorly closed and lying on its side, had deposited a three-foot wide puddle of glue under his bed.  Resting in the glue puddle was an assortment of art supplies, empty cups, dirty clothes, and random trash.  

To say I lost my temper would be a gross understatement.  There was screaming and swearing and crying.  I could feel my pulse in my temple, and I think I pulled a muscle in my neck.  I lost my mind.  

And it wasn’t until my therapy session, two days later, that I was able to tease out what had happened.  She pushed me to look closer.  How much of that explosion was actually because of the glue?  What else had been going on?  What had I done to take care of myself that week? What was I really feeling? 

In hindsight, it was a straw-that-broke-the-camel’s-back kind of a moment.  I had been just barely maintaining the status quo.  I was treading water, trying to be a good mom and a good teacher and a good wife and a good friend, and none of it was clicking the way I wanted it to.  I was a shaken bottle of emotion, and the inevitable explosion took the form of rage.

 I lost it because I had nothing left to give.

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Over the past week, I’ve been trying to ‘be fine.’ I laugh about the empty toilet paper shelves and wonder if people realize that humans lived for thousands of years without paper specifically designed for butt-wiping.  And then I walk a few feet away and buy cough medicine I don’t currently need.  

I tell my students and my kids to ‘just wash your hands’ while I make lists of ingredients for two weeks of dinners, ‘just in case.’  

I floss my teeth and photocopy vocabulary words like it’s a normal day, and then I spend my lunch period Googling various combinations of “Italy” and “COVID-19” and “CDC” and “pandemic.”  

Yesterday, I left work, picked up Lee from his afterschool club, and went to the store… not because I actually thought I needed something, but because I wanted to look around and make sure there wasn’t something I had forgotten.  

Please don’t take the time to write and tell me how crazy that was. My logical brain KNOWS that.  

But I’ve been so worried about LOOKING crazy, that I’ve been ignoring these feelings.  This anxiety is so repressed that it is beginning to seep out of me in ways that don’t make sense.  And maybe that’s exactly what a panic attack is.  It is the spillage that results from way too much trying to be fine. 

I got the call yesterday afternoon that school would be cancelled today in the district where I work.  Within minutes, I had made the decision to keep my own kids home, even though their schools aren’t closing until Monday.  And in that moment, I breathed a sigh of relief that helped me to see that I had been holding my breath for days.  

Today, as the world grinds to a halt in the face of a pandemic, I’m trying to let myself feel my feelings.  It’s okay to be scared.  It’s okay to feel sad.  It’s okay to be happy for the chance to binge Queer Eye and bake brownies with my kids.  All of it can be there at the same time.  The gratitude and the strength can co-exist with the fear and the worry.  

I’m trying to listen to my body and focus on my feelings and get curious about my emotional state. I’m opening my heart so I can be filled with something bigger than all of this.  And when I can embrace all of those emotions and inhale the grace that has been extended to me, I’ll be able to find my center. That’s where I’ll find my gifts and remember that, with God’s help, I will always have something to give.