26 years

 The year I turned 25, I panicked. I had always thought that I would have my shit together at 25. That I'd have a career and a plan and I'd finally know what I was doing. Instead, I was waiting tables, bouncing between teaching jobs and sub jobs, trying to stay out of trouble but inadvertently blacklisting myself for "encouraging students to write letters to the school board." (Oops.)

It's been 2+ decades since my 25th birthday. The existential identity crisis hasn't passed yet. Today I started my 26th year of teaching. Do I know what I'm doing? Do I finally have my shit together? Will I manage to stay out of trouble this time? Do I have a plan? (Is is a good plan?)

The thing about teaching is that you will never, truly, be successful at your job. Kids will always fail, no matter how hard you try to reach them. Kids will always disengage, no matter how clever or creative or inspirational you try to be. There will always be a vocal parent or three who seem to drown out all of the support and make you feel like you are not only a terrible human being, but an awful teacher, systematically destroying kids' lives. 100 parents will be silent, 27 will be vocally supportive, and 3 will tear you down, and it will be those 3 who keep you up at night, questioning every professional decision you've ever made. 

The first day of school of year 26, I caught a train. By "caught," I mean, the train was stopped on the tracks, blocking the road, and I was 20some cars and 2 school buses on the wrong side of the tracks. After I made an 8 point turn and backtracked several miles to get around the train, finally headed in the right direction, a family of deer decided to be indecisive in crossing the road...should they go? should they stay? should some of them go and some of them stay? Several minutes and two more stoplights later, I finally was within a mile of school, in the mile-long traffic jam, backed up all the way up to the student parking lot. I skated into my classroom exactly 60 seconds before the final bell. And the year began. 

I'm not sure I accomplished what I wanted to accomplish today. Was I warm enough? Friendly? Approachable? Funny? Did I leave a good impression? (Was I a hot mess?) Did I inspire anyone? With anything? Will they be eager to return tomorrow?

Photo by Thought Catalog on Unsplash

26 years, and I still worry late at night (and all day long). Am I enough? Do I have what it takes? Will I be able to save this kid? Inspire that one? Challenge her? Comfort him? Support them? Truly connect?

Will I do enough?

26 years of teaching. Day 1 is in the books. Tomorrow is day 2.

I hope I have what it takes to truly make a difference.

20 Books You Have to Read, According to Your Favorite English Teacher

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A former student contacted me, asking for a reading list of 10-15 classics she had to read. Because I can't follow directions, I came up with 20. Without further introduction, here are the 20 books you have to read, because I am your favorite English teacher. 

Dead (and mostly White) Guy Classics

1. Macbeth by Shakespeare. There’s a GREAT article about it here. Plus, the downfall into insanity of Macbeth, as he gets more power, as well as the downfall of Lady Macbeth into suicide as she deals with the repercussions of her actions...the modern parallels are stunning.

2. The Odyssey by Homer. Find an easy to read translation...no need to wade through a hard-to-read version, because the point is the stories, not the language. It’s a great primer on mythology, plus it’s a great adventure story about a narcissistic asshole and his family...definitely insight into modern man!

3. The Hobbit by J. R. R. Tolkien. This is an amazing adventure story. It stands alone in its genre and creates a stunning fantasy kingdom with likable characters. Full of humor and warmth and bravery, Bilbo's unwilling and unwitting journey is pure gold. The Lord of the Rings trilogy is long and often heavy, but The Hobbit is brilliant.

4. Farewell to Arms by Ernest Hemingway. Hemingway was a womanizer and an alcoholic...but he had his finger on the pulse of what the American Man is. And his understanding of love, although seemingly skewed in his own life, really captures the insecurities and honesties of it all.

5. The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald. Fitzgerald was a lousy husband and father and a drunk, too, but much like his character Gatsby, he was also passing in society. This, to me, is the great American novel, exploring the juxtaposition between middle class and the rich, between midwest America and the East Coast, between honesty and lies.

6. 1984 by George Orwell. The ultimate dystopian novel, this hits uncomfortably close to home. Plus, Orwell’s manipulation of language is spot on. If you don’t have the words, then can you have the thoughts? They who control the narrative and the language control everything. Just think about our country’s issue with health care. We have Obamacare (boo hiss socialism) and the Affordable Care Act (yes please!) and they are the same fucking thing. The words we use control the conversation. Literally.

7. Of Mice and Men or The Grapes of Wrath or East of Eden by John Steinbeck. No one writes like Steinbeck. His characters are gritty but laced with humanity. They are all flawed and all marginalized, but all redeemable and understandable. Plus, the way Steinbeck weaves hope and Christian iconography throughout (without being Christian or religious himself) is mastery. If there is one dead person I'd want to have coffee with, it would be Steinbeck.

8. The Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger. People love to hate Holden Caulfield. He’s whiny and he complains a LOT. But he is the most authentic teenage voice I have ever read. He is every teenager, even when they (and we) hate him.

9. Siddhartha by Hermann Hesse. Although this is in translation (Hesse wrote it in German, I believe) and it’s a white guy writing about Buddha in India, it’s accessible and it really helps us see the hero’s journey in another culture...not just another culture but another entire way to live. The search for enlightenment is profound and a great contrast to the search for love or acceptance or hope -- or the American Dream. 

10. In the same vein, pick up a copy of the Tao de Ching. Read one "poem" every night before bed. It is lovely and thought provoking. You can find it (and most of the books in this list) online as a PDF, but I’d recommend a pocket edition of the Tao, so that you can just read a “poem” a day.

11. Great Expectations by Charles Dickens. I love love love this book. It’s long, but it’s really funny, and the main character, Pip, is so true and believable, both as a naive kid, then as a teenager, and finally as an adult. Dickens loves puns...even when little kid Pip talks about being “brought up by hand” and what he really means is that his Aunt slaps him a lot...Pip is innocent, until he’s not...and he’s one of my all-time favorite characters.

12. Different Seasons by Stephen King. King is an amazing writer, and this collection of 4 short stories is brilliant. Each one stands alone and covers a different aspect of humanity, from horror to innocence, and in-between. It’s brilliant. I hate horror and I love this book.

Dead White Lady Classics

13. To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee. Ugh, this book. It is beautiful and it has been so misunderstood throughout the decades. Atticus Finch is not really a hero. He’s a distant father, a closet racist, and he's unethical. But he also speaks truth to his kids -- and their purity, watching this story unfold, is what makes this book live. Although the “white savior” trope and the “hulking but broken Black man with no agency” tropes are problematic, if you read the book understanding what Lee was trying to do, you see both the mastery and the flaws -- and the mirror.

14. Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen. You don’t have to read the book (although it’s lovely) but if you decide to watch this instead of read it, you HAVE to watch the Colin Firth version. He IS Mr. Darcy. The newer version of the movie is crap and completely misunderstands what Austen is doing: passing judgement on society and on ALL of the characters, and yet redeeming those who are willing to be honest in the end. But I’d recommend the read, if you’ve got the time. Austen pointedly makes fun of people. I feel her. :)

BIPOC Classics or Soon-to-be Classics

15. Their Eyes Were Watching God by Zora Neale Hurston. My favorite book in the whole wide world. It is so beautiful and thoughtful and the characters are so real. There is love and humor and hope and resilience and if there is just one book on this list that you read, make it this one. Although it takes a bit to learn to read the dialect, if you listen to this audio for the first chapter while you read, it will all click into place.

16. The Color Purple by Alice Walker. Written as an epistolary (written in letters), it’s raw and stunning and impossible to put down. The movie is good, but the book is light years better. It’s usually my students’ favorite book of the year.

17. The Bluest Eye by Toni Morrison. When I read this book, it took me forever, because I stopped at every sentence and reread it because it was written so beautifully. I love this book not only for the story but also for the incredible craftsmanship of the writing. It’s pure poetry.

18. The Hate You Give by Angie Thomas. Although this isn’t a classic...yet...it will be. This book broke the ceiling for Black YA writers and it was one of the first POC books to be adopted into mainstream ELA classrooms. The main character, Starr, is all of us, and yet she is fighting her own battles about race, about her community, about her friends and family, and with herself.

19. There, There by Tommy Orange. This is a stunning "urban Indian" book. We are used to reading books by Native American authors set “on the reservation,” but this one places its characters in the city, where so many Indigenous people live, and it tells the stories of teens coming of age and their parents and grandparents, and what it is like to be Indigenous in our country today. It’s a story whose main characters just happen to be Indigenous, but that also affects every aspect of their lives.

20. Americanah by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie. Beautifully crafted book about what it means to be Black in America...when you are not an American (the protagonist is a Nigerian immigrant). Adichie gave the famous TED talk “The Danger of a Single Story” and this book captures those idea threads about identity. It’s a masterpiece and Adichie’s narrative voice is powerful and authentic.

Photo by Sincerely Media on Unsplash

Learning to Just Say No

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 Yesterday, I said no.

I said no to reviewing a submission for an academic journal. There was too much to tackle in the submission piece, and I only have a few days left before I’m off the grid for a week...and then I’m back to work. I said no because I didn’t have the time, the energy, or the mental capacity to tackle the job. I said no, even though I knew I was passing the work on to someone else, and letting a friend down. My inner child was stomping on the floor, yelling “I don’t want to!” I listened. I said no.

At 1 a.m., after a glass of wine or several, I told my inner child it was time for bed. I emailed my friend back and said I could do it if no one else could. Turns out I hadn’t learned yet how to actually say no. (Thankfully, my friend emailed back and said no worries, he’d pass it on to someone else. I escaped my own trap through no skill of my own.) Today, I told myself that not only would I listen to my own instincts and my inner child, but I would honor my own needs. I would practice saying no and sticking to it. 

Today, I said no.

I said no to pitching 10-12 article ideas for a policing magazine, a possible career-enhancer and money-maker, building my freelance career. But I am not an expert in the field of policing; it’s not my passion or knowledge-base. My focus and energy needs to go into my actual career, not my side-hustle, not right now. And I don’t want to spend the year panicking because I have to create content when I’m not secure of my own footing and knowledge in the industry. I said no, and it was a breath of fresh air, knowing that I didn’t have to commit to that yearlong panic that I was going to let someone in the industry—or myself—down. I listened to my inner child, the one who was whispering, “I really don’t want to do this,” and I said, “okay. You don’t have to.You can say no.” So I did.

Today, I said no.

I got back on skates for only the 2nd time since the great ankle breakage of 2019. I was nervous, but focused, and promised myself that if I felt tired, or unstable, or sore, or anything other than comfortable and confident, I would take a knee. I know that I got hurt before because I was competing with my own insecurities, with not wanting to look dumb, with not wanting to look weak or inadequate or out of shape or old. I’m Gen X, raised with that “No Pain No Gain” bullshit that left us all perpetually injured and consistently in our heads, measuring ourselves against everyone else and setting unachievable goals. So I put the skates on, and with all of the support and no judgement from the team, I slowly did a few drills. And when my back got tired, I took a knee. A few minutes later I got back up, did another drill or three. And when my inner child felt scared, I took another knee. 

By saying no when I needed to, I’ll be able to skate again tomorrow.

I’ve read so many articles today talking about Naomi Osaka and Simone Biles and how they knew that they weren't in the right head space to compete. And I’ve read so many asshole comments from couch-sitters who seem to think that these women owe them—and this country—the sacrifice of their health and safety. I re-watched the horror of the Kerri Strug moments in 1996 when she didn’t say no—when she gave in to the pressure from her coaches, her country, and her internal monologue—and she nailed that 2nd vault and ruined her ankle. At the time, Kerri was celebrated as a hero. Looking back, we see a child who didn’t have a voice—didn’t have a choice—who didn’t have the power to say no.

I don’t ever want to see another athlete say yes when they know they should say no. Simone and Naomi—THANK YOU. Thank you for showing us all how to say no.

I don’t need to be a world-class athlete to follow Simone’s and Naomi’s incredible examples and listen to myself—not the insecure, judgy self who is sure that everyone is watching, the self who compares her progress to everyone else and falls short—but to listen to the self that is willing to take stock of her needs and is willing to say no.

Photo by Isaiah Rustad on Unsplash

“No Pain No Gain'' is an abusive mindset. It’s a harmful myth. We owe it to ourselves to listen to our minds and our bodies. To listen to our reservations. To listen to our inner child. To ask her why she really wants to say no, and to honor her. Because that inner child—she knows that it’s okay to say no, and she doesn’t have to justify it to anyone, least of all herself.

A Letter to Dreamers. Searchers. Strivers. Me.

 Dear Dreamer:

The truth is, you’re a lot like your dad. You take up a lot of room. You are a big presence, physically and emotionally. You are not delicate. You are loud. You can be unintentionally cruel. You wear your heart on your sleeve, even though you are so often told to be vulnerable. You sound like you know it all, even when you know that you really don’t. You care. You care so much. Too much.

But you are also striving to listen, to learn, to understand. You are striving to understand your privilege. The world. You are striving to understand yourself and why you’ve made so many bad choices. And you are brave AF. Maybe there’s a connection there, between bravery and bad choices. You should look into that in your free time. 

You are striving to understand why you take so much on to pay the bills and feel like you matter —like you are making a mark— but then you buy another ill-fitting shirt from China at 2 a.m., hoping it will suddenly make you feel beautiful. Make you beautiful.

Girl. You ARE beautiful. I hope that someday, you can see it, feel it, know it. You are more than the space you take up.

This is the letter you should have written to yourself two weeks ago, instead of the letter of to-do lists and shoulds that you wrote and once again didn’t live up to.

And that —this— this is why I write.

With love,

Me

Might as Well Jump

It's almost June. The cottonwood is blowing everywhere, the poison ivy has surged to life, the oak trees have vomited their catkins all over the yard, and the darkness has lifted. Daylight lasts until 9 p.m. 

Another school year is almost over, and another summer has arrived, a chance to regroup and finally clean the house and plant flowers and read a book...a chance to breathe. 

 I've thought a lot this year about taking the big risks, about daring to jump even when you can't see the ground. 

 I jumped out of an airplane once, expecting it to be exhilarating, but finding it nauseating and terrifying, ultimately disappointed in myself for being the coward I secretly feared I was. 

 I jumped into a relationship once, hoping I'd finally find myself and I'd finally be seen, and instead finding that I didn't like what I saw when I looked in the mirror, a person still desperate for affirmation instead of a person strong with self-worth. 

 I jumped into a new sport once, hoping to build new muscles and find new balance and grace, and learning within months that I was not graceful on skates or on crutches; middle-aged me was just as awkward and ungraceful as middle-school me, and didn't bounce nearly as well.

 I jumped into a new job this year, a huge pay cut and financial risk, a risk in stability from the tippy top of the seniority list to the very very bottom, untenured, with a mentor teacher that had almost been my student teacher decades earlier. A strange situation, being brand new, but almost experienced enough to retire. 

 I couldn't see the ground when I made this job jump, but I trusted my gut and I trusted my village and I trusted in myself that I would be able to make this work and find a place where I belonged. 

Photo by Adrian Moise on Unsplash

 And now, it's almost June. 10 months have passed, and I can see the ground. It is blooming with flowers; the fiddle head ferns are unfurling, reaching to the sky; the Canadian geese are proudly and loundly parading their goslings into yards and driveways and on to decks and docks; it's time to plant the garden; it's time to relearn how to run. 

 Maybe Van Halen really did say it best. Maybe if your back is up against the wall, you might as well jump. 

 At the very worst, you might learn something about yourself, something you needed to recognize, so that you could grow and become a better you. 

But there is also a damn good chance that if you jump, you might find your people and you might see the ground and it might be full of possibilities and promise. 

 If you are brave enough to jump, you might not always get what you want, but you just might find you get what you need.

May Tired.

 It's May.

The sun is shining. Third Winter finally ended. Summer is coming, the garden centers are packed, mask mandates are lifted, baseball season is in full swing.

Your teachers are exhausted.

They have permanent shin splints from balancing on the balls of their feet, standing 6' away at all times, and engaging their students both in the room and on screen through sheer determination, extensive use of eyebrows, and "active posture."

They have become hopelessly near-sighted from squinting at screens for far too many hours per day, and peering hopefully through the black boxes in Zoom, searching for some semblance of life in the layers of black. They are buying reading glasses in bulk, stashing a pair in every couch cushion and random drawer they pass by.

Photo by Tim Gouw on Unsplash

Their house is May dirty. They haven't dusted since First Spring. The laundry is washed and dried, but it's just never going to get put away and they have resigned themselves to living out of the clean laundry mountains, wearing rumpled shirts, embracing their inner Ms. Frizzle. The dishes are clean, but that's because they've given up on dishes. It's easier to just feed everyone out of the McDonald's bags and the pizza box lids. The kitchen counter is full of empty bottles and cans, but at least no one bothers to use a glass anymore. The bills are stacked haphazardly on the kitchen table, hoping to get paid. Shoes are literally everywhere. The cats have taken over.

It's May, and your teachers don't have much left in the tank. Their relationships are May ignored. They are hoping these relationships survive until Mid-June, are strong enough to ride it out; only then will they have enough energy to try to repair what's left of their friendships, family, and loves.

They don't remember what sex is. They also have lost their social filter and they're not sure if they should talk about sex or not. They live with teenagers, are surrounded by teenagers, only see teenagers when they try to close their eyes at night. They have no idea what's appropriate anymore. Looking at the teenagers in the room, it seems like daisy dukes, sweatpants, trucker hats, and socks with Crocs are socially appropriate, but that can't be right. Your teachers are confused. They don't sleep much. They also haven't had a real haircut in 8 months. They are hoping that no one has noticed.

It's May, and your teachers are frustrated. Their email inbox is May full of desperate seniors, asking what they need to do in order to pass the class (turn stuff in) and how many things they need to complete (do the math) and what they are missing (check Powerschool). Their office hours are empty, as no one shows up for extra help, or to ask these questions in person. More emails arrive. "I emailed you yesterday, but maybe you missed it. What do I need to do to pass the class? And may I have an extension, please?"

Your teachers are trying to hold it all together, stretched in the rack of work and home and their kids and your kids and their parents and those parents and colleagues and friends and deadlines and evaluations and bills and grades and so. many. emails. 

And your teachers know that their job is not harder than anyone else's our there, it's just different. It is physically and emotionally draining when you have so many lives to balance, so many kids you are trying to keep afloat, so many plates in the air. Your teachers are not asking for pity, or accolades, or cookies (maybe cookies?), or to be labeled as heroes; they are just asking for a bit of grace right now.

It's May. Your teachers will make it through this. They will get it all done. They will probably not resign. They will probably drink too much. They know that in a month, they will sleep again, and by August, they will get the house back in shape and begin to get their muffin top back in shape and get the relationships they have left back in shape and they will be ready to do it all again.

Because teaching is what they love, and teachers are who they are.

But today, in May, they are spent. Their bucket is empty. Their to-do list has filled the Blue Book and they are writing in the margins.

Your teachers need little bit of grace, a little less snark, a little more physical space, and maybe a couple more pair of reading glasses.

And they definitely need a box of wine.

Photo by Dylan Collette on Unsplash

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.