Tag: home life

Better things #SOL24 9/31

I have better things to do. I could be writing or reading other people’s blogs and commenting. I could be tidying the house before guests come, or just tidying in general. I could be folding the laundry put in the wash first thing this morning or running some errands. I could be working out or doing yoga.

To be fair, I’ve already been out for a walk and gone to the hairdresser. I’ve had my tea and played with the dog. But now? Yeah, I have better things to do.

I could be looking at the work my students turned in yesterday or planning ahead for the next unit. I could be catching up on emails or finding the numbers of all the places I need to call for various appointments for various people. 

Still, I’ve already cleared out the fridge and reheated leftovers for lunch. I’ve already started and abandoned a list of the things that I will, in fact, have to do sometime soon. Because I definitely have better things to do, like calling my sisters or reading a book, taking a nap or knitting. At this point, even watching a movie would probably be better. 

So many things are out there, just waiting to be done. But it’s the first day of March Break and outside it’s rainy and gray. I’m on the couch, wrapped in a soft blanket, and the dog is sleeping at my feet. So instead of doing any of the many things I could be doing, I’m allowing myself a luxury I rarely have time for: playing mindlessly on my phone. 

Do I have better things to do? Nah, not really.

Par, pars, parsh, parch #SOL24 6/31

“Hey Mom! Can you come help with my English writing?”

I’m supposed to be doing my own writing – this writing, to be precise – and I’m still knee-deep in grade 9 projects, but he knows I won’t say no. Mr. 13 is an excellent writer – effective vocabulary, interesting sentence structures, good grasp of punctuation – and he is dyslexic. Years of Orton-Gillingham-based tutoring means that he reads well and knows how to make good use of extensions like Grammarly or Language Tool, but when push comes to shove, he still benefits from a once over by someone who’s not dyslexic. Also, he knows I like to read what he writes.

He’s reading his sentences aloud under his breath as I plunk down next to him. “Um… I need a word for like ‘kind of was related to the point but not 100%.'” My eyes widen as I try to figure out what on Earth he’s talking about. “Oh!” he snaps his fingers, “got it: partially!”

He types parsley.

He keeps going, then circles back to fix it. Parshly. Spellcheck suggests harshly as a replacement, so he changes it to parchly – and the new suggestion is archly. “Um, Mom?”

“Partially means ‘in part’ so it starts with the root part,” I say.

“Part isn’t really a root,” he interrupts. Then, “sorry.” He would know. He knows Latin and Greek origins of words; he understands spelling rules in ways I have never had to.

I laugh, “Just start with part.” He does. I break the word down orally so he can hear all the syllables, then I spell. “Now i a l…” I pause because he is looking at me like I have two heads. Finally, I reach over and type the word.

He stares for a long second, then shakes his head in wonder. “There is no way that word looks like /parshully/. I would never have guessed that.”

And he wouldn’t have. Which is why I was so angry last night when I found one of his old math tests where the teacher has circled his attempt at the word “isosceles” and written “Really???” with multiple question marks. He brushed it off – “I mean, she did tell us we had to be able to spell all the terms” – but she doesn’t see how hard he works to spell these words.

But now he’s moved on and is enthusiastically excoriating someone’s weak debate argument. He doesn’t need me again until the end, when I do a check for capital letters and other words that spellcheck didn’t get. This time, he’s mostly good. I ruffle his hair and head back to finish my own work.

I wish all teachers could understand his truth – the kind that looks good on the surface but is working awfully hard to stay afloat. “Isosceles,” I mutter, and his exasperated voice trails behind me, reminding me to let it go. “Mom!”

How I Learned Canadian History #SOL24 4/31

Kindergarten: I met this fascinating man at a wedding. He told me he was from Ottawa and started to explain where it was. I stopped him, saying, “It’s the capital of Canada; I know where it is.” He was astonished. Later, he married me. These things are not unrelated.

First grade: Immediately after my permanent residency was approved, I was offered a job teaching Canadian Civics in French. I’m American, and my home language is English (though I speak French). I looked through the curriculum and politely declined. I knew nothing except that I didn’t know enough to teach Canadian Civics… yet.

Grade Two: I got a job teaching French in the English public school system, as opposed to the Catholic public schools or the French public schools or the French Catholic public schools. Just navigating the four public systems was an education in Canadian history – where minority language rights for the French and the Catholic system were enshrined in the law. I also learned that Canadians talk about Grade + year rather than the other way around.

Grade 3: I switched to a new position called “Student Success” where I helped students “recover” courses they had previously failed. Many of them failed Civics. Many many many of them. Remember that job I turned down because I didn’t know enough? Now I helped with dozens of failed Civics projects – and at least half a dozen Canadian History classes, too. I began to understand the Parliamentary system and even knew who the Governor General was. Riding? Premier? MP? MPP? I knew it all. Helping with Grade 10 History taught me a lot of battles, too. This would come in handy later.

Grade 4: I watched in fascinated horror during an election where an entire party got virtually wiped out. No one blinked. My spouse insisted that the party would come back in the next election. In Quebec, a young woman who had been running as a place-holder candidate in a riding that was all but guaranteed to go to someone else was suddenly elected and had to return from a trip to Las Vegas. She would turn out to be a strong MP. I realized that I needed to be able to vote in Canada.

Grade 5: I took the Canadian citizenship test. The people I knew told me it would be “super easy” but I took it under the Harper government, and they had a thing about the War of 1812. I knew very little  about the War of 1812, so I studied the citizenship packet assiduously – and spent several hours taking practice tests online. I learned about Louis Riel and Indigenous fishing rights and much much more. The exam itself was multiple choice and while it’s marked as pass/fail, I’m pretty sure I aced that thing. For the record, I’m glad I studied.

Grade 6: My children started school. Elementary school projects were straightforward, but I was impressed by the attention their teachers paid to Indigenous peoples. Together, we learned about Indigenous cultures, granted in a somewhat general way, but it was good. 

Grade 7: I spent several hours – twice! once with each child – helping prepare for a debate arguing the pros and cons of Canadian confederation in 1867. Sadly for my learning-to-time-spent ratio, child 1 was given the “pro” side and, two years later, child 2 was given the “con” side. Child 2 remembered this assignment at dinner last night. It is due today. I can now tell you about the Dorion brothers in Quebec and the Fenian raids and the arguments about how to pay for the intercontinental railroad. Heck, I can tell you how the US Civil War influenced the drive for Confederation and so, so much more.

Grade Eight: I know what’s coming next: a project about Louis Riel and the Red River Resistance. In French. Luckily, this one is due after March Break, so my Canadian History education will not have to take place largely in one week. Also, I’ve already had at least a middle school education in Canadian History, so I’m ready to go!

Nearby #SOL24 3/31

Years ago, a photographer friend of mine, Maggie Knaus, had an exhibition that she entitled “Nearby.” In it, she featured pictures she had taken when her brother-in-law had been nearby. He had passed away, but the images remained, beautiful and poignant. 

I think about that exhibition a lot: the beauty; the sadness; the sense that noticing who is nearby, who is not quite in the picture, is powerful and important. Because of it, I find myself thinking about who is nearby as I go about my day.

Right now, for example, my spouse and his buddies are playing a board game in the next room. The game will last most of the afternoon, their laughter and chatter an accompaniment to my writing and planning. Dice rattle; pieces plunk onto the board. I love the easy camaraderie of these men, the way they gather often, using games to deepen their friendships. They laugh again, and here, mere metres away, I smile.

Mr. 15 is in his third-floor hideaway. The “chill room” was meant to be a shared space, but his bedroom is tiny, so he has spilled into this space, too: computer, books, beanbag – and all the detritus that trails behind teenage boys. When he is home, he is up there. Moments ago, we crossed paths in the kitchen as he cut two thick slabs of fresh bread, slathered them with butter and popped them into the toaster “to melt the butter just enough.” I silently marvelled at his tall and slender form, at his long torso stretching up from pajama bottoms knotted low around his hips. What a miracle, to watch my child become a man. I hug him when I can and keep my comments to a minimum. Now, he is hidden again: only his voice trails down the stairs, a murmured reminder that he is nearby.

Mr. 13 is in the room with me, but a bookcase and a bamboo screen separate us. He is nearly silent now. Only the click of the keyboard and the occasional slide of the chair across the floor let me know he is nearby. Soon enough, he will finish this task and join his friends online. At some point, his excited voice will rise up to fill this room, and I will say, “Seriously! Can you please tone it down?” and he will – for 30 seconds or a minute – until the game and the friends fill his brain again and his voice surges again.

In the kitchen, one cat sleeps in her perch near the sliding glass door. In the basement, the other cat sleeps in the box of giveaway coats that she has adopted as her own. And here on the couch, the dog has curled up next to me as I write. 

In this mundane moment, I pause to recognize just how much love is near me, just how lucky I am.

An unwelcome visitor #SOL24 1/31

I knew for sure that I had an unwelcome visitor on Saturday. I’d heard the quiet knocking every morning for days, but tried to pretend it wasn’t coming: I went to bed early, but soon sleep started to elude me; I woke daily with a tickle in the back of my throat. By Saturday there was no ignoring the visitor: the virus had arrived.

“I think I’m sick,” I croaked at my spouse, as if my voice and the circles under my bleary eyes didn’t make this obvious.

“I think you are,” he replied, and set me on the couch to recuperate.

We’ve had viruses visit before, of course. Mostly we greet them with tea and honey; we entertain them with ridiculous series on Netflix or long cuddles with good books; always, we like to offer them plenty of rest. This satisfies most viruses. After a day or two, they thank us politely and move on, sometimes leaving behind a bit of a mess, but nothing that we can’t handle if we’re cautious.

This virus though, the one that came on Saturday, this one has overstayed its welcome. I tried to coddle it over the weekend, hoping that it would be willing to move on by Monday morning, but no. Instead, the virus – which had initially taken up residence in my throat – decided that it was too confined and expanded into my lungs and my sinuses. There, it stretched out. “Ah… just what I needed: more space.” It took a particular liking to my lungs and hung out there, making it hard for me to breathe.

So, I took the virus to the doctor’s office where we tried to take a picture of it, but it was shy and hid from the x-ray. “Well,” said the doctor, “at least it’s not Pneumonia. She always overstays her welcome – a real hanger-on, that one.” Pneumonia has visited both me and my spouse, so I knew exactly what the doctor meant. She is a terrible guest. “Still,” the doctor continued, “there are some truly ill-mannered viruses going around right now. This one may stay for days.”

I nodded my head, but I didn’t believe her. I know how to deal with a virus, and I don’t get sick very often. I wheezed my way home and curled up on my couch. I played puzzle games with my virus and watched lots of bad TV. We downloaded a mindless game app and played for hours. We drank unending pots of tea with honey. We knit, pet the dog and took naps. Still, the virus stayed. It fiddled with the thermostat, so I tried to help it get comfortable with some ibuprofen. Then, ungrateful, it spent Monday evening painting my throat bright red. “Much better,” it squealed. After that, it yelled at me whenever I swallowed, “You’re ruining the paint job!”

Every afternoon, I checked in with my virus. “Maybe you could leave tomorrow?” I asked. The virus laughed, and watched me write increasingly tearful emails to the vice principal, telling her that I needed to be out yet again. Last night, as I created the fifth day of lesson plans, the virus was not even remotely helpful. In fact, it laughed even harder and said, “I *might* leave tomorrow, but I’m just not sure yet. Maybe you should go in just to see what I do.” I’d gotten wise to it, though. I knew that it just wanted to stay longer, so I called in sick and sent the (now pretty pathetic) lesson plans.

Today is the seventh day of the virus’s visit. I’ve told it that my spouse and I don’t typically welcome guests for more than a week without consulting with one another, so it is reluctantly packing up. The paint job it had so delighted in has largely faded, and it’s moved into a smaller space, mostly in my throat. I’ve offered it more tea and sleep, but I think it’s starting to crave something different, hopefully something it can’t find in this house. By Monday, this unwelcome visitor should be gone, and I should be back to work. Fingers crossed.

A call from the teacher

The phone rang after dinner. I warily checked the caller ID, then perked up when I saw my sister’s name. Ah, exactly what I needed! But just as we settled in to a nice chat, I heard a beep.

Call waiting. I didn’t even know we still had call waiting. We’re already the odd family out because we still have a landline, but I can’t even remember the last time two people tried to call our house at the same time. Odd. (For what it’s worth, our reasoning for the landline is complicated, but the crux of it is that one of the kids still doesn’t have a cell phone AND we want them to be able to answer the phone in a general sort of way – you know, like if their grandparents call.)

Even odder, the tiny screen displayed the school district’s phone number. Someone was calling us from a school at 8:15pm. I asked my sister to hold on, and clicked over. My younger child’s teacher chirped a cheery hello. Quickly, I hung up on my sister (sorry, sis) and devoted my attention to this unusual caller.

I was a little concerned. I mean, when was the last time we had a not-automated call from the school? We got his report card last week and nothing looked terribly amiss. And he was already at home, playing video games & chatting with his friends, safely in one piece. More than that, when I’d asked, “How was your day?” he had pleasantly replied, “boring” as he does virtually every day. Everything seemed fine.

But his teacher was talking. I calmed my racing mind and paid attention. She was just calling to say hello and see how things were going. She was impressed with his math work. She knows about his dyslexia and complimented his writing. We talked about this and that. Finally, I asked if she was calling everyone. Yes, she was. She had decided to call all of her students’ families just to check in after report cards. After all, she said, it’s really too bad that the students who are doing well don’t get this sort of attention. We had a very pleasant conversation, and I hung up in a good mood. Judging from her voice, I bet she felt pretty good, too.

Before I called my sister back, I realized: I have done this. I have called home to say something nice. I have called home to check in. I have been the chipper voice on the other end of the line, the teacher saying that things are going well. But, I have never been the parent who got this call. And you know what? It felt nice. It felt like the sort of thing I might want to do for the families of this semester’s students. In fact, maybe I’ll start again this week.

Wordless

Sometimes my youngest has trouble with words. Whatever mysterious worlds hold him together – his own internal sun, moon and Earth – line up, and emotion rises in him like a spring tide, flooding him and robbing his ability to speak. If I catch him early enough, he can still tell me what’s happening, though it’s hard. If we don’t notice the rising waters until it’s too late, his voice is gone. While he sits, nearly mute, fist pounding the space beside him, tears in his eyes, I struggle to guess at the words that elude him. Sometimes, I can find the words for him, and he collapses in relief; others, though, we’re not so lucky and all that that’s left is the language of the body. When I can, I hold him until the waters recede.

This is what happened on New Year’s Eve. I was the only adult left awake with the kids, who were waiting up for whatever magic they think happens at midnight – or at least for fireworks. I knew he had planned to walk out to the dock with the rest of us, but as the hour approached, he no longer wanted to come. When I asked him what was going on, his words were drowned out and his eyes filled with tears. I was reluctant to leave my youngest crying alone on the couch as the new year rolled in, but the others were waiting and time was short. Luckily, my partner was still awake, reading. He knows these moments, and came down to snuggle with our child while I went with the others into the dark. By the time we returned, my son was fast asleep.

These moments are frustrating, heartbreaking and, most of all, perplexing for me. I live in a world of words, trusting them to be my messengers to others, certain that I can coax them into shapes that will communicate meaning to those around me. I rely on words to tame the very emotions that, I think, overwhelm my child.

And yet. And yet.

These past months, words have often eluded me. I haven’t written here regularly. In fact, I haven’t written anywhere regularly. I’ve spent far too long staring at other people’s stories in an attempt to avoid my own. I’ve had no desire – much less ability – to put words to what I’m feeling. Instead, I’ve allowed myself to float on my own wordless tides. It’s unsettling.

Now, as 2024 begins, many people I love and admire – writers, readers and lovers of words – have chosen “one little word” for the year. I’ve tried to choose one, too, but the words have been as hard to hold as water. No word stays. As if to prove a point, I have spent some time now writing, erasing, then staring at the screen. The words slip through my fingers. What should I say? What should I not say? How do I feel? I don’t know. I want to commit to writing weekly this year. I want to say that I am grateful to know in advance some of the challenges that this year will bring. But those things aren’t true. 2024 may be the year I wrestle (again) with what a friend told me long ago: “Words put space between thought and meaning.”

I think about my sometimes wordless child, approaching the new year exhausted and curled up with his father. Perhaps this year it will be enough to hold on to those I love and ride the tides as we can, with or without the words to describe the experience. Surely, that is enough. 

Outdoor toys

“Put the ball away!” I call over my shoulder as I head towards the classroom door. There’s a ruckus in the hallway that needs adult attention, a teacher visiting from Korea who has just arrived to watch today’s class, and two kids in the back of the room who are bouncing some sort of ball between them – maybe a lacrosse ball? Unclear. I trust that they’ve heard me and step into the hallway. Moments later…no, not moments, seconds… seconds later, I return my attention to the classroom, just in time to hear glass shatter.

They’ve broken one of the fluorescent lights. On the ceiling. 

Everyone is silent. Then, they are not, “What happened?” “You two are idiots” “Why don’t the lights have covers anyway? They’re supposed to have covers.”

I close my eyes and take a deep breath. The three boys in the back row are now sitting amidst a scattering of broken glass. I move them to the front row. A little overwhelmed and a little overstimulated by the chaos they’ve caused, they can’t quite stop laughing. I try to remember that this is a normal reaction, but I am annoyed. I start the timer for silent reading – the sound of ocean waves fills the classroom – and call the office to request a custodian.

That sorted, I head to my desk & rifle through a drawer until I find my blank cards. I walk to the front row and put one in front of the main offender. “What’s this for?” He’s aiming for an innocent look, but it’s ruined when he starts to laugh again. “Apologize,” I say tersely, “to the custodians.” He doesn’t argue.

When he’s finished, I pass the card to his friend. I check it over for appropriateness, then return it for signatures. 

It takes the custodians two passes to find all the thin shards of glass littering the back of the classroom. After the second sweeping, the boys ask if they can move back to their original seats. I don’t mince words, “No.” They don’t ask again.

****

Once the final bell of the day rings, a young person comes carefully into the room. “Um, Miss,” he starts, “can I have my ball back? I swear I won’t bring it to school again.” He is not one of the two culprits from the morning. I hold back a smile as I solemnly hand him his ball. “Thanks for keeping it at home.”

****

As I write this, my very own 13-year-old walks through the living room, dribbling a soccer ball. “Put. The Ball. Away,” I say.

He complains a little and tells me how unreasonable this rule is, but I do not budge. I am certain that balls are not indoor toys. The boys in my life, apparently, do not agree.

The Song

The woman in the stall next to me is singing along with the piped in music. I’m exhausted and distracted, so it takes me a minute to realize this is what’s happening, but when I finally register the unexpected sound, I find myself smiling.

My shoulders go down, and I start to actually listen as she – quietly but enthusiastically – jaunts along. The words aren’t in English… I listen for a few more seconds. Arabic? Yes, Arabic! A major American airport is piping Arabic muzak into the women’s bathroom in terminal 4 (and, presumably, everywhere else), and the woman in the stall next to me is happily singing along. I chuckle.

We’re on our way home from vacation. Yesterday, the first flight of our three flights was delayed on the tarmac for nearly four hours. Once we were in the air, we learned that they had a grand total of three cheese plates and a few cans of Pringles available to sustain passengers for the four-hour flight. I’m pretty sure we had devoured every package of cookies and pretzels on board by the time we landed, after midnight, in a city we had not planned to stay in. We’d survived the curt customs officer, fed the kids from the one kiosk still open, trudged to a hotel, slept a few hours, waited in a wildly understaffed security line, and made it to our rescheduled flight just as it was boarding. Our amazing vacation already seemed far away. But here, now, a woman is singing in the public bathroom.

I stand, and the automatic system flushes the toilet. Briefly, I am grateful that I do not have a child or two in the stall with me, that no one has suddenly burst into tears because of the unexpectedly loud sound. I remember the twisting required to take care of multiple people in one bathroom stall while blocking the sensor with one hand. At the time, it was all-consuming, but now, remembering, I’m smiling again.

I’m washing my hands when the woman opens the stall door, still humming under her breath. In the mirror, she flashes me a happy smile. “I love that song,” she says. The janitor, busy to one side, replies, “Mm-hmm. I heard you singing. You have a nice voice.”

We finish washing at the same time, and my neighbor uses her paper-towelled finger to press the green happy face of the “How are we doing?” doohickey above the sinks. “This is the best bathroom in the terminal,” she says to the janitor. “I always come here. You’re doing a great job.” Now we’re all smiling. I press the green button, too.

“Such a great song,” she says, and she walks out of the bathroom. Behind her, silently, I agree: a great song.

Uneasy

The only reason we were even in that part of the school was because I was leaving early for an appointment and wanted to pop into the mailroom on my way out. The screeches and thuds emanating from the boys’ washroom on the second floor were impossible to miss; the noise careened around the hallway, echoing loudly. My colleague and I rushed forward, then paused at the entrance. Laughter, for sure, but also chaos and, possibly, destruction.

“What’s going on in there?” I raised my voice to be sure they could hear me, but I stayed well back from the door. Simultaneously, I sent my colleague to call the main office and tell them what was going on. Suddenly, a wet face with damp hair peered around the corner. His eyes got big, and he ducked back into the bathroom. Seconds later, he appeared again.

“Sorry, Miss.”
“And… you all need to be done,” I replied. “Time to get out.” I said the second part loudly so that whoever was in the bathroom could hear me.

A different young man appeared, apologizing, “Sorry, sorry. We were washing up for prayer.” He moved down the hallway towards the prayer room.

(Though I am not Muslim, I will explain here my understanding that Muslims must make wudu before they pray. This is a purification ritual. The boys were in the bathroom for this purpose.)

A moment later, his damp friend peeked out of the bathroom again. Laughter came from inside. Now I was frustrated. “Time to get out,” I repeated, loudly. More laughter. “Get out,” I said again.

One by one, boys came out of the washroom. I know them by sight because they pray daily and, occasionally, I supervise the Prayer Room. “Go on,” I instructed. I was firm, but not unfriendly. Washrooms are not for wrestling.

One young man muttered under his breath, “You need to show some respect.” I took a deep breath before replying, “I am showing respect; I am also asking you to leave.” He disagreed with my self-assessment and repeated several times that I was not respectful. I allowed him his opinion because I cannot choose how others see me. By this time, my colleague had returned, and the students moved off in the direction of the Prayer Room. I let out a big breath.

I turned to my colleague. “Was I disrespectful? I wasn’t disrespectful.” I wasn’t sure if I was asking or telling. My mind was already moving back through the encounter. Nope, nothing disrespectful. Polite and firm. And my colleague was there for most of the interaction. Good.

As we went towards the office, we met up with a male teacher who had been sent to see what was happening. I explained. Then I explained to the secretary so that they could pull camera footage of the hallway to see who had been causing such a ruckus. Then I explained again to the VP. Finally, my colleague and I headed out; I still had time to make my appointment.

I left school feeling vaguely uneasy. The young man definitely thought I was being disrespectful. Would he complain? Would he insist? If he did, would I have any recourse? I wasn’t sure.

Later, as I walked home from my appointment, I paused and leaned down to take a picture of some flowers. I had been aware of a man walking slowly behind me, but I hadn’t entirely registered his presence. That is, I hadn’t registered his presence until I straightened up from my photo just as he tried to pass me on the sidewalk. I jumped, surprised.

A tall, slender Black man held up his hands. “Sorry! Sorry! I thought I could get by before you finished.” He backed away a step, hands still in plain sight.

“It’s my own fault,” I smiled, trying to reassure him, “I’m forever slowing down for flowers.” I smiled again.

“Didn’t mean to startle you,” he replied.

“No, really, my fault.”

We were stuck there, awkward, for a moment. One of us had to move first, but we were going the same direction. I decided to cross the street – even that choice seemed fraught – letting him continue his meandering walk without my obtrusion. As he left, I recognized how threatened he must have felt by me, some white lady whom he had unintentionally startled. He had no idea what I might do, who I might call, what I might say. I have never before been so painfully aware of myself as a potential menace.

Then, just ahead of me, he, too, crossed the street and walked up the sidewalk towards what I assumed was his home. He turned and saw me behind him. I wanted badly to be friendly, but I don’t get to decide how others see me. Still, I had the choice to reach out.

“I think we’re neighbours,” I said. “I live just there.” I pointed down the street.

We exchanged names, chatted briefly about how long we’ve been in the neighbourhood, shared vague pleasantries. I shook his hand, and I left, hoping that he didn’t still feel uneasy.