I’m exhausted, but tonight I decided I couldn’t go another day without writing here. I’ve been writing -- against all logic it becomes even more necessary for me when life is crazy busy -- but I’ve been doing it in workshops. (Workshops that have absolutely nothing to do with teaching, by the way. Just writing. Just my writing. People always seem really curious about this, and to that I say -- because this keeps me slightly less mentally ill than I might otherwise be. Because I’m never going to get any better at it if I don’t get honest, clear feedback, and because I’ve learned so much from the opportunity to give honest, clear feedback to other people who want to become better writers themselves.) I miss this space, though, and tonight I’m granting myself permission to be a little less polished.
It’s been such a full month, in the best of ways. I hopped a flight to Minnesota, where my college roommate picked me up at the airport and immediately drove me four hours into the woods, where we spent a perfect weekend at her cozy home. More than ten years after college and I still haven’t seen her “new” hometown -- it was time, and I met her sweet two-year-old as well. Thanksgiving was perfect. Matt and I ran the Turkey Trot together (okay, no, not together, he ran it in like thirteen seconds and I finished sometime the next day, but basically, you know, it’s a thing we do “together”) and spent the rest of the day at Aaron and Morgan’s house with my parents and uncle and cousins, and I sort of watched football and definitely drank wine and ate a lot of food. Suzannah and I had a lot of “girls’ time” with my mom and Morgan -- lunch and a bit of shopping on Friday, and The Nutcracker on Saturday. I was so glad to go, because it’s the last year the Pacific Northwest Ballet is staging Maurice Sendak’s version, and Suzannah is at the perfect age to be completely enthralled. We pre-ordered concessions, and at intermission we had Trophy cupcakes, hot chocolate, and Pinot Grigio (well, that was mine) waiting for us.
And then I spend my days with teenagers. I fully expected the day after Thanksgiving to be terrible, because it always, always is. Last year I wrote in my journal, I am kind of stressed out and miserable right now, and yesterday I felt quite sure that I made a terrible choice when I decided to be a teacher, but then Kyanne suggested I document that feeling so I can go back in later years and notice that actually, this is what happens pretty much every year during the days immediately following Thanksgiving break. So maybe I should just try to chill out and wait for Christmas. I read that on Sunday night. On the Monday morning after Thanksgiving I bounded into school, deciding not to take anything personally, hoping I was strong enough to actually remember that some of our kids have a really rough time when they’re home for four days and therefore they behave like total beasts when they come back. And they weren’t bad. Or maybe they were, but I found a way to love them anyway.
The following Monday they were all definitely terrible and everyone was cranky and I called a student Mr. Liar McTruant Pants to his face, which was definitely not my finest hour. But today he only shrugged and grinned and said, “Eh, fine,” when I swiped his phone off his desk and dropped it into my pocket. In fact, then he asked me how many times I’d wanted to punch him, and when I said, “Honestly, pretty much daily,” he grinned again.
(I keep loving them anyway.)
This afternoon I left school at the usual time to pick up Suzannah. We stopped at the house to let the dog out, and then we headed straight for another elementary school in our district for Math Bonanza. My daughter’s first math competition. It was tough for her -- there were lots of things she didn’t know, because the contest was geared towards fourth and fifth graders. But she loves math, and her teacher thought it would be a good experience for her. We spent the week telling her it was okay if she didn’t know how to do all the problems, that it was about learning and having fun, and despite the fact that my daughter is a bit of a perfectionist and a very thorough processor, she seemed pretty relaxed about everything. And I was so proud of her tonight. First, just to watch her in deep concentration as she worked through the first couple of tasks -- how did my baby girl, my tiny blonde wisp, grow into this thoughtful girl-child tapping her pencil on the table, frowning at her paper? Just to watch the beautiful transformation of her face: furrowed brow to satisfied smile. And then, even better, to watch her cheer wildly for her friends, to watch her face light up in genuine happiness as her friend took home a trophy. That. That made my heart burst for my own beautiful girl.
All told, we were there for nearly four hours, which is something for a Friday night. All these kiddos, excited about math! All these parents and teachers and supporters willing to give up Christmas parties or an early night with pajama pants and Netflix! (Okay, that might be me.) At some point my dad and I ran to pick up Isaac and gas up the car, but my mom and Morgan stood in for us. Back at the school, Isaac played his Leapster and munched on popcorn and bounced around. During the awards ceremony I picked him up and held him on my hip, even though he’ll be five on Sunday; he wrapped his arms around my neck and covered my cheek with sloppy kisses. Suzannah posed for pictures with her team and beaming teacher. I was tired and I really wanted to just go to Red Robin with my family and drink a Long Island Iced Tea and eat a bunch of french fries, but also, the coziness of the moment wasn’t lost on me. Yes, cozy, despite the echoing shrieks of elementary school students who've had too much pizza and soda. Because I know that years from now, I’ll return to this memory, this night. My daughter, clutching her pencil and beaming and high-fiving. My son, grabbing fistfuls of popcorn and bouncing his stuffed puppy on the back of his chair and wrapping his legs around my waist when I lift him to see the awards. These two children and all of their infinite possibility. Who will they become? Where will their passions lie? How will they serve? Right now, they love everything. Math, reading, writing, art, science, gymnastics, soccer. They love to play. They are deeply engaged in their world. I love all of this, but I don’t need to know, right now, that they will major in math or English or biology or do whatever sport in middle school or high school. (Suzannah has wanted to be a teacher for quite some time, though she’s not sure which grade. Isaac wants to be a ninja.) Right now, all I need is this: their faces, alive and open. The world, theirs for the taking. This bursting moment, and the small stillness within, when my children will still slip their hands into mine and squeeze.
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