I have attempted to start a post a few times over this past several days. Things don’t feel cohesive, I can’t sum anything up, and I can’t launch into some foray into a topic that doesn’t embody the fact that I am a teacher in an elementary school, a mom of an eight-year-old (who has been sicker than a dog for over a week), and the partner of a man who lost a brother two days ago.
I have been trying to help my class to be good to each other; better to each other. It’s not happening. I want us to have some kind of pleasant approach to the holiday season, especially since many of them do not have opulent celebrations at home. It is rough when they are being nasty to one another, and to me.
It is a strange dichotomy to be contemplating where one would hide the students if faced with the presence of an intruder, while the students are threatening, harassing, bullying one another at every turn. It’s hard not to feel guilty when you love them, but often don’t like them a lot. We discussed the events in Newtown quite minimally, as I hoped to steer kids toward discussion with their families. As a parent, I prefer to be the one who has the primary voice in such conversations.
On Monday, one of my kids mimed gun action in the hallway, complete with putting individuals in his sights (including me) before making sound effects. He claimed “video game.”
Sometimes, writing is therapeutic. Sometimes, baking is. Tonight, I made some Chocolate Crinkles. Peppermint MeltAways are on deck. I feel a little bit better. My kid went back to school today and doesn’t have a fever. Grateful for that every moment. There is a sort-of-straight tree with lights on it in the living room. Things are starting to feel connected. I can’t categorize my post as “humor.”
Lately, hugs have been standing in for words around here.