Hope Springs Eternal

Hope springs eternal in the human breast;
Man never is, but always to be blessed:
The soul, uneasy and confined from home,
Rests and expatiates in a life to come.
– Alexander Pope
image retrieved from http://www.telegraph.co.uk

The ants are in my dahlias and they are killing my beautiful flowers. I bought the two small pots earlier in the summer on a whim— something to brighten my doorstep. I didn’t even know what colour they would turn out to be but was quite delighted when their copper tones began to peek from out of the foliage.  Now, these beautiful plants are being overrun with tiny little killers which crawl in and out of broken stems as if on a mission, while wilted blossoms droop in support of their fragile stems. I am no gardener, I am afraid. I love to have beautiful things surround me, but my green thumb is non-existent. I water and shade and protect from the elements, but when it comes to predators, I feel helpless to defend. I want to do something, but what?

A quick search on Google suggest pesticides, but there are also downsides to using these as well. What to do?

In spite of it all— despite the abuse and the odds racked against them: my poor little plants continue to suffer on, even boasting a few little bulbs that might withstand the dangers. These flowers refuse to bend and break in light of the certain outcome to befall them, if present conditions remain. They carry on. They endure. How lovely to be a flower and not know, not realize what’s coming next.

To not have to prepare for what lies just around the corner.

I talk to her and we circle around the same issues once again. The same heaviness clouding our conversations.  There is little to say sometimes when darkness overshadows. Life and all its accompanying struggles aim to kill joy, diminish our already dwindling supply of hope in the face of certain desolation. Fear, anger, rage, discouragement and despair try to crawl inside even while we fight for courage to persevere. We feel the presence as some kind of malevolence: as if it is a wave that will overtake us. Sometimes we believe that we are being destroyed from the inside out with little recourse other than passive acceptance.

We all need courage. But how is courage acquired?

We all need hope and expectation. But from where is that summoned?

We all need to know there is something worth fighting for. We need to believe that life is worth living. That there is purpose and meaning in our actions and thought. That there is something more.

But from where do we draw this resolve to believe?

I take it all in, the beauty of this late summer day. Wind blowing through the trees, clouds gently floating by. It all seems so idyllic until I turn by gaze back to my doorstep and these pitiful dahlias.

But nature has a way of replenishing itself. When grass dies, there is always new growth. When trees lose their leaves in autumn, new buds emerge in spring. When flowers die, new blossoms eventually appear. Renewal and revival are part of the process of life. In the very same ways, the soul needs to believe in hope just as the natural world aches for rebirth and new beginnings.

Some inspiration for today taken from David’s psalms.

Psalm 121 (NIV)

1 I lift up my eyes to the hills– where does my help come from?

 

2 My help comes from the LORD, the Maker of heaven and earth.

3 He will not let your foot slip– he who watches over you will not slumber;

 

4 indeed, he who watches over Israel will neither slumber nor sleep.

 

5 The LORD watches over you– the LORD is your shade at your right hand;

 

6 the sun will not harm you by day, nor the moon by night.

 

7 The LORD will keep you from all harm– he will watch over your life;

 

8 the LORD will watch over your coming and going both now and forevermore.

And more comfort still…

Psalm 91 (NIV)

1 He who dwells in the shelter of the Most High will rest in the shadow of the Almighty.

 

2 I will say of the LORD, “He is my refuge and my fortress, my God, in whom I trust.”

 

3 Surely he will save you from the fowler’s snare and from the deadly pestilence.

 

4 He will cover you with his feathers, and under his wings you will find refuge; his faithfulness will be your shield and rampart.

 

5 You will not fear the terror of night, nor the arrow that flies by day,

 

6 nor the pestilence that stalks in the darkness, nor the plague that destroys at midday.

 

7 A thousand may fall at your side, ten thousand at your right hand, but it will not come near you.

 

8 You will only observe with your eyes and see the punishment of the wicked.

 

9 If you make the Most High your dwelling– even the LORD, who is my refuge–

 

10 then no harm will befall you, no disaster will come near your tent.

 

11 For he will command his angels concerning you to guard you in all your ways;

12 they will lift you up in their hands, so that you will not strike your foot against a stone.

 

13 You will tread upon the lion and the cobra; you will trample the great lion and the serpent.

 

14 “Because he loves me,” says the LORD, “I will rescue him; I will protect him, for he acknowledges my name.

 

15 He will call upon me, and I will answer him; I will be with him in trouble, I will deliver him and honor him.

 

16 With long life will I satisfy him and show him my salvation.”

Like the wind and the waves in nature, I will carry on. Like the flower in spring, hope will always emerge from the blackness of the earth.

Courage is ours for the taking. Quitting is not an option.

Take heart, dear one.

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Rage against the dying of the light

We tread side-by-side at dusk, rain still shimmering on summer leaves while sun fades fast behind heavy clouds. He divulges to me the secrets we both keep hidden away through daylight hours from Little Ears, sacred documents of the heart that must be locked away. As I walk the inside track, closest to the gully that leads down to the prolific birch trees spreading helter-skelter towards the field, he tells me this. Doctors have given very little hope, very little promise.

“What about that treatment?” I ask.

“It won’t prolong life,” the resigned response. And then he says to me, “I keep thinking of that Dylan Thomas poem:

Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rage at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”

“I am resigned to the fact that the doctors know best,” he then offers uncertainly.

I cannot think of anything profound to say to that. But I think to myself: I would rage.

I would rage.

If radical pedagogy must insist that everyone’s presence is acknowledged (hooks, 1994, p. 8), then radical care vows no sacred Presence goes uncared for. Radical care upholds the individual’s right to love, compassion, empathy, concern and kindness. And when the need necessitates, the individual’s right to be cared for in radical ways.

I think of my little Sianna* of the just-finished kindergarten class from this past year. I think of the fears expressed to me by her parents and my inner vow to fight for this child. To be that advocate for her parents that they seemed to need. I remember the ways I fought for her right to be medically cared for- how I contacted the public health nurse numerous times to arrange for the appointments with an Audiologist. How I advocated for her parents’ right to a second chance at such an opportunity.

I think too of the assisted speech technology that I raced against time for- buying an i-pad for Jake* at a moment’s notice- literally. Then the race against the clock to meet a deadline with a man. A man who held the keys to open a door leading to a world of words for that same little boy, who had so few words at his disposal. I think of the sweat that broke as I ran, as I ran– just so as to obtain a program I could otherwise not afford installed on that same i-pad I had just bought: so that a little boy could somehow communicate with me. So that he could somehow find his voice therein. And I think of the tears that fell freely as I got there just in time. The sheer relief in knowing, this was really going to happen.

Radical care allows for the impossible to occur. But the challenge is first to initiate the care process, giving attention and acknowledgement to the presence of another human being. Through awareness of the people with whom we share our communities, be those groupings of a familial nature, a learning community or a neighborhood- we start by acknowledgement. And we move forward from there.

Husband and I head back, on the homestretch now. The sky is darkening and night time presses in, enveloping. But I do not go gentle into the thickening darkness.

I press on as one who sees the light.

******************************************************

Dylan Thomas’s Do not go gentle into that good night

 

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Taken from this URL: http://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/do-not-go-gentle-good-night

Why I Don’t Have To Be An Expert

On Friday afternoon, I held a Mother’s Day tea in my classroom for all mothers of my current students. And it was a lovely tea for all those who were able to attend. Most of the moms came, along with one grandmother.

When we got to the part of the program where I told them I would be reading some answers to questions that students gave me about their mothers, I heard an audible groan go up from the moms. Of course, there was concern about what their child might have said about them, things said which could inevitably bring embarrassment to the given mother (no matter how cute or adorable it might sound when I wrote it down- word-for-word with the intentions of reading it aloud).
I assured them, in not so many words, that there was nothing to be said that would make anyone want the floor to open up and swallow them alive. Although some of the answers were pretty cute, along with their amateur use of grammar at this age.

Isn’t it interesting how concerning it can be when we know our children have expressed their thoughts about us to someone else.

Today, I was standing next to another young mother and she and I laughed about the fact that we are always wondering how our kids can come up with such flattering, complimentary professions of love for us in their cards and notes when what we really wonder is if we’ve scarred them for life with our constant bellowing and nagging. Not to mention our cranky monologues.

Yesterday, the day before Mother’s Day no less, I had an absolute meltdown regarding Some Children Of Mine who for three consecutive days in a row have left me “surprises” in the toilet and forgot to send them to the undergods at the septic level. I never intended to blow a blood vessel…it just gradually progressed to that point without any real warning to either me or them. In about five minutes flat, I went from concerned, compassionate caregiver to crazed psychopath.

There we are few of us crying and a few of us screaming. And those not doing either of those two things were considering ways in which to prematurely disable their hearing by first blowing a hole in their eardrums.

It was not my finest moment as a mother.

And I have thought a bit over the last twenty-four hours about my meltdown, along with the fact of the matter that I am still an amateur at this gig, even after fourteen years of practice. I still could use a handy manual or helpful little nanny to step in and intervene on those days where I have just “HAD ENOUGH”. Which leads me to my next level of thinking: that we are not mothers because of what we do, necessarily. But rather- mothers because of who we are. Added to that fact is this little bit of encouragement: we are not expected to be perfect at this mothering gig in order to make an impact. In order to be effective. In order for our children to love us.

Because it’s okay to mess up. It’s okay to still be a work in progress. To be a wrecking ball at times.

And I often fall into the trap of thinking that in order to take something on- something as monumental and life-changing and all-important as mothering, I ought to at least be a bit of an expert before I begin. Don’t we all do this at times? And we later fall prone to believe, as time goes on, that the more we do this work of mothering, the better we ought to get at it. So that when we do fail and make mistakes, as we are so prone to do, we are left baffled. Wondering how anyone could ever think of us as competent, let alone wondering how our children could ever come up with so many descriptive words to use in the acrostic poetry entitled M-O-T-H-E-R. Words like…

Mesmerizing, memorable and meek.
Optimistic, out-going and organized.
Tolerant, trustworthy and terrific.
Happy, honorable and helpful.
Energetic, effervescent and enthusiastic.
Role-model, realistic and responsive.

If it were up to me to write my own Mother’s Day card, here is what I might come up with on any given day:

Meanie
Over-worked
Truthful
Honest
Exhausted
Real

I think there is a bit of truth in both lists, tbh.

Because to be honest, moms don’t have to be perfect so as to be the perfect-fit for their kids. They don’t have to be mesmerizing to the exclusion of once in a while being viewed as a meanie. Nor do they have to be either always organized to the point that they don’t consider themselves a wee bit overworked.

We are mothers after all. Not saints.

We can be tolerant while brutally truthful.
Happy while still being honest and true to what we see as the obvious.
We can be the enthusiastic cheerleaders our children need us to be, while inside feeling absolutely exhausted and unable to put two coherent thoughts together.
Responsive and real.
At one and the same time.

The truth is, we don’t have to have our act together- have our ducks always lined up in a row. Mama, we have permission to mess up. We are not perfect.
But we are perfectly right for the children we’ve been blessed to love.
And that is why they love us anyway. And why we joyfully can carry on in spite of it all.
Happy Mother’s Day, all!

The Seven Tenents of Love Put into Practice

I am seeking to make my own journey in education one that is characterized by love.  By empathy and kindness.  By an overriding influence of Care.  In order to have a Curriculum of Love as the guiding light within our classrooms, we must acknowledge that we are part of a vast connection of interconnections- even within the borders and boundaries of our own four walls.  That is, within our classrooms there are children and students representing much diversity and much difference.  We are very much the same even while we are uniquely different and special. As educators, we must never lose sight of this tension: the fine line between similarity and difference.  While I am similar to you by virtue of the fact that we are human beings, I am different from you by the very same token- no two human beings has ever been- nor ever will be- exactly the same.  We hold this tension carefully in our hands as educators, never losing sight of the awesome responsibility it is to recognize our students for their individuality and complexity.  Along with their connected humanness.

In Becoming Human, by Christian philosopher Jean Vanier’s (1998), he proposes seven aspects of love for educators that will transform the heart.  This kind of love that he speaks of is an antidote for fear (those fears expressed by both teachers and students) that are found inside our classrooms. Curriculum theorist and poet Carl Leggo, writing in his relevatory essay called Living Love- Confessions of Fearful Teacher, echoes this sentiment that educators need to address and understand these aspects of love so that they might in turn transform their classrooms from the inside out.  In Leggo’s paper, he outlines Vanier’s tenets of a curriculum founded on love, for he sees them as the guiding hand of direction.  Those aspects are: revelation, understanding, communication, celebration, empowerment, communion and forgiveness.  I will include Leggo’s thoughts on each tenet as well as attempt to explain them in brief by way of elaborating on how I see them personally expressed within my own classroom.

To love is to reveal.

Leggo asserts that we need to tell each other our secrets because all the human family has the same secrets.  In being transparent, we seek to live out a text of openness that is based on love.  As teachers, we need to show our students our frailties. We are not always feeling happy. Not always feeling joy.  A few months ago, after a particularly difficult morning getting away from the house, I was on my way to school with my four daughters in tow when I broke a tooth eating a piece of raisin bread toast.  And I did so because I have a habitual problem with grinding out all my concerns on my poor permanent teeth throughout the course of my sleep.  This was the fourth tooth to break in two years.  Breaking that tooth was the proverbial last straw for me that morning, even at the early hour of 8:30 a.m.  Everything came crashing down on me: the stressors of work and home and school.  The difficulties I was having in a few key relationships.  The tensions of raising four children.  The stress of everyday living.  And when I got to school and met the principal at the door, I just lost it.  In front of all the children.  In front of every one.  And while I quickly ushered myself into a far corner of the school to “cry it out”, out of the view of curious eyes, I still had to face the children one last time before taking the day off on “stress-leave;” I had to face them so as to explain to them why Mrs. Gard was losing her marbles.  I told them in as simple terms as I could muster that Mrs. Gard would be taking the day off work because she had broke her tooth.  And unlike five and six-year olds who want to lose their teeth, Mrs. Gard herself did not wish to lose any more teeth than she already had.  At a most alarming rate, nonetheless.  This was most definitely not a celebration for the tooth fairy but a time for recuperation. They got that- it was not lost on them.  And in time, they would remind me of the day I broke my tooth- and all because I was willing to reveal to them my humanness.

To love is to understand.

Canadian poet Margaret Avison (2002) says “there’s too much of us/for us to know.”  We thus open our minds and we open our hearts to understanding each other so that we can begin to know and be aware of our complexity as human beings.  We must begin somewhere.  bell hooks (2003)  says love in the classroom calls teachers and students to open their hearts and minds.  As a teacher, one of my greatest challenges and privileges has been to understand my students.  I am drawn to understanding like a moth is drawn to light.  I think it is one of life’s greatest mysteries- the unfolding of our personality and character through conversation and shared life experiences.  Each of my students is unique and whole, and the challenge lies in uncovering their gifts and capacities.  My recent blog about one student I’ve named K. is a great illustration of my own discovery of his person.  It is through understanding that we truly come to love one another.

To love is to communicate.

With communication comes community and communion.  We often think of communion as the breaking of bread around a communal table, and certainly that is part of it.  One of the most relaxing parts of my day as classroom teacher to four, five and six year olds has been our shared lunch time meal.  I’ve arranged our tables to form a block so that we are face-to-face with one another.  The conversation is rich with laughter, conversation and joy.  There is usually lots of silliness- compatible with the sense of humor of this age group!  In learning to live together we must be committed to learning to communicate with one another.  We share the joy and the sorrow, as I have already expressed in the aspect of love that concerns itself with revelation.  Overall, a focus on love is a commitment to living together and learning to communicate with one another.  Communication allows us to understand one another better.

To love is to celebrate.

We celebrate with joy and engagement.  And certainly classrooms need to be places for celebration, laughter, acknowledgement of joys, and commendation of individual self-worth.  When I started teaching kindergarten, I knew that I wanted to develop a writers’ workshop for my students so that they could discover the joy of writing that I have come to love so very much myself.  I worked closely with a Literacy coach to find the best approach.  One thing she felt strongly about was that writing needs to be celebrated.  Even if it is as small as the sharing of stories on the blue rug: there must be time for each student to showcase their work so as to experience that thrill of pride that comes with accomplishment.  I celebrate all of my writers.  In fact, recently I took part in a three day in-service on writing in which I spoke about my writers’ workshop program with teachers from all across the Island.  And the writers that I wanted to acknowledge first and foremost were my struggling writers.  Theirs’ were the stories I shared prominently.  The pages of their books are filled with seemingly in descript scribbles and wordless text- but it is writing to them.  And it is writing to me.  And I enthusiastically celebrate their amazing accomplishments.

To love is to empower:   

Leggo writes that love seeks transformation- an ongoing process of creative change.  Love calls out the gifts in others.  And each of our students comes to school with their own unique talents and abilities. We as teachers must seek opportunity to empower our students- so that they believe all is possible, even from the greatest of possibilities down to the small.  Whether we empower them academically or emotionally, as teachers we find a passion in our calling to make that impactful difference in the lives of our students so that they are then able to leave their own mark on the world.  Often, the most powerful expression of empowerment in my classroom is by way of our words.  I have a five year old student in my classroom right now who came to me with limited speech.  Throughout the course of the year, she has found her voice.  And she uses her voice now as a means of expression, assertion, connection and relationship.  Even for my students who have no ‘voice’, in the conventional sense of the expression, they have still been empowered to speak and relate to others through the methods available to them: communication devices, PECS, sign language and body language.  To communicate is a form of empowerment.  And I am learning to be more aware of each student and how they can access this source of self-expression.

To love is to be in communion with one another. 

We recognize the ‘otherness’ of each person- each unique individual, and we acknowledge the connections we have with each other by way of this recognition.  According to Leggo, we need to learn to tell our stories to one another, practice an ethic of love along with forming loving relationships with one another.  And it is through trust in each other and love of each other that we find the antidote to fear.  Trust and love go hand in hand.  We must not fear each others’  ‘otherness’.  And though trust is harder to come by as we get older and more ‘wordly’, it is often a naturally, effusive response when one is five.  I am often amazed at how trusting- at how innocent their faith in us as adults often is.  They have trusted me with their most private secrets- sometimes outright hilarious, sometimes sweetly sentimental and at other times, heartbreakingly sad.  I will never forget the stories my students have told me and the ways in which they have expanded my thinking about what it means to become human.  The process itself is one which breathes life and love into this accepting heart.

To love is to forgive. 

We think at the same time as we open up our hearts.  And thinking is often what stalls us in the act of forgiveness- we remember.  We have a hard time forgetting.  The mind holds captive secrets that are hidden in deep recesses of the heart. But we learn to forgive – first ourselves, so that we in turn can forgive others.  And in the process, we find that we are able to better understand that love can compensate for a multitude of errors.  In becoming a teacher, I had to learn to forgive those in my past who formed deeply felt impressions of what education was all about- conformation, mind control and thought policing.  I had to forgive the very ones who hurt me most.  And I had to forgive so as to learn to love.  I am convinced that I am the kind of teacher I am today because of the painful experiences I went through as a child and teenager.  I have learned to forgive, and in the process I have come to understand, even if only minutely, what it means to love.

Carl Leggo asserts that in order to live fearlessly, we must learn to live in and with love.  What I love about kindergarten is the fearlessness I find in students learning at this level.  The fears are there, true.  But by and large, there is no shame in fear at this level.  Perhaps that is what it is- a lack of shame.  For there is great belief in one’s ability. How is it that we lose this ethereal quality as we grow in number of years?  There is something so beautiful and hopeful about a five year old mind.  And it is in great part those minds which have taught me much of what I know for sure about love and what it really means for this simple teacher to become human.  To become all I was meant to be.

To be fearless in love.

Poetry in motion

I watch my daughters spin, spiral, turn, jump, leap. Gliding by on silver blades. One has just now mastered a move that requires her to make her skate boots form a 180 degree angle. Called an inside edge. Why there isn’t a more elegant name for something so beautiful completely baffles me. I find myself moving in rhythm to the same music that seems to propel these young skaters in continuous motion- they look like snowflakes caught up on a gust of winter wind. Light and airbound. Leaving me entranced. Hypnotized. And I wonder at the capabilities of the human body to propel itself into motion as if it were a winged creature while I sit here grounded on the bleachers trying to stay warm.

This moment. This rare chance to breathe. I have brought my computer, true. I had readings to catch up on. But now that I am finished those, I find myself again: enraptured. Not that I wasn’t distracted by the movement below me at ice level, before. Steady concentration pulled from every fiber of my being was what I needed so as to get to the last line of my final reading of the day. So as to finish that last word.  Then I could finally lift the head.   But here I am again- bent over this awkward piece of equipment writing prose.  I do not wish to lose any more of these precious moments, but there is so much to capture.  If not in word, in memory.  I find myself tap, tap, tapping out the words anyway- writing it all down here on this open, inviting page, even as I balance this ungainly laptop over my crossed knees. But this writing is slow going- for my eyes are constantly drawn back to the movement. To the graceful, lithe frames moving in stark contrast to the hard, white ice below them.

It is poetry.

Poetry in motion.

And I wonder if life can reflect these rare moments of poetic pause?  Can we find time in our days in which to stop and listen?  In which to stop and breathe?  In which to marvel at the wonder of it all?  Can life reflect even these rare and perfect moments in spite of the directive pushing us ever onward toward task and routine and habitual action? Is life capable of living out poetry and prose in its everyday language?

These days and weeks and months and years I’ve spent: they have sped by me like a locomotive bound for destinations much too far away. To where is that train going and why so fast? Inside those days and moments, life has demanded that I: move it or lose it, shake, rattle and roll, get on with it, hurry, speed up. The warnings are rarely to slow down and savor.  To stop and listen.  To enjoy.
Sometimes we just have to ignore life and listen instead to the heart.

The blades cut swathes in the ice, sounding clean and crisp. The air is chill- I reach for my hat, my gloves. And I lean in closer to see if I too can feel the wind on my face.  For in my mind, I am one of them.

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

A dancer moving to the music of her life.

Those kinds of days…

There are days when frost covers barren ground. Like a heavy cloak. When tiny buds on frozen tree limbs shimmer with an icy glaze. When tiny shoots of new life, thwarted in process of emerging forth. Are interrupted. Dark, heavy clouds hang low and ready.

There are these kinds of days.

When table talk is centered around what might be, on doom and gloom. When faces are grim. When voices are raw with emotion. When secret disclosures are proffered and understanding is sought after. When you just feel like you can’t take anymore of this murky mess. That they call living.

Authentic. Raw. Transparent.

It’s tough, this business of living real. Of really living. Of making a living of this messy here and now.

There are days like this.

And there are days when darkness pervades. Thick and stifling. Like a deadly gas.
When the outlook from this vantage point seems bleak. Hopeless. And the possibilities are shunted aside in favor of the grim reminders.

There too are days like this: sometimes.

And there are days. When you drive from home to work to home to ‘who knows where’. And you feel like it’s all a rat race. And it feels endless and ‘who knows where you’ll get the strength to carry on tomorrow’. And you can’t stop because you know you’ll never get started again.

Those kind of days.

And then. When you are nearly ready to throw up the white flag, throw in the towel, give up the fight. Something little catches your eye. It’s so little, you almost miss it. A smile. A picture drawn with crayons. A funny cartoon.

Or maybe. Someone throws out a rope- a lifeline that snags your heart. An ‘I love you’ spoken at just the right time. A tender squeeze. A kind word of encouragement. An eye-to-eye conversation that lasts longer than five-seconds.

And on those days when life goes from futile to promising. Just because of something little, because of something small but mighty.

(because of a little game changer)

Count it as a sweet reminder. A blessing. The silver lining. A token to the surety that while life might be brutal, it is also beautiful. Brutiful. Exquisite in a fleeting, fragile way.

And because it is such and so much more, those smallest of gestures- those beautiful reminders of humanity that we also call kairos moments- they mean so much more. Than they ever would have otherwise.

On those kinds of days.

Tired joy…

It’s been an interesting, eventful, exhausting day.  I woke this morning, and about an hour and a half into my day, I actually thought to myself, “This could make for one funny blog this evening.”   Stress on the could.  There are some days when it is even a stretch for me to find the funny in life.  Today, I had a sore throat as soon as I awoke, causing me to feel as if a scarf had permanently been lodged in my trachea.  Then, the fun and games (a.k.a. adolescent mood swings, picky eater’s complaints about food, and other such joy) began about 6:45a.m.  And by 8:15 a.m., as I realized that I was sadly behind schedule and would unfortunately not have time to make up for today’s ill-prepared Kindergarten lesson plan by arriving at school early, I resigned myself to the fact that ‘this was going to be ones of those days’.

And no doubt about it.  It was one of those days.

A day when kids woke up angry, one slamming a door, another had a nose bleed, (no drips hit the floor)

A day of lost e-mails, payments forgotten, to-do lists unmade and I felt plain old rotten.

Complaints about long hair, missed appointments galore, work overdue, stuff all over the floor.

Kids in my classroom, no after school care, will someone please teach them, just how to share?

 

And that’s just my day job.

I am right now looking at the computer screen, and letters are starting to come together, then float off into space…’me thinks’ it is time for this old gal to call it a day.   And considering ‘the day’ I have had thus far, it might just be my best option yet.  To hit the hay.

Happy Friday evening, everyone!