A Doozy

  Today was a doozy. I was telling my fellow teacher friend I had a bad day and he said, “Was it a doozy?” and I said, “Yes, in fact, it WAS a doozy.” And it wasn’t just a doozy. It was a MAJOR doozy. Like there were a few moments there I legitimately thought I was going to lose my mind and, quite possibly, my career.

Would you like to know some of the reasons my day came straight from the land of the doozes? Well, for one, I am 99% sure it was the first time since the first week of school that I have actually had all 25 of my children. That would be reason enough to make today crazy. But lucky for you, that’s just the beginning. It was late start Wednesday, which basically means the kids show up an hour late and somehow forget to bring their brains and and any sense of self-control they may have (which is questionable, in some cases) with them. Every. Single. Time. There was a perimeter lockdown. I didn’t know why so I couldn’t tell my kids what it was. Of course, everyone’s mind goes straight to holy crap there’s a shooter outside, my own included unfortunately. So we all freaked out. Turns out it was just a little bear hanging out on campus. But my kids were panicking. I had a meeting during my planning period, a conference at 7 am which is earlier than I’ve ever even gotten to work (well, probably since the first week, when I was actually styling my hair), and conferences all afternoon until 5. And it’s been raining incessantly since Monday, so it was indoor lunch. Which, funny enough, is supposed to be at a Level 0. The kids aren’t supposed to talk to each other while their masks are down. I don't know how that's going in other rooms, but it sure isn't flying in mine.

So there’s some background knowledge for what I’m about to tell you. And here it is. My kids were inSANE. I mean out of control. I mean I had to walk out of the room before I exploded. I mean I apologized to the entire class and several individuals at the end of the day because I legitimately lost my patience and my temper, and probably my sanity too. I had a teacher I haven’t seen in weeks come by just to tell me how disruptive my kids were while walking down the hall. I guess when she was scolding them, one of my boys rolled away on his awesome wheelies. To which she said, “Oh, HELL no.” and I thought maybe I shouldn’t have told him how cool they were while he skated across my classroom this morning. I mean, let’s be real, I’ve always wanted a pair of wheelies. The Spanish teacher told me they never shut up and made it hard to teach. David was so crazy I kicked him out for what turned into the entire day. And Cason was, honestly, unbelievable. Which is saying something because he’s made me believe some new things. I taught one of the most simple math units in one of the most confusing ways possible. And then for ELA my lesson was literally nonexistent. I’m not sure what we did. Read a book I think? All I know is the speech pathologist was in there to help my student with selective mutism and she looked as confused and lost as to what we were learning about and what we were supposed to be doing as did my whole class, including me.

And then I was just so tired and over it and I just didn’t care so I decided to read Wonder for the rest of the day. Turns out the first chapter we read was about Via and how she lost her grandma who was incredibly special to her. We’ve talked a lot about empathy this year, so I stopped and asked my kids to raise their hands if they could have empathy for Via. So many hands shot in the air, so then I asked if anyone would like to share what they went through. And then a girl shared how she lost her grandma and

the class stopped talking.

They stopped laughing.

They stopped moving around.

And then more kids shared about who they loved and how they lost them - grandparents, great-grandparents, friends, dogs, snakes, lizards… and the kids listened. Another kid and another and another. Dead quiet. Absolute silence except the brave and vulnerable voices of those who have lost. It made me want to share. I wanted to tell the kids how I miss my sister, how I miss my grandma. It was such a safe space. And then I asked what they could say to each other. What could they say to show empathy to someone who experienced something similar to them?

I have empathy for you, a boy said.

I know exactly how you feel, said someone else.

Sarah raised her hand, You could just say nothing.

What a profound answer from my precious nine-year-old. You can have empathy by saying nothing at all. 

So after a little shift in perspective and a lot of ugly crying, I’m coming to realize today wasn’t a loss. Why? Because my kids listened when it counted. I couldn’t care less if you can’t find the perimeter of a rectangle if you know how to look someone in the eye when they say how much they miss their dog. I couldn’t care less if you know how to find the stanzas in the poem if you know how to empathize with someone who is hurting. And you know what? I don’t even care if you talk over me, not too much anyways (okay - I care a lot - but perspective), if you know when it is really time to say nothing at all. When the person next to you misses their grandparent. When the person next to you is sharing their story. Today was a doozy alright, but my kids close their mouths and open their hearts when it counts, and I can’t say much matters more than that.