Struggling through with joy... |
kind of.
Struggling through with joy... |
I have a literal pain in my neck. It started yesterday and it’s worse this morning, running from a spot just next to my spine up to the base of my neck. There will be no sudden head movement for me today, although I think I probably look like I have excellent posture. If only I could sit still all day, looking forward, the pain wouldn’t bother me.
This spot always flares up when I’m stressed. It’s a little red flag waving at me. Slow down and do some yoga, it tells me. Go to bed on time. Let go of something. In my years as a teacher and a human adult living in modern times, I’ve learned how important it is to listen to the signals my body sends me and tend to my own needs as much as I do the needs of others. Taking just a little bit of time to care for myself pays dividends in the classroom and at home. I’ve grown weary of the term self-care, but taking care of ourselves is an unselfish act. If I’m rested, fed, stretched, if I have had just a little time to myself to read or think or write, to be something other than just a teacher or a mom, my heart and mind are open to the needs and joys of my young charges at home and at school. I appreciate them more. I’m a better teacher, a more patient mother, a kinder wife. So today’s slice will be short, because I need something different than my writing time today. I’ll be doing gentle neck rolls and rubbing essential oils between my shoulders hopes of being able to turn my head at some point today. It will give me time to think of my next slice, a surprising form of self-care that isn’t always fun but always teaches me something about myself and the process of writing.
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The daily rush up the stairs, chiding the students to be quiet, walk carefully, all the things they need to tell me in the short time since I’ve seen them last must wait until we’re in our room. I’m tired this morning. Grouchy. Two nights of little sleep and always too much expected: two reading lessons instead of one, a math test for two grades, the next two days filled with meetings and little to no plan time. Preparing one grade for state tests, making sure the other grade is staying on track, maintaining interventions for the ones who need it most. Keeping hands washed and tables sanitized and masks up and never seeing enough of their faces. Always overwhelming, much more so this year.
I look up the stairs and see the 4th grade teachers coming down. There’s not room for me to walk next to my kids, so I say, “I’m just going to scoot in behind you, M.,” a gentle warning because he doesn’t like sudden change and close contact. He’s new, only three weeks in and already strictly adhering to our routine. If I stray one minute from our schedule he will let me know. He crosses out the questions he doesn’t want to answer, flops onto the floor if he’s overwhelmed by directions, and yells if our read aloud bores him. He’s ecstatic when he gets to be helper or wear his hat in school. He takes my hand, easy as that, let’s me in close, guides me up the stairs and into our day. I feel it, physically, in my heart. Why I put up with all the burdens of this job. All the garbage mandates and relentless reminders that I will never do enough in the eyes of the system. Why I come back, every year, 21 years now. It’s not for the insurance and summers off. It’s for this. A small warm hand in mine, the unexpected acceptance of this boy. These tiny, ineffable gifts that are woven into every teaching day. Sunday night as I tucked my four-year-old daughter in, she smiled and asked, “What’s insomnia?” My heart gripped in the same way it does when she says, “My tummy feels funny.”
Insomnia is an ailment I do not want her to know. It is the sly creature that creeps into my psyche several nights a week, most weeks, dark and quiet, claws digging in to my brain and taking hold. It fills me with doubt and fear and general anxiety. It inflates small problems and digs trenches in my soul as I think the same thoughts over and over. What if, what if, what if…. Insomnia, too, presents solutions. In my repetitive thoughts I’ve often found resolve, a new path, resignation. When I was young insomnia woke me and whispered, “You don’t love him anymore,” showing me a path out of an abusive relationship. Just last night insomnia gave me permission to make practical changes in my reading instruction for the next four weeks. Insomnia can be mundane. Insomnia deepens my appreciation for my cat, when I tiptoe to the couch on the worst nights and invite her up to comfort me with her warm purr. Her slight weight pins me back on earth, where I belong, where this sleepless night will pass. Insomnia reveals the tenderness of my husband, who wakes with me most nights, pats my hip or rubs my back, silently signaling that I am not alone. Insomnia has been my nighttime companion for most of my adult life. I am slowly learning to accept it, which somehow makes it less powerful. I didn’t say all these things to my daughter. I kissed her forehead and replied, “Insomnia is when you have a little trouble sleeping.” She nodded and tucked her head under my chin, readying herself for sleep. It often happens when I am making dinner and I am most stressed about time. I run into the bathroom to pee, flush the toilet with the carefree attitude of a woman whose plumbing always works, and hear the telltale splashing on the floor as I wash my hands. The curses begin, screams of rage so loud my husband comes running in a panic, the children gather at the door to see my holding our bath mat aloft and pointing at the toilet. The terrible, terrible toilet.
Our house isn’t that old. It was built midway through the last century, a simple house for midcentury middle-class folks. It isn’t a fancy house but it’s good enough; warm and snug in the winter, sunlight streaming in the back door every morning, just small enough to be cleaned manageably but large enough to escape each other, when needed. I love our little house, but sometimes, our little house doesn’t love us. The master bathroom, where the dreaded toilet resides, was added recently. In spite of this, the toilet looks old, the seat chipped in a way that makes me wonder if the people who lived here before had especially sharp tushies. Did they install a second-hand toilet, some gem found in the backyard of a neighbor’s house? Why, whenever it rains, do the toilet and the washing machine join forces to emit a sewage smell that briefly wafts through the kitchen and living room? Thank goodness we live in a semi-arid desert where rain is a rarity. Soon we will have the time and money to call a plumber and repair the toilet, or replace it. I’m sure it will cost more than we’d like to spend, and I’ll resent the toilet even more. I try not to use the h-word very often. I think it has a way of weaving vehement and unnecessary negativity into daily life. But I hate this toilet. I hate that I need to stand guard every time I flush it, ready to turn off the water or grab a plunger. It enrages me that something so basic is denied me – a toilet that flushes easily, every time. It also reminds me how lucky I am to have two toilets, or indoor plumbing at all. When I helped build houses in Mexico we were excited to have actual walls around the outhouse, which was a toilet placed neatly over a big hole. No need to flush there, but plenty of sewage smell. I chastise myself, just a bit, for failing to recognize my privilege. Then I flip off the terrible toilet as I ready myself to flush. |
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