Category: Reflections

I took the kids to the beach yesterday.  We really needed to get out; with my knee surgery last week and all the rainy weather, it feels like this summer has been mostly spent sitting in the air conditioning or wandering around WalMart.  Not exactly stuff to write home about.  

So the knee is getting stronger, and I asked around to find the beach with the least amount of walking involved.  My facebook friends did not disappoint.  We found a great spot, with a parking lot right next to the sand. It was perfect. 

Going to the beach is one of those things that we’ve been doing since the kids were small.  I have tons of photos of sand castle building and ice-cream eating and wave jumping. When you’ve been doing a thing for so long, it’s only natural to make comparisons. 

Some things remain the same, and some things are different now. 

*****

Same: They wake up easily, excited for a day at the beach. 

Different: They shower and find their bathing suits and grab a towel… without any help from me. 

—–

Same: I pack sandwiches and snacks in a cooler bag. 

Different: They load up the car with chairs and umbrellas and bags. 

—–

Same: We stop at Dunkin Donuts and get munchkins and an iced coffee for me…

Different: … and they get iced coffees, too. 

—–

Same: We crank the music loud and sing along as we drive down the highway.

Different: They control the playlist, and I admire their taste in music. 

—–

Same: The drive is longer than expected.

Different: Nobody asks Are we there yet? 

—–

Same: We pull into the parking lot and someone announces It smells like the ocean!

Different: A competent teen walks across the lot and slides in my credit card at the paystation.

—–

Same: There are umbrellas and chairs and coolers and boogie boards to unload…

Different: … but the sand toys are conspicuously absent. 

—–

Same: I throw my cooler bag over my shoulder and reach for my beach chair…

Different: … but the boys have grabbed everything else, and I walk toward the sand feeling strangely unencumbered. 

—–

Same: We forgot to bring the stupid spiral attachment for the bottom of the umbrella. 

Different: A different competent teen grabs a rock and hammers it securely into the sand. 

—–

Same: The kids head for the water, before I’ve even taken my shoes off. 

Different: I watch them, without rushing, and settle into my chair. 

—–

Same: They spend hours jumping waves, splashing and giggling in the ocean. 

Different: I lounge in my chair, sipping lemonade, reading my book, and watching them play.

—– 

Same: I count heads in the water. 

Different: I also read my book, close my eyes, and relax, (mostly) unafraid that someone will drown. 

—–

Same: I swim with them, once I’m hot enough.  We splash and joke and they implore Mom! Mom!  Watch this! 

Different: When I’ve had enough salt water, I splash them one last time and begin to swim back toward the sand.  No one begs me to stay. 

—–

Same: They come out of the water when they’re hungry. 

Different: They eat everything I’ve packed, and nobody drops food in the sand. 

—–

Same: I mention they’re looking a little pink. 

Different: The youngest doesn’t argue.  He replies, “Crap.  Thanks.  Will you pass me the sunscreen?” and asks his brother to spray him. 

—–

Same: I’m ready for a nap and they’re ready to go back in the water.  

Different: I lay on the sand and they go back in the water. 

—–

Same: The beach begins to empty.  They still splash in the waves. 

Different: I’m content to stay.  We have no timeline; no naps, no meal schedule or bathtime worries.  We’ll be done when we’re done and eat when we’re hungry and sleep when we’re tired. 

—–

Same: There’s a mixture of contentment and vague disappointment as we pack up.  

Different: They shake the sand of their towels and pack up the chairs and umbrella. They bear the burden of lugging it all back to the truck.  I carry my bag and walk slowly behind them, watching their broad, bare shoulders and wondering where my babies went. 

—–

Same: We drink from lukewarm water bottles and relish in the air conditioning.  

Same: They fall asleep on the way home; peaceful, content, exhausted.  

Same: I sneak glances at them, overwhelmed with love and gratitude and joy.  

Different: I want to end there.  On that beautiful, happy, note.  But that is not truth, and I want to be truthful.  The truth is that I am filled with a deep, deep sadness.  Not grief, but impending grief.  I know that these days are nearly over.  I used to take four of them to the beach.  Now we’re down to just two.  I used to think these summers would be endless, and now I’m grasping for just one more.  

I know that it’s coming.  I know that they’re leaving.  I know I can’t stop it.  What I don’t know is what my summers will look like when they’re gone. 

The truth is that I’m sitting here in my office, with tears rolling down my cheeks as I type, so desperately sad that we’re running out of time.

I spend my days working with dyslexic middle schoolers.  When I started in this position, nearly ten years ago, my students would come to me with questions and challenges.  They could identify what was hard for them and they were eager to get help.  I loop with the same small group of students from sixth to seventh to eighth grade, with a few exceptions.  By the end of three years together, this group starts to feel like a little family.  I become their ‘school mom,’ sometimes nagging them to complete their work, often providing encouragement and support, and always advocating for them in their classrooms.  We have a lot of laughs, and we work through some hard things, and it is incredibly rewarding to see how much they grow and change over three years.  Most of the time, I love my job. 

I spend my evenings with teen boys, too.  One has ADHD and the other has mild autism.  I’ve often told my friends that my hardest years of teaching are the years when my children at home are in the same age range as my students at school.  When you teach middle school and go home to pre-schoolers, it’s a different kind of hard.  When you teach middle school and go home to middle schoolers, it’s the same kind of hard ALL day long.  That’s exhausting. 

But yesterday was pretty great.  My students were focused, well-behaved, and productive.  My youngest son brought up his science grade from a D to an A.  He talked with me about an essay and worked on his homework without me nagging him about it.  My oldest son made up three quizzes he missed while attending his grandfather’s funeral last week. I was feeling pretty good. 

And then today happened.  

My oldest son’s guidance counselor reached out.  He wants to meet because my son’s grades are so poor.  Just when I thought things were looking up. 

My youngest son’s grades got updated.  Sure… he’s got an A in science… but he’s got an F in math and a D in history.  

I thought I had a good lesson for my 8th graders today.  But they came in for their first period class half asleep, and it was like pulling teeth to get them to make eye contact, let alone answer questions.  I wanted them to read 9 pages of a book, and you would think I asked them to donate a kidney.  It was torture.  

I had a fun lesson planned for my 7th graders, but they spent the whole class making faces at each other and laughing at inside jokes and followed exactly ZERO of the classroom instructions.  

My sixth graders were working on something I thought we’d mastered, and they were making a ton of errors.  When I tried to help them correct their mistakes, they responded with eye-rolling and snark and deep sighs.  

*****

I’ve been talking to colleagues and friends, and we’re all frustrated. We know there’s a problem, but we can’t figure out the cause or the solution. 

Was it COVID?  Did they miss out on some developmental growth that’s still having an impact? 

Is it technology?  Are they too accustomed to quick answers and immediate gratification? 

Is it attentional?  Are they so used to constant entertainment that they can’t focus on text or classroom discussion? 

Maybe it’s that parenting styles have changed.  Are we so focused on supporting kids that they aren’t able to build resilience? 

Are kids just too busy?  Overscheduled with sports and music lessons and tutoring and after school jobs? 

Is homework outdated?  Does it serve a purpose?  Is asking kids to work at home akin to asking employees to work after hours?  

Or maybe we’re not teaching them to set priorities and manage their time and find balance in their lives.

It could be any or all of those things.  Teachers blame it on parents.  Parents blame it on teachers.  And being both a parent and a teacher, I don’t think I can point a finger at all.  My students are terrible students.  My CHILDREN are terrible students.  And despite my best efforts in both arenas, I feel pretty helpless because I can’t seem to find ANYTHING that makes it better. 

*****

Imagine a scenario.  

Bobby is a seventh grade student who struggles with dyslexia.  Reading is really hard for him.  Bobby is able to move slowly through class assignments, but rarely completes any work outside of class. Bobby also has ADHD, which makes his phone particularly addictive to him. He frequently has to be reminded to take off his hood, put away his earbuds, and turn off his phone. 

Bobby’s teachers are concerned. They  work overtime to ensure that all of the text he encounters is available in audio form.  If the audio is not readily available, the teacher creates it.  Assignments are modified to limit text, and Bobby has a special education teacher who supports him in class and during his study hall.  She creates a list of missing assignments and strategizes with him about how to tackle the work.  All of his teachers offer to meet with him after school.  Some offer extensions so that he has additional time to complete overdue assignments.   Bobby’s teachers want to take his phone during class so that he isn’t distracted by the technology.  School administration tells them they’re not allowed to confiscate the students’ (expensive) personal property. 

Bobby’s parents realize that he is not doing well in school.  They log into the classroom portal.  They make a list of the missing assignments.  They set up a quiet study space and check in with the child each night.  They try to provide incentives: rewards for good grades.  Believing that they’re doing what’s right (and what’s expected of ‘good parents’), they set up a meeting with school staff to advocate for Bobby.The team comes up with a plan.  The teacher will email weekly.  The teacher will modify homework.  The teacher will stay after school with the student.  The teacher will let the student re-take tests.  The teacher will provide extra credit opportunities.  (Even though this creates extra work for teachers, nearly all of us are willing to do it if it helps our students to be successful.)

But the problem comes when the plan is NOT successful.  Bobby’s behavior remains consistent.  The only thing that has changed is the atmosphere, both at school and at home.  Bobby’s teachers are frustrated that their efforts haven’t been successful.  They begin to feel helpless, because they don’t know what else they can do to improve the situation. At home, Bobby’s parents are tracking his work.  They see missing assignments and ask about them.  Bobby shrugs.  “I don’t know what that is.”  “I swear I turned that in.  She just hasn’t graded it yet.”  “That assignment isn’t due until next week.” Parents attempt to get clarification by scrolling through Google classroom, emailing the teacher, or checking with other parents. Hours are consumed.  There is arguing and misery and, ultimately, the parents don’t have enough knowledge about what happened in class to guide the student to make better choices. 

Both the parents and the teachers feel that they are working hard, to no avail.  They begin to blame one another.  In Bobby’s case, his parents may sue the district for an expensive outplacement because the district has failed to educate their child.  Bobby’s teachers may start grading more leniently, ensuring that Bobby gets at least a ‘C,’ to avoid confrontation with the parents.  Everyone involved becomes exhausted and angry.  

Everyone except Bobby.

*****

Which leads me to a thought. 

In education over the past few years, we’ve moved away from concrete consequences.  And I understand why.  I really do.  I also used to believe it was the best thing for our students.  We should provide incentives for them instead of punishments.  We should adopt restorative practices and focus on relationship building.  

Yes.  And.  

I had a few students fail classes last term.  These were NOT students who fell through the cracks.  These were students who were given every opportunity to succeed.  After school extra help.  Modified assignments.  Parent conferences.  Tracking sheets.  Support classes.  Reference sheets.  Study groups.  And after all of that, a team of teachers got together and determined that we could not, in good conscience, give these students passing grades.  

When teachers allow a failing grade to stand, we haven’t done it lightly. We gave those Fs thoughtfully.  Regretfully.  With lots of conversations with family and colleagues and students.  

And then, we were brought in for a discussion with our administration.  The message delivered was, “Let’s think outside the box to figure out how to help these kids succeed.”  The message received was, “Don’t allow students to fail.  It looks bad.”  I felt insulted.  Angry.  Resentful.  

It felt as if we were being told that the students didn’t have any responsibility for their own learning.  

*****

I have a junior in high school.  And I think he needs to fail algebra (and maybe history). That probably sounds harsh, but it’s a natural consequence.  

Imposed consequences don’t work for this kid.  I’ve taken away his phone.  Grounded him.  Taken away his keys.  Taken away his privileges.  And all of that just means that he sits in his bedroom with his sketchbook.  He becomes antisocial and depressed but it doesn’t MOTIVATE him to complete his history project or study algebra.  

Last term, I thought, “He can’t take his mommy to college with him.  He needs to develop self-monitoring skills and internal motivation.”  I decided to let him fail.  

Which he did.  But you know what?  It didn’t change anything.  He swore up and down he’d bring up his grades for last term.  He hasn’t.  

And I honestly believe that the only thing that will push him to change is the meaningful, natural consequence of having to repeat the class.   

*****

What we have to remember is that we’re all on the same team.  We all want these kids to succeed.  We want them to develop academic skills and motivation and resilience.  But they won’t be able to do that if the adults in their lives can’t get on the same page.  We all need to provide encouragement AND hold them accountable.  We all need to be consistent in our messaging and provide consequences when they’re needed.  We all need to be open to listening and working together. 

I think I’m writing this post for myself more than anything else.  I look around at other families and it feels like they’ve got it all together.  I keep trying to figure out what I’m doing wrong.  But I also know I’m not entirely alone.  I’ve been in many parent teacher conferences with frustrated moms who can’t hold back their tears.  They look at me helplessly and ask, “What can I DO?”

I don’t have the answer.  But I can relate.  And I can share some things that I’ve tried in my own home.  Here’s the list. 

Things that (sometimes) worked for my daughter with trauma and anxiety:

• Let her work in her room.
• Give her lots of space. 
• Edit essays with her once they’re done. 
• Help her find the right word.  For as long as it takes. 
• Provide lots of encouragement and reassurance.  
• Let her listen to music. 
• NEVER email the teacher.  For the love of God.  How embarrassing. 

Things that (sometimes) work for my son with ADHD:

• Make him work anywhere BUT his room. 
• Sit in the room with him.  Don’t help unless he asks.  But be there. 
• Provide good snacks. 
• White noise helps.  Avoid music. 
• Email the teacher.  Often. 
• Physically take the phone.  It can’t even be near him. 

Things that (sometimes) work for my child with autism:

• Quiet.  He needs quiet. 
• Music.  He can’t work without music. 
• Sit with him. Help.
• For God’s sake, leave him ALONE to work. 
• Email the teacher. 
• Let him email the teacher.  He’s in HIGH SCHOOL, for God’s sake. 

As you can see, I don’t have any answers.  But I freaking love these kids.  All of them.  The ones at home and the ones and school.  So I’m not giving up.  And I’m open to suggestions.  

I’m sitting on the couch, with what is possibly the last fire of the season crackling in the fireplace. Under the Bridge filters through the bathroom door while my son takes a shower.  At least he’s got good taste in music. Who doesn’t like the Red Hot Chili Peppers? 

Lee is getting ready to go out for the day.  He takes his showers in the dark with loud music playing.  He’s never explicitly explained it, but I know that it’s common for trans people to come up with creative ways to make it through the triggering daily routine of washing a dysphoric body.  

Jack and Cal are at work.  In just a few minutes, everyone will be gone, and I’ll have the house to myself. 

I’ve got my crochet project next to me, along with my brand-new reading glasses.  Yup.  Reading glasses.  I’m a little freaked out by that, but they’re pretty helpful. And kinda cute, honestly. I’m settled in with my coffee and my computer and I’ve got a vague plan for the day.  

And then Jack’s van pulls in the driveway.  What I thought would be a full day at work only took him a few hours.   It’s not even 10am. He walks in the door.  Relieved.  Excited.  Happy to be home.  I feel horrible because I’m disappointed.

From this angle on the couch, I can see a potato chip under the coffee table.  Gross.  I’ll have to remember to pick that up. 

The vibe of this day has shifted, and it feels unfair.  I feel antsy.  Itchy.

He won’t be hurt or offended or upset if I do exactly what I planned to do today.  So why do I feel the need to change things because I’m not alone? 

I was looking forward to a spinach and mushroom omelet for brunch.  It’s one of my favorites; something only I enjoy.  And now I’ll feel obligated to also make a fried egg and toast for my husband, because I’m cooking anyway. 

I was hoping to sit in front of the fire and start my online class.  But he’ll want to watch TV.  Or sit next to me on his phone, which irrationally makes me seethe.  

I wanted to change the sheets.  But if he’s sitting and doing nothing while I do chores that he’s equally responsible for, I bubble with resentment.  

He just got a new amplifier.  Literally.  FedEx just delivered it, and he set it up in the room right next to me.  Of course he wants to try it out.  Who wouldn’t?  But the toddler in my brain screams, “I was here first” and “I want QUIET!”  He’s not doing anything wrong.  There’s no place else for him to go.  And he’s excited.  I don’t want to crush that.  So I move. Now I’m in my office, away from the fireplace, but with a few candles lit and white noise playing on the alexa to try to recreate the quiet I had half an hour ago.  

It’s not working.  The guitar amp fills the house with chords and rhythms; starts of songs that never finish as he tests out the sound. Wagon Wheel. Toes. Starting Over. Against the Law.  I can’t focus.  

I love him. I really do.  Last week, we got dressed up and went to a nice restaurant and laughed through a lovely dinner.  The week before, we spent Saturday in the garage, reupholstering the boat seats.  We each had our own staple remover and we sang along to songs on the radio. I’d make sure the new covers were lined up just right and he’d staple and reassure me a thousand times that he was being careful and I didn’t have to keep saying it.  Together, we laugh like crazy and play a mean game of scrabble and cuddle on the couch. 

And yet.   

I crave time ALONE. 

I don’t think that’s crazy or unusual.  I know lots of friends who feel the same way. Sure, I could leave.  I could go sit in the library or a coffee shop.  

But I just want to be in my pajamas, alone on my couch, eating food that I like and doing things that I love without having to be considerate of anyone else at all.  

I just want permission to be totally selfish for a few hours. 

I think back to when I lived alone. I would spend hours sitting on my front porch, writing and sipping coffee and watching the world go by.  When I got hungry, I would make whatever I wanted to eat. Apple crisp for breakfast?  Why not?  I would spend whole days scrubbing my apartment, contentedly, because I knew it was my mess and it felt satisfying to clean it.  And I only had to do it once or twice a month.  If I wanted to talk to someone, I’d pick up the phone.  If I wanted music, I would turn on whatever I was in the mood for, and nobody was there to comment on my musical taste or the volume of the radio. If I wanted quiet, I sat in silence, and I enjoyed every minute of it. I didn’t feel obligated to wait for someone else to watch my favorite show.  I could be in the flow of writing for hours, without anyone playing inescapable, distracting music.  

I have a sister who just recently found herself living alone for the first time.  She’s struggling a little with it. I try to be supportive, but deep down, I can’t help but be a little jealous. 

I know the grass is always greener.  And I try to remember that it’s all about balance.  Because when I did live alone, it was sometimes awful, too.   

Cooking for one was boring and eating alone was a little sad.  I had to lift all the heavy stuff and pay for someone to fix the brakes on my car and call the oil company when my furnace broke.  The projects were mine alone, and choosing the music is less satisfying than having someone to sing along with. There was nobody to play scrabble with and nobody to tease me about my inability to sit and watch a movie all the way through.  There was no one to cuddle on the couch.  There was no spontaneous guitar from the next room.  The silence was sometimes deafening. 

*****

He’s playing In Color.  I love this song.  I love his voice. I take a moment to breathe.  And count my blessings. My stomach rumbles.  It’s time  to go make that spinach and mushroom omelet.  And a fried egg.  

I wake up to weird things in the house lately.  These kids stay up later than me now, and the evidence of their nighttime activities leaves me baffled. 

There is a two-gallon insulated Igloo drink cooler on the floor in the bathroom.  Why??? 

A mutilated can of sweetened condensed milk sits in the refrigerator.  Someone obviously couldn’t get the can opener to work, and maybe went at it with a knife?  What were you even planning to do with sweetened condensed milk after midnight?

A blue striped towel, the coloring drained in patches.  It’s been bleached by hair dye and dropped on the bathroom floor. 

A small saucepan on the stove, dried remnants of ramen noodles stuck to the bottom.  

Wrappers.  Wrappers everywhere.  Cheese-stick wrappers.  Lollipop wrappers.  Band-aid wrappers.  I find them in the most random places.  Next to the dog’s bowl.  On the side table.  Behind the toilet.  

There are socks on the dining room floor. A fork under the couch.  Eyelashes on the coffee table. 

Why are my dishwashing gloves in the backyard? 

Guys, these are REAL things! 

What is HAPPENING here??

These little messes annoy me.  But I’m grateful that they didn’t leave a whole sink full of dirty dishes after a night of binge-baking.  It’s been known to happen.  I’m glad that there aren’t snack bags all over my living room, like last week.  I’m grateful that nobody forgot to turn off the oven or blow out a candle or push the freezer door all the way closed.  I’m glad that I didn’t wake up to burned brownies or a newly-pierced nose or a flooded basement because someone overloaded the washing machine.  (All actual, true events.) 

And then I have that moment.  The moment when I remember. In a few short years, they’ll be gone.  There won’t be any messes to wake up to.  There won’t be any 2am giggle fests.  There won’t be any disastrous baking attempts or pink hair dye or midnight ramen.  

It will be so clean.  

And so quiet.  

And so strange.

Oh, God.  I pause.  I say a prayer of gratitude.  I vow, once again, to take in these moments.  To laugh at the absurdity of the bathroom cooler and the backyard gloves and the mutilated can of sweet milk.  To appreciate their curiosity and their fearlessness and their appetites.  To be grateful for the chance to teach them and laugh with them and love them.  

One day very soon, I’m gonna miss this mess.   

It all happened really quickly this time.  I mean… quickly in the way that DCF only moves quickly in an emergency situation. 

But I guess it’s really been brewing for months.  

This particular student isn’t technically MY student (which is actually important because of conflict of interest stuff).  But I know her well.  We have a good relationship.  She stops by my room to chat or to procrastinate or to vent, and she’s really something special.  And I know enough about her situation to know it’s not good.  

Over the past months, I’ve talked about her with Jack.  Each time, he holds up his hand as if to say, “Stop right there.”  And he raises his eyebrows and simply says, “No.” And every time, I’ve agreed with him.  “You’re right.  You’re right.  I know you’re right.” He smiles and hugs me and tells me I don’t have to save everyone.  

And so I wait.  I wait for someone else to step up.  For something to change. For DCF to find a new placement. I pray for this young woman and for her family.  And I listen to her vent and I help her with her homework and I dispense after-school advice to her and her friends.  Until…

*****

Wednesday

First period, she came to my classroom, clearly upset.  She started telling me a little about the situation.  She felt sad.  She felt scared.  She was going to move in two days and miss the last week of school.  I reassured her.  I listened.  She needed a hug, and despite all of the stupid school rules, I wrapped my arms around her and squeezed.  

When she left, I emailed the social worker.  She’s someone I know fairly well; she was in my home once a month for the five years that Bea was with us.  In my email, I said I hadn’t talked to my family and I wasn’t ready to make any commitments … but I wanted to know if this amazing young woman was going to a safe, stable placement. 

 The answer was no. 

And I realized I couldn’t wait anymore.  I hid in the principal’s office while she was out to lunch, because I needed a private place to call my husband.  I told him the situation.  “Can we just do a week?  Let her finish out the school year?” And without hesitation, he replied, “OF COURSE we can do a week.  Of course.”  Pause.  “But you know it’s not going to be a week, right?” I took a deep breath.  He was right.  Of course, I’d thought about that, too.  What would happen after a week?  Once school was over?  How much would change in the next 7 days?  And my amazing husband interrupted my thoughts with, “Just take her. We’ll figure it out.  Just take her.”  I started to cry.  

I thanked God for sending me this deeply GOOD man to be my partner and my rock and my strength.  Together, we talked to the kids, who were also incredible.  Cal’s response was, “As long as I get to keep my bedroom, then it’s fine with me.” Lee said, “I think it’s a good idea. Honestly, mom, I’m surprised it didn’t happen sooner. I kinda figured this was gonna be a thing we just DO now. ”  And a few hours later, when I checked in again he told me, “Actually, I’m excited.  The house has felt a little empty since Bea left.  I think it’ll be good.” 

So, that afternoon, I re-submitted our DCF paperwork.  It was a pretty quick process, because mostly we were just updating a few dates.  I made an appointment to meet with the social worker the next day.  

*****

Thursday

I was eager to talk to this young woman about what was going on, but the department advised me to wait.  I knew they were right; the thing about child placement is that it can literally change at any minute.  A distant relative could be located.  A cousin could step up.  Our application could be delayed or denied for some random, arbitrary detail or missing piece of information.  I wanted to give her some time to process; I wanted to be able to answer her questions and calm her fears.  But I didn’t want to set her up for disappointment if it wasn’t yet official. 

So we went through the school day, and she began to say her goodbyes. She asked me to sign her yearbook and told all her friends that tomorrow would be her last day.  She’d made a lot of great connections with adults in the building.  She asked a lot of us if we could be friends on Facebook, and when we inevitably said no, she gave us all her personal email address so we could stay in touch.  The whole time, I was praying that all of these goodbyes would be a moot point by the end of the day.  

After school, the social worker visited.  We asked about each other’s families and marveled at how much the kids have grown.  She asked about Bea and we gave her the update.  We went through the formalities.  She took out her tape measure and noted the dimensions of the bedroom.  She tested our smoke detectors and asked where we keep our medications.  She gave us a brief outline of the family history and told us that we should be approved as an emergency placement by the end of the day.  The visit ended at 4pm. 

By 5 o’clock, we had official confirmation.  But this young lady still didn’t know.  She was out with friends.  She should be home by 8, and the social worker planned to tell her then.  In less than 12 hours, she would leave her current home and she still didn’t even know where she’d be going. 

At 8:15, the social worker texted me.  “She’s been told. She has your number, and she’s going to reach out.”  

And about two minutes later, I got a text that just said, “Hi.”

After a few quick texts, I called her.  She was in shock and still processing.  We talked a little and I told her the way it all played out from my point of view.  I told her we’re excited to have her.  I told her to try to get some sleep. 

I was awake all night. 

*****

Friday

In the morning, her foster mother and the guidance counselor loaded her belongings into my minivan.  She would leave with me in the afternoon.  

We hadn’t seen each other since this decision was made.  I caught her eye in the hallway, but there were students everywhere.  It was not the right time to chat.  We both kept moving in opposite directions.  

During first period, she was in French class.  She got a pass to go to guidance, and we finally connected.  I asked her if she was okay.  She said yes.  I ask her if she was anxious.  She said no.  I asked her, “On a scale of 1-10, how weird is it that you’ll be living with a teacher?”  She smiled, shrugged, and said, “Like a 2.  Well, if it were Mr. Kensey or something it’d be like a 20.  But it’s you.  So… yeah.  Two.”  I laughed out loud.  

We were a little awkward with each other during the day, but in a sweet, playful sort of way.  We were both a little nervous. We were both hoping for the best. 

When the final bell rang, she appeared at my classroom door.  We chatted while I cleaned up my room and packed a few things.  We waited for the hallways to clear out, and then we went to gather a few of her things from the guidance office.  The teachers had started a little collection for her.  There was a gift basket with gift cards to Target and Home Goods, a few small trinkets, and a book of well-wishes. 

This kid is so loved.  I hope she felt it.  

Before we even went home, we went shopping.  We got throw pillows and soft bedding and a bunch of toiletries. We bought a couple of new outfits and some new socks.  She lit up when I said she could buy LED lights for her bedroom.  She was grateful and enthusiastic and adorable.  

*****

That first weekend, I barely recognized her.  She was quiet and timid and supremely agreeable; a far cry from the sassy, outgoing, outspoken student I had come to know.   She was still getting her footing.  She took photos of her new room to send to her friends and family.  The little dog slept at the foot of her bed. We binge watched Stranger Things and made some of her favorite foods and just got to know one another.  

*****

It’s been ten days now.  She’s settling in.  

Last night, I was reading in my bedroom.  She and Lee and two dogs were sprawled across the carpet, making jokes and outrageous requests and belly laughing.  

This weekend, she jumped right in on family game night and joined me for grocery shopping and she and Lee are already plotting to convince us to get a new pet.  

I know we’re in a honeymoon period.  No parenting is easy, and foster parenting has so many complicated layers.  Maybe that’s the reason WHY these beautiful, easy moments feel so incredibly special.  

We’ve got the whole summer ahead of us.  We’ve got time to get to know each other, to establish routines, to have adventures.  I’ve got the next few months to spend quality time with Lee before he gets his license and takes that next step toward independence and adulthood. 

I’ve got the next few months to connect with these kids.

To make memories. 

To make mistakes. 

To learn lessons. 

I’m not going to pray and wait for it to get easier.  I’m not going to leave the work to someone else.  My life is always more bold and more beautiful when I say yes to the hard things.  When I get in there and get my hands dirty and let my heart get a little bruised. Bring it on.