Saturday Night's All Right, Right?

    

            Photo by Marko Blažević on Unsplash

 I refound the YouTube channel, Little Poet. I always enjoyed it and then switched to a different channel for myself because the kids follow way too many channels and never sat down to go through the hundreds on the old channel to find hers. So, it was good to find.

    It was a nice day. I worked the whole morning, charged my phone, and worked another hour. Then the boys and I had a good time, and we tried very hard to watch a show, but Alec was flying too high from the sugar and then, sadly, Gabe had a bit of 12-year-old boy craziness, and something rather dreadful happened. I don't want to talk about it. I am just ... hoping he gets through this phase quickly. It brings me back to less happier times.  One of the hard things of living with someone who is bipolar was dealing with their anger. The breaking of the things. I remember on the last week before I decided it was time to separate again, when I had already been warning him, I could not take much more, when he told me I was so lucky to have him, that my coworker was what a man wanted, that I was just a four (which again, may be true, most people are 4s and 5s, but the intent was to hurt, and I felt completely unloved, when he threw a broom and broke my cookie jar, and later that week a photo frame, and I realized that if I didn't get away, every little thing I cherished would be broken. Every wall would be marred. It was just too much to take. And then this boy, with his hot temper, brings it all back, and I have to step back and try to decipher what is happening. Liam had flashes of anger at 12 (he threw a baseball at the windshield once, cracking it) and he got past it. But this is so hard to go through. And then this sweet boy will cuddle up to me and say sorry,  and I just-- wish he would learn to go outside and push through the energy and learn it quickly.

    I am enjoying a glass of wine, but it is making me feel a little ill already. That's a little sad. I want to feel that drunken loosening of just letting go. I guess it isn't a good idea with the kids here, and I just have the one glass anyway. But you know that numb headiness where romance, chatting with the pets, and the world dimming around you overtakes you? I long for that. Of course it is more fun with other people, and memories of parties and get togethers of the past reminds of the joys of chatting with the girls and flirting with the boys and how much I do enjoy relaxing with a group of safe people. It's been so very long since I had people. But I have learned to really enjoy myself, and that's a nice thing, too.

    Work is hard. I am struggling with deciding if regular education with all the kids is the right place for me. I really struggle with crowd control. I don't know. I want to make the best choice for everyone. I like the faster pace and I like the deeper lessons, but I am just not sure if I am not really just a hindrance and disservice to the students. And all the goofiness we are expected to do. So much silliness. And I do miss reading and writing with the kids. I don't like the way the district is tightening everything. They say they are making it more equitable, but they are ripping the individuality and beautiful artistry out of the process of teaching. On top of that, we hear that other countries students think our lessons are a joke, and it makes me wonder what is really going on. But then I remember I am not independently wealthy, so I don't really have a choice to do things differently, so why bother thinking about it?

    Anyway, I didn't get an online job, so I must work work work all the time, and tomorrow is no exception, so, I'll say good night. 

    

The Snood

    

Photo by Andrik Langfield on Unsplash

 I was a child of the 70s. This doesn't mean too very much to me as I was still quite a young child during the 70s. Sometimes when I filled with a nostalgic longing for a simpler time, I will look for a used women's magazine or book from these times, and imagine living a life of domestic simplicity in the past. But mostly, I don't remember much. Living in St. Louis, I have memories of baseball games, cigarettes everywhere, moonies on street corners, and long summer days that stretched into nights playing on grass, making mud pies, and dealing with the issues that come from living in a neighborhood with other children. I was earnest, temperamental, talked too much, and loved to play school or house or ride my bike like the wind. 

    Once my mom made me a snood. A snood, according to her, was a crocheted square or something that covered my hair once it was put up in a bun. I wasn't too keen on it, but my mom insisted it was stylish and made me wear it to school one day. 

    My instincts regarding the true stylishness of the snood were on point as the other children teased me about the silly thing in my hair. "It's a snood," I told them, pointy little chin held high. Unfortunately, my explanation was not quite enough for the children of Rose Acres Elementary, and the teasing continued. 

    Later, I confessed the story to my mom, and explained that no matter what they didn't get to see me cry. I have vague recollections of my primary teachers having pianos in the classroom. I am not sure WHY I remember this-I can only assume primary teachers at the time did play some simple melodies perhaps.  It makes sense. It didn't all used to be early cramming for reading skills and tests. I slid my little body behind the piano until they tears passed and then, thin lips pressed into a smile, corners forced up, I emerged. No they wouldn't see me cry. 

    I am still her. Forty-six years later and I still feel like that girl hiding behind the piano. I come out, lips pulled up, and tell myself it will be fine. It will be good. Noone will know the shame I feel at being so otherly. So unwelcome and somehow clearly wrong. 

    The only saving grace is 46 years later I am much too busy to dwell too much. I will wipe the tear away and tell myself it is a sign. A sign I must belong somewhere else. A sign I need to move on and keep looking. And I am tired. But I keep my  bag packed and close by, and my fingers and toes are starting to itch. 

    Maybe elsewhere is where I belong. I belong where snoods are okay and noone makes us wear what we don't want to wear anyway, and hearts are open, invitations flow freely, and irreverent comments are seen for what they truly are-anxiety. A place where the silliness and seriousness are embraced. 

    I know this place doesn't exist. 

    But moving is always better than standing still.

    Smile.