The quiet that follows

Well, this has been just about the longest week in all the history of all the weeks ever. I woke up on Wednesday morning and was both surprised and mightily offended that it wasn’t Friday. Yesterday I was sure it was Friday and nearly burst into tears when I realized that it was only Thursday. I didn’t, because we get to wear college shirts on Thursdays and I just got a new Concordia t-shirt, and because I realize that a job in which I get to show up in a t-shirt and jeans and still be considered professional is a pretty sweet deal. All the same, it’s been one of those weeks where I had something going on every single night, and I’ve been staying up too late, and when I don’t get enough sleep I let down my guard and my skin feels thin and I just hate everything.

I nearly deleted my Facebook this week. I didn’t, because I hate internet flounces, and because I obviously have a lot of fun posting on Facebook. I try quite earnestly to use it to capture the small, ordinary, hilarious, lovely moments in my life. This, I think, is what it can offer, what I wish it did -- glimpses into those moments we all have, those glorious small moments, that can be so easily overlooked and forgotten. I wish it offered more opportunities for us to look at each other and say, “Me, too.” Instead, I feel like I log on and have to slog through all this other crap in order to find any of the good bits. Most of the time when it just feels like too much I either don’t bother to read (I’m a jerk sometimes, yes, I post and I’m not reading) or I don’t let it bother me because I have a self-imposed time limit and accept that I’m just not going to see it all and don’t have to let it ruin my day because it’s the internet, but sometimes when my brain is tired I let myself get sucked into scrolling and scrolling and it’s all hey, let me tell you all about how you’re wrong about vaccines and you’re doing school wrong and let me show you this article about common core I found which proves everyone is doing math wrong and what about the second amendment and MY RIGHTS and make everyone come to this country the RIGHT way and if my kid can’t bring peanut butter to school because your kid is deathly allergic then your kid better not complain when my kid brings a Bible and look at my new kitchen remodel and look at all the organic vegetables in my child’s lunchbox and Kim effing Davis (and why are we even giving her airtime?) and let me show you this really poignant quote slapped on top of this picture that makes a very important point and LIKE IF YOU AGREE and SHARE IF YOU AGREE and as my friend Robina said, it really just feels like EVERYONE IS SCREAMING AT ME ALL THE TIME. And it’s so easy to get sucked into the screaming. I scream sometimes, too. (Sometimes I feel like I’m screaming somewhere all the time, even if it’s just in my own head.) I promise myself I’m only going to share this goofy thing someone said in my fifth period class and then I accidentally slip in something I find particularly thought-provoking from the NYT or whatever, although you should know I will never ask you to “share if you agree” because that makes me want to set the whole internet on fire.

In fact, I think the last thing I said before bed the other night was something about wanting to set the whole internet on fire. That was probably a sign that I really need to just chill out, so. I’m trying. I’m simply not reading people who stress me out on a regular basis because of all the screaming, and it doesn’t mean I don’t love those people, it just means that I seriously can’t deal with wanting to put my head through a wall over the internet on a Tuesday night when I’ve just come home from Open House and all I want to do is crawl into bed and say to my husband, “So tonight I found out that one of my students is getting a major organ transplant this week because she moved way up the donor list and it’s happening now” while he pets my head. It just means I have to protect my heart -- and my sanity. And if anyone wants to unfollow me on Facebook because of all my offensive opinions, I promise, I won’t mind. (If you’re not sure whether or not my opinions are offensive, I can send you a list. It’s long, though.)

And also, it’s September, which means that yes, I’m exhausted, and I haven’t quite found my teaching legs yet, but! But. It also means that I live in the Pacific Northwest under a spectacularly beautiful sky. It means that the afternoons are still golden, and when we pull out of our parking spot at Trader Joe’s my son will cry, “Mommy, I see Mount Rainier!” and I will pause for a moment, despite my desire to just be home and in pajama pants already, because he’s right, there it is, the mountain rising before us. It means that soon I will go for a jog on a Saturday morning and I will crunch through autumn leaves on the sidewalk. It means I am still fiercely in love with the work I do every day, with my students. We are all still learning each other, and I am humbled and delighted and baffled every single day. In September it’s coming at me too fast to worry about all the Facebook articles and opinions about education and teaching; I’m just doing it. As well as I can. As desperately. With all the love I have. I’m watching my children run into school in the morning, barely glancing back to catch my wave, I’m blowing them a kiss and driving to a different school, I’m leaving my school in the afternoon and driving back to theirs, singing at the top of my lungs, watching the door to my son’s classroom open, watching him run towards me, grinning. He has this little buddy in his class, and they are so cute I can hardly stand it. We ran into him and his mom at the fair last weekend, and when Isaac called his name this boy turned and beamed and ran to hug him. Today I watched him holler, “Isaac! Fist bump!” And they clonked their little knuckles together, very manly, even though neither one of them has lost their first baby tooth. My daughter jogs towards us, smiling, her arms clutching her binder and whatever novel she’s reading. My heart expands. Bursts. I hold my son’s hand and tell my daughter to stay close and we cross the parking lot together. At home they dump their backpacks inside and don bike helmets and play outside until I call them in for dinner. Yesterday I ran outside to the sound of sobbing and my daughter’s screaming: “Mom! Mom! Isaac fell!” and I found my son face down on the driveway, pinned underneath his bike. I lifted him into my arms, ready to carry him into the house, but suddenly he squirmed away and said he wanted to keep riding. And I remember the time my daughter took a spill like that, the way she said in her shaky voice that she wanted to try again, and I think everything is okay and beautiful in these little moments, these moments in which I can kiss my children’s tears away as they wriggle out of my arms and climb back on their bikes. (Is this worth sharing on Facebook?)

Anyway, it’s Friday night, and I am blessed with a life that usually allows me to write myself back into a state of gratitude on Friday night. I can sit and breathe. I can say to the kids, “Who wants popcorn?” and they are still young to enough to shriek with glee about this. They change into pajamas and we play an extra game of Uno before stories. Tonight when I read to Isaac, Suzannah curled up on the couch next to us instead of reading her own book (currently she’s devouring Island of the Blue Dolphins; I expect she’ll move on to My Side of the Mountain by Sunday). I tucked them into bed. They’re both a little sniffly because it’s September and every teacher and student I know has a cold right now, but they both insist they’re perfectly fine, and I can only pray they’ll sleep past six-thirty tomorrow morning. But they’re sleeping now. I’m watching a documentary and thinking I should probably go to bed soon, and I’m appreciating the moments of grace I experienced this week: a good planning session with a friend and colleague, a night out with some of my favorite people, a message from one of my best friends in the world, the kindest words and a wisecrack or two from another friend at work, a smile from a typically surly student.

I’m exhausted and I know I should go to bed right this second; I should have gone to bed an hour ago. My children are going to wake too early, and I’ll feel a little cranky about that, probably. But for now, I just want to sit inside this moment: the one that feels far away from all the internet screaming, the one that reminds me of the flesh-and-blood people who hug and high-five me in my actual life.

Full of wonder, full of grace

I’m recovering from a cold. It hit with a vengeance on Isaac’s first morning of kindergarten; I woke up with that tell-tale sore throat that often promises a sinus infection, and thought: Of course. Here we go. I spent the next week diligently doing my sinus washes, drinking water fizzing with Alka Seltzer Cold, and carrying on basically as usual, except for last Friday when I had to squeak pitifully at a class of exuberant sophomores, “Guys? This is all I’ve got. Help me out.” They furiously shushed each other, and at the end of the period, one girl volunteered to be my voice when I wanted to remind everyone about something for the next class. They are lovely people. Anyway, I’ve gone through a lot of Kleenex, and I’ve drunk too much Nyquil, which gives me strange dreams. But I’m well on my way back to healthy, and life still seems awfully sweet.

(Sidenote: I resisted Alka Seltzer Cold for years out of sheer stubbornness. My band director in college was a fanatic about it. If I sneezed during a private trumpet lesson he literally pulled it out of his desk drawer and insisted I drink it on the spot. And then I married Matt, who did the exact same thing. I’m telling you, these people are insufferable and irritating and I want to mix their stupid Alka Seltzer with whiskey and drink it at them but at this point I also might have to admit that it at least doesn’t do any harm.)

So anyway, now I’ve got two school-aged children. I don’t have the words to adequately capture the sweetness and wonder of our lives, but I’m going to try, because I need something to come back and read when I text Matt and inform him that I’ve locked the children in the backyard and will be shoving their dinners through the window. They are all up in each other’s business all the time and yet they cannot bear to be in different rooms, and they whine and tattle and aggravate and provoke and the other day I might have said something like, “Thanks a lot. I’m SICK and you’re making my morning even HARDER and you don’t even CARE.” And then I was like, shut up, Shari, are you seriously trying to guilt trip your children at eight o’clock in the morning?

But also, truly: it is all wonderful. Full of wonder.

On Isaac’s first day of kindergarten, Matt and I walked him to his line at morning assembly. We were allowed to accompany him to class and take a lot of pictures, and then we were gently shooed out the door. Since Isaac had been to kindergarten camp and knew his teacher, he didn’t seem terribly nervous, so I figured Matt and I wouldn’t feel quite so shattered (in the best of ways, really) when we left him there. Still, we did sort of stagger across the parking lot leaning against each other.

For the first week, I walked him into the gym for morning assembly. I walked him over to his line, right next to the fourth and fifth grade classes that are the “big buddies” to the littles. Every day he hugged me and waved cheerfully as I walked away. This week, I dropped him off with his sister out front. How ridiculous is this? I pull up in front of the school and my babies hop out of the car by themselves and walk into the school by themselves and maybe, if I’m lucky, they remember to turn around and wave at me. My little girl, who all of a sudden stands as tall as my shoulder. And my little boy, who suddenly does look so little, so adorably little in his crisp polo shirt and new jeans and giant backpack. I know that he can confidently get milk at lunchtime. I know that he has friends he plays with at recess. His teacher tells me that he’s such a good model, such a “great little guy.” He is a great little guy. Every afternoon I meet him at his classroom door and he is beaming. That is all I need, really and truly. My children, beaming every afternoon. Everything is okay in my world, even when it’s not, when my children are just happy to be.

Suzannah still loves school. My daughter enjoys homework. She wakes up before everyone else in this house just to have quiet reading time in the morning -- well, to be honest, I’m not even convinced that this child has truly slept since she was a fetus, so maybe she stays up all night reading, but what I am telling you is that I tiptoe past her room in the early dawn hours and she is almost always cross-legged on her bed with a book. This afternoon she said to me, “I really love math! It’s not my favorite when it’s too easy, but when it’s a little bit hard, I love that.” Right now she’s working on a writing “assignment,” but it’s turned into a story that fills pages of her composition book. She wakes early enough that she finishes her daily reading log long before we have to leave for school. I write this all down to remember, to fully appreciate the fact that right now my daughter loves learning with her whole being and it’s not a battle I fight with her. I’m so grateful for her very presence in my life. For her awakeness, for her wonder-filled and curious self.

This afternoon we had Isaac’s five-year well-child check-up. We’re a little late, but it actually worked out nicely this way as it’s almost exactly a year since his hospital stay. We’ll have another check-up with the pediatric kidney specialist later this fall, but today our pediatrician checked him over and pronounced him “perfect.” Isaac’s blood pressure was excellent (it was terrifyingly high a year ago when his kidneys decided to stop working properly), and he’s growing terrifically fast. I have a doctor-crush on our pediatrician, sort of like I have a teacher-crush on his kindergarten teacher. Both of these people have been so important in my children’s lives and been so loving and patient both with them and with me. Suzannah more or less ran Isaac’s appointment today; when the doctor walked in she took over. She answered all of his questions about Isaac (what time he goes to bed, what he eats, what he’s learning in school) and then showed him her latest short story. I tried to shush her a bit, but the pediatrician laughed and said, “No, I love this, this is great.” And my heart grew three sizes. For all of it.

And I’m doing well, too. It’s September, which is always golden and lovely, all full of highlighters with sharp tips and new Pilot pens with green ink, all full of students’ earnest writing and notebooks with unbattered corners. My sophomores are the most wonderful, ridiculous people. My juniors will challenge me this year, but I am choosing to think of this as an opportunity. A girl who rolled her eyes at me on the first day laughs easily now, and she doesn’t seem to hate my class. A boy who hated my class in every way possible last year chose to stick it out in my IB literature class, even after his football coach called him and asked, “Are you sure?” Miracles happen. The system might be broken, because systems always are, but luckily I don’t have time to think about systems when I am working with real kids and when I am working alongside real teachers, who are as tired and exhilarated as I am. Right now I am just so deeply thankful that I work in a place I love, with people I love. Morning comes fast, and too soon sometimes, but right now I take my children to school where they thrive and I drive to my own school and feel deeply happy to be there. It matters. It’s enough.

The ache, the privilege, the gift

On this day one year ago, I was waiting for answers at Mary Bridge Children’s Hospital. My son had been admitted in the darkest hour of dawn, after nearly nine hours in a room at the ER. The official reason was “acute kidney failure.” I didn’t read that in his paperwork until later. I’m glad.

I’d cried hard the day before -- the morning before? I lost track of time. I knew something wasn’t right, that Isaac's sinus infection wasn’t really a sinus infection. I was overwhelmed at the start of a new school year. I had three completely different preps, but my heart and mind were at home, worrying over my little boy. Still, once the doctor called and said he wanted to admit us, once we’d thrown our still-cooking pot of soup into the sink and tossed some toothbrushes and t-shirts and Isaac’s stuffed beagle into a backpack, the side of me that manages to remain remarkably clear in a real crisis kicked in. I didn’t freak out then because I had shit to do. I spent the next few days listening, processing, asking questions, and waiting -- so much waiting. By Saturday we were blessedly home again, tucked into our own beds. Exhausted, so grateful, but with our heads swimming. I still had classes to teach, and I’d missed the first few days of school. I was nowhere near finding my groove. Honestly, last year was so tough in a lot of ways, and sometimes I still wonder if things would have been different if I hadn’t felt so thrown at start. Probably not. But I still wonder.

I didn’t sit down to write about that, but when I thought about where we were a year ago, I just thought, we are so lucky, right here, in this moment. I’m thankful for all of it: my children’s ordinary bickering, their whining for a snack, for dinner that doesn’t come fast enough. For the ordinary exhaustion of these first days of school, uncomplicated by the visceral fear that took hold of my stomach, of my breath, last Labor Day weekend.

What I sat down to write was this: the Winslow Girls have survived their first full week of school! And Isaac starts kindergarten on Tuesday, with the same teacher Suzannah had. We love her, and when she called to tell us that Isaac would be in her class, I literally did a little dance right there in my kitchen. I mean, it’s all pretty ordinary stuff, really. Cycles of our life, every September, because I now have school-aged children and because I am a teacher. This is my fifteenth year in the classroom and I am well aware of the rhythms of fall. It’s not new, except that it is, every year. New people and a new normal mixed with deep nostalgia for the kids who are no longer in my class but who stop in for a hug anyway. And this year my job has changed in a pretty exciting way; I’m still teaching, but I’m trying something a little different and taking on new responsibilities. I’m passionate about the program I’m coordinating, I care about doing well, I’m stepping into shoes I’m going to have to work really hard to fill, and I’m terrified of fucking it up. (This is true of so many things, really. Teaching. Parenthood. My eternal prayer for everything seems to be, “Please, God, don’t let me royally eff this up.”)

I’ve been back at school every day since August 10, which has been good. I’ve had a lot to do and a lot to process, and in some ways I feel like I’m just barely getting started, but then again, my head and my heart are pretty fully in the game right now. I was able to ease in slowly. Suzannah and Isaac spent an awful lot of time there with me during the past few weeks, playing with my principal’s daughters and reading and coloring and accepting little gifts of chocolate and chips and toys from my friends and colleagues when I was off planning and organizing and trying to figure out my new role this year. Right now I’m so thankful that they were such good sports, and that my colleagues were so kind to them when they were stuck there with me.

I know Suzannah is glad to be back at school, and she seems to be having a fabulous time so far. This is the first year she has moved up a grade with her entire class -- while I’m not convinced that’s always a good thing (kids who are too comfortable with each other can be a challenge), in this case, I think it’s a positive for her. She’s also in a 4th/5th grade class, and I know she’ll be challenged. I also know she’s absolutely up for it. I had very little anxiety over her starting school this year, which left me free to focus on my own. I’m happy to report, though, that I have had a pretty great week myself. My sophomores are wonderful, spirited and cheerful and lovable and ridiculous in the best of ways. My IB juniors were a little too quiet today, but I’m giving them the benefit of the doubt; I had them last, on a Friday afternoon. Next week we’ll all be a little more clear-headed, and maybe my crazy cheerleading will help them find their pulses. I remain relentlessly optimistic.

Anyway, Suzannah has got it down, this school thing. I would love to believe that she’s like me, because isn’t it natural to see in our daughters our most idealized versions of ourselves? And in some ways, maybe she is. She wakes before the rest of us, every morning -- when I get up I tiptoe past her room and she is always cross-legged on her bed, reading a book. She is ferociously organized. She loves school. She wants to be a teacher. On the other hand, she is less engaged in girlhood drama than I was at her age. Her best friends are boys, and she spends at least some of her recess time drawing comic books with them. How spectacularly nerdy is that? I couldn’t be more proud. She also loves math more than any other subject at school, and honestly, her skills probably surpass mine. Whether this is because she’s naturally more inclined towards math or because back in the nineties I bought into the idea that girls were supposed to think math is hard, I don’t know (although I have always been a naturally linguistic learner). I do know that I don’t care at all that my daughter is learning math differently than I did and I wish everyone who learned math fifteen or twenty or thirty or forty years ago would calm down about that, my word. I care that she loves learning. Period. I care that she feels like she can do math. I care that she is confident. I care that she is kind.

And Isaac, oh, my little son, who screams gleefully that he’s going to stink his armpit on me before zerberting my belly, who still vaults into my arms and slobbers on my cheek. I will lift him up for him to wrap his skinny legs and knobby knees around my waist as long as I have the strength. Today was his very last day of daycare. I have been in such denial about this, but it was hard, and I will tell you right now that I tried not to cry when I picked him up but was spectacularly unsuccessful, because we have had the same wonderful woman and her daughters in our lives since Suzannah was a baby. For nine years I have been able to continue to do the work I am called to do on this earth and still know that my children are loved and nurtured. My children have made friends and learned and played, and I have felt like I have a community helping me to do this important work of raising my children. We simply were not meant to do this in isolation. I try to cheer myself with the thought that I will no longer be giving up such a hunk of my paycheck every month, but the truth is that they were worth so much more than we could give them. And so I drove home with my son today, and he held his “graduation” trophy in his lap, and tears poured down my face the entire time. Motherhood is like this: I love everything my children have before them. I’ve said this so many times, but watching them grow is the greatest joy of my life. But leaving behind the stages of their babyhood, toddlerhood, and preschool -- it aches a bit. I wouldn’t wish them backwards, because their growing is so beautiful, but still. The stretches, pulls, tugs, and breaks -- they ache. And what a privilege to feel it all. I never want to forget this: that the very ache itself is a gift.