Puzzling #SOL24 29/31

Someone – I think it was Heidi Allum – recommended Julie Otsuka’s novel The Swimmers early in this challenge. I got it from the library this week, and have found the writing fascinating, though I’m not 100% sure I love the novel itself. Still, when I sat down to write this morning, I could feel the way Otsuka’s style was influencing mine, so I went with it.

***

You see the puzzles in an online ad. You have seen them before, but this time you click because they are, supposedly, on clearance. You tell yourself that you will buy one only because your husband’s birthday is coming up and he likes puzzles. You tell yourself that you will check the prices and the comments to make sure the company is legitimate, but you know the truth: you will buy one, and it will be for you. To hide this, you buy more than one.

The puzzles arrive on your husband’s birthday, and he pretends to be delighted. You show him that they are wooden. You show him the way the pieces are shaped like animals and other objects. You tell him that they are not rectangular but rather come together to create the shape of the thing you are piecing together – a butterfly, a maple leaf, a turtle. He says thank you and gives you a kiss.

That night, when you come downstairs to plug in your phone and start the dishwasher, you decide to start the puzzle that you have decided is “yours.” The butterfly. You tell yourself that you just want to get a few pieces together. You tell yourself that you just want to get a feel for it and that this will help you fall asleep. After all, you know you how bad blue light is for your sleep. You remind yourself that it is a long weekend. You do all of this because you know how you are with puzzles. Obsessive. Before you even open the box, you know that you will not go to sleep anytime soon.

You do not go to sleep anytime soon. The pieces are light but sturdy and you like their smooth feel, so different from the cardboard you are used to. The lack of obvious edge pieces fascinates you, as do the odd shapes and the way the pieces fit together. You realize that you cannot use many of your standby puzzle strategies. Slowly, you discover new ways of finding matches. When you look up, it is well after midnight. You have only managed to put together a tiny portion of the relatively small puzzle. Reluctantly, you go to bed.

Your husband gets up first in the morning and walks the dog. You sleep in because you were up so late, puzzling. When you come downstairs, still in your nightgown, you put water on to boil, then sit at the kitchen island to see if you can find another matching piece. Some time later, you remember to make the tea.

You go through the stages of puzzling. You get into a rhythm of finding matches, and then you get stuck. You worry that perhaps the company has sent a defective box: surely all the pieces cannot be here. There simply are not enough to create the promised outcome. You walk away for a few minutes, then return to see the puzzle anew. Aha! These two entire sections fit together. You go through another productive period and another period of frustration. Your son wakes up and helps for a few minutes, then wanders off. Your husband comes in and works with you, gently teasing you about your obsessive nature. At one point, disgusted, you decide you will never finish and walk away. But of course you return.

You neglect to fold the laundry. You know that you don’t want to fold the laundry anyway and the puzzle is just an excuse. Again, you reach a point where you are certain some pieces are missing. Then you decide that maybe, just maybe, two parts of the butterfly’s wings are reversed. Carefully, you slide them along the surface, keeping all the bits together, hoping that this will set things right.

Success! You are on a roll! Your husband comes in and reminds you told him about several things you wanted to accomplish today. None of them were this puzzle. He reminds you that you have plans this afternoon. There are so few pieces left that you are reluctant to leave, but you do because you know he is right. Then, just as you begin to write, he appears at the living room door.

“Love,” he says, “I think you can finish it in the next five minutes.” He laughs at how you light up. In the kitchen, you see that he has placed just a few more pieces for you. Now you can see how easily the last ten or so pieces will come together. With only the tiniest bit of turning pieces one way, and then the other, you place all the pieces. Your husband threatens to place to the last piece. You glare at him and ask how much he likes being married, which makes him laugh again.

You place the last piece and say, “I love it!” and he smiles at your pleasure.

You take a picture. You know that you will take the puzzle apart almost right away and gift it to someone else. You are simultaneously pleased with this tiny accomplishment and embarrassed by the pleasure it brings you. You know you will write about this. You know that this is love.

Locked Out #SOL24 28/31

As I walked up the sidewalk towards the house, my heart dropped. Two large boxes waited just in front of our door. I glanced inside: the lights were off. I dropped my things on the front porch and, although I was fairly sure I already knew what I would find, dug through all the pockets of my purse: nothing. Just in case, I checked my backpack. Not there either. Finally, I walked back to the driveway, opened the passenger door and checked in the glove compartment. Still nothing. I could hear the dog pawing at the door, but there was nothing I could do about it: I was locked out.

The thing is, that after years of relative stability, lately Mr. 13 has been losing things. Notably, his house key. Because he is often the first one home in the afternoon, I loaned him my key. Then he found his key and gave mine back – but then he lost his again. Then things got complicated. Somehow or another, I realized earlier this week that I no longer had either my key or my back-up key. At the time, I thought, “I should really take care of this now,” but of course I didn’t. And here I was now, keyless.

I left my things on the porch and walked over to Mike’s because he has a spare key. He wasn’t home.

So I walked back to our front porch and texted Mr. 15. “Are you near home? I’m locked out.” Since Mr. 15 pretty much always has his notifications silenced, so I didn’t get my hopes up. I told myself that we were lucky it was such a beautiful day; just a week ago, I would have been freezing while I waited. I tried to be happy that my children were off with their friends rather than inside online.

After a few minutes with no response, I texted Andre to see if maybe – maybe – he was finishing up work early before the long weekend. Nothing.

Finally, I sat down on the front steps and texted my friend. (Yes, a fair number of people have extra keys. Our house is pretty friendly.) We were heading to the gym soon anyway, so I figured maybe she could come a bit early.

She replied immediately and agreed to come by in a few minutes. The dog was pretty unhappy about me sitting on the porch without him, but there was nothing I could do. I checked my email and waited until she arrived, tossed me the keys, and went to park. I gathered my things, moved the boxes to the side of the front door, and put the key in the lock.

Wait. The door wasn’t locked. That was odd. I pushed the door open to discover that BOTH OF MY CHILDREN WERE HOME. Both of them. One was on the computer; the other was in the kitchen *on the phone I had just texted*.

“Did you not see me?” I asked. “Did you not notice the dog at the door?”

They looked at me, perplexed. No and no.

“Did you not notice that I texted? Did you not hear the delivery guy who left the boxes?”

Nope. Not at all.

Mr. 15 said, “I mean, why didn’t you just open the door?”

I looked at the large boxes, the excited dog, the dark house and my two clueless children. “Well,” I said, “I thought I was locked out.”

This afternoon, a partial transcript #SOL24 27/31

PA system: “We are in a secure school. Please clear the hallways and lock your doors. I repeat, we are in a secure school.”

Email: “If you see [student name] please contact me in the main office right away.”

Email: “Photo”

25 minutes pass

PA system: “We are still in a secure school. Please remain in your classrooms when the bell sounds.”

50 minutes pass

PA system: “The secure school has ended.”

Email: “We will be having a stand up meeting at 3:35 in the auditorium.”

Person: “First, I want to say that under a difficult circumstance, we got to the best possible outcome because so many people came together to do the right things. Even the students in question cooperated with the police.”

Person: “Police entered the classroom and made an arrest. Afterward, social workers were available for students in the classroom.”

Person: “The police recovered a replica gun and a knife from the student.”

Person: “The police also recovered a knife and a replica gun from a second student.”

Person: “The students involved will not be returning to school.”

Person: “Ever?”

Person: “Well, I don’t want to tell you something that might not be true, but they will not return any time soon.”

Person: “An email will be sent home to parents.”

Person: “Social workers will be available at the school tomorrow.”

Email: “Thanks again for all that you did today in support of students and colleagues.”

Washroom Woes #SOL24 26/31

“Excuse me,” an unfamiliar adult leaned through the office door, “can you tell me where the staff washroom is?”

One of my colleagues looked down and tried not to snicker.

“Um…” I started, “well, there *is* a washroom on this floor, but the light is out, so you have to use your phone as a flashlight.”

The poor supply teacher looked a little startled. I quickly continued, “Probably the easiest one to find is” and then I gave a set of complicated directions to a washroom some distance away from us. She looked at me, wide-eyed, nodded, and left.

Glenda at Swirl and Swing has written before about trying to find a bathroom in a school. It seems like a small thing, having a restroom available, but apparently, in schools, it is not.

We have one one-seater staff washroom on the second floor that serves about 30 teachers. Also, it has been out of service for literally months of this school year… so far. For at least half of the first semester, the toilet wouldn’t flush. The care staff helpfully put tape over the seat to remind us not to use it.

For the first few days, none of us worried.

After two weeks, someone started a “days without a washroom” count on the whiteboard in the office. It was funny, but by week – what? three maybe? – we started to fret that our lovely care staff (who were in no way responsible for fixing the toilet) might feel bad, so we erased it. Another week passed, and someone started a “guess the date” – when will the toilet be fixed? Weeks later, even that was erased – our most outlandish guesses had been left behind.

“Never,” said one teacher.

“Not until next year,” said another. No one dared ask if they meant 2024 or next school year.

Eventually, the Chief Custodian caved and told us that he hadn’t been able to fix it himself. Given this almost unthinkable turn of events, rumours started to swirl: they had called a Board plumber who was booked for weeks in advance, said one teacher. “I heard the plumber came and declared that they were going to have to turn off the water to a whole section of the building,” said another. Someone else swore it would take an entire weekend to fix.

Every few weeks, someone worked up the nerve to email the principal and point out that we still did not have a working washroom on the second floor. He rarely replied.

“Just use the downstairs toilets,” groused the custodian, tired of us pestering him.

“It’s actually really inconvenient,” grumbled a teacher.

Then, one day, months after the toilet had been taped shut, with no warning whatsoever, the washroom was working again. Everyone was relieved (ha!), and life returned to normal.

Until last week. Then, someone came out of the washroom and said, “Um, did you notice that the light isn’t working?”

We had. Again, we emailed the custodian. This time he told us right away that they had tried changing the light bulb, to no avail. “We’ve put in a work order for an electrician,” he told us. “He should come soon.”

That was early last week. Since then, we take our phones into the washroom, and use them as flashlights. No one dares ask when the electrician might arrive; the custodian has already reminded us that we can use the bathrooms downstairs at the other end of our wing.

Someone suggested another guessing game on the whiteboard, but there were no takers. Some of us are pretending it’s perfectly normal to take a flashlight to the only staff washroom on our floor; some people make sad little jokes about it. Mostly, we try not to think about it – unless an unwitting visitor needs to use the bathroom, which is down one hallway, down the stairs, around a corner and to the left – oh, and unmarked. You just sort of guess which door is which.

I’m thinking of drawing up a map – or stocking up on flashlights.

A good ache #SOL24 35/31

I only joined the gym because she kept badgering me, and I finally realized that she was (probably subconsciously) finding a way to make sure she had friends and plans during what was almost certainly going to be a difficult year. I don’t like gyms. I’m uncoordinated and I hate classes. Still, for her, I joined the damn gym.

I went with her a few times during my two-week free trial, but I didn’t go even once for the first few weeks after I officially joined – mostly because she wasn’t going because her daughter was in hospice. Then, the very evening Eve died, she texted and asked me to go with her to a class the next day. What could I say? This is why I joined. So I said yes.

The gym isn’t fancy or big. They don’t have weight machines or elliptical machines or anything like that; just real weights, some rowing machines, and some bicycles. I find it completely intimidating. The workout is written on a white board, and it’s generally something I have no idea how to do – dead lifts and overhead presses, for example. There’s a lot of AMRAPs and work to 90% capacity. It took me several sessions to figure out that AMRAP means “as many rounds as possible.”

It’s been eight weeks now, and we’ve mostly gone twice every week. No one gets too worried when she cries, and the workouts are *hard*. Hard is good: I have to focus entirely on my body, to be fully present and aware. There’s not much space for thinking about Eve or anything else. And I’m getting stronger. Tonight, I did 25 overhead presses plus way too many wall balls and 50 hanging knee lifts. Eight weeks ago, that would have been impossible for me.

The gym owner told us that “exercise has always been there” for her when life has been tough. I joked that junk food and the television have always been there for me. But eight weeks in, I’m starting to get it. I’m stronger and my muscles are getting (a very little, middle-aged) definition. I know I still talk too much about Eve’s death and it makes people uncomfortable, but I’m getting better. Still, tonight, when someone asked what had motivated me to join the gym, I worried out loud about having started something good for me because of something so sad. “I wouldn’t worry,” she reassured me, “there are worse ways to deal with grief.” I nodded and did another round of overhead presses with more weight than I’ve used before. I’ll ache tomorrow – in a good way.

Sisyphean Laundry Basket #SOL24 24/31

All day, I’ve been meaning to write.
All day, I’ve been meaning to prep for the week.
All day, I’ve been meaning to mark.

But I couldn’t. Because, you see, I need to fold laundry. A LOT of laundry. Maybe five loads? Maybe more? I was going to post a picture, but I can’t – it’s too embarrassing.

I promised myself I would do it before I sat down at the computer.
I did not promise myself I would fold laundry before I went grocery shopping. Done.
I did not promise myself I would fold laundry before I walked the dog. Done.
I did not promise myself I would fold laundry before cooking, cleaning the kitchen, cleaning the bathroom. Done, done and done.

It’s not like I haven’t been productive. I have, more or less. But now it’s almost bedtime, and the laundry is there, staring at me. I’ve had to create a giant pile so that I could reuse some of the baskets for – you guessed it – more laundry.

I usually don’t mind folding laundry – just turn on a TV show and off I go, but today, the knowledge that the minute I am done, the very second I put the laundry away, there will be more… I just couldn’t do it.

There is a reason Sisyphus wasn’t a woman. If he had been, rolling that boulder endlessly up the hill would have just been another thing on his to-do list every day.

The well-loved cat #SOL24 23/31

The text came in just before 10.pm.

Hi neighbours. Sorry for the late evening message. Tippy is at our place and is not willing to leave, maybe because of the cold. We can try to send her out if you are able to let her in.

Tippy is our cat. At least, we are the ones who brought her home from the Humane Society seven years ago. At this point, we are pretty sure she has several others families.

Tippy when we first got her, seven years ago. She has always loved kids.

For instance, she has definitely adopted the family two doors down. They have two girls, each a year younger than one of our boys, and no other pets. To visit them, Tippy climbs one medium-height fence and one tall fence and then paws at the sliding door on their back deck.

Not long after we got her, she began accompanying our kids to the bus stop every morning. After they were gone, she circled back to pick up the girls and accompany them to their bus stop, then she came home just in time to scoot inside as we left for work. Eventually, to her disappointment, the kids all started walking to school, and she was left to find other neighbourhood children to shadow.

The pandemic, awful for so many humans, was Tippy’s heaven. She woke and had breakfast with us, then got everyone settled for school. Mid-morning, she went out our back door, scaled the fences, and hung out with the girls for a few hours. At their house, she developed a routine: explore to make sure everything was still where it was supposed to be, then settle in a sunny corner by the front windows and wait for various people to adore her. After a good nap, she would ask to be let out their back door, then come back to our place.

This is one of Tippy’s napping places in our house.

The neighbours – with our permission – got a cat bed and a scratcher, food and water bowls, and plenty of toys. Tippy makes good use of her time at both houses.

A few months ago, we got a dog. Max is an enthusiastic black three-year-old mix of Lab & “something pretty big.” He likes cats, but the cats are significantly less sure of him. Tippy is, generally, not impressed. The neighbours, too, worry. Last night, after the text about the cold weather (it really wasn’t that cold), Andre went over to pick her up As Tippy was passed from one father to the other, our neighbour asked if she was adjusting well to the dog. “We’ve noticed she seems a little nervous lately,” he apologized, “The girls are concerned.” Andre reassured him that all was well.

Max is pretty convinced that everyone should love him, too – even the cats.

Andre carried Tippy home, we all settled in to bed, and she took up her usual spot, waiting for me to finish reading so she can snuggle with me all night. No doubt, Tippy is a well-loved cat.

Tippy and I read together almost every night.

High school in March, by the numbers #SOL24 22/31

(After Harper’s Index)

Number of pencils borrowed by grade 9 students during period 2 today: 4

Number of pencils returned: 1

Number of pencils lost while students moved between desks, ≈6 feet apart: 2

Number of days in school so far: 11

Number of fire alarms pulled: 1

Temperature on the day of the pulled alarm: 2C (35F)

Highest temperature in March: 17C (63F)

Date of highest temperature: March 5

Lowest temperature in March: -14C (7F)

Date of lowest temperature: March 22 (yeah, that’s today)

Number of hours set aside for parent-teacher interviews last night: 4

Timing of these interviews: 3:30pm –7:30pm

Number of minutes planned for each interview: 10

Number of parents who requested an interview with me: 3

Number of their students I am concerned about: 0

Number of people at Iftar dinner after parent-teacher interviews last night: ≈150

Number of those who were teachers: ≈20

Number of hours I slept last night: 6.5

Number of hours of sleep I really need: 8

Reason for the missing hours: finished Tom Lake; a cat sat on me until I woke

Number of five-day weeks left in March: 0

Chances we will cram five days of drama into four days of school next week: 98%

Number of days left in the March Slice of Life Challenge: 9

Chances that I will manage to write every day until the end: 100%

Maybe a myofunctional therapist #SOL24 21/31

“Ok,” she said, “push your tongue hard against this popsicle stick for thirty seconds.” He does. Then, they repeat the exercise once on each side. Next, she has him hold his tongue to the roof of his mouth “as if you were going to cluck like a chicken, but you stopped in the middle.” He chuckles, but he does it. Later he will hold water in his mouth and breathe through his nose for three minutes, then hold a spacer between his teeth and move his tongue in various figures. At some point during the session, she says, “I’m just really interested in tongues!” Fascinated, I text my friends – the ones who will understand this kind of text – about how cool this all is. This morning, for his fourth dental appointment in ten days, I took Mr. 13 to a myofunctional therapist. This is basically a physical therapist for your tongue. Who knew?

I get a kick out of anyone who is passionate about their job, and this therapist was clearly passionate. As we discussed her work, she asked if Mr. 13 knew what he wanted to do as an adult. He does not, but he had several great ideas when he was little: first, he wanted to be an animal translator who learned animal languages and then told people what the animals were saying; then he wanted to be an inventor who lived in the middle of the jungle and just invented things and gave them to someone who came to his cabin maybe once a month; more recently, he wanted to be a fountain designer to design the cool fountains where the water jumps around. Now, he just wants to be rich.

I was still thinking about unusual jobs when parent-teacher interviews started tonight. My first one was with a parent whose student will graduate in a few months. The student is fantastic, so the conversation was easy, and eventually the parent shared some of her concerns for “the next step.” Her biggest fear right now? He has no idea what he wants to do. I nearly laughed. “Stick with me here, but do you know what a ‘myofunctional therapist’ is?” She did not. “Neither did I,” I said, “until last week.” I explained the job and continued, “Nobody offers this as a job option when you’re in high school. Nobody says, ‘hey, you could do this really fascinating niche job, and you might love it.’ Kids have to explore and learn and find their own way for a bit – and who knows where they’ll end up? He’s not really supposed to know what he’s going to do with his life – he’s only 17.”

Parent-teacher conferences often leave me convinced that most things will work out, one way or another. The students will grow up. They’ll make mistakes and they’ll learn. Most kids figure things out, more or less, along the way. I’m pretty sure her child will, too, though I don’t see myofunctional therapy in his future.

Runaway #SOL24 20/31

He rarely comes to class, but when he does, we do what we can to make sure he has at least a little success. He’s in grade 9 and is currently illiterate in three languages. Research says that students with strong reading skills in their home languages often also have strong reading skills in their second language (see Short & Fitzsimmons, 2007 or this shorter article by Fred Genesee), but he doesn’t have strong reading skills anywhere. We can’t turn back time, but we’re doing what we can to move forward.

He’s lucky because this class has a push-in support teacher. She’s technically there for other students, but no rule says that she can only help them, so we’re using what wiggle room we have to create as much space for him as possible. When we were writing 100-word memoirs, she just happened to be sitting near him and just happened to be able to scribe for him. As I circulated, their heads were close together in front of the computer, counting words. When he realized he had written a story of exactly 100 words, he was so proud that he asked her to read it to him again. He beamed. Then he skipped for three days.

Then next time he made it to class during reading time, I sat with him and quietly talked through The Invention of Hugo Cabret, which he likes because it’s thick and he says it makes him look smart, while Ms H kept an eye on the other readers. Even the pictures were hard for him to understand, but he liked talking about them. Then he refused to do anything else.

Sometimes, he comes to class (late) and then asks to get water or go to the bathroom. I put him off as long as I can, but I am not the arbiter of his bodily functions; when he says, “Miss, I really have to go,” I let him. Sometimes he comes right back, but sometimes he runs. Two days ago, he swore he would only be gone for two minutes, then he took the hall pass and disappeared. I found him in the lobby later that day, skipping a different class. While we walked to where he was supposed to be, he told me that he had thrown up that morning, so he couldn’t return to my class. Given that he was practically bouncing up and down with energy as we edged towards his class, I reminded him that usually someone who throws up goes home, but he said he called home and his mother said no. Ahem. I found him in the hallways again that period and once the next period. He told me he just can’t stay in class.

Yesterday, Ms H had a breakthrough. She saw him (in the hallway, of course) and made some sort of deal/ bet with him – and then he actually showed up to English class a mere 10 minutes late (thus missing most of reading time). Meanwhile, she had hatched a plan. She took him to a quiet room – but not the resource room; he refuses to go there – and she started a phonics assessment with him. She praised him for what he could do and talked about ways we could help. She told him she could start with what he can do instead of expecting him to be able to do impossible things. He was eager.

Ms H was excited that we’d found a way to start giving him some real support. That afternoon we talked through her plan. But this morning, he saw her in the hall during first period, turned around and went the other way. Then, he saw her at the beginning of our class. This time he ran away. Ran.

We stayed after class together, Ms H and I, trying to figure out how to help him accept our offers of support. We reminded ourselves that years of failing in school, years of hiding his weaknesses, mean that he probably thinks he’s beyond redemption. He may be afraid that he’ll just fail again and disappoint us in the process. We walked into the hallway partway through lunch, and there he was, right by our English classroom. Gotcha! Gently, we reminded him of his (broken) promise. I told him that it hurt Ms H’s feelings when he didn’t come. She told him that she had been really excited to see him today. He shifted his weight back and forth, back and forth. When we finished – maybe a 30 second “chat” – he said, “OK” and then… he ran.

Sweet runaway boy, how I hope you’ll let us try to help you read. Reading will make a bigger difference than you can imagine. It’s worth sticking around for.