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.

Puzzling #SOL23 29/31

I came home tired. Scratch that: I woke up tired, even though I woke up before my alarm went off, which I thought was supposed to be a sign that you’re getting enough sleep. I’m here to tell you: that truism is false. Anyway, I was still tired when I came home. There, that statement is more true.

Even though I was tired, I went for a walk because, thanks to Lisa, I have walked at least a mile every day for 1045 days, and a little fatigue is not going to end that streak, thank you very much. While I was walking, it started to rain and, as I got home, the rain turned to snow. I silently railed against the weather. For pity’s sake, it’s the end of March.

I came inside and shook out my jacket. I should have sat down to plan tomorrow’s lessons – the grade 9 class did not even come close to finishing what I had planned for today; the reading class got distracted by – wait for it reading (yes, I did an internal happy dance while I pretended that was totally normal for them to ask to read a news article) – but now I was tired and slightly damp, so instead of working on work, I found myself listening to a podcast and working on the puzzle that has bedeviled me for several weeks.

Hera came to “encourage” me by covering up one of the unfinished spaces.

I persisted. The kids came home. Andre came home. Andre left with one of the kids for a father-son dinner out. I kept puzzling. And I finished. Here it is:

Look, I’m still tired, but I finished a puzzle. Seems like a reasonable outcome.

Don’t you…forget about me #SOL23 27/31

Mornings in our house are a tightly choreographed dance of who is doing what where when: Andre is in the kitchen and I am upstairs; Andre is upstairs and I am in the kitchen; Andre is making breakfast and I am waking the kids; the kids are eating breakfast and I am finishing getting dressed. On it goes, each of us weaving around the others, chatting, moving and generally getting ready. By 8:15, everyone is out of the house.

Except for last Thursday. Last Thursday we thought everything was going along smoothly: Andre had run out to the bakery for our breakfast; I had woken the children and then finished getting ready; Mr. 14 was putting his lunch together in the kitchen while Andre dressed upstairs. I left first, and Mr. 14 followed me. Andre was putting on his shoes, about to head out the door, when he noticed a backpack in the corner of the front room.

A backpack? But the kids had already gone to school.

Except that we had forgotten about Mr. 12. He had stayed up LONG after his bedtime finishing a book (Skander and the Unicorn Thief – he highly recommends it and is already desperate for the sequel which has not yet been released) so when I woke him up, he said hello, sat up, then laid back down, turned over and went back to sleep. In the morning chaos (ahem, choreography) no one noticed a missing 12-year-old. Oops.

Andre slipped his shoes off, woke up the kid, made him some lunch, thrust a bun at him for breakfast and got him out of the house so quickly that Mr. 12 wasn’t even late for school and Andre wasn’t late for work.

We have tried to foist this oversight off on the child, telling him firmly that he cannot read until all hours of the night on a school night, but he knows the truth: we totally forgot about him.

We don’t share with squirrels #SOL23 26/31

On Sundays, Andre cooks. He’s been doing this for a couple of years now – planning a menu for the week, shopping on Saturday, cooking for most (or all) of Sunday morning. While he makes a few things designed to appeal to the kids – like a delicious mac’n’cheese – I am truly the lucky recipient of most of his bounty: blueberry scones, carrot-pomegranate-pistachio salad, baked squash with toasted almonds, eggplant parm, Navajo stew, all sorts of soups, and a recently perfected Caesar salad dressing that is just the right amount of tangy and creamy.

After he’s chopped and toasted and stirred and baked, he turns to his final act: dough. He often makes a loaf of bread for the week, then enlists the kids to help make some sort of bread for their lunches – for a while they made cheese buns; lately it’s been bagels – and he almost always makes us pizza dough for Sunday dinner.

Today, he wanted to make the pizza dough early, but he worried that if he left it too long, it might over-proof. So while I went for my morning walk, he was online looking for ideas to keep the dough just right. When I got back from my walk, the dough was rising in a container on the back porch – apparently the outdoor temperature was just what he was looking for.

After that, we spent the afternoon as we often do: catching up on work, tidying, planning. At some point I went into the kitchen for some water, looked out the back door and saw this:

Cheeky thing. This food is NOT for you!

(Fear not, the dough itself was covered with saran wrap & then I covered the whole thing with a large metal bowl that stymied the squirrels – no pizza dough was sacrificed to the squirrels. Now, as I write, the pizza is cooking and the salad is ready.)

I thank Andre often, of course, but it’s not really enough – how could it be? He spends hours every week doing this activity that is largely designed to take care of us, his family. I don’t intend to share his creations with the wildlife.

PS: Tomorrow is his birthday and he says it’s not really a big one for him so he wants to keep things low-key – so I’m writing today to keep things the way he likes them. But in case you’re wondering, he’s pretty amazing.

Throwing in the towel #SOL23 18/31

March Break is almost over and I’m still so tired my eyes ache. I’m not ready to go back. The EduKnitNight chat is full of “you can do it” messages as we gear up for the certain chaos of the return to school on Monday.

“Gently suggesting that we all take space for ourselves – even if just for 20 minutes – today or tomorrow. To help us through the week with a little reserve.”
“Breathe, know that you are enough, be kind to yourself.”
“Messy and underprepared is not a sin.”

There’s a post in there somewhere, but I can’t quite find it. I text my sisters for ideas & they immediately list hilarious moments from our past – the time B put ketchup on her ice cream, the time we hid our exchange student’s speedo before we went to the beach, the time my sister broke her arm (which is funny because we were wearing towels around our necks and jumping off blue armchairs, spinning around and yelling, “Wonder Woman” when it happened). Soon we are talking about my nephews’ upcoming birthday, and…

I still don’t know what to write. I want to write about the concert Andre and I heard on Thursday or the play we saw last night. I want to write something funny about… something… but instead here I am, writing about not writing and laughing at myself because I have been participating in this challenge for six years and I think I have written some version of this post every year and every year I’ve felt badly about it.

I think about Elisabeth saying once, probably my first year, that this isn’t so much a writing challenge as a publishing challenge, that part of this month is about knowing that some days I’m going to write things that aren’t great and I still have to hit publish because it’s ok for some things to be mediocre.

And, once again, I have written something – which is better than nothing – and now it’s time for dinner and conversation with my friend. “Messy and underprepared is not a sin” I whisper under my breath. In a moment I’ll post this, heave myself out of this beanbag nest and tomorrow, I’ll write again.