This is not the post I had planned for today. The plan was to write early, comment liberally (catching up on the blogs I’ve missed this week – so many) and take a nice long walk. Then, I was going to grade papers, maybe craft a little and generally be productive. Instead, I’ve spent most of the day in bed, sleeping off and on and generally feeling miserable. Super frustrating.
Since I’ve taken to my bed and am feeling sorry for myself, I’ve been thinking of Jane Austen – as one does. Have I caught a violent cold? I have not been coughing, so I don’t think so. Do I have a putrid tendency? I’m not 100% sure what that is, but I doubt that’s my primary ailment Rather, I find I have feverish symptoms and my head aches acutely. Oh! And I’m definitely languishing a bit, but my sleep brings me rest, not delirium, so no need to send for the apothecary… yet. Finally, while I am discontented at the moment, I do not fancy myself nervous, which is good because darling Jane has little patience with people’s nerves. Luckily, I am no fanciful, troublesome creature!
I will acknowledge that I am nowhere near as sick as Marianne Dashwood after the horrid Willoughby uses her so poorly, but I may be nearly as sick as Jane Bennet after she walked to Netherfield in the rain. Either way, I am missing a devoted sister to nurse me back to health. I shall have to send my sisters a letter to let them know that they have failed in their duty to attend to me in my time of need. Luckily for them, Andre has returned from his afternoon outing, and he is coddling me (a little), though no possets as of yet. Perhaps he is courting me. As a result, I suspect I will recover – though perhaps I will consult a physician to see if he might prescribe a trip to Bath. No doubt that would restore my good health.
Until then, I’ll settle for reading a good book in my own bath.
Good morning! You awake? Time to wake up! Hey, kiddo, if you don’t get up your brother’s going to get the first shower.
I’m leaving! Have a good day!
No, I don’t know who has the Chromebooks. Have you checked Richard’s room?
Books and notebooks out and open! Make sure you have a pen or pencil available.
You know where the pencils are. The pencils are where they have been all year. I’m sure you can find a pencil. Yes, that is where the pencils are.
Please make sure your phones are away. Headphones and air buds, too, please. Away means in your backpack. Your pocket is not a backpack. I see a few phones out. Make sure your phone hasn’t accidentally snuck into your hands. Phones are sneaky like that.
If the teacher writes it on the board… you should write it in your notebook.
Is anyone else hot or is it just me?
You can’t read and talk at the same time; that’s not how brains work.
Listen first, then move.
Ok, you know the drill: SLANT! Sit up, lean forward… look, even if you don’t ask questions you can nod your head and track me when I’m speaking.
Ok, but you need to be back in five minutes or less. Five minutes is reasonable.
No one else is hot?
Bye! Bye! Nice work today! Bye! See you tomorrow! Bye!
Hi! How was school? Has anyone walked the dog? Ok, I’m going to walk the dog. Did anyone feed the dog? Have the cats been fed?
No, dinner’s not for a little while. Try a healthy snack. It won’t be long.
Please make sure your dishes end up in the dishwasher. Do you have any homework? I’m just going to mark a few things. Please make sure that plate ends up in the dishwasher.
He was shamelessly cheating. While the “big boys” (my teens) and my spouse splashed around the small pool, calling loudly to each other, my cousin’s 7-year-old ducked underwater every time he heard the dreaded cry, “Marco!” Others might give away their position by replying, “Polo!” but he was no fool. You’re a lot harder to find if Marco can’t hear you.
Of course we called him on it, tickling him and dunking him. “You’re a cheating cheater!” my sons teased, and he didn’t deny it. Seven is the perfect age to check out what happens when you break the rules. Turns out, if you cheat long enough, we’ll change the game – and we’ll love you anyway.
***
After school, my child tells me that one of his teachers has accused him of cheating. “The worst part,” he says, “is that I did it: we wrote that section together – but only because we thought we were allowed to.” He takes a deep breath. “I tried to explain. I tried to tell him that we obviously thought it was ok because we used the exact same words. If I was trying to cheat I wouldn’t be so dumb about it, but he wouldn’t even listen.”
My son is upset, and rightly so. The idea that someone thinks you have intentionally been dishonest can be devastating. Worse, he likes this teacher and this subject; he’s worried about the ramifications of this incident.
“Will you write to him and tell him I’m not a cheater?” he asks. I counsel him to send an apology email, even though he’s still upset about the accusation itself. He pulls out his phone and shows me the email he’s already composed. “Is it good enough?” he asks. “Can I send it?” It is and he does.
***
We all knew that the 9th grade Mythology test was nearly impossible. Senior students recounted horror stories. “No one passes,” they assured us. “It’s killer.” I studied and studied, and worried so much that I made myself physically ill before the test. I vomited and got sent home at lunch.
My teacher announced to the class that what I had done was a form of cheating. She gave them the “easy” version of the test and “saved” the hard one for my return. Then, she told me that she assumed I had lied about being sick. I cried while I took the make-up test – which I aced, even though it was very, very hard. I’m still not sure if she ever thought of me as completely honest after that. I know that I never quite trusted her again.
***
I don’t know what to write to my son’s teacher, but I know what I want to say. I want to say, even if he did it, even if he intentionally did the wrong thing – and I don’t think he did – please remember that he’s a child, not a cheater. Please don’t do to him what my teacher did to me all those years ago.
I’ll find the words for the email, but before I do, I’m going upstairs to give my child an extra hug. I can’t change this particular game, but I’ll love him anyway.
We are locked out of my aunt’s house. She and my spouse left about an hour ago to go see my nephew (really my cousin’s son, but big families get confusing) in a swim meet. My boys and I stayed behind, too happy in the ocean to go with them. Eventually, I traded the Caribbean for the heated pool, and soon my kids followed.
While they roughhoused in the pool, I made my way back to my aunt’s place to write today’s post – only to discover that the key she left behind didn’t turn in the lock. So here I sit, poolside, writing on my phone and watching my teens. They’ve had me film them in slo-mo as they do various wild tricks; now they’re playing something akin to baseball with a pool noodle and a beach ball. My writing keeps getting interrupted by gales of laughter and giggles.
The sun is starting to set, so I have finally texted to admit that we can’t get in – but we’re in no rush. When we left this morning it was snowing and gray; we can stay here, locked out together, and be happy for a long time.
The thing about the March Slice of Life Challenge is that it always happens in March. Another thing that always happens in March – at least if you’re a teacher in Ontario – is March Break. Every year I tell myself that this is great because I will be able to write SO MUCH during March Break. I will go on vacation and everything will be relaxing and wonderful. I really should know better. I’ve been doing this long enough that I should be realistic about day one of March Break. And one day I will be. But not today.
On the first day of break, physics seems out of whack. Gravity works overtime; the air thickens and acceleration is slowed; every action requires more force to begin and results in smaller than expected opposite reactions.
Today, as in years past, I am sitting on the couch, mindlessly playing games – Wordle, Sudoku, Connections, Strands, Duolingo, even my Castles of Burgundy app – while telling myself repeatedly that I should get up, I should pack, I should write, I should…
Here, I’ll take a page from Sherri and make a chart:
What I’m doing
What I think I should be doing
Sleeping in
Getting up early
Having a second pot of tea
Emptying the dishwasher
Playing games
Writing
Duolingo
Commenting on other posts
Sitting on the couch
Laundry, packing
Talking to my mother
Talking to my mother
This is why it’s early afternoon, and I’m only starting my day – even though I’ve been up for hours. This is why even though I have lots of writing ideas, I don’t know what to write. This is why I wish that physics allowed for teleporters that would function exclusively to take tired teachers to vacation destinations.
Listen, I promise that one day I’ll write more. I will be witty! I will be wise! Today, however, I will accept the reality that today is not one day, it’s just day one.
Despite the cold and snow, Tippy insisted that she was going out this morning. She waited in the front hall, yowling, and then, when I opened the door, she fearlessly pushed ahead of our black lab mix and went out into the world – or at least onto the porch. She is a tiny 12-year-old calico who has no business spending much time outdoors when it’s -5C (23F), but she didn’t care. She had plans.
I didn’t see her when I got back from walking the dog, but I was pretty sure I knew where she was, so I didn’t worry until it got close to time for our family to leave for work and school. Then, I texted the neighbours who live a few doors down.
Tippy loves this family. She hangs out with them and their two daughters quite a lot. When all our children were little, she used to follow first our boys and then their girls to the bus stop. Now she just seems to enjoy the extra love.
A few minutes after our first exchange, they texted again.
Which is how I found myself tromping through the snow to our neighbour’s house when I should have been on my way to work. Two workers were sitting in a pickup truck in the driveway. They glanced at me, but didn’t seem to think much of my early morning visit. When I got inside, Tippy was refusing to leave, so I had to take off my boots and head upstairs to help catch her.
Once we had her, I went back downstairs and tried to slip on my boots while holding a squirming calico- but there really is no way to slip on good winter boots and there’s certainly no way to do it while wrangling a cat – so my neighbour tried to help me out by crouching down to help me get my feet in. At this point, a few construction workers poked their heads out from the bathroom they were working on to see what all the screeching and laughing was about.
I imagine they saw something like this, except with more snow and a squirmier cat:
AI generated this for me – it’s not us, but whatever
Within seconds the workers were laughing, too. I handed Tippy to my neighbour, jammed my feet in my boots, and grabbed our now-irate cat by the scruff of her neck to head out the door. There, the two men were still sitting in the pickup. Now, however, they were decidedly staring – I was disheveled, my boots really only half on, carrying a twisting, yowling, tiny calico up the driveway, through the snow, back to our house at 8:30 in the morning. I could hear them laughing as I made it to the sidewalk.
Tippy was extremely unimpressed with my rescue mission and raced up the stairs as soon as I dropped her inside the door. Now running late, I grabbed my backpack and my lunch and scooted to the minivan. I made it to work on time, but only just. And Tippy? When I got home, the little rascal tried to go outside again!
It’s snowing again. What purports to be our front yard is currently a pile of snow so tall that shovelling more snow on top of it causes mini-avalanches either back onto the shoveller or over the top and down the other side. Across from our driveway, a snow pile significantly bigger than our minivan looms ominously. To leave home in the car, I have to do a sort of backwards three-point turn, using the snow mountain as a semi-soft reminder of how far I can go – though our recent thaw-freeze cycle means that the snow is a little more compacted and a whole lot harder than it was a week ago. Our street was due for snow clearing *before* the last big dump, but each major snow storm sees the city scrambling to remove snow from the bigger roads while our little residential street slowly subsides under the white stuff.
As I leave my house to walk to a massage appointment, neighbours are already out clearing their driveways. Glenn pauses to greet me, teasing, “Here I thought you were coming out to shovel, but I suppose you’ve got teenagers for that.”
“Ha! They’re only any good if you can wait until mid-afternoon for the driveway to be cleared.” I laugh. Then I realize that Glenn is shovelling Mario’s driveway – and Mario is maybe snow blowing Glenn’s driveway? Unclear. And a guy from the halfway house – someone I haven’t met yet – is obviously helping Glenn.
“Did you all get confused about who lives where?” Everyone laughs, and we banter for a moment before I head on my way, grinning at the way our neighbourhood functions.
***
The massage therapist has a 7-month old and updates me on all the recent developments – he’s rolling both ways now, and he’ll be crawling any day now. I tell him (the father, not the baby) about my own children, and we marvel at the changes in our lives since I started seeing him a few years ago.
After the appointment, we’re still chatting while I put on my coat and boots, and his next client arrives. “I thought I recognized that voice!” she laughs, and I turn around to see a former colleague. Since I last saw her, she moved away and back, had a baby, turned 40. Social media has let us keep up a little, but here in the little office, we greet each other again.
***
And now I’m home, starting my 8th year of participating in the March Slice of Life Challenge. I have already read a few blog posts from friends (though I’ve never met them in person). I write knowing that some of my friends from as far back as elementary school will read my posts, and we’ll reach out and catch up a little. I’m anticipating a month full of moments where we’re all shovelling each other’s virtual driveways and running into each other in the comments section. Once again, I’m looking forward to this community we create with words.
With many thanks to the team at Two Writing Teachers for growing and preserving this community.
Of our eight bags – four carry-ons and four “personal items” – mine was the only one flagged for further inspection. The security guy smiled ruefully at me as he swung my bag onto the metal table. After asking permission, he unzipped the main compartment and said, “it’s the books.” I must have looked perplexed because he followed up, “The screener showed a large block of biological material. It’s the books.” He rifled haphazardly through the rest of my bag, but he already knew he wouldn’t find anything else: it was the books.
I could almost feel my teens – who, for the record, did NOT have any books in their bags – roll their eyes. My partner shook his head disbelievingly, “You got flagged for books?” Me? I quickly calculated how many books I had packed: only two… in that bag.
All told, I took three books, one journal and one agenda on vacation. Three books is a reasonable amount for a week, if you ask me: one I was finishing, one I planned to read while I was there, and one I’ve been nibbling on, in case the other one didn’t work out. The journal is self-explanatory, right? And the agenda, to be fair, was an oversight: I’m used to having it with me, and forgot to take it out.
For the record, I finished both the first and the second books and was back to nibbling at the third by the time we were on our way home. Of course, I had also received two more books and a blank journal as gifts. If you’re keeping count, that means I was headed home with five books, two journals an agenda… and a teeny sudoku puzzle book that I forgot to count on the way out because really, it barely qualifies. Wary, I tried to split my “large block of biological material” between my two bags.
My efforts were for naught: I got flagged by security. This time, I started the conversation.
“It’s the books.”
The TSA agent eyed me up and down. I can only imagine what he saw. He turned to my backpack and peered into its depths. “Yup, it’s the books.”
“I read a lot,” I tried to sound apologetic, but I suspect I failed.
“What I want to know,” he mused, “is will you really read all of these on this trip?”
I started to explain about the one to finish and the one to read and the one just in case and the gifts, but I suddenly knew how that would sound to him. I almost explained that I am an English teacher and that I love to read. I wanted to tell him about the one I’d just finished and…instead, I said lamely, “Well, you never know.”
I reclaimed my bag, checked the zipper, and headed over to my family.
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.
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.”
Persistence and Pedagogy 