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.

Noticed #SOL24 19/31

One afternoon, early in my teaching career, a colleague/friend and I got manicures together after school. The next day, in the middle of science class, a 7th grader raised his hand and said, “Did you and Amanda get your nails done together?” She was surprised that this young person – who could not reliably remember to bring his backpack from my French classroom to her science room next door – had noticed something so small. She was also surprised that he chose the middle of class to comment on his observation.

Over the years, I’ve gotten much more used to the idea that the students are always watching, but it can still catch me by surprise. Like yesterday when we came back to school after a week of March Break. I had gotten my hair cut (bangs!) the first Saturday of March Break, so I was used to it, but obviously no one else was. I was quickly reminded that my “look” had changed because students started to comment – in the hallway, in the lobby, in the classroom. Students who have never even had me as a teacher said, “nice haircut, Miss.” The kids I’ve actually taught were even more forward, one yelling, “you look good, Miss!” as I passed by.

I said “thank you” all morning long. The unexpected compliments put me in a good mood and I was sailing through the day. Then, during Grade 9 English, in the middle of a discussion about whether oral histories from “regular” people are important, a sometimes-reticent young man raised his hand. And despite my years of teaching, despite having been noticed in the hallway, despite everything, I still wasn’t ready when he said, “Um, did you get a haircut, Miss?”

“Yes,” I said, because what else was there to say?

“Cool,” he nodded, “It looks good.” And he went right back to doodling in his notebook.

I paused long enough to say to the class, “Well, that’s how you do it. If you’re going to ask someone if they got a haircut, you should definitely follow up with…” I paused for dramatic effect. The same young man looked up and said, “It looks good.”

Then we all went back to discussing oral histories as if nothing unusual had happened. And maybe it hadn’t.

Two poems #SOL24 18/31

Two poems for today. First, a book spine poem created from the books I just checked out of the library based on recommendations from other bloggers so far this month. Sensing a theme? (I also got Thornhedge, but it didn’t fit the poem.) I love all the recommendations and ideas I get during March. Will I finish these all before they’re due? I doubt it, but I’m not sure if that’s really the point.

Second, a poem for my recently restless nights.

The middle-aged woman’s sleeping prayer
Now I lay me down to sleep,
I pray that I won’t wake to pee.
If I should feel a sudden heat,
I pray that I won’t drench the sheets
And if I’m up throughout the night,
I pray my kids’ve turned out the lights.

Tomorrow I’m going to get my sh*# together and write earlier in the day.

Who? Me? #SOL24 17/31

I like to think that I’ve mellowed with age. I’m relaxed, chill, low-key. I have given up any previous passion for perfection. I’m comfortable with mediocrity when mediocre is called for. Just look at yesterday’s post. Perfectly middling.

I suspect people who know me well are laughing so hard they’ve just spit out their coffee.

Look, I try to be content with what I’ve got. At 50, I have enough self-confidence that I don’t need to worry too much about outside perception. Sometimes this is even true. Sometimes, I can happily come in second – or even third. Mostly, I can curb my competitive nature – especially if I’m concentrating on being easygoing.

Also, I just stayed up well past my bedtime on the last night of March Break playing Duolingo. I snuck up behind “Panda” and overtook the number one spot in the Diamond League, logging out with only a few minutes left before this week’s competition is over; she’ll never catch up. And I’m terribly pleased with myself.

So, yeah, not so mellow after all.

(In my defense, I am *comparatively* easygoing now. It’s just that I’ve really never been that kind of person at all.)

Throwing in the towel #SOL24 16/31

I give up. It’s not that I haven’t written anything today. Oh no, it’s much worse than that: it’s that I haven’t *finished* anything today. When I realized I was struggling to write, I looked through my photos, thinking that a photo essay might be just right. I even got as far as creating a March collage. Then I decided I didn’t like it. Harrumph.

I considered writing about my pets because I love posts with pets, but this morning Hera stood on my chest and purred until I woke up, and the dog was kind of a jerk at the dog park this afternoon, so no posts for them.

I looked back at ideas I’ve collected from other bloggers this month and got deeply involved in a prompt from Steph at Steph Scrap Quilts, but it’s definitely not done enough to share. Or, more true, I like it too much to share it too early.

I tried to shake off my writing blahs by doing non-writing things that sometimes help me write: I took a walk, baked (banana bread – delicious), talked to my sisters for a long time, worked out, read other blog posts… Still, nothing.

And here I am. It’s almost 8pm, and this is what I’ve got. I’m giving myself credit for writing something when nothing would have been easier, and I will publish my imperfect writing.

Now that I think about it, I’m going to dedicate this to my students. After all, I started blogging as practice so that I could be a better writing teacher. I think it’s worked. If nothing else, I know what it means to stare down a blank document, knowing I have a deadline, knowing that others will read my work, knowing that another day, another hour might make it better. And then, I publish anyway. This is what I wish for you all: the strength to do your work, even when you aren’t inspired, and the courage to turn it in, even when it’s imperfect. This is me, practicing what I teach.