Inertia

Last weekend, I was talking to a friend and I confessed that I feel like my household has two modes right now.  It’s either inertia… or shouting.  

After a trip to the dump, I asked my husband to drive around town, simply because I couldn’t bear the thought of going home.  I explained that the negative energy in our house was sucking the life out of me.  

One kid is grounded for missing curfew. 

Another kid is barely passing his classes.  

A third kid lost all of his screen time for bypassing the parental controls.  

It’s too much lounging. Too much avoidance and lethargy and sleeping in.  Too much time on screens.  There’s nowhere to go and nothing to do.  

It’s typical February cabin fever multiplied exponentially by a year of COVID restrictions, and the exhaustion is pervasive.  

I think about the energy required to rally the troops for family game night, and then I curl up on the couch with the remote, because I can’t muster the strength.   

*****************

This morning, I got up early and began working on the children’s message; I needed to record a mini-sermon, based on the scripture reading and our recent theme.  I had been working for a few days to try to come up with something, and I was struggling.  I had a kernel of an idea that came to me at 2am, the night my kid missed curfew and I couldn’t fall back asleep.   But it wasn’t coming together.  I would change one thought, and a new hole would appear.  

So I sipped my coffee and prayed on it.  I tried to breathe, to ‘let go and let God…’ And then it came to me.  I wrote a four minute talk about not feeling good enough and remembering that we are loved no matter what.  I reminded myself that I don’t have to earn love or earn blessings.  God has given those freely. My obligation is only to use them, to bring good into the world.  To bless others.  

******************

It was a relief to have that children’s message done.  It had been hanging over my head for a few days, just another thing on my mental to-do list that I was happy to cross off.  

And then I went on with my day.  Jack and I left the house early to go to the junkyard.  In his job, he accumulates copper pieces, which can be turned in for cash.  They opened at 7am, and we drove through the gates at 7:08.  We grabbed coffee and breakfast.  The luxury of a meal without the children cannot be overestimated right now.  

We stopped at the grocery store.  I picked up the ingredients to make hot cocoa bombs, and he grabbed what we needed for a pot roast.  We now had a plan for the day, and it felt good.  One more stop at the dollar store for Valentine’s treats, and then we were home.  All before 9:30 am.  

When we got back to the house, the kids were awake.  In front of screens… but awake.  It was a start.  Jack and I conferred over another cup of coffee.  We were determined to avoid the inertia today.  

I made chili.  We got the kids to clean their rooms.  The washing machine ran all day, and the clean clothes even got folded and put away.  Bea went to work, but we rallied the other two to help make hot cocoa bombs.  It was our first attempt, and even though they were a little lopsided, they mostly stayed together.  Jack filled the chocolate molds.  Cal put the cocoa and marshmallows into the empty chocolate spheres.  I sealed them, and Lee decorated them.   The grumbling was good-natured, and we had a few laughs while we made them.  It felt so good to have everyone working on something together.  Of course, I forgot to buy milk so we could actually USE them, so I’ll have to let you know how they taste some other time.  

What was different about this day?  Was it that Jack and I were on the same page?  Were the kids just feeling the cabin fever, too?  Was it my own attitude?  I thought back to my children’s message.  Maybe I was finally following my own advice.  Maybe I just needed to relax and remember my blessings and let God do the work.  

We spent the rest of the afternoon lounging, but it was the good kind.  We watched a little TV, joked a little, cleaned a little.  Cal played in the snow.  Lee created a new character.  Jack played the guitar.  I read my book.  When Jack’s pot roast was done, we gathered at the dining room table, and I marveled at how different this day had felt.  I was proud and relaxed and relieved that we had managed to avoid both the inertia AND the shouting.  

And what happened next was nothing short of a miracle.  Instead of bolting from the table, Cal asked, “Can we play a family game?”  

GUYS.  I’m not even joking.  Someone OTHER THAN ME wanted to play a game.  Lee and Jack resisted a bit, but in a good-natured, joking sort of way.  And when Bea finally made it home from work an hour later, we were on our second card game.  Lee looked up, and said, “If I gotta play, you gotta play.” 

“Yeah, okay,” she replied.  “Lemme just grab a snack.”  

So we played. There was laughter. There were snacks.  There were excited dogs and even an intermission… and everyone came BACK to finish the game.  No inertia, and no shouting… except for the fun kind. 

Pity Party

Yesterday, my son ate the leftovers from the fridge.  What was he thinking?!?  

Last night, my husband got up in the middle of the night to get a glass of water.  Ugh.  The nerve. 

This morning, my daughter was talking on the phone.  How dare she!

*****

In the past 48 hours, I’ve been angry at my husband for eating, irritated with the kids for talking, and annoyed with my mother for calling to say hi.  (Sorry, Mom.)

This morning, there was a little pee spot on my bedroom carpet.  There was blood in it.  I wasn’t irritated.  I cried. 

The only one I have compassion for right now is my dog.  She’s not well.  We’re waiting for the end, and loving on her a whole lot.  And the waiting is brutal, beautiful torture.  

I don’t want to be waiting anymore.  I’m so, so, so tired of waiting.  For a vaccine.  For church and family gatherings and dinner parties.  For projects and group work and games at school.  For normalcy.  For hugs.  For restaurants and coffee with friends and book club.  

I’m in the middle of a self-pity spiral right now, and I’m hoping to write my way out of it.  

Some of it is the “post-Christmas” let down.  For a while, we had something to look forward to.  But it’s over now.  And it was all a little anti-climactic.  Despite my best efforts, even all the gifts and the good china and the abundance of food didn’t bring the type of joy and connection I’ve been craving.  

I wanted it to feel special.  I tried.  I really did.  And there were some great moments.  But most of those moments blur into all of the other moments when I was trying so hard to make staying at home feel just a little bit special.  

I have two teens and a tween in the house.  They resist all my efforts.  My husband isn’t much better.  You should see his face when I suggest a board game or another family movie night. 

You see, the things that bring me joy are NOT the same things that bring them joy.  They don’t want to play a family game.  Or work on another puzzle.  Or go for a walk or bake cookies or clean the basement.  I argue that we’re all spending too much time on screens.  They accuse me of stealing the little bit of joy that they still have… gaming with friends or making TicToc videos or Facetiming late into the evening.   

But when we do pull away from our screens to play a family game, I love the way they tease each other and make references to inside jokes and even the way they make fun of me… because they’re connecting.  Maybe they don’t love board games, but in those moments, it’s apparent how much they love each other.  

When I drag them all into the kitchen for a family meal, they resist being pulled away from their rooms. But when we all wind up snort-laughing during dinner, I’m confident that none of them would rather be scrolling TicToc.  

*****

Yesterday, my son invited me to watch the Mandalorian with him.  He’s seen all of the episodes, but he offered to watch with me, from the beginning.  Typically, I’d say “No, thank you.” I don’t dislike the Star Wars thing, but I wouldn’t call myself a fan.  I’m just not that interested.  

But in that particular moment, I had a steaming mug of coffee in my hand.  I had some time to kill before the social worker’s visit.  I had no meals to make, no IEPs to write… nothing that felt more interesting or important than this sweet offer from my kid. 

So I watched.  I sipped my coffee and glanced at this preteen man-child and watched a pretty entertaining episode of a series that I hadn’t been particularly excited about.  It was nice.

It reminded me of a few precious weeks a couple of years ago when I binged “Stranger Things” with Lee.  I don’t enjoy Sci-Fi thrillers, especially those fraught with monsters inhabiting creepy alternate realities.  Totally NOT my thing.  

But I watched.  Every night, I settled in with my kid because I didn’t want him watching something so creepy alone.  And although I never really enjoyed the world created on the television, I cherished that time with my son.  I enjoyed being let in to his world a little; I loved being the only one at the dinner table who could knowledgably discuss “the upside down” or predict what was going to happen to Eleven.  

*****

Yesterday, I invited my son to go for a walk with me.  I even tried to bribe him with Dunkin Donuts.  He wasn’t having it.  It was too cold.  He had other things to do.  He just really didn’t WANT to.  

I get upset when I feel like I have to bribe them to get them to do something with me.  When I ask them to come to the store and they respond with, “Can I get something?”  Or if I invite them on an errand and they ask, “Can we stop for french fries?”  

But then again, some of the best moments happen when I manage to combine something I want to do with something THEY want to do.  A few nights ago, I wanted to drive through a local neighborhood to look at the luminaries they put out once a year.  It’s beautiful.  So I told the kids to get in the car.  They balked.  “Where are we going?”  “It’s a surprise.  Just get in the car.”  And I knew that, while they might enjoy the luminaries, they wouldn’t consider the trip worthy of ‘Get in the car, it’s a surprise.’  So I improvised. I got luminaries and a 30-minute drive, observing and rating Christmas light displays.  They got Taco Bell.  It was a win-win.  

*****

Maybe I’m more like the kids than I’d like to admit.  Maybe sometimes I’m the one who needs to do the thing I don’t really want to do, in order to get the thing that I’m really craving.  Maybe I have to suck it up and watch the creepy show or hit the drive-thru or say yes when they ask, ‘Can I get something?’

*****

My son is super creative.  He makes costumes and sells them online.  It’s incredibly impressive.  But he’s been putting off finishing his latest project.  When I asked why, he responded, “I just really don’t like the sewing part.”  My first instinct was to tell him that I don’t really like sewing, either.  

But I stopped myself.  Maybe I’ve learned something from this little pity party.  Instead, I tentatively asked, “Do you want some help?”  He smiled a surprised smile, paused for a second, and shrugged his shoulders. 

 “Sure.” 

********

Today was better.  There was some sewing.  A trip to the library.  A walk with the dog.  Another episode of the Mandalorian.  Soup simmering on the stove.  A chat with an old friend. 

Some of it alone, some of it with the kids, all of it helping to pull me out of my little pity party. 

And I wasn’t even mad that Cal ate my leftovers… again.

Privilege

I have friends who are strictly quarantining… like “don’t leave your house” quarantining.  And they’re pretty adamant about how important it is, because Covid is literally killing people.  It’s terrifying.  I understand. 

I also have family who are in the “You gotta live your life.  We could all get hit by a bus tomorrow.”  And I understand that, too.  Living in perpetual fear feels like wasting a precious gift.  

Ultimately, I think I fall somewhere in the middle… like most of us probably do.  

Let me be clear… I’m a rule-follower.  Teachers generally are.  If there is a law or a regulation or a mandate, that’s not debatable.  Wear your masks.  No large gatherings.  No more than 10 people in your home.  If you live in a place where there are rules, you follow the rules.  

But I’ve been thinking a lot about how your privilege plays into your more subjective Covid choices. 

I am a middle-class white woman who spent her formative years in a trailer park.  My people are blue-collar people, but I’ve found myself in an upper-middle class suburb of Boston, often baffled by the entitlement that surrounds me.  

And I’m a little ashamed to admit, that entitlement is often mine to own.  I was exposed to Covid at work about 10 days ago.  I didn’t find out until Sunday night, so I’ve basically been self-quarantining for 3 days.  And I have four days to go.  

I’m not considered a close contact, because (although I spend 30 hours a week with this kid), I had no contact in the 48 hours before his positive test.  I’ve chosen to self-quarantine, but I’m not required to.  Ugh.  The privilege.    

I’ve ordered my groceries on Instacart.  Even with my subscription, that costs about $50 a week more than it would if I just went to the store.  Luckily, I can afford it now.  Ten years ago, I would have had to haul my ass to the grocery store.  

I’m pretty set on Christmas gifts, which is another change for us.  Up until a few years ago, we did much of our shopping on Christmas Eve, when my husband got his bonus check.  

I can work from home because I have reliable internet and I could afford to purchase a Wi-Fi booster that allows four of us to Zoom at the same time in our house.  And we’re blessed to have a home with enough space to have four people on virtual meetings without shouting over each other. 

Regardless of our privilege, we’ve all had to make our Covid rules.  We’ve all had to weigh the risks and benefits to each of our interactions.  And here’s where I landed.  I allow each of my children to socialize with two friends.  For my oldest, her two closest friends have already had Covid, and whether it’s reliable or not, I feel like they’re less of a risk to our family.  My middle child conquers depression and social isolation on a good day; during Covid, it’s a constant battle to balance his mental and physical health.  He spends time with two close friends, primarily because his risk of dying by suicide is much higher than his risk of dying by Covid.  My youngest spends time masked, outdoors, with two friends whose parents are incredibly Covid-conscious.  We purposely don’t see family who are at risk.  

Those are the Covid rules in our house.  They’re much stricter than the state guidelines.  They’re much looser than a strict quarantine.  But that’s where we landed, after assessing the risks.  

We could all argue about acceptable levels of risk. Nothing is fool-proof. If you follow all the state guidelines, is that enough?  Should we all be doing more? Are grocery stores really safe?  Are schools?  Family gatherings?  Who counts as family?  My stepsons don’t live with us.  We haven’t seen them in 9 months.  Is that reasonable?  Necessary?  Reasonable people could argue different perspectives on this.

But I think there is a missing piece in this conversation, and it has to do with class and privilege. 

Just imagine a few scenarios.

Number one is an upper-middle class family.  Both parents are professionals, banned from the office and working from home.  Kids may go to school from home, or maybe part time.  This family orders their groceries and occasionally orders restaurant take-out. They go for walks and play in their yard and interact with friends and family virtually.  

Number two is a middle class family. The father is a cop and the mom is a nurse.  The kids go to school part time and when they’re not in school, they’re part of a small learning ‘pod’ where a few families share childcare responsibilities.  They order groceries when they can, but they also take some masked trips to the store when needed.  The kids’ soccer teams still play, masked and distanced, so they get some exercise and maintain social connections. 

Number three is a struggling family.  A single mom, working at a grocery store.  While she works, her two kids are in daycare.  Ordering groceries is cost-prohibitive, so mom shops with her coupons on the weekends.  Elder care is unaffordable, so the grandmother lives in their small apartment, with family pitching in to provide supervision and care.  

When I imagine these scenarios, it becomes impossible to judge other people’s choices. 

I think about the teachers and cops and nurses I know.  Each of us is ‘required’ to accept a certain level of risk. Because we’re ‘essential,’ we feel obligated to accept these risks, and we do.  Teachers interact with hundreds of students a day.  Police intervene when people refuse to follow regulations.  Nurses hold the hands of dying patients, knowing they’re putting themselves at risk. 

And in my mind, the key point is this….

How can we encourage these ‘essential’ employees to take on unimaginable risks to protect us and provide for us, and then ALSO expect them to share the risk perspective of the privileged?  

How can we expect a nurse to hold the hand of a Covid patient, and then judge her for having coffee with a friend?  How is one of those risks acceptable, and the other is not? 

How can we ask a teacher to work with 300 students during the day, and then not allow one child in her home in the evening?  

How can we ask police officers to tolerate being spit on and assaulted and then tell them that a beer around a fire pit is too risky?  

How can we expect a single mother to interact with hundreds of people at work and expose her children to dozens of children at daycare and then tell her she can’t ask a relative to come to her home to help with her aging mother?  

I keep hearing about ‘the science.’  And I have to say, I think that’s too simplistic.  Because human nature is so much more complex than that.  It’s not about whether you ‘believe’ in COVID or not. 

If the risk you are FORCED to accept professionally is greater than the risk you’re ALLOWED to accept personally, there’s bound to be a disconnect. 

That’s where I find myself.  I’m trying to make decisions that put my family and my community at the least risk… given the risk I’ve been forced to assume.  

I find myself in the same position as everyone I know.  Trying to make the best decisions I can. 

And reminding myself over and over again, that judging other people’s choices is not my responsibility… and it shouldn’t be my privilege.  

Pissed

The school where I teach was closed for most of the week.  Well, that’s not entirely true.  The school was closed to students for most of the week.  

The health team identified a case of possible in-school transmission of COVID, so they shut down for three days.  Students switched to a remote learning model.  But teachers needed to be in the building.  I taught my classes, sitting at my desk, wearing my mask and my coat.  And I’m kinda pissed.  

I’m not pissed at my principal or my superintendent.  I’m not pissed at my union reps or the school administration.  I’m pissed about the plethora of OPINIONS out there that impact MY ability to do my job.  

When the teachers asked why we needed to be in the building (we already teach from home one day a week), the answer was, “The taxpayers like to see your cars in the parking lot.”  No joke.  

So when our custodians SHOULD be deep-cleaning an empty building, instead, they have to deal with all the doorknobs and handles we’ve touched.  They have to disinfect in the evenings after we leave.  They have to re-wash everything they’ve already washed. 

Three teachers work in my classroom.  We need to remain masked all day.  We’re each hosting different zoom classes, so we don our headphones and shout over each other, literally tethered to our computers. The masks make it even harder to communicate with our students over glitchy connections and mediocre technology. 

If we have a five minute break, there is nowhere to go.  We don’t visit or talk with each other.  Everyone has a sign on their door, stating “Zoom Class in progress.  Please do not disturb.”  The teacher’s room is sad and lonely.  Nobody sits there anymore.  There are three labeled, socially distant spots to sit in case you don’t want to eat in your classroom.  They are almost never in use.  

To help with ventilation, we’ve been told to keep our windows open at all times.  This is not a suggestion.  It’s an expectation.  Regardless of winter temperatures, the windows stay open.  On really cold days, we wear our coats.  One of my partner teachers brings a blanket to work when the kids aren’t there.  We dress in layers and wish we could at least move around… but we are stuck in front of these computers, trying our best to communicate through the noise and the masks and the cold.  

When I teach from home, I have a great little set up.  I have a document camera that allows me to take notes or explain concepts in real time.  I have a desk in the corner of my bedroom with a white board and a stack of middle grade novels and resources.  I can light a candle and sip my coffee and teach without shouting over other people in the room.  When I have a five-minute break, I can chat with my kids or switch a load of laundry or pet my dog.  My workspace is warm and I can smile and laugh with my students, unhindered by a mask over my face.  

I know that’s not the case for all teachers.  Some much prefer to be in the classroom while they teach.  They should have that option.  But requiring teachers to physically be in the building when students are not?  That’s demeaning and punitive. 

We are educated professionals.  Educated professionals all over the country are working from home.  Working from home doesn’t make any employee less accountable.  If you don’t do your job, there should still be consequences.  Systems for evaluation should still be in place.  Actual, effective supervision is still possible.  

So when you drive by a school with no students and a full parking lot?  That’s not proof that teachers are hard at work.  It’s proof that a lot of unfounded, uneducated opinions won out over the voices of the teachers in the trenches.  It’s proof that educators are being treated like children. It’s proof that a visible car in the parking lot is more important than the health and well-being and safety of the teachers who care for and educate your children.

And maybe you should be pissed, too.

Thanksgiving 2020

I hope I haven’t let you all down.  I’ve never gone this long without publishing something here, and the longer it went on, the harder it became.  I wanted to explain my absence; to fill you in on the chaos and madness and my deep sense of inadequacy.  I kept planning on a sort of summary.  Of the last two weeks.  Then the last month.  Now the last two.  

And I hope you all will accept my apologies, but I just… can’t.  I can’t do it all justice with the space and the time that I have.  So I’m just going to pick up again.  I’m going to start with NOW.  

Because NOW is the best that it’s been in a good, long while.  

Right now, I’m sitting at my desk in my bedroom, watching my youngest play corn hole with a friend in the backyard.  They’re masked, but the smiles reach their eyes as they laugh and tease each other.  The water is running in the bathroom next door, and I’m serenaded by Bea as she sings in the shower.  Her voice is clear and bright and full of promise.  Lee is in the basement, creating a new character out of fabric and makeup and imagination as he video chats with a friend who recently transitioned.  I’m so happy that he has connected with people who totally get him.  

There is turkey soup simmering on the stove, the culmination of leftovers from our traditional Thanksgiving meal on Thursday.  There were only five of us, but I still cooked for 12, and we’ll be eating this turkey all week.  I can’t say that I’m sorry.  I also can’t say that I didn’t have pie for breakfast yesterday.  

This morning, I went to the store before they all woke up.  I made cinnamon buns and homemade hash browns and sausage and eggs.  They all wandered in, sleepy-eyed and surprised by the morning abundance.  We sat at the table, laughing and bickering and fighting over dish duty.  Then we herded complaining kids into the living room for traditional tree-decorating activities.  They tease me for my sappy traditions… but they play along anyway. Somebody puts on the Christmas music.  Somebody groans as I tell the stories behind the ugliest ornaments again; the meaning and the story so much more valuable than the plastic or paper on a string.  We laugh at the little handprints and the old pictures.  Each person hangs the ornaments that contain his or her name.  The kids tease me that Lee must be my favorite child… his name is all over that tree.  I’m finally at the point where I can joke and tell the truth about it. 

When Lee came out, I handled it the best way I knew how.  I was supportive.  I did my research.  I found books and support groups and camps and conferences.  And despite all my reading, there were still things that still took me by surprise.  Those ornaments were one of them.  I didn’t realize how many ornaments were pictures or names.  This poor child freaked out a little.  He wouldn’t look at them.  He certainly wouldn’t let me hang them.  That first year, I did my best to use paint and white-out to change the ones I could.  Others got packed into a box.  Baby’s First Christmas with a little pink blanket.  Six little snowmen with names on their bellies.  Photos in popsicle stick frames, featuring a pigtailed little girl in a pink dress.  I felt awful.  And sad.  And awful that I was sad.  

So, the next year, I went a little overboard.  A little dog with Lee written across its belly.  Lee on a snowman.  And a santa.  A bell.  A penguin.  

No wonder they joke that he’s my favorite.  I was overcompensating.  

And just a year later, the damn ornaments hit me again.  Bea.  She had been part of our family for just four months.  And I did buy her an ornament with her name on it.  But only one.  And too late, I realized how incredibly insufficient it was.  She sat on the couch that year, and we had to coax her toward the tree.  She tried to shrink into the cushions and we kept handing her shiny red glass orbs, wooden angels, and Santas made of tin.  She reluctantly hung them.  

When we got to yet another sappy Christmas tradition, she silently sat and watched.  Cal and Lee gently removed the white padded box of ornaments.  We had received them on our wedding day.  Each of the twelve, hand painted glass trinkets represented a blessing, written out on a 12×12 piece of cardstock.  A pinecone for fruitfulness.  A fruit basket for abundance.  A tiny house for shelter and protection.   And so on…  

The boys knew the drill.  One would read the meaning.  One would hand us the ornament.  And Jack and I would take turns placing our wedding ornaments on the tree.  The final ornament, a white glass heart with golden rings on it, represented love.  We always hang it together and then share a chaste kiss.  The kids groan, because your parents kissing is inherently gross, and then we all laugh a little and pack up the now-empty boxes of ornaments.  

I remember worrying that first Christmas.  Did we offend her?  Are our traditions to blatant?  Too exclusive?  Too… happy? 

Fast-forward to 2020.  Those years feel far behind us.  The tree is peppered with all of their names.  They fight over who gets to place the rainbow flag on the tree.  Bea grabs the French Fry ornament from Cal, boldly exclaiming, “That one’s mine!”  They have their own stories to tell about the penguins and angels and small Santas.  They wrestle a little and laugh at my singing and groan together about the stories being told for the millionth time.  They all know the drill when it comes to the wedding ornaments.  They take turns reading and pulling the delicate glass from the box.  They hand them to us, and giggle about ‘fruitfulness’ and make inappropriate (but funny) jokes.  And when Jack and I kiss at the end, they all know that their job is to make gagging noises and groan.  They do so with enthusiasm.  

Today was a beautiful reminder.  It was a reminder that our mistakes don’t have to be failures.  They can be lessons.  The hard times don’t have to define us.  They can make us better.  I was reminded that family is family; whether you were born to them or you chose them, whether they are who you thought they would be or whether they have become something more than you ever imagined.    

I’m so grateful for this family of mine.  We’re an eclectic bunch.  Liberal and Conservative.  Black and white.  Messy and neat.  Strict and lenient.  Cis and Trans.  Gay and Straight.  Male and Female.  Singers and Gamers.  Artists and Writers. Birthed and Chosen.  Parents and Children.  

But each and every one of us is loving and loved.  

Today I give thanks for that blessing.  

Morning Coffee

It’s 7am, and I’m sitting in my backyard with a cup of coffee and my computer.  The leaves are starting to change, and there’s a chill in the air.  My hair is pulled back and still damp from my shower, so there’s a spot on the back of my neck that’s just slightly cooler than the rest of me. I’m wearing my gray crocks; the ones that relieve my foot pain and provide just the right amount of cushioning under my feet.  They feel like a guilty pleasure because I only wear them in my house.  They’re too ugly to be seen in public, but I love them anyway.  I take a sip of my cinnamon coffee and breathe in.  The air is cool but heavy.  There’s a humidity that reminds me that summer could reappear at any moment.  I pull my softest sweatshirt over my hands, slipping my thumbs through the thumb-holes.  I love a sweatshirt with thumb-holes, and this recent second-hand find is my new favorite.  It’s the softest thing I own… a Patriot’s shirt that’s slightly too big for me, in a cozy, comfortable sort of way.  The fit is flattering with leggings or jeans, and it’s the type of quality garment that I rarely invest in at full price.  These things go for $50 or more, and I always manage to convince myself that the knockoff $10 t-shirts at the Job Lot are good enough.   But this one was $8 at the thrift store, and well-worth every penny.  

During these quiet morning moments, I think back to yesterday and plan for today.  What’s on the to-do list?  How will we sneak in a little fun?  Did I work enough yesterday that I can allow myself some down-time today? 

I’m not sure if this way of thinking is a product of my culture or my upbringing or my own personality.  But I do know that I put a tremendous amount of value on doing.  I judge myself (and if I’m honest, my family, too) based on productivity.  Did I get enough DONE?  

But I’m doing a lot of reading and podcast listening and trying to understand the ways that COVID has changed us.  There’s no doubt in my mind that I’ve changed.  Maybe we all have.

And while I can’t entirely shake this productivity mindset, I am starting to see the value in not just doing, but being.  I’m becoming more aware of the value in those un-productive moments.  Sitting in my yard.  Going for a walk.  Watching my kids.  Plopping on the floor to pet my dog.  Baking unnecessary cinnamon buns.  Wandering through a thrift shop.  

As a teacher during this crazy time, my to-do list is endless and overwhelming.  There’s so much to learn about online teaching and learning.  There are so many schedule variations to plan for.  There is so much legal documentation required. There are important lessons to teach and difficult conversations to navigate.  

As a parent, the same is true.  There are assignments to be checked and emails to be read and forms to be completed.  There are schedules to plan and appointments to make and laundry to be folded.  And there are kids who need attention and reassurance and a little tough love. 

At any typical time, these jobs can feel like too much.  And now? With the enormity of the task?  With the impossibility of what we’re being asked to do? Well, I feel like I have two choices. I could drown, thrashing in this flood of unrealistic expectations and impossible asks and exhausting criticisms.  Or I could pause and take a breath and remember how to float.  

If I focus solely on the doing, I will wind up depleted.  I will run out of energy and stamina and optimism.  Because there is no finish line.  I will never reach the end of this to-do list.  I will never be able to do all of these things well, because this is not how these things were ever meant to be done.   

I’m working harder than I’ve ever worked before.  I’m spending nights and weekends researching and making phone calls and planning and scheduling and updating paperwork.  But I know myself.  I’ll get caught up in the high of all that doing… I’ll keep working toward some impossible, imaginary finish line.  Unless I consciously interrupt the cycle.  

So I’m sitting in my backyard with a cup of coffee and my computer, wearing my ugly crocs and my comfy sweatshirt and putting my thoughts down on paper.   I’m planning the day so that I can finish the lesson plans and the laundry and also pick pumpkins and watch football and worship online with my family.    

There’s no doubt about it… COVID sucks.  But sometimes the hardest, suckiest things teach us the most valuable lessons.  I’m going to keep trying to learn them; one breath, one walk, one cozy sweatshirt, one cup of coffee at a time. 

Back to School

In my first year teaching, I arrived at school with a terrible misconception.  I thought I would be handed a schedule of classes and groups to teach.  As a new teacher, I wasn’t prepared for the reality at all.  I spent several afternoons crying and sorting through piles of paperwork, trying to figure out how to fit 8 hours of instruction into a 6 hour day.  Ultimately, I failed.  It took a mentor, a partner, and two administrators several days to help me work out the kinks before I could actually start teaching.  It required creativity.  We had to do things like group two different grades together.  We had to divide 45 minutes of service into three 15 minute blocks.  We had to eliminate all of my supervision duties, which earned me resentment from my new colleagues.  It was awful. 

And I’ve had to do it every year since.  

You see, Special Educators aren’t given a schedule.  They’re given a caseload and a pile of IEPs (Individual Education Programs) that outline what services need to be provided to the students.  And it is up to us to make it happen.  We’re flexible.  We’re creative.  We’re resilient.  We work together.   And almost every year, we’re able to make it work.  Sometimes we have to hire another part time person to help with the load.  Sometimes we have to team up to tackle a problem.  But we usually wind up with a complicated, creative schedule that meets the needs of our students.  

This gets easier with experience.  You learn what classes are required and which ones aren’t.  You learn who is the most flexible of your colleagues.  You figure out how to teach two lessons at the same time.  You break kids into groups.  You partner them creatively.  You plan multiple lessons so that kids still have quality instruction when they are working independently.  You advocate for the best possible paraprofessional staff because those are the people who hold it all together when it feels impossible.  

But, despite knowing all of this, even seasoned Special Educators often begin the year thinking, this is never going to work.

In a typical year, we spend hours upon hours in May and June placing kids in specific groups and teams so that we can provide all of the services that they require.  

This year, all of that work was done… but it’s being complicated by the fact that all of these kids aren’t guaranteed to be in the same cohort.  They could be moving through their classes on opposite days, doubling the time that we have to spend teaching that group.  Some of them are choosing to stay home and participate in entirely remote schooling.  To complicate things further, kids on IEPs might receive different amounts of in-school instruction.  While their peers could be in school two days a week, some students will be in-person for four days of instruction.  They’ll attend classes for two days, and then receive specialized support and instruction on the alternate days.  

We’re still trying to figure out how that will work.  Will they complete remote assignments?  Something different?  Can we change their class times?  Add staff?  If I’m teaching an English class in my room, where will the other group be?  Who will teach them? The unanswered questions make my head spin.  

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I have to pause and say that I have been incredibly impressed with the administrative team in the district where I work.  They have created thoughtful plans, working with educators and stakeholders to ensure that we are prioritizing the safety and health of our staff and students.  I am glad to be working in my current district; I’ve worked in several school systems where educators were dismissed and mistreated.  I’ve worked in places where the union and the school administration functioned as adversaries.  I’ve worked in places where the bottom line was always the most important consideration.  I’ve worked in places where teachers were dispensable, especially as they became more experienced and more expensive.  

So, as my anxiety builds coming into this crazy new teaching experiment, I am reassured by our administrators.  My concerned and questioning emails always receive a reply.  Sometimes the answers are clear.  Sometimes the answer is, “We’re working on it.”  Sometimes the reply is, “Thanks for bringing that to our attention.” Our administration is responsive and collegial and supportive.  I have faith that we’ll figure out all of the complicated scheduling details together.  But that’s only the first step. 

In addition to complex scheduling, we’ll also be dealing with substantial changes to the WAY we teach. 

Tried and true methods will need to be revised.  

One of the most essential and evasive things that new teachers need to learn is classroom management.  To some, this comes naturally.  To many, it’s a hard-earned skill.  But it is also highly personal.  Everyone approaches it differently.  Here are a few things that teachers do:

-Use proximity.  Sometimes standing next to a student is all it takes to change off-task behavior.   Teachers in many schools are now being instructed to stand at the front of the room, without moving during class. 

-Call kids by name.  They pay more attention and they respond more quickly.  Teachers recording lessons are being asked NOT to use names for privacy reasons. 

-Use nonverbal cues.  Instead of calling out a kid’s behavior, most of us shoot a warning look across the room.  Or we tap the desk.  Or we simply take away a distraction (toys or phones) while continuing to teach.  Masks and distancing rules make many of these strategies ineffective. 

-Make it interesting.  Don’t sit at your desk.  Don’t lecture.  Instruction should be creative and engaging.  Use project-based learning.  Do experiments.  Play games.  Get the kids up and moving.  Many of the things that we’ve come to accept as best practice simply won’t be possible under new guidelines.

-Provide unobtrusive support.  When a student with executive functioning concerns can’t find his paper, silently hand him another one.  When a student with ADHD is daydreaming, tap on her desk to help her refocus. When a dyslexic student is struggling with a word, show him where the syllables break.  So many of these strategies require shared materials and close proximity.  What is safe?  What will be allowed?  Under what circumstances? 

-Group students for the task at hand.  Sometimes, we want all of the strong students in one group, so we can provide them with a more challenging task.  Sometimes we want to vary the levels of ability in the group, so that they can learn from and teach each other, because teaching is one of the best ways to learn something new.  Sometimes we want them to be with their friends.  Sometimes we want them to practice negotiating with difficult peers.  Contact tracing means that kids will be working with or near the same peers for much of their day.  IF group work can even happen, it won’t be flexible. 

-Differentiate instruction.  Students (especially those on IEPs) have different needs.  They don’t all move at the same pace.  So there are discreet ways to meet each student where they are.  Maybe they have a math worksheet. All of the even numbered problems are the same, so we go over those together.  The odd numbered questions might be review, or simplified, or challenge problems.  Kids don’t all have the same sheet, but they don’t know it.  Maybe we’re taking notes.  Some students have an outline to fill in.  Some have a mostly completed outline with a few blanks to fill in.  Some students have a complete outline and they need to highlight or add definitions.  In middle school, there’s almost always more than one version of the test.  Maybe there’s one with simplified language for kids who are learning English.  Maybe there’s one with fewer problems for kids who test slowly.  Maybe there’s an audio version for kids with dyslexia.  I recently realized that, while nearly ALL teachers do this to some extent, many families and parents don’t realize that it’s happening.  That’s how it works if we do it well.  If we eliminate or reduce paper, or stop sharing headphones, or stop walking around the classroom, we will have to change the way we differentiate.  It will require commitment and creativity.

I’m sure my colleagues could add infinitely to this list.  We’re having to re-imagine education.  We’re adjusting and innovating and modifiying. We’re teaming up to tackle problems that many parents are entirely unaware of.  

But the thing is… we will do it.  We always do.  That’s what I’ve learned in two decades of teaching.  Every year, I’ve come to the table thinking, this is never going to work.  

And every year, I find myself surrounded by passionate, creative, enthusiastic, professional educators.  I am consistently impressed by their commitment and grit and teamwork.  Every year, we do whatever it takes.  We buy materials and write grants.  We purchase curriculum and create what we can’t find.  We scope ‘Teachers Pay Teachers’ to find quality materials that our colleagues have already created.  We connect with students and parents.  We form relationships.  We get to know our students. We anticipate needs.  We modify what doesn’t work and expand on what does.  We share ideas and we learn from each other. 

Teachers are professionals.  We do what we do because we love it and because we’re good at it.  Problem solving is just one of our superpowers.  

But this year, more than any other, our jobs will be made so much easier if we could all extend each other a little grace.  Let’s adopt a few basic beliefs… for both parents AND teachers.  

We are all learning. 

We would love to go back to ‘normal.’

There will be bumps… but we are doing our very best.  

Teachers can try to be understanding… When your teen oversleeps on his remote learning day.  Or your first grader couldn’t find her crayons at home.  Or your internet went down on the day of the big presentation. 

Parents can try to be understanding… When the online assignment doesn’t load.  When the grading takes longer than usual.  When your child complains about restrictions at school.  

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How many times have we heard, “We’re all in this together?”  Well, the thing is… for educators and parents, that’s nothing new.  We’ve always been in this together. 

We’re all in the job of trying to do what’s best for kids.  To help them grow and develop into functional, kind, educated, capable citizens.  And while COVID has changed so many things, that still remains.  Teachers, administrators, and parents are all in this crazy, scary, unprecedented thing together.  

For now, we can take a beat.  We can sit for a moment with the fear that this is never going to work.  But we can’t stay there.  Pretty soon, we’re all going to buck up a bit.  We’re going to put on our big kid pants and figure it out.  We’re going to make it work, because that’s what teachers (and parents) do best. 

Adventures

It’s been a long week.  Too much screen time and busy-ness and too many online meetings.  I was hoping to get out and DO something.  I wanted to go to the beach or go hiking.  I wanted to head out of the house and have an adventure.  But it’s 10:15 in the morning, and I think I’ve changed my mind. 

I woke up early, around 6:30, and checked my phone.  There was a text from my daughter, sent at 11:14pm (after I was already asleep) and it read, “Can you make sure I’m up by 6:15?” No.  No, I cannot.  That ship has sailed.  

So I check her room; her bed is already made and empty.  I check the driveway and her car is still here.  I stumble into the kitchen and sit with her for a moment.  She hands me a banana chocolate chip muffin that she baked last night while I slept. It is sweet and light and delicious.  She’s up so early because she’s going to get her hair done with her sister.  I pause for a moment and admire the adult she is becoming before she drives away.  

Since we’re awake, Jack and I begin our Saturday morning chores early.   We load up the trash and head to the dump.  On our way back through town, we stop for coffee.  Then we take a trip to the farmer’s market to buy corn and veggies for tonight’s dinner.  They’re selling fresh, warm, cider donuts that smell like heaven, so we grab some of those to bring home to the boys.  These Saturday morning errands have become a cherished part of our weekly routine.  

When we arrive back home, there is a package for Cal.  It’s an early birthday present from his Aunt and Grandma; a Lego kit he’s been eyeing for months.  The excitement on his face is enough to make this day feel like a success already.  As he opens up the package, he proclaims, “The directions are like a real book.  217 pages!  I’m going to need a cup of coffee.”  He’s not quite 12, and he brews a cup, heavy with cream and sugar.  I’m not sure whether I’m proud or appalled.  He sips from a steamy mug and settles in with 1,173 small bricks.  

I grab my computer; it seems like a good time to write.  In the living room, I open my laptop, on the couch across from where Lee is working on a new sketch.  He starts with a pad and paper, photographs the rough image, and then uses his iPad to turn it into something sleek and professional, deftly swapping between functions with the stylus on his screen.  I am in awe of his skill.  

Meanwhile, my husband grabs his guitar.  As I type this, he’s gently strumming and composing in the other room, pausing every once in a while to write down a lyric or a chord.  When he plays like this, my breathing slows and my mind settles.  I could listen all day.  

How precious is this moment?  The art and the music?  The building and the connecting?  Writing.  Creating.  Relaxing.  I realize that I don’t need an adventure.  I need exactly THIS.   I take a moment to breathe it all in. 

**********

Isn’t that beautiful?  Ha.  It’s over in a hot minute.    

In a blink, the drawing morphs into YouTube browsing and the sound of the guitar is replaced by the sound of the television.  Jack picks up his phone and settles in on the couch.  

I head to the laundry room with a load of towels, and pass a plate of half-eaten nachos in the basement.  Somebody has left clothes in the washing machine that now smell like mildew.  My blood pressure rises.  

The boys are bickering over the last cider donut.  The nacho plate is now in the sink, still full of nachos, still not washed, still not in the dishwasher.  

Jack is playing a game on his phone.  Cue standard argument.  Me: Will you help me?  Him: Why can’t you just relax?  

A short debate.  

Me: Can we just clean the house real quick?  

Him: I thought you wanted to go do something?  

Me: I thought you didn’t.  

Him: We should clean the garage.  

Me: You want to clean the garage but not the house?  Fine.  Go ahead.

Him: I thought we could work on it together.  

Me: Nope.  Not a chance.    

Him: Forget it.  

Silence.  

Kyle makes plans with a friend.  I tell him he can’t leave until he cleans up his mess.  Cue the teenage attitude.  

**********

Jack knows I’m mad, so he volunteers to be in charge of dinner.  I think we’ve come up with a plan that involves a little shopping and a lot of cooking.  He’s ready to go to the store.  I tell him I’m in the middle of something, as I document this ridiculous morning.  

You’re in the middle of something?  You’re writing about all of the nothing we’re doing?  How is that even something?  

But it IS something.  It’s what we’ve got.  Beautiful moments and stupid arguments and good intentions and pivots.  We’ve got moody teenagers and talented artists.  We’ve got bakers and builders and writers and musicians; family meals and stale nachos and dirty dishes and smelly laundry.  

And whether we head to the beach or head to the kitchen, whether we plan our or day or just let it evolve… 

I need to remember that ALL of it is part of the adventure.  

Go in Peace

I’m sitting in my living room, watching the remnants of a tropical storm pass by my picture window.  The rain and the wind are both violent and cathartic.  There’s something beautiful that happens when the weather matches your mood. 

The wind calms.  The rain keeps coming.  My neighbor is standing on his porch, holding his baby girl.  I am intrigued.  At first I worry.  Is something wrong? After a moment, I realize that they are dancing in the rain.  Did I ever do that with my children?  No.  Why didn’t I ever dance in the rain with my babies? 

My babies aren’t babies anymore and there’s a pandemic that’s shifting everything I thought I knew. I’m simultaneously learning all there is to know about myself and understanding less and less about the world around me.  

Is this just midlife? 

Is it midlife during a pandemic? 

The rain gusts.  The wind shakes the house.  And then… nothing.  The sun is shining again.  All is calm.  What is happening?  Why can’t we have just one thing at a time? 

Huh.  I guess the weather matches my mood more than I realized. 

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At some point, I’ll gather my thoughts coherently enough to write a post about returning to teaching during a pandemic.  As those decisions swirl in my brain and around my community, I’m trying to put them aside to focus on a few things that I can actually control.  

Well, really just one thing.  Because there is only one thing I can ever control.  

Me.  

That’s it.  The rest is just illusion and nonsense.  

I can control my thoughts, my behaviors, my actions, my habits, my reactions. 

Nothing more.  

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Since March, I’ve taken the time to focus on developing better habits.  I’m sleeping more.  I’m writing more.  I’m eating better and moving more.  I’m being deliberate about friendships and connections.  I’m trying to be more intentional and attentive with my kids.  I’m reducing stress and focusing on joy and doing a whole bunch of really cool stuff.  I’m setting better boundaries.  My yesses are more enthusiastic and my nos are firmer.  I’m trying new things.  I’m stretching myself in ways that I can control.  Life is stretching me in ways that I cannot.  

I don’t think it’s just me.  Didn’t everyone start this whole quarantine thing baking bread and planting seeds and slowing down a little?  Didn’t we all get rocked by a newfound awareness of injustice?  Didn’t we all have to find some meaning in it?  Aren’t we all trying to be better people?  

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I read a book recently that was written by an Anglican priest.  Having grown up in the Episcopal Church, I was pulled into nostalgia by her references to traditions and prayers from my youth. 

At the end of Sunday worship, the final line was always, “Go in peace to love and serve the Lord.” I hear those words and my heart settles.  But the author pointed out our tendency to think of our love and service in terms of big ideas and lofty ideals.  As a child, I know I did.  I thought that meant to volunteer and feed the hungry and build homes for the homeless. 

Now in adulthood, the writer reminded me, that love and service winds up looking a lot like the mundane bits of time that compose a life.  Does that make it any less valuable?  Can I love and serve the Lord by washing dishes?  Can I love and serve the Lord when I’m checking my email or driving to the doctor or pulling my kids off screens yet again?  Of course I can.  

And I’ve begun to use this as a mantra.  Go in peace.  Breathe.  You are loved.  You are not alone.  Peace be with you.  Go in peace to love.  Love your kids.  Love everyone’s kids. Love your neighbors.  Love protesters.  Love police.  Love sinners and saints and love people you don’t understand.  Go in peace to love and serve.  Serve your friends and your family.  Your elders.  Those in need.  Those who don’t seem to be in need.  The lonely.  The marginalized.  The weary.  The joyful.  Go in peace to love and serve the Lord.  

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All of these lessons are crashing in on me.  Does it even matter if I’m becoming better as the world around me is falling apart? 

The rain comes down in sheets again.  The wind whips through the trees.  It’s terrifying and exhilarating.   

**********

It’s such a cliché.  Dancing in the rain, I mean.  But as a metaphor, it works… obviously.  That’s how we get clichés, after all. 

We don’t have the power to control the storm.  But peace doesn’t come from control.  Control is a tempting illusion.  Real peace comes from faith.  Faith in whatever form speaks to you.  Faith in yourself.  In your relationships.  In your community.  Faith in God or the Holy Spirit or Mother Nature or whatever you believe in.  So believe in something.  Inhale grace. Go in peace.  And if you still can, dance in the rain with your babies.  You won’t regret it. 

I’m bored

I’m bored.  

When I used to say that as a kid, I was told to find something to do. And I did.  I could always bury myself in a book or find a friend to talk to or cook something or play music or go for a walk…. 

I’m bored.  

When my kids say it, I find myself getting irritated.  All these toys?  This pool you’ve got?  These books and pets and this great neighborhood next to the stream and the woods?  Stop complaining.  Go find something to do.  

I’m bored.  

My students say it when they’re tired of being in school; when they don’t want to do their work or when they’ve got a case of spring fever and are itching to be outside.  I try to engage them and encourage them in spite of it.  

**********

My whole life, I’ve been taught to view boredom as a weakness; a negative, lazy state of being, associated with a lack of creativity and motivation.  Only boring people get bored.  Right?

I’m trying to spend more time getting in touch with my own emotions.  More and more often, I have this nagging unrest.  Unease.  Some of it is the regular repetitiveness of a summer spent not working.  Much of it is COVID related.  And when I really sit with the feeling and try to give it a name, I keep coming back to… boredom. 

And I rail against it. 

I’ve painted and redecorated.  Cleaned.  Sorted.  We’ve done fire pits and puzzles.  Swimming and reading.  Writing.   Cooking.  Hiking.  Socially distanced visits.  Takeout.  Zoom cooking class.  Spa day.  Gardening.  Repeat.  

This particular kind of boredom isn’t a lack of something to do.  I have plenty to DO.  The cooking and cleaning are endless.  We’re blessed to have space and a fire pit and a pool and a few close friends to gather with.  There are always more books and new recipes and stories to tell.  

This particular brand of boredom results from a lack of novelty.  I know myself well enough to understand that I need new ideas, new experiences, and thoughtful conversations in order to feel like I’m learning and growing.  And I always want to feel like I’m learning and growing.  

Through this pandemic, I’ve been trying.  I’ve learned to use my old sewing machine, and I’m getting better at mask-making.  I’m reading a bunch of anti-racism books and exposing myself to new ideas.  I’m listening to podcasts and watching documentaries… 

But all of it feels a bit weak without robust conversation and connection and experiences to look forward to.  

I miss my friends. 

I miss my book club. 

I miss church.

I miss concerts.  

I miss conversations that flow naturally, unimpeded by the limitations of Zoom. 

I miss camping.  

Restaurants. 

Carnivals.

Festivals.  

Movie theaters. 

Arcades. 

Museums. 

And so I order new books from the library and complete endless puzzles and go for long walks.  I sign up for online classes.  I take the kids on outdoor excursions.  I set up zoom happy hours with friends and family. 

I write.  And as I write this, something is dawning on me.  Perhaps it isn’t boredom I’m feeling.  Maybe it’s something else entirely.  Maybe it’s grief.  

Not the soul-wrenching kind.  Not the life-shattering kind.  Simply a vague sense of loss.  Unmet expectations.  Disappointment.  

I look at that list and I understand that my disappointment is of the middle-class, entitled variety.  I know we’ve got it good.  So I douse that feeling in gratitude and sprinkle it with a flurry of activity.  I ignore it and push it aside until it finds another way to bubble up.  

I’m bored.  

I say ‘bored’ because it’s fixable.  Boredom can be cured with activity and movement and thought.  

But the disappointment?  That’s a feeling I’m going to have to learn to live with. 

I’ve recently learned that feelings are for feeling.  All of them, not just the pleasant ones.  Thanks to Glennon Doyle for that nugget.  I’ve also learned from Marc Brackett that identifying and labeling a feeling is the first step toward emotional health. 

So I’m going to feel the disappointment.  I’m going to stop calling it boredom.  

I’m going to double down on the gratitude thing, but not as a disguise for my grief; as a solution, instead.  

I’m going to pay my bills and clean my dresser and paint my daughter’s nails.  I’m going to throw some burgers on the grill and splash my son in the pool and build a fire and roast another freaking marshmallow.  Because the busy-ness will start again.  When it does, I’ll look back on these lazy summer days and wish for this blessed kind of boredom.