Wake Up Call

Snow days. Huh. I know, you think that, as a teacher, I am SO LUCKY to get snow days. And I am. But, imagine you’re trying to build a skyscraper with bricks that melt quickly (think-- teach seven-year-old forgetful people) and you get about one-third of the way up, then a day or two off. You rebuild, it melts. Rebuild. Melt. Repeat. Annoying. We get started writing a unit and then they completely forget about what a transitional word is or remembering to check their ‘dictionaries’ for the book spelling of words or what they were even writing about. So, as much as I do love the occasional 5:00am call saying, “Go back to bed,” I’m not a HUGE fan of snow days.

I’m especially not a fan of snow days when it’s close to report card time. Okay, so it really has nothing to do with the snow day part and more to do with the report card part. I teach reading and writing, which means I have to grade 52 kids’ writing with a 10-grade rubric and put it into my computer. And I can’t do it until the end of the marking period, because it’s their “project” they work on through the marking period. It’s exhausting.

So, recently, we had a snow day and, luckily, I had ALL THESE PAPERS to grade. As I was trudging through the stories about going to Avalanche Bay and going to a friend’s house, I started thinking I should have picked a different job. I seriously should have picked a different job. Like driving a truck. Or taking photos at the DMV. I’m not saying either of those jobs are EASIER, they just don’t involve reading 52 kids’ stories.

As I was mumbling under my breath about how this is stupid and kids should just be allowed to learn to WRITE and not have to show growth or be graded and when are they going to use these ridiculous skills in their real life later anyway and they’re only 7 and 8 years old and should be taught to write about what they care about and who stops their writing to make sure they’re using strong verbs… I saw it. There, on the side of the paper, in a little cloud bubble, was a love note. “Mrs. Hall you are an awesome teacher. I love you so much.”

The girl’s cherubic face, adorable dimples and bright blue eyes popped into my head and I thought about all the times she’d laughed when I’d said stupid jokes, or hung on the edge of her seat as I read The Littles, or threaded her mittened hand through mine as we stomped through the snow at recess. She loved ME? I should be writing on HER paper that she was an awesome kid!

So, I did. I wrote that she was an awesome kid and I loved her, too. And then I whistled my way through the rest of my papers. Sometimes I need a snow day to remind me this is the perfect job for me.

People Always Say It Flies By; They're Not Kidding

When I was growing up, I had many different career plans: doctor, veterinarian, author, hamburger stand owner… But I always knew one thing for sure: I wanted to be a mom. So, when I was 26, I adopted a baby. By myself. It was wild and crazy and the most wonderful moment of my young life. Emma filled every hole in my heart and more, and I never once thought she hadn’t been destined to be my daughter from the beginning of time.

The other night, my dad and I went to watch Emma cheer at a Lady Bulldogs Inland Lakes Basketball game. She’s a fantastic cheerleader: put anything to a beat and she remembers the moves and words instantly. This night, though, I saw something I hadn’t seen before when I’d watched her cheer. I saw joy. I saw her do silly dances to the pep band music, I saw her call out to the players, and I saw an expression in her eyes I hadn’t seen since she was three years old.

She’s had a rough go of it, my baby girl. Her genetics have held her down, given her some really big obstacles. Through the years, I’ve thought, “Oh my god, she is never going to leave this house! None of us are going to survive this!” She’s been through a lot of sadness, depression, complexity that I really believe most 16-year-old girls haven’t had to--and maybe won’t ever have to-experience.

But she is strong! She’s fought through it all, and come out on the golden side of the rainbow. Now, yes, she still drives me crazy with every inch of her stubborn, teenage, I-know-it-all-already-and-you-don’t-have-to-explain-it-to-me attitude. Her room’s a pit, we have to beg her to do the dishes, and she’ll get in that “dig” on her little brother whenever she can. But, really, didn’t I just describe all sixteen-year-old girls? And so, it amazes me:  her determination, her will, and this joy. This joy she’s finally found.

When Emma was young--a small toddler through probably age 4--she was a whirlwind of joy. She would enter a room of strangers, like at my grandma’s church nursery, and say, “Hi, Friends!” Her face would say, “I’m here! The party may begin!” She giggled and sang “The Aristocats,” and weaved her little fingers between mine everywhere we’d go. Before bed, we would “cuddle two songs” and I would wrap myself around her as she fell asleep. Her hair was thin, so I kept it short in a pixie, and she had these round, rosy cheeks and huge, deep blue eyes. She was like a living Precious Moments doll.

I had forgotten it all. I have spent these years since age five trying so hard to pull her out of this cloud, to prepare her for what’s coming up, that I have forgotten to prepare myself. I saw her on the court and thought, “Wait, now, just wait a second. Just hang on one minute. When did this happen?” She’s grown so much. She’s almost an adult. Like, a doesn’t-live-in-our-house-anymore adult! How did it go so fast? I didn’t savor it. I was trying so hard to get her to THIS PLACE, this prepared for happy adulthood place, that I didn’t give myself time to sit and listen to her sleepy breathing, to watch her learn new things and develop parts of her own personality, to freeze moments in my mind as she came out of her cocoon and transformed.

When she was a baby, one of my favorite things she’d do was reach her arm around my back as we rocked for her night feeding. At about 6 months, she began patting my back, just like I’d pat hers after her bottle as she was falling asleep. It was so sweet, this mimicking of my loving gesture. I saw her face at cheer and I ached so much for one last chance at that moment, feeling that tiny arm reach around me, holding all of her tight against me.

As I was growing up, I always knew I wanted to be a mom. I just didn’t know how much it would hurt.