Some days I need to express the gratitude more explicitly than others. Some days I need to shake the sadness with a little bit of intentional sharing. I should probably get this as a tattoo: Gratitude evaporates frustration. So here goes. Mrs. Haupsteen inspired me with her sharing of the best moments of her day. Here's mine today. Each morning I pour the perfect amount of half and half into my coffee to paint it the just-right shade of mocha. A best moment of every day is that first delicious sip as I get ready in my silent bathroom, thinking about the day that lies before me. Every day when I leave for work, I hug each of my sons and tell them to have a good day. Today Jude and I initially shook hands like business professionals, and then we laughed at the silliness and hugged like we meant it. In my College Comp class we did a quickwrite about memories from our early school years. (We were imitating Sherman Alexie's "Indian Education.") I wrote about poking holes with a straw in my processed cheese kindergarten snack and learning about the the power of women from the lovely Mrs. Murphy who introduced me to Nellie Bly and Lucretia Mott and Marie Curie. Returning to those magical childhood moments was certainly a best moment of my day. My nephew is now a freshman in my building. Every time I see him smiling in the hallway with his friends is one of my best moments. At lunch my coworkers and I talked about passports and traveling, and I practiced the art of listening and laughing as Mr. Stumbo recounted witnessing PDA in Paris while on a trip with students. (I have my own stories of PDA and Paris, but I didn't share them at the staff lunch table. Nor will I share them here.) My last class of the day was pretty quiet during a group discussion until we started sharing memories from elementary school. Suddenly we were a rapturous chorus of laughter and "I remember that!" I feel better already. Yes, I could write another list of "Crappy Moments," but I won't stay there today. I'll let my gratitude evaporate my frustration. What was YOUR best moment today, friends?
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Today I write as a mom. I’m studying our annual back-to-school photo that I posted on Instragram. All three of us are squinting just a bit because of the powerful sun saying “good morning” from the east. One boy smiles, and the other offers an unsure grin. My oldest will catch me in a just a few more inches. Next year, maybe? They cozy into me and would later hug me in the front yard for the whole world to see. In these unashamed hugs I can still catch glimpses of the children they are, but each day they look more and more like young adults. Older child adoption comes with some tricky side effects, and I’m not even talking about the lasting effects of trauma. (That’s a different post for another day. Teaching kids with histories of trauma is no joke. I realize this as a teacher and as a mother.) The side effect I’m talking about is the Lost Years. When our boys came to us at seven and eight, we kept them home for a few months before starting them in first and second grades in the fall. (They are both a year older than their peers, but that is a decision we do not regret because the language barrier and aforementioned lingering trauma. In doing that we also bought ourselves another year.) But we missed out on so much. Birthdays, holidays, every “first” leading up to riding a bike. Our cakes started with eight and nine candles. We didn’t smash a cupcake in a high chair or tear up over the first “mama” and “dada.” We didn’t capture first steps on a shaky video or fill files with photos of every different baby expression. We never saw them as babies. Were my precious boys born with a full head of hair? Were their limbs long and lanky or short and chubby? What did their tiny hand look like wrapped around a grown-up’s finger? Did someone come when they cried? I do know their baby smiles would have stopped my heart just like they do today. My filing cabinet at work is decorated with our earlier photographs to remind myself that they once were much smaller, that we didn’t miss out on everything. When looking at our first-day-of-school photo from this year, it’s hard to believe that my oldest once came to several inches below my shoulder (even though he was never tiny enough to swaddle and carry around the house.) Last spring I was driving to work and nearly had to pull over with an ugly cry because I realized that more than one-third of our time with our oldest son living in our house had evaporated. Of the 11 years we have with him before he leaves for college or the workforce, four of them were already gone. I realize every parent feels this way. Time is fleeting. Carpe diem. Cherish every moment. Blah, blah, blah. But damn. I want some of those years back. If we had been raising our children from birth, they would now be four and a half. Instead they are 11 and almost 13, both in middle school and carving their own paths of independence. That means testing boundaries and making mistakes and learning more and more about that beautiful thing we call grace. I don’t get those years back that I so desperately wish I had. I won’t ever get a first day of kindergarten photo, so instead I’ll smile reminiscently at the photo firsts I do have. And I’ll try so very hard to listen well and hug them tight and pray for even more protection. These complex feelings come with no owner’s manual. Here’s a confession you might not hear from many teachers. (Although judging from the retention rate for teachers, it’s probably not all that uncommon.) Late every winter I start to daydream of other careers. I see photos on Facebook of an accountant acquaintance taking his family to Cancun in the middle of February and think about how I’ve already spent half of my personal days for the year. You can’t exactly make it to Mexico and back over a three-day weekend. On Sundays as I grade papers and post depressing photos on Instagram using the hashtag “englishteacherproblems”, I envy my neighbor who leaves her nursing shift without bringing stacks of paperwork home. The proverbial grass is always greener, I know, but in early March nearly every other job looks more desirable than mine. I had once thought of life as a lawyer. How much studying would I have to do to get a passing score on the LSAT? I love coffee. What about a job as a barista? If my husband got just a few more clients, surely we could swing the decreased salary.
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September 2020
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