We’ll go back tomorrow. I wonder what we’ll know by then. My 50 words:
I realize that just because I’m in a different space it turns out I still have kids I need to care for.
The district says they offered their “last and best” deal. I’ve heard nothing and I cannot speculate. I know we won’t have school on Monday. How about Wednesday?
I’m mad today. My kids need to go to school. My kids’ teachers need to feel valued. My 50 words:
I hear a plane fly overhead. I want to get on it.
We’ve been school-free for eleven days.
Alice says she likes weekends but she likes school more.
I feel like an insect in a bug house inside a zoo. Watching other people get to do shit through compound eyes.
For a few minutes, I thought it was over.
Thomas texts a Tweet. “MPS is happy to announce…” it reads. I can’t finish it because I’m driving.
If the district is happy about something, it’s got to be a deal. It’s over, I think. Will we get to go back tomorrow? Or Monday?
No. I misread; the strike continues.
I don’t care that it’s nice out. This is hard. Another account of the day in 50 words.
I think of kids with special needs, needs beyond supervision.
I think of teachers having to work two jobs.
I think of how easy it is for us to go for a walk and I know it’s so hard to have the energy to Do This for days on end.
Even though we have All Day, we wait until Normal Time to practice. Then I look up and see it’s 8:15 PM and no one is in jams. Then I realize time doesn’t matter.
I remember distance learning kicking us into outer space where we spun – still alive, somehow – untethered.
I am confident we won’t have school the rest of the week.
Here are 50 words about the day. This one is “No Change.”
The district e-mails. The subject line is, “Negotiations continue; classes canceled Tuesday,” leading me to believe they think we could be back on Wednesday. Which is when I read the e-mail and find that there is no change in the near future. Which means there is no change in mine.
I call this one “Too Much Not Enough.”
We run in circles.
We cry standing.
Outside is gray.
Inside is, too, until the baby plays peekaboo.
Tasks accomplished like springs; push them down until you can’t hold them back any longer and damn it if they don’t knock you over.
It’s way too much and not nearly enough.
I call this one “She Goes Away.”
“What is most exciting about going to Mexico?” I ask.
“The sun,” she replies. “It will be sad.”
And at the airport, I try not to say, “Have fun,” and yet I fail.
Telling her to have fun is imposing on her an agenda.
To lie is always an option.