Bleary Eyed
School started. We adopted a new standards-based report card with no assessments to go with them. I got 4 pieces of furniture I did not order because a district higher-up wants to standardize our classrooms…complete with missing shelves. Our new social studies curriculum was delivered the day before school started—textbooks, teacher editions and all 26 support materials in all of their glory spilling over the counter tops, the tables, the desks I’d spent the previous week cleaning and getting ready for our first day. E went through a growth spurt during the first week of school, waking up every 1 and a half to two hours. I have 190 minutes a week of required instruction outside of the core curriculum to fit in around 8 resource sessions with two students who can’t miss any of that required music, PE, art, computer, and library time. Never mind that one is reading at the first grade level and the other suffers attention deficits requiring constant one-on-one help just to keep from floating away into another dimension. The principal says that we’re not allowed to keep students in at recess or lunch for homework or behavior issues. No matter how hard I try to be efficient, I find myself working 10 hour days just to keep from drowning in all of the assessments, scheduling, planning, and meeting schedules and scheduling. I look in the bathroom mirror in the morning and realize it’s fuzzy from my tiredness. It’s the official welcome back.

And then, in the midst of the getting-ready-for-Back-to-School night, new textbook training, scheduling field trips and learning to cook with E hanging out in the Baby Bjorn strapped to me, a night like tonight tiptoes along—as simple and quiet as laying on the bed with E, talking softly to her as she looks at me and smiles and smiles as if she understands every word. Like a shared secret we ride the waves between silent smiles and her luscious laughs. When she starts to get restless, I scoop her up and bring her around to the light switches. As we turn them out one by one, I quietly tell her that it’s time to go to sleep and I’ll be right outside the door. I hold my breath as I put her in her crib, waiting for the wail of protest…but it doesn’t come. A cautious peek over the railing shows she’s caught sight of a hand and is examining it contentedly. Two minutes later she’s asleep—an almost-smile punctuating her expression. I can’t stop looking at her—she’s so…overwhelming. I’m bleary-eyed from looking.