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.