Untitled.

 Today, I lost a student.

We weren't particularly close. I had him in class last year, the semester the pandemic hit. He was a nice kid, a good kid. He was conscientious. He was funny. He was small for his age, but he held his own. I'd only had him in class for a couple of months. An elective. Not a graduation requirement.

Even though I'm no longer there, in that district, I've been following his story. A freak accident at 2nd base, a collision sent him to the hospital for a week. It was scary. But now he was home, full of positivity, on the mend. A local celebrity on the news, fundraisers full of prayers and well-wishes. Thank god he was on the mend.

And then he wasn't. Somehow, something horrible, awful --there are no words-- something unfathomable happened.

He died.

And I can't imagine what his parents are feeling. His friends. His team. The kid he collided with. His school, his lunch table, his world.

Today, I washed and folded my own son's baseball uniform. His pants were filthy, from sliding into base. They are clean now.

My son has a game on Wednesday. He plays 1st.

I can't imagine what it is like to lose a child. I don't know how I would survive.

All I know is what it feels like to lose a student. And I sit and I hold my son's baseball socks in my hands and I squeeze them just a bit tighter, until I can't feel my fingertips.

And then I put the socks on the pile, and I look out into the darkness, searching for answers.

16

 She was 16.

16.

A girl. Scared, got in a fight with her foster "sisters." A girl, scared, called the police. A girl, scared, grabbed a knife.

She was 16.

My daughter is 14. She has never been in a fight. She has never needed to grab a knife. But if she was --if she had-- would she have been shot to death by a cop in order to break up a fight? Is that what we do in this country? Or is that only what we reserve for Black kids?

If two teenagers are in a fight and we need to intervene, does one of them need to be shot? Killed? Eliminated?

Does "keeping the peace" mean killing whatever is making the noise?

She was Ma'Khia Bryant. A child who had a mom and an aunt, a child who was in the foster care system, a child who had already dealt with some tough shit, a child who loved to sing, a child who loved to cook, a child who called the police, a child who grabbed a knife.

She was kid. Scared. Angry. A volcano of emotions we adults can't even remember because 16 was so long ago and because we have tried a lifetime to forget what it felt like to be 16.

16.

She was not a threat to the cop. She was clearly fighting the women --the girls?-- in the yard. And when people are attacked --when we are attacked, when we are scared-- we attack, or we run away. That's fight or flight. That's our reptilian brain, our survival mechanism. But Ma'Khia Bryant didn't attack the cop. She went after the threat. Or so she thought.

And yet, the cop on the scene --he saw a 16 year old Black girl and decided in that moment that she was dangerous. That she was a scary Black woman. That she didn't deserve to live. The cop who was called by Ma'Khia Bryant simply pulled the trigger. 4 times. No de-escalation. No warning shot. No attempt to disarm. No attempt to recognize Ma'Khia Bryant  as a person worthy of anything other than a bullet. 

4 bullets.

And that cop walked away. Never in danger. Never harmed. Never intervened. Never de-escalated. Never really even tried.

A cop showed up, a cop drew his gun, a cop fired, a cop murdered a 16 year old girl.

And the trolls and the lawyers and the spokespersons will insist that she deserved to die. She had a knife. She was out of control. She should have followed orders.

And yet the adult on the scene, the adult with the actual deadly weapon, the adult is the one who pulled the trigger.

Who is the adult in the room?

Who's out of control now?

Ma'Khia Bryant was 16. She will not graduate from high school, even though she was on the honor roll. She will not go to prom, even though she loved music. She will not hug her mom or thank her foster mom or write a poem in her English class, even though she was a good kid and a good student. She was afraid, and for that, she died.

She was 16.

13

 He was 13 years old.

13.

My son is 12.

My daughter is 14.

I can promise you, I made some very poor decisions when I was 13. 

Adam Toledo was 13.

The state has already figured out its spin: gang violence. It's all the fault of the gangs, of the 21 year old who put a gun into Adam Toledo's hands. The Blue Lives Matter crowd will run with it. He had a gun. He was in a gang. He was bad. Dangerous. He should have complied with authority.

He was 13.

It's never the fault of the adult cop who got trigger happy. The adult cop who, for whatever reason, made a split second decision to pull the trigger. The adult cop who, for whatever reason, saw a weapon instead of raised hands, hands in surrender, hands in the air. Just hands. A kid. A scared fucking kid.

It doesn't matter what Adam Toledo was doing out that night. He was a kid, and kids make some dumbassawful decisions. He was a kid, disenfranchised. He was a kid who had found friends on the streets, a kid who was lonely. A kid who wanted to belong. He was a kid, doing kid shit he shouldn't be doing, pushing boundaries he shouldn't push, hanging out with the wrong crowd. He was a kid. He was all of us when we were 13.

It's the responsibility of the adults in the room to hold Adam Toledo close. To help him safely navigate his world. To help him find friends. To help him.

Not to fucking pull the trigger and murder him.

Adam Toledo was 13. And I am sick, thinking about my own kids and their shitty decision making skills, and the adults I entrust to keep them safe.

If you can't tell the difference between a kid --unarmed, hands in the air in surrender-- and a violent threat: then you should. not. be. armed. 

Fox News will blame everyone but the cop.

And Chicago will probably burn. 

I wish I could set something on fire.

And Adam Toledo is dead.

He was 13.

The Last Day

It's the last day of a much-needed vacation. Even now, a week later, I am resisting getting the kids out of bed. I am savoring the silence and staring at the stinkbug on the wall across the room, willing it to just kill itself for once.

I think I'm rested. I'm definitely well-fed.

The house isn't clean, but it isn't a disaster. 

I didn't read the books I was going to read.

I didn't get my steps in.

I did drag my kids to the top of a mountain.

I did beat my son in Donkey Kong 3 and Qix.

I did finish 5 crossword puzzles and only looked up clues a few times. 

I did manage to get caught up on work and buy myself the week off so I wouldn't have to go back to work until tomorrow. (Of course, COVID gets the last laugh. Because of skyrocketing numbers in the state, our school schedule has changed yet again, back to 100% virtual and no standardized testing --schedule change #5-- so now I will rewrite everything I wrote last Saturday so I wouldn't have to work today...c'est la vie...)

I don't know if traveling was the right thing to do when the CDC has said to stay home. But I do know that it was the right thing to do for our family. We avoided crowds, never went inside a public building except to use the bathroom, always got take-out, always wore a mask, and went through several bottles of hand sanitizer along the way. We tried to do it "right," whatever that means in a year full of so much wrong.

And now I will get the kids up.

I will attempt to yoga all the hours of driving out of my bones.

I will rewrite the lesson plans for the week, I will postpone that blog post rant about standardized testing to another day, I'll drink one more cup of coffee, I'll kill a stinkbug.

Once the kids have showered, we'll go get rapid-testing done at the ISD spring break testing pop-up, just to assuage any fears.

We'll eat one more take-out meal so I don't have to cook.

The weather report called for thunderstorms and pouring rain all day today.

The sun is shining in defiance. 

Michael gets his second dose tomorrow; Pfizer has requested approval for the vaccine for 12-15 year old children, based on their incredibly successful trial numbers; there are 9 weeks left of school.

Summer is coming.

It's Complicated

Every year, "Siblings Day" suddenly hits my Facebook feed without warning, and I vacillate between awwww and awkward as I scroll through all the photos of siblings, then and now. 

It's strange being an only-oldest-youngest. 

I was 1 or 2 when my parents split, 5 when my mom remarried, 6 when my dad remarried. There were 3 older step-siblings that suddenly appeared; they were haughty and sophisticated and tall. I was a country girl, still foolishly believing in Santa Claus and wearing bobby socks and princess seams. I was out of my league with their inside jokes and shared tragedies.

When I was 8, both sets of parents started new families. It was a year of babies, a year of diapers, a year of staying out of the way. My sister was born a month early in January; my brother was born a month late in March. (A cousin came right on time, landing near Valentine's Day.) I was 8, surrounded by babies that I was sort of related to. The next wave came two years later, and one more followed. 5 halves in all, and I was in the middle, holding them aloft like Lady Justice, trying to balance all of the rules and expectations and needs of 2 very different famlies. Trying to figure out who I even was and how I fit. Trying to balance.

I know for a fact that they --all of the halves and the steps-- have never all been in the same room.

When I got married, most of them were there. The halves all showed up, played their wedding party part, wore their tuxes and bridesmaid dresses, danced the ceilidh, hugged and laughed. I'm pretty sure the steps were not there. Why would they be? I had officially not been recognized as a member of the family in my step-grandparents' obituaries. We were not siblings. We were acquaintances at best.

And yet, in my early years of teaching, I used to start the semester with "2 truths and a lie." I always used the same statements. My eyes were blue. I was an only child. I had 8 brothers and sisters.

My eyes have always changed by the day--sometimes yellow with green rims, sometimes green with brown. My eyes have never been blue.

It is strange being an only-oldest-youngest. On siblings day, I don't have a photo to post of all of us. I'm not even sure how to count all of us. Who's in? Who's not? Who makes the cut? Who would be in the photo? What are the criteria? What boxes need to be checked?

I didn't really grow up with any of them. I was nearly a decade older, the live-in babysitter, the big sister in college who they wrote letters to when they learned to write letters.

It's complicated, my family. It's complicated, my relationship with my siblings. They are, and they are not. We are and we are not.

I am the oldest, the one who got all the rules and broke all the rules, so that the younger ones could have an easier go of it. I am the Type A, the leader, the one who is driven.

I am the youngest, the one who never fit in and knew it. The one who was clearly a country mouse in the city. The one who desperately wanted to belong, even though belonging looked terrifying and cliquey and seemed to be reaching for something just out of reach.

I am the only, on my own path, finding my own journey, building my own family. 

It's complicated.

They are my family, even if a photo doesn't exist. They are--for better or for worse--part of the fabric woven into me, the only-oldest-youngest. 

I wouldn't change my family. My families. Because of them, I was able to see different ways to be in this world, different ways to exist. Because of them, I have been able to see so many of my students, truly see where they are coming from, because I came from there, too.

But on siblings day --if that's even truly a thing-- I look at all of the photos of friends, candids with their families, eating ice cream and swinging on swings and sitting at picnic tables, posing in graduation regalia...and I wonder what a nuclear family might have felt like. What is is like, a Leave it to Beaver existence, a Brady Bunch all under the same roof? Instead of those photographs, I see a lonely kid, awkward and out of place, the only-oldest-youngest, the one who didn't truly fit in to any of the families in the photo album.

It's complicated, because they are my family, even if a photo doesn't exist. They are--for better or for worse--part of the fabric woven into me.

A Mom's Vacation

Even though I have an out-of-office reply set on my work email, I've still checked it once a day. I've still returned several emails. I've still had to email both freelance jobs that I am taking a few days off. I'll be back on the grid next week. Carry on without me. 

Today, I slept in until 9:50. 

I was supposed to get the kids up at 10:00, so we could drive to a nearby town and check it out before the mask-less crowds hit. 

But the cabin was silent. It was overcast outside and looked like rain. Tomorrow we have to check out of the cabin by 10:00.

 

I wanted coffee, a crossword puzzle. I wanted to sit and do absolutely nothing. 

 

I did not want to get the kids up at 10:00 so that we could drive to a nearby town. I did not want to hear complaining, arguing, and lectures on how I'm doing yet another thing wrong. 

 

And so I spontaneously decided that today was a "me day." A day off. The last day of our vacation when I don't have to wake up, plan meals, plan activities, nag everyone, break up arguments, clean up at the end of the day, take the garbage out, drive several hours, shower, or even put makeup on if I don't feel like it. 

 

Jennifer Chen on Unsplash

I made a pot of coffee, grabbed a crossword puzzle, and sat on the deck in the Amish rocker. 

Everyone else woke up 2 hours later. 

Sam was irate. Why didn't I follow through on our plans? Why didn't I wake them up like I said I would? Why did I bother to make plans if I wasn't going to do them?

 

And I answered, "Why don't I get a vacation, too?" 

 

... 

  

I don't think he'd ever considered that idea before. 

... 

Moms don't really ever get a vacation. 

From the first moment they find out they are pregnant (and all society's rules and judgment start piling on: what you can do, can't do, can eat, can't eat, can drink, can't drink) until the day the kids move out of the house, moms don't really get to take a day --a real day-- for themselves. Even if moms go away for the day, they need to first organize and arrange everything, including meals and activities and rides and childcare, before they get to breathe. Even when we go camping, which is about as much vacation as I can create, I am still in charge of activities, meals, cleaning, showers, bedtime. I am still in charge of negotiations and navigations. I am still in charge of creating the vacation. 

 

Even today, on my self-declared "me day," I have already done two loads of laundry. I've checked the weather 3 times. I've mapped out our drive tomorrow. I've read the instructions and found the dumpster for when we check out. In just a few minutes, I'll find places for take-out, I'll place the orders, I'll drive to pick up the meals, I'll pay, I'll bring them home, I'll console and apologize when Sam's meal is inevitably wrong again (it's always wrong), I'll try to find something for Helena to eat when she decides she doesn't like what I got her, I'll play countless games of Pacman with Sam, I'll pour them into bed, and then I'll breathe. 

I'm not good at taking time for myself. I've said this before. 

But even when I insist that I am going to take some time for me, I can't really. I'm a mom, and moms don't ever really get a break. Mind you, I'm not complaining. I love my kids. I even love (mostly) being a mom. But I also realize that I had to say that, I had to say "I'm not complaining," because someone inevitably will read this and tell me to be thankful for everything I have, tell me to be happy that I was able to have kids, guilt me for feeling like I deserve just a little bit of time for me, tell me to own the choices I made and stop complaining.

I think I'm going to grab a beer and another crossword puzzle while I wait for the laundry to finish. 

Then I will get out of this rocking chair and on with the day.

The Never-ending Journey

I've been on a journey this year.

Well, I've been on a journey for 48 years. That's what life is, thankfully: a journey, not a destination. If life was all about the destination, our whole focus would be on death. I'm glad I was able to leave that obsession of heaven and hell behind when I left the church.

But this year, 2021, I've been on a journey to try to find balance. To try to find a way to love the new me --older, heavier, more physically awkward, less prone to wear amazing, uncomfortable shoes. 

Balance, for me, is --has always been-- a struggle. I am a thoughtful, passionate teacher. I am a good writer. I am a decent mom (the kids are fed, clothed, and ethical, albeit unable to enter a room without destroying it). I am an okay friend and an okay partner. But I am not good to myself, as my negative self-talk about my body clouds the beauty that I know I bring to the world. I haven't figured out, in our new pandemic world, how to work out regularly with any intensity, since I don't want to be seen trying to yoga in the living room, or flailing instead of kickboxing, or peeing my pants as I attempt to jumping jack (Just one. Don't get crazy.). I have kind of lost myself in trying to make everyone else happy, and the time I carve out for me is after they all are in bed, when I should be in bed as well, drinking one too many drinks and staying up way too late just to be able to breathe. Self-destruction may very well be my modus operandi. 

Vlad Bagacian on Unsplash

In February, I decided I would try 30 days of self care. I even enlisted a friend. 30 days of yoga, walking, water, forgiveness. Of course, self-care should not be about shoulds, but I don't know how to self-care without a to-do list. As one would expect, I lasted about 7 days before I missed a day, a week, a month. I did, however, try on every last piece of clothing in my closet. The size 16's that I loved went into storage. The size 12's and 14's, calling me old and fat and awkward and sad, got kicked to the curb. What I have left in the closet now at least fits, even if I wish it didn't, even if I wish these pounds away.

And now it is April. Easter. Spring. A new beginning? How many cliches can I roll out in the attempt to convince myself that this time it will stick? This time I will suddenly learn to take care of myself and fall in love with the new me?

I'm not even sure what the new me should be.

Should. That word again.

But I know that this is what I want for the new me. I'm just not sure how to get there.

• I want to be at a healthy weight.
• I want to believe --truly believe-- that I am beautiful, no matter what that healthy weight turns out to be. I want to look in the mirror and love what I see.
• I want to live in a house with less clutter and less conflict.
• I want to run again --even if run means walk-- and I want to be okay with that.
• I want to only wear comfortable shoes for the rest of my life and be okay with that, too.
• I want to learn how to read for pleasure and not feel guilty about "doing nothing."
• I want to find a balance between making to-do lists so that I can get things done, and giving myself a break from the obligations and judgment of the to-do lists.
• I want to sleep more, move more, drink more water.
• I want to build healthy relationships with my partner and my kids.
• I want to build a healthy relationship with myself.

I'm not sure how to accomplish any of this, how to map out this journey, except to get out of bed each day and try again. 

Matt Howard on Unsplash

I need to give myself the same amount of grace I extend to everyone else.

I need to remember that this is a journey, not a quest.

I need to stop assigning myself things I need to do.

It's a never-ending journey.

You Probably Don't Want to Read This Post

This is not a political blog post.

This is not a rant about stupid legislation.

This is a post about poop. (Believe me, if you want to stop reading now, I'm totally fine with that.)

So...one does not qualify for a colonoscopy until one is 50 years old. But there's a fancy new product out there called Cologuard, which allows you to screen at home under the age of 50. And, because of a few personal factors (obesity, early-onset menopause), my doctor decided it was a smart move for me to test early. And, since I've watched friends fight colon cancer and hope to never have to face that myself, I was eagerly on board with this idea.

Amy Reed on Unsplash

Until the box arrived. 

Sam saw it first.

"Hey, isn't that a box you have to poop in?"

I was like, "WHAT? How do you know anything about that?!"

And he said, "Jeesh, Mom, there are ads for it all the time on YouTube. Everyone knows what that symbol on the box means. It's a poop box."

Helena chimed in. "Oh, yeah, that's the poop box. I've seen it on YouTube."

I wasn't mortified, yet. Not until representatives from the company started calling me. In the middle of class. And texting me. Daily. "URGENT REMINDER! Complete and ship your kit ASAP!"

The kit sat on the kitchen table for two weeks. We all pretended like we didn't know it was there. Waiting for me. We moved it so that we could eat. We put it back on the table.

But I couldn't do it. There was no way. I have the worst gag reflex in the world. And, although I can handle blood like a champ, bodily fluids —especially bodily fluids that smell— put me right over the edge. There was one time back in the day when I was pregnant with Sam and changing Helena's diaper, and I vomited ON her. And then I had to clean that up, too. And vomited on her again. There was another time when I gagged so hard because of the smell of someone's greasy hair that I threw out my back. But I digress.

The kit sat on the table for two weeks, while text messages continued to blow up my phone. "URGENT! Send us your shit!"

So, this morning, I took a deep breath, and I did it.

I read the kit directions and got everything all set out. The bucket you poop in. The probe (PROBE!!) that you have to rub around in the poop and put in a little test tube. The "Preserving Liquid" (DO NOT DRINK!) ready to go. The bracket that you suspend the poop bucket in, so that you can safely do your business. I set it all up. I was ready. The directions said that you have to poop enough, but not too much. Don't worry if your poop doesn't look like the poop in the sample photos. This was a lot of pressure. Literally.

I took a deep breath and got down to business. I focused in on the muscles. Poop, don't pee. Poop on demand, into a bucket suspended from the toilet seat, and clench but don't clench. You got this. You can do this.

So, I did it. I did the deed and was done. I got up, ready to rub the probe around in the pile of poop and OH MY GOD there was a LOT there. So much. Also, corn. I forgot that I had eaten corn yesterday. #mortified. But there's no going back. I can't start over. It's gonna have to be corn-poop. I want to die.

And then I start to gag. 

I gag and I gag. I have to rub the probe in the poop. Oh god. And seal it back up. I gag.

I have to pour the "Preserving Liquid" (DO NOT DRINK!) over the poop. It says that all the poop must be submerged. I peek into the bucket. I kegel for all I'm worth, trying not to pee while I gag.

You guys. There's too much poop. I have to scoop some of the poop out. They don't provide a poop scooper in the kit, so I have to run to the kitchen, tears streaming out of my eyes, nose running, gagging, trying not to pee my pants, to get a spoon.

Helena is all like, "Mom, are you okay? Are you sick?"

And I tell her that I'm doing the poop thing and there's too much poop and she's like, "GOD MOM. TMI!!"

So I get a spoon, and I re-engage. And I scoop and I look, and I gag, and I repeat, and my Fitbit buzzes excitedly. "You're earning Zone minutes! Keep up the good work!"

I'm not going to go into details about the process, but suffice it to say, I am never, ever, going to be able to get that image out of my head. Or eat corn ever again. Or use that spoon.

Finally, I was done. The probe was in its probe-holder, the poop bucket lid was tightened (MAKE SURE IT DOESN'T LEAK), the labels were on, the box was sealed. All I had to do was drive it to a UPS Store and ship it back to the company. 

And after standing in line for 20 minutes at the UPS Store, holding my (clearly labeled) box of poop, and then handing it to the twenty-year-old boy behind the counter, I was done.  That's it. I can just sit back and wait for the results.

And there ya have it, folks. A blog post about poop.

I can't wait to do this shit again next year.

The National Anthem: A Metaphor for our Country

 I have a complicated relationship with gratuitous nationalism.

The Pledge of Allegiance (for example) is a hot mess of flaming flatulence, a socialist and racist —and incredibly successful—attempt at subjugation.

After 9/11, the American Flag began to look like performance theater, waving in every yard like some sort of collective club insignia, proving that we were the good guys. Car dealerships compete to wave the most flags, the biggest flags, proving they are the most American as they sell foreign-made cars.

Playing the National Anthem before sports events is downright nonsensical. I can’t believe I have much in common with Mark Cuban on anything (other than the fact that we both can't dance), but the National Anthem doesn’t represent everyone and it definitely doesn’t have anything to do with sports. Sports are entertainment. Sports are a business. Sports are not patriotic. It’s just tone-deaf to play the National Anthem at a pro basketball game or a high school football game or any game that isn't the Olympics.

But at a major political conference? Playing the National Anthem makes sense. Play on.

Look, it’s a complicated song with a complicated history. Set to the tune of an English drinking song, it requires an incredible range and a perfect pitch. It’s become a flashpoint of political tension, as those who kneel to speak out against injustice are villainized by those who see no injustice at all. No one agrees on what the National Anthem really symbolizes. And the third verse of the song is downright racist. 

And yet, to me, the National Anthem is beautiful and sacred. Whether you choose to stand or choose to kneel; whether you choose to salute, or put your hand on your heart, or bow your head; whether you choose to hum along or sing or sit in silence...you do NOT perform it in order to showboat. If you can’t sing it straight, don’t sing it. And if you really can’t sing, by god, don’t sing it. 

The National Anthem is a complicated song that mirrors how complicated our country is.

But it is NOT a song you fuck with. It is not a song you sing on a national stage because your daddy knows someone. This is not a song you can sing because you think you can sing.

To destroy the National Anthem is to disrespect what so many have fought for, even if we can’t agree on what it all means.

It’s interesting to me that the ones who have publicly slaughtered it the worst—Roseanne Barr, Sailor Sabol—they have been right wing ideologues who don’t even seem to understand the words they are singing.

And to them I would say—

If you are so full of hubris that you think you deserve to sing the National Anthem at a major event? You don’t.

Your white privilege, your sheltered life, everything that has lifted you to a national stage without merit,..that all is truer than any key you attempted to sing in.

I realize, Sailor, that you are still a kid, only 19 years old. You didn’t put yourself on that stage. Some truly terrible adults did.

But you are representative of what is wrong in this country: white people, stomping around, belting out their version of nationalism. And it is so horribly off-key. It is out of tune. It is embarrassing. It takes a very skilled Black man to even begin to make you sound good. A man who would never, EVER, be invited on that national stage. A man who understands music, and who represents himself --and our national anthem-- and our country, in a way that you will never understand. 

In some ways, this really isn’t about you. It’s about a system that promoted you, that gave you opportunities that you did not earn on your own merits. This is really more a rant at the systems, at the people, who put you in that position. Who elevated you, who told you you were exceptional, who allowed you to believe that you were.

And the end result is that you stood on a national stage—a stage built to model a Nazi SS symbol, a literal stage of white supremacy—and you belted out a completely tone-deaf version of a song you claim to revere, to a nation you don’t even begin to understand.

2017 Lansing Catholic Players, from left: Kabbash Richards, Roje Williams, Michael Lynn III, and Matthew Abdullah kneel during the National Anthem. Photo by Al Goldis, Lansing State Journal.

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I Started a Blog Post...

When you haven’t written in forever, it becomes incrementally harder to pick up the figurative pen. Kind of like when you haven’t called your mom or your dad in a month or two, it’s awkward at first when you finally call. It feels stilted and unnatural. There are so many stories to tell and yet they all seem so old and stale and irrelevant days or weeks or months after the fact.

Photo by Florian Klauer on Unsplash

I have started at least a dozen blog posts in the last 4 months. I started a post about the holidays and rewriting family traditions during a pandemic. I started a post about traveling to Arizona, and how conflicted and excited and thankful I was. I started a post about trying to find ways to take care of myself and remember my own beauty, even as I stare at the scale in horror, even as I refuse to wear jeans because I am so uncomfortable, even as I buy clothes online in yet another size, hoping that maybe this time I’ll feel pretty.

I started a post about the ridiculousness of shoving standardized testing down the throats of our children during a pandemic, how absolutely ridiculous and meaningless that concept even is. When our students and our teachers are struggling, let’s isolate and ostracize them even more by forcing them to take bullshit tests that tell us what we already know: their SES and their mom’s educational background.

I started a post about waiting, endlessly waiting, to get back some of the things I love. Drinking an IPA with my guy at the rail of my favorite bar. Hanging out with the roller derby crowd. Going to a movie. Ordering a meal at an actual restaurant instead of taking home another bag of food from the drive-through window, only to realize that they fucked it up and put cheese on my kid’s burger AGAIN.

I started a post about the National Anthem. I started a post about The Love Boat. I started a post about triage teaching. I started a post about the low birth rate in the United States. I started a post about my white privilege. I started a post about Dr. Seuss. I started a post about anti-racist teaching, and how terrifying that is, knowing that any minute now, an angry white dad and a fragile white mom will try to once again threaten my job because of my “liberal agenda.” 

And I started a post about leaving toxic relationships and finally giving away that last piece of clothing from my old job, finally erasing that domain and rebranding my website, finally deleting those old logins and passwords from my Chromebook, and finally realizing that almost everyone there never really was a true friend, and that maybe I'm okay with that.

When you haven’t written an actual post in forever, it seems like every abandoned idea you’re sitting on is old, the relevance has passed, and you’ve got nothing important to say.

Photo by Danielle MacInnes on Unsplash

But sometimes you accidentally butt-dial your dad, and even though the conversation is stilted and awkward, you are so happy to just hear his voice. Sometimes you call your mom because, even though you don’t have any good stories to tell, you just want to say hi.

Sometimes you start a new post and you write about how you haven’t written in months. Sometimes you decide that you’ll take the leap, finish the post about nothing, and actually publish it this time.