Thirteenth Day

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?

Twelfth Day

Another weekend.

The second strike Saturday.

At Sam’s lesson in the morning, in Minneapolis, I am struck by how few people even know.

We scramble into the van and drive to my parents’ because it’s not like we have school on Monday. We see my nephew, visiting on Spring Break.

What now.

Eleventh Day

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.

Tenth Day

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.

Ninth Day

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.

Eighth Day

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.

Seventh Day

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.

Sixth Day

This one is “Snowmelt.”

Snowmelt flowed down the path at the nature center we visited. What a jerk, moving so freely like that, directly under my feet.

I’m tensing about the week to come.

Bedtimes never matter when we switch to Daylight Saving Time or the Sunday before the second week of a strike.

Fifth Day

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.

Fourth Day

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.