So, it’s teacher appreciation week. That’s basically a test for adults. And I am not nearly adulty enough to have to do specific things at specific times.
Valentine’s day, with a school-aged kid, is basically a test of patience. There is the torture of watching a younger elementary school child try to write out 25 cards, the drama and hurt feelings, the sheer mass of candy, and the logistics of trying to find a babysitter for a date night in an over-crowded restaurant (or just choosing to ignore the romantic aspects completely).
There are a million reasons to hate Valentine’s day. Expectations run high, parenting energy runs low. Restaurants are overbooked and babysitters are hard to come by. It has become a Hallmark holiday. Single people have their face rubbed in their singleness. Etc, etc, and on and on. I never really cared much one way or another. Now that I’m a mom I have found it to be another exhausting holiday and one that happens to come right on the heels of the 100th day of school. It shows up just as we have recovered from the winter holidays. And we don’t even get a day off work.
Dear Ms. DeVos,
It became quite clear during your nomination hearing that you don’t really know that much about education. Or guns or bears or sexuality. Three of those four things seem like important topics for Secretary of Education.
Tales of a First Grade Basket Case
I’m astoundingly good at taking my own experiences and anxieties, and making them into new anxieties about Lorelei’s experiences. I’m like a fucking anxiety superhero or something.
Kindergarten stresses me out. I don’t think it is supposed to do that. But as I pull paper after crumpled paper from Lorelei’s bookbag I can feel myself wanting to shove it all under the couch and run far, far away. 100 days projects. Boxtops. A million pieces of school work. Worksheets. Books for her to read. Newsletters. Fliers for programs and meetings and groups. Snack calendars. Fundraisers. -a-thons. Drives. As my brain is trying to prioritize this, it spirals into fear that I did not remember to do that thing. Some thing. I don’t know what thing. But there’s always a thing.
Toto, I’ve a feeling we’re not in preschool anymore.
I’m not the mother I expected to be.