Hints of Hildy

“What will your life look like in a year?”

This is the question I rumble around in my noggin when I’m debating choices, when I’m not digging what life is throwing at me or when I’m in a plain ol’ funk. I find that slowing my thinking and taking that step back really puts things into perspective for me. I stop obsessing about inconsequential issues, I can see the bigger picture. I am able to envision a future and “backward plan”. I let go of things that don’t matter. This “finding my center” activity is something I have come to rely on as a coping mechanism in times of stress and anxiety. It gives me something tangible to focus on and put my energy toward.

“What will your life look like in a year?”

Turns out, each time I asked myself that question in 2019 I was waaaaay off base. Never did I suppose that I’d be staring down the barrel of a school year in a silo. I could not have predicted that my colleagues and I would be swapping links for comfortable masks, face shields, industrial sized sanitizer, scrubs, and spacing ropes. In no stretch of the imagination did I think we would be comparing notes on safety measures and virtual teaching pedagogy. I had no need to watch a “how-to” video on DIY document cameras or virtual worksheets. I wouldn’t have guessed I would need professional development on teaching during a pandemic. Our entire world has been flipped on its axis and my coping mechanism has fallen to pieces.

“What will your life look like in a year?”

I don’t know. I can’t seem to imagine anything past a week from now. Decisions are changing at the speed of light  and I’m exhausted from trying to keep up. I don’t know what my life will look like in a month let alone a year. But, maybe this isn’t new. Did I ever really “know” what a year in the future would look like? Maybe there is silver-lining to the unknowing. The present is a pretty great place to live when you let yourself go there. When you release the “what ifs” and put energy toward the “right nows” your sense of values shift. Productivity, money, achievement, power will fade into health, relationships, contentedness, passion, laughter. Allow yourself to find the balance.

“What will your life look like in a year?”

Barring any physically altering accidents in 2021 I will still have a beating heart, a critically thinking brain, two strong legs and a will that doesn’t quit. I will have the love of family and the goodwill of friends. I will have 31 years of life experiences that I can rely on to drive me forward. I will have faith in my soul and ambition in my veins. Should there be a continuation of this contamination, a wildfire of woes or a pitfall of politicians I will be okay. You will be okay. For what is life if not an opportunity to outshine the rain?

My head is spinning; I can feel my face begin to flush. I sit down at the front of the classroom to take attendance. My ears are buzzing with the power of a room full of 1980s television sets. My students wander around the room, eating breakfast and socializing. Their little faces lit up when they walked in and saw me this morning instead of a substitute.

“Can I read to you,” one little voice pleads.

“Oh, of course, just give me a minute,” I try to buy some time and clear my head. I can do this, I just need to suck it up.

My mouth starts salivating and my sight is lagging. My body temperature has risen so I fan my face with my hand. I contemplate sending a kid across the hall to get another teacher for my impending fainting spell but decide that is too dramatic. I sit still breathing deeply and willing this feeling away.

Another request to complete a craft project from the day before.

A suggestion for our morning transition song.

A question about afternoon activities.

I hear my principal’s voice from the hallway and my arm swings into action as if operating on behalf of my wellbeing without the permission from my stubborn brain. I flag her down and into my room. After she greets my children and I fight back tears I choke out the words I’d been avoiding.

“I hate to do this to you but, I feel like I’m going to pass out.”

Before I’ve fully finished my sentence she is on the radio calling for a sub to be reassigned from the library to my classroom. I have no plans to leave for her. Hopefully she can figure out what to do with these kids for the next 7 hours. I know I am inconveniencing other teachers who will miss library and who will have to jump in to help in my room. Hopefully they aren’t too annoyed with me.

As the sub is arriving in my room I gather my students on the carpet to tell them that I am leaving for the day. In a voice no louder than I’d use with my grandmother I ask them to meet me in a circle on the carpet. They follow directions quickly and quietly with no complaints even though this is clearly out of our routine. I explain that I’m still not feeling well and I need to go home so that I can be a better, healthier teacher for them. They all express concern and wish me well. Almost immediately they start reminding each other of what they need to do today (assignments from yesterday and which specials class they will go to) and how they need to act (if you get upset just walk away and do your own thing, we are a family so take care of each other). If my head wasn’t already going to explode my heart would have done just that. It was such a loud reminder that though they be but tiny their hearts are just as big. They are capable of wonderful things and only adults see their limits.

Still sick. Still sick of it. Still want soup.

My eyes flutter open and the weight forces them closed again. My eyelids feel as heavy as all the responsibilities stacking up on my left-undone list. The sun breaks through the closed blinds and the sound of children playing in the street floats around my still body. I am reminded that there is life continuing on outside without me. There are healthy people, happy people, working and playing together. I have so many chores that really need to get done.

I begin to think, really hard, about getting up, going outside and being productive. I start to envision myself cleaning the deck and raking the leaves. No, no, pulling weeds from the garden bed to make room for the budding tulips. I make a mental list of priorities. I can almost feel myself going through the motions. I can feel the sun on my skin and dirt under my hands. Eyes still shut, I roll over and the images disappear. My head pounds as I reach for another tissue. I sigh as another wave of disappointment crashes over me when I realize I am too weak to even make it upstairs.

It seems as if I have been sick all year. One thing has led to another and as soon as I feel healed from those ailments a new one arrives, always keeping me on my toes. This time around it appears to be a common cold: body aches, runny nose, fever, chest congestion. I cant seem to stay awake for more than a few hours at a time. I am freezing even with a pile of heated blankets and dog warmers surrounding me. My face is raw from blowing my nose. My eyes water whenever they are open. My brain feels clouded by fog. Luckily, I have had no nausea or tummy trouble… yet.

Laying on a giant comfy couch in a dark basement with hours of Netflix, food and beverage service sounds ideal. Except when that is all you can do for days. I’d rather be cleaning up the yard or walking the dogs. I’d rather be at work instead of getting behavior updates from my assistant principal. I want to be able to function like an adult. I hate that other people have had to take care of me and my duties all year long. That’s my job – I am the caretaker. I don’t accept help well.

My creative juices have run out. I have no brain left for a perfect ending. I struggle with those even when my faculties are intact. I’m going back to sleep. Send soup.

I spent the day at our district office writing summer school curriculum. I was out of my classroom on Green Eggs and Ham Day which meant I left my sub and interns in charge of cracking and cooking scrambled eggs and slices of ham with 20 six-year-old maniacs.

Eh, I’m sure they survived.

This post is about much more pressing issues than a catastrophic cooking experience.

Did you know that the rest of the working world gets a lunch break? Like, they call it a “lunch hour” because it is exactly that – a whole hour! AN HOUR!

I could cook, eat and clean up a gourmet meal in that amount of time. I could plan a month’s worth of math lessons. I could go to the gym and even shower afterward (I could, but I won’t). I could go grocery shopping. I could have a doctor’s appointment. I could get my oil changed. I could do so many things with 60 whole minutes.

Today, with these 3,600 seconds I will never see again, I took time for myself. I walked away from the lingering group of overachievers talking about running errands to the library and book store to gather materials for our afternoon session. I erased my to-do list from my mind. I ignored my inkling to get work done for conferences. I got in my car and I drove away.

I let myself feel the sun on my skin. I turned up the volume and zoned out to some Dixie Chicks. I headed straight home, twirling my hair, bobbing along and NOT thinking. I pulled in, waved to my neighbor working in the yard and trotted inside. I ate a little lunch on the porch while the dogs sniffed around the yard. I daydreamed of summer projects and roadtrip adventures. I threw a few sticks and scratched some ears. They pranced up the stairs and in the door so I followed, rotely preparing to grab a treat and put them back in their crates.

I caught a glimpse of the clock.

12:21.

12:21 meant that it had only been 21 minutes. 12:21 meant I still had another 39 minutes before my lunch HOUR was up. 12:21 meant I could sit on the couch, put my foot rest up and do whatever the hell I wanted for 30 minutes.

I had no idea that an hour was such a long time. I had no idea that there were professions that took this huge vacation in the middle of their work day. I had no clue how productive this break would make me upon returning to my job. I had no idea what I was missing and, now, my 15 minute cram-it-all-in-my-mouth lunch time tomorrow is going to seem like a total gyp. At least tomorrow is pajama day, they don’t get THAT in the rest of the working world.

The Alexa was playing one of my favorite Kacey Musgraves tunes.
When the straight and narrow
Gets a little too straight
Roll up the joint
Or don’t
Just follow your arrow
Wherever it points

We had just set the oven timer – 14 minutes until the meatballs and green beans would be ready to serve. Dishes were tossed in the sink and our natural, how-to-be-at-home, rhythm was about to set in. I felt the comforting lull of our routine begin. Her chore brain switched on. I saw the shift from casual unwinding to task-oriented. I was tempted to grab my phone and get some quick work tasks completed.

I stopped my runaway thoughts dead in their track and grabbed her arm instead.

I spun her around and began a two-step, holding her close, giving her feet a second to catch up. I smiled big and sang along.

Follow your arrow wherever it points

She awkwardly made a comment about me still dancing regardless of my new air cast boot. I kept singing and smiling. She made another comment. This time about how she isn’t a good dancer. I ignored it and continued leading her around the linoleum. Twisting, spinning, unwinding and swaying. I stayed locked in on her beautiful blue eyes, our stares saying much more than words could capture, reminding us both of how much love and enjoyment is shared between us two.

The song ended and I kissed her forehead.

“I love living with you,” I breathed as I reached for my phone and her for the stack of unsorted mail.

Well, it finally happened. I’ve been waiting 3 years for this moment and, like all good things, it was worth it.

My class was busily working on various literacy activities. Some were reading, some were writing, others were researching. I was conducting a group at the back table. All seemed to be going to plan. As I do each day, I instructed them to pull out their books from previous lessons and begin reading to warm up their brains. Obligingly they do so. One girl, in typical fashion, makes a big scene.

“What book?” She taunts.

Eye roll followed by the look of, “not today sweetheart, not today”.

Taking a hint she gleefully announces, “Oh, I know! I put it over here in the library. Silly me, I dont know why I’d do that.”

I think to myself, “Really? ‘Cause I know exactly why you’d do that – for this moment right here, all the attention, all the time,” but I just sigh and continue on with the others as she prances over to her secret book hiding spot.

As a teacher my brain must move at the speed of light so as to not waste one single moment of instructional possibility. So, by the time I’ve turned around in my chair I’ve forgotten this distraction and refocused on the readers in front of me.

I’m awoken from my teaching trance by the shrieking of Undercover Book Hider. She’s ushered over to me by a concerned yet confused classmate. Holding her fingers out toward me, panic in her eyes, she asks, at a much too loud volume, “Is one of your cactuses real?”

And in that moment I have to remind myself that I am the keeper of small souls and I must not erupt into hideous laughter at her probable pain and definite distress. You see, I have told them numerous times that the pot with two cactuses and actual dirt is indeed real and will hurt if you touch it. Even the kid who ties his shoelaces together and rolls on the carpet for most of the day could tell you which one is real. This above-average IQ drama queen absolutely knew what was what when going on her book hunting adventure. 

I look straight in her teary eyes and tell her to take a deep breath, modeling a long exhale. I must assume the no-stress, monotone, voice, relaxed posture and calm movements. I assure her that her writing hand will be just fine to join us as soon as I get the spines out. As I carefully begin removing the culprits she is rambling to anyone who will listen, not even a glisten in her eye.

“I don’t even know how that happened, I didn’t even touch it. I just reached for my book and they jumped on my hand!”

“I’m sure that’s exactly how it went down,” I muse as I bring her hand to eye level to make sure I didn’t miss any.

“I’m bleeding! I mean, barely, but it’s there, look! And I’m never touching that again!”

And, as if sent from God above, the tiniest angel pipes up, “I think that’s the point. That’s the cactus’s defense mechanism. Like the shell on Spruce the Sea Turtle, remember?”

Entertainment. Pure, unfiltered, honest entertainment from the mouths of babes.

And, maybe, if it would have happened to someone else or if it truly would have hurt her, I would have felt badly. But it was kismet that it happened to her, happened in that way and that the audience was prepared for total participation. Waiting 3 years for a fateful cactus prick was more than worth it.

This one follows me down the hall. She says, “Hey, how’s it going?” When I reply, “Eh, it’s fine” something must get her wheels turning. She puts aside any of her own personal morning jobs and joins me in my classroom. She jumps into action helping me return furniture to its rightful place after the weekend cleaning (or lack thereof). Calm, casual conversation just checking in and being present. She is showing me she cares, no words are needed.

A moment that reminds me I am loved.

“I’m going to Chipotle for lunch, send me your order,” another one shouts as she walks by my classroom door. She knows I’m obsessed and can’t say no. She doesn’t ask me to send her money or come along for the ride. She delivers it with a comforting smile, handing it over as if it were a common occurrence. It seems so natural to do things for each other.

A moment that reminds me I am loved.

This one hugs me at the copy machine and tells me, “I’m doing this even though you hate hugs.”

A moment that reminds me I am loved.

Another one teases me about my small feet and how silly it looks in my walking boot. She adds how she thought of me this weekend and it made her smile.

A moment that reminds me I am loved.

A midday text from a bestie in AZ. An exposé on one of my favorite things to laugh at. A true lunch time belly laugh sent to me from all the way across the nation. 

A moment that reminds me I am loved.

Arriving home after a long day of work and a basketball game. I’m tired and ready for bed. My favorite girl offers to pour me a whiskey so I can get my writing done (a commitment that had completely escaped my mind). She remembered the writing because she cares about the things that are important to me. She reminded me because she won’t let me fail. She remembered the whiskey because she cares about the things that are important to me. She reminded me because I am basically Hemmingway.

A moment that reminds me I am loved.

A moment here and a moment there has, upon reflection, turned into a full day of feeling loved and cared for. Not at my best, not at my worst, no big gestures but nothing too small, just love in moments when I needed it most.

Here it is. The morning I have been both dreading and looking forward to.

As I slinked out of bed this morning, trying not to wake Becca, the thought raced across my mind that I could do the same thing with my Slice of Life – quietly sneak around it. I could leave it undisturbed, untouched, just where I left it last year. I could feign forgetfulness or claim preoccupation with work and household chores.

Sleepy-eyed I fed the dogs and let them outside. I made myself a latte, making sure to take extra time foaming the milk. I was crafting a plan for avoidance. I was too sleepy, and it was too cold, to do any of the projects on my list.

I settled into the couch with my heated blanket and feet propped up. I opened my computer, wiped off some Friday kid germs and had every intention of getting some of the never ending pile of school work done. I logged in and waited for the home screen to load.

As I sat quietly sipping my latte, conjuring up ideas for guided reading groups and math lessons, I realized that I had 2 fury companions who had joined me. When you are a dog mom you don’t always realize the jostling and maneuvering you do when they curl up beside you; our adjustments for our fur babies are as natural as breathing. The pups had flanked each side of me, claiming bits of the heated blanket. They rested their heads and had begun to breathe deeply, slipping off into their morning snooze.

I opened up my email, searched for the information I needed, opened a PowerPoint document and I was ready to roll on creating new reading groups. At the exact moment I began typing both dogs sat up, turned around and looked at me. Taken aback, I listened for the noise they must have been alarmed by. Nothing. I glanced back and forth between the two, searching their eyes for clues as to what they could possibly need. Nothing. They seemed to be in kahoots about whatever it was.

Defeated, I leaned back and pet their heads, pawing their soft ears. They just wanted attention, I’m sure. I closed my eyes and breathed deeply, letting my chest rise and fall, matching Sadie’s slow, calm breath. My closed eyes automated images of WordPress and SOL icons. I cleared the thoughts and continued running my hands from their heads, down their backs again and again.

I opened my eyes to get back to work. As I placed my hands on the keyboard again, the tiny one nudged the screen. The big one nuzzled under my elbow, knocking it up and down. I took one last big, deep breath, rolled my eyes and thought, “Fine, here we go.” I opened a new browser and typed in “wordpress.com”. As I waited for the login credentials to clear I placed my hands on my head, assuming my pondering stance. With another deep breath I clicked the button with the tiny pencil.

“Write,” it told me. “Write,” my inner voice screamed. “Write,” the calendar dictated. “Write,” my friends pleaded. “Write,” my counselor prescribed. Everyone wants it but me.

“Just try,” I sighed aloud as I noticed the two relaxed, untroubled doggies snuggled into my sides.

Does she carry Bayer in her purse for your upcoming heart attack due to your salt obsession? If not, I’ll send her my bottle.

After a decade of knowing, moving, changing, and growing up together, I have become an expert on all things you. Now that our lives are separate and there are new characters introduced I have some advice I’d like to share.

I need her to know that your head used to be so full with long hair and little curls at the end. And sometimes still, when you miss a haircut, the nape of your neck curls a little. When those show up she can twirl them around her finger. Actually, I need her to know this so she can lovingly make fun of your whisps that barely come to your forehead. I hope she counts your 8 chest hairs and lets you know when you have a new one. I hope she appreciates how varied your palate is. You eat blueberries, for Christ sake! The days of only plain hamburgers and Hungry Howies pizza are long gone. She should appreciate when you stay up past 8:30. She should put down her phone, or her school work, and she should play a game with you or build a puzzle. I hope she asks you important questions like, “What is the craziest trip you’ve ever been on?” and “Tell me about your Grandparents”. And when you tell her about Grandpa Red and show her some pictures, I hope she sees how much like him you are, especially in the heart. I hope she embraces your relationship with your mom and encourages you to take the time with her that she does with her mom. When you fall asleep on the couch and she snaps a photo she should create an album titled Just Checking for Cracks. Tell her not to mind your ritualistic behaviors or your preference for the mundane. You are stable and reliable.

Does she know that you are terrible at singing but music is one of your favorite things? Does she sing along with you? To Petty and Dylan? I hope for the past month she has heard your “Masters” jingle in preparation for this week and understands where your priorities lie while it’s on. I want her to know that you call every day when you leave work, not because you are checking up on her, but because that’s how you show you have been thinking of her and that you want her as part of your daily routine. I hope she pushes you to change and grow in a healthy way. I hope she challenges your repetitive nature and compliments your dedication to any project you commit to. When you have had a bad day and are frustrated I hope she listens, really listens, offers encouragement and then gets you ice cream.

There are so many things I wish I could tell her. About you, and your family and who you used to be and who you have become. But most of all, I want to tell her that she is one lucky woman. I want her to know that men aren’t made like you very often and to have you is to know true love.

My wish is that you find all your happiness within yourself and next to someone else. You deserve it.

I repeatedly flick my gaze to the rearview mirror. Her upper body turns around again and again, looking out the back window. The car reeks of a melancholy quiet that sank in when we turned onto the scenic byway heading toward the interstate. The red dust covers our car, our feet and our hiking packs.

“It makes me sad to say goodbye,” she chokes as we round another bend and a giant rock formation disappears in the distance.

All I can say is, “Me too.” It is not enough, I know.

Within a few minutes we have put too much distance between us and the last of the red rocks to continue looking backward. We both turn our gaze to the landscape passing us, searching for any second-prize beauty we can settle on. There isn’t much. Any scenery we comment on now would seem like fraudulent statements. So, we stay quiet.

When we approach the interstate and turn toward Phoenix we both become uncomfortable stewing in the pessimism.

She chirps, “So, Papago for sunset then?”

“Ah, yes, sounds perfect” I breathe and I relax into the headrest.

Relishing one adventure, letting its end be paramount and embracing the next. I have driven this pattern of life countless times, making it a habit. A happy habit at that.