4am

I went to bed last night in wool socks and thermal pants and a hoodie.  I woke up at 4am, burning from the inside, and frantically stripped down to a tank top and my underwear. My husband jokes, “Who needs a furnace with you in the bed?” He tries to put his arm around my waist and pull in close.  I shove him away.  “I love you but you CANNOT touch me right now. I will combust.”

As I lay there, it occurs to me that I haven’t had a hot flash like this in a while.  And it is at that moment, I realize I’ve forgotten to replace my estrogen patch.  To be honest, I wasn’t sure it was working, but I stand corrected.  It is a bit of a relief to realize that I can chemically prevent these hot flashes and night sweats.  But the 4am wake up has been pretty consistent, regardless of my body temperature or my medication.

Sometimes it’s the dog.  She’s an old lady with a bladder tumor.  No matter how late we let her out, it’s pretty much a guarantee that she’ll scratch the bedframe between 3 and 4am… her way of saying, “Let me out or I’ll pee on your rug.” 

Sometimes it’s my own bladder that wakes me up.  Other times it’s my husband’s restless legs.  In the past I was able to register these things, roll over, and go back to sleep.  

But my brain will no longer allow that.  The 4am wakeup has become time to contemplate every thought I pushed aside during the day.

My internal monologue admonishes me. You shouldn’t be self-deprecating in a job interview.  You blew it. She questions me.  Are you pushing this kid hard enough?  Are you pushing too much?  She reminds me of all the ways I should be a better person.  Volunteer more.  Eat better.  Clean the garage.  Call your parents.  She worries about things beyond her control.  Government corruption.  Human rights violations.  War.  Violence.  Freaking Epstein.  Cancer.  Climate change. She realizes she’s spiraling and tries to reign it in.  Deep breaths.  Clear your mind.  Box breathing.  5 things you see.  4 things you feel.  3 things you hear.  Is that a train?  Ugh.  The neighbor’s dog is barking again.  How many freaking dogs do they have over there?  

It’s a relief when the 5am alarm buzzes.  That voice in my head doesn’t go away, but she fades to the background.  She starts to focus on the day-to-day things that keep me occupied.  Brew the coffee.  Feed the dog.  Water the plants.  She can focus on the things that bring me joy.  Hot shower.  Gorgeous yarn.  Hilarious kids. 

I’m on vacation this week; February break is a welcome respite from the midwinter chaos of middle school. These 4am wake-ups feel less disruptive when I can manage the pace of the rest of my day.  So I’m easing into things over here.  I’m sipping on my second cup of coffee, quietly strategizing how to balance my errands and my lunch plans and my crochet project.  I realize how lucky I am to have this moment.  How lucky I am to have these ordinary days… and occasional sleepless nights. 

Superbowl

I have long believed that the Monday after the Superbowl should be a holiday.  I mean… for everyone.  But maybe especially for teachers.  And MOST especially for Middle School Teachers. 

Think about it for a moment.  Imagine a middle schooler.  Twelve or thirteen or fourteen years old.  The twelve-year-olds are just emerging from elementary school.  They’re gaining awareness and independence and trying with varied levels of success to NOT be little kids anymore. By thirteen, they’re a ball of emotion. They want so badly to be liked… but they don’t LIKE anything.  Or at least that’s how they want to appear. The fourteen-year-olds are beginning to think they know it all.  They’re full of unearned swagger and strong opinions.  All of them are emerging social scientists and researchers; constantly on the watch for what will push them down a path toward social acceptance, and terrified of anything that might ostracize them from their peers.  

Take that storm of hormones and emotions and intensity.  Then add to it a jolt of televised, late-night, emotionally-laden warfare between THEIR team and whomever happens to be on the other side of the ball.  

Feed them crap and caffeine. Let them stay awake, shouting at their screens, full of adrenaline and anticipation and, eventually… disappointment. Hope they sleep a little.  Then send them to school. 

*****

“Mrs. Glennon, I didn’t sleep at all last night.  I was just so sad,” from the tiny twelve year old who had been so eager to celebrate with his family.  

“Drake Maye is dead to me,” declared the teen who proudly sported an ‘I love Drake Maye’ tee shirt three days ago. 

“I can’t learn VOCABULARY today.  I’m in mourning,” from the student who loves big words. 

“Did you SEE that? The ball went RIGHT THROUGH HIS HANDS! How could he miss that catch?” from the kid who confidently believes that he’s more skilled than a professional wide receiver. 

*****

They feel everything so intensely.  This level of passion is what makes middle schoolers so endearing… and so exhausting.  They are both acutely aware and utterly clueless.  

The first half of every class was spent trying to refocus their limited energy and attention.  The second half of the class was spent admitting my failure to achieve that goal.  

By last period, I had nearly given up.  I had scrapped the vocabulary lesson in lieu of a slightly more engaging personal memoir.  The students were only half-working, and I was counting down the minutes to the final bell.  

“Mrs. G, can you help me?” one of them asked, with his back turned to me.  I walked toward him, and as I approached, he turned his face to reveal a sharpied piece of clear scotch tape stuck purposely and securely to his top lip.  His impish smile was irresistible, and I couldn’t help but laugh.  

“That’s quite a moustache,” I giggled, and continued to help the other students. 

“Yeah.  It’s really growing fast,” he agreed.  

A few moments later, I looked up again.  He had attached more scotch tape to form a fu-manchu.  A minute later, he had a goatee.  Then sideburns.  

By the time he was fully bearded, the laughter of a group of overtired, disappointed pre-teens felt like medicine.  I belly-laughed with them, finally accepting defeat.  

The memoirs and the vocab can wait for tomorrow, because they are just kids, after all. And (luckily) the Superbowl only comes once a year.