Where Art Thou My Leeches? Or What Art Thou AI be saying?

     In the words of Raye, "Where the hell is my husband?" one might find themselves on the Internet searching for the above mentioned future spouse. Today we have access to dating apps galore, swiping until our fingers are sore and we are either closer to finding that elusive fellow or we have given up. Modern dating advice, according to the AI overview states that dating is easier when you focus on communication and shared effort. 

    What? I have to talk to a date? I have to use my words? The AI evens suggests - wait for it...putting down the phones. 

    But wait. With the AI companies buying old books - chopping the spines off and feeding them into their mind machines - we might find advice on the Internet changes. I know a lot of people are focused on the conspiracy side of things regarding destroying old books. I mean it's not like we can't access the material online right? Who needs a physical copy of any text? It's not like they could change something in a book on your Kindle right? And it's not like they're trying to bypass copyright laws and borrow intellectual property, right?

    I want to focus on how advice might change when you shove hundreds of years of human thought into a machine that can't give me the right answers about 15% of the time. (At least of last October- I can't find data that states if that number has gotten better or grown worse in the last year.) I mean, it spreads false reports of celebrity deaths faster than our parents and poor small businesses have AI overviews that state that the reviews for their companies are overwhelmingly negative and then you find that the AI summary has nothing to do with that specific company. 

    But that's not what future and potential customers think. Now, your small coffee shop smells like the inside of a pet store and your coffee was burnt. 

    So back to the dating advice. I found a book from 1880 that gave a list of, "A veritable list of some of the best looking, wealthiest, and most reliable single and marriageable men of the Country, with their post office address." 

    Could you imagine if we add that book to the chopping block? Hey, AI I need to find me a husband? And the overview comes back with, "The best way to find yourself a marriageable man, is to correspond with him through the post office. Letters written back and forth will build a sense of trust and a relationship that is more than a situationship. Here are the addresses of the top ten respectable bachelors in your neighborhood." 

    Well heck that sounds great. Of course, the way the men will be described might be interesting. In the book, they use phases such as "might be mastered by a school mistress, or could be captured by a lady who has domestic tastes." One of my favorites is, "A gentleman of good means, a scholar, and would make a cultivated lady of not more than thirty, happy." 

    So fun in bed, can make a gourmet meal, and doesn't have any wrinkles. Gotta. Some ideas never change. 

    But then just think about the medical advice we could be given. 

    "Hey AI, I have a cough." 

    "Yes, a cough can be a sign of a number of aliments. The first recommendation would be to get some leeches and apply them to your chest. Taking out some of your blood will balance your humors. You can find leeches in bogs and marshes. I can send you some links to purchase leeches if you don't have access to them." 

    "Okay. Well, I also have some bruises. What can I put on them?"

    "Yes, bruises can be painful. Adding a mixture of rhubarb and dried mummy will help alleviate the pain. Dried mummy can be hard to find as it is a restricted item but would you like a link to some possible online stores that advertise having real mummy?"

    "No. I think I'll pop a Tylenol. But I do have some depression going on. What medicines would benefit me?"

    "Oh, yes. I'm sorry to hear you are suffering from 'got the morbs" Some time tested remedies for the meloncholia include taking a preparation of mercury. Specifically, in the form of mercury chloride. Some famous people have successfully used this to treat their sadness, including Abraham Lincoln and Louisa May Alcott." 

    We might have to go back to getting advice from...I was about to say from books. But all the above advice was from books and experts. Which means...the AI isn't incorrect...which means...everything you know might be wrong. Or it might be completely right. 

    I think I'm giving myself a headache. I think I'm going to go wading in the local pond and find myself some leeches and balance out my humors. The remedy has five star reviews from 1700 century doctors on Google. Not sure how they got those reviews - I didn't think they had AI back then. 

    But what do I know? I get my info from the AI overview. 

Objects in the Mirror are Closer or Older than they Appear

     I'm watching new neighbors move into the house across the street. They are almost the same age I was when we moved into our current house. It's moments like this that remind me that time keeps ticking and my hair has more gray in it and there are more wrinkles around my eyes. Oh, listen to me - it's only Monday morning and I'm already throwing myself a pity party. 

    Besides the gray hair, so many things have changed, especially in the last year. 

    My stomach is a map now, a record of my journey in this body. I have stretch marks from three pregnancies that are faded and silver now. I have a line that runs down my midsection from my first surgery for the Crohn's. It's incredibly straight and thin, like the surgeon just painted a fine line on my skin. It curves around my belly button, where apparently I had a belly button hernia, that he said he fixed for free. I do love scoring a deal - buy one surgery get a free hernia repair. 

    I have two small scars from the laparoscopic sites. Since the first surgery was supposed to be laparoscopic and then surprise for the surgeon, it couldn't be. He had to do things the old-fashioned way. "When I was a surgeon, we actually had to touch the intestines with our fingers." 

    He had to take everything out, cut and sew, and put it back. At least that's what I imagine - my intestines carefully laid out next to me, while he cuts and then pieces me back together. I'm sure my guts mostly stayed in my body. I'm almost positive not all my guts were running loose at some point during my six hour nap.  

    I have another three inch scar where he went back in and reversed my stoma. It is a weird sensation to have part of your intestine peeking out of your body. But also, entirety interesting to watch the smooth muscle at work. I had to have the stoma while my intestines healed. Since having Crohn's can be a pain in the ass- pun intended of course - having a stoma wasn't all bad. I didn't have to run to the bathroom. Period. Is this what having a normal set of plumbing feels like? I think I forget that feeling. 

    When we moved into the house, it was... - I'm not sure how to describe it. It's all tied into relationships that weren't healthy. 

    Perhaps that's why I'm constantly trying to sell it and move. Every attempt I have made to ditch the house though, has resulted in failure - obviously, since I'm still here. But maybe part of it was because it is tied into some unhealthy relationship crap and I have found that the universe doesn't always unlock the next map until you fulfill some quest in the current map. 

    Hobbits assemble - we are going on an adventure to live long and prosper. 

    Going back in the time - three years before we bought this house, I had lost my job when my mom lost her business. We were in the process of selling our first home and buying a second one. When she suddenly closed her business we were left in limbo. 

    So we moved in with my parents as a temporary fix. 

    It was only supposed to be temporary. 

    And then husband refused to move. I'm not sure why. I think he had a lot of opinions about moving. I tried to return to work, got pregnant, and then I couldn't work. I was exhausted all the time and could not work.

    Later I would find out my iron was extremely low and it even showed up in my blood work, but the doctor didn't treat it. 

    He did not deliver the third child, by the way. I am a firm believer in firing doctors that don't read your test results properly. 

    Three years go by and I can't get Husband to move. He's perfectly comfortable living in someone else's home with very little responsibility besides going to work. Then my mom, says, "I'm kicking you out. Get a trailer, get an apartment, but you need to leave." 

    Well, shit. 

    I did what I've always done. 

    I fixed the problem.

    Since husband refuses to move if it's a trailer or apartment.

    I get a pre approval. We qualify. But I know we'll only be able to afford payments if I have a home daycare. 

    I find a house that will work for a home daycare.

    And that's the one we buy. 

    The neighbor's moving in remind me of the day I had keys and needed to clean our new house. My mother in law offers to get her nieces to come over and help with the scrub down. 

    I couldn't believe it. My relationship with her was shaky and...toxic. But I wouldn't put that together until years later. 

    The crew arrives. My mother in law, her nieces, and their children. I've always felt on the outside of this group of women. Awkward. Unsure. 

    But I couldn't believe they were here to help. And I needed help. My mom had a chronic pain condition and couldn't help. And Husband was at work. 

    We scrubbed and cleaned. A few times I would walk into the room and they would stop talking but I didn't think anything of it. 

    Then one of their kids caught me alone. 

    "Hey, you know why my mom's helping right?" She says, sassy and full of the gossip. Whatever she was trying to hurt me or get her mom in trouble, I would never know. But her words weren't shared with good intentions. 

    I shook my head, feeling the heaviness settled into my gut. "No, why?"

    She leans in, looking around to make sure her mom and aunts are still downstairs. "They said since you're opening a daycare, they wanted to check the place out. They weren't going to help, but they need a new daycare."

    I nodded numbly, a spray bottle in my hand. Of course, there would be a reason for their help. They had never been friendly or generous before - why would things suddenly change? 

    A little while later, they brought up if I was going to offer transportation with my daycare. I said no, I didn't have the vehicle for it. And then they tried to pressure me into reconsidering it. 

     I firmly said no again. 

    They went back to being unfriendly again. 

    I will go back to trying to solve the side quest I need to finish so I can unlock the next map. 

    

I will talk to the cat of destiny for clues. After his nap. 

    

Reaching the End of the Internet

     I'm currently healing from a second surgery. It's a long story, but it started last August with an unexpected hospital stay. Six days in a private room (only because I got lucky and no one showed up to take the second bed), a tube up the nose - because that's like a spa treatment, right? And I got to wear stylish hospital gowns that never seem to completely cover the ass. I also got an Uber to the hospital. Whoops, I mean an ambulance ride. And they are not as comfortable as you think they are. They are bumpy and bouncy and disorienting. Also, the severe bowel obstruction I was suffering from was messing with my brain - because when the paramedic claimed he also had Crohn's. I called him a liar. More than once. 

    Since I usually don't go around calling people liars (out loud)...I'm blaming the life-threatening build up of lactic acid in my bloodstream. 

    Nothing signals to the Crohn's to do something incredibly stupid like actually starting a new job - a full-time job with a signed contract. And that's what I was doing. I was in the second week of new teacher training. Since being a real estate agent hadn't worked out. (Oh, yeah. Your girl here has spent the last five years getting completely off track. Like so far off track - there is no track. I'm just trying to man that train down a grassy hill and it's not working out well. My guardians angels have taken up smoking and drinking just to deal. I can't even blame this on COVID. But wouldn't that be nice. I would love to blame it on something I had no control over. Like the schools blaming the falling test scores on COVID and then you start teaching and realize that the kids are addicted to their devices.) 

    Anyway, enough about that. Lets talk about reaching the end of the internet. I swear - there's an end. I even found it. I reached a video that told me. It said, "You have reached the end of the internet. Take off your shoes, have some tea and look at this cute cat." Well, I'm thinking they put that video at the end so you know you've ran out of internet to look at. And you know it's true, because it was a video of a cat and aren't cat videos the whole reason the internet was invented?

    But before I reached that point, I also learned so many other things like: Five signs I'm Married to a Narcissist? But also a video about Five Signs that I might be a Narcissist? What happened to taking a Buzzfeed quiz to figure your relationship out?

    Also, I know exactly what ten businesses I should invest in next year. But also what ten businesses I shouldn't invest in. Just ignore the fact that some of the businesses are on both lists. That doesn't matter, because if I'm bad ass enough - I can out-business anyone. Or is that out-gym anyone? I have learned to train with my cycle, against my cycle, and also don't lift weights at all. But also, lift weights because you don't want to fall and not be able to get up, right?

    I know I should eat just a carnivore diet. But also, if I want to live to a 100 years I should eat like those Blue people on Islands do. But they also smoke and drink. Should I pick up a vice? 

    Also, rice paper is the new cooking trend this summer. Which I did fall for and tried. And it's actually really delicious. So we'll let that one go. 

    But that might change next week because they turned CERN off and you know. Well, if you know, you know. Right? Wink, wink. Can't wait until they turn it back on and we debate what has changed in the Mandela effect. But I do know that Fruit of the Loom had a different logo at some point, someone died in prison and then didn't die, and also all the movie quotes are incorrect apparently. 'Luke, I'm your father is or isn't correct?' Wait until they turn CERN back on and it's 'Luke, I'm your mom and you better get your ass down here.' 

    I also started watching Jeopardy during my recovery and sometimes the contestants give half names for answers. Well, when I was child, I remembered only full names could be given for an answer. So it must be the Mandela effect, because I can't be wrong. 

    I have learned that I'm not doing enough with my life without following someone with the word BOSS in their name. But I also learned that I'm not too much because I'm apparently a f*cking colorful gremlin with sparkly unicorn powers or something with dragon fire or swords. I'm not sure.  I started following an Asian woman who promised to be my Asian mom, but three videos in I realized I already disappointed her. But she never met my mom, who wasn't Asian, but was a tiny blond German woman. Doesn't sound scary but one time I got a C in music in 3rd grade and I thought the world ended. 

    I learned the secrets to training crows to attack my neighbors, how to earn six figures in two months but they swear it's not drop shipping or a pyramid scheme. I only need to pay for the $99.99 course for them to reveal the secrets. It feels a little Dave Ramsey, who also got rich by telling people to eat rice and beans. I would like to know how many beans he ate. 

    Did I tell you if you act now - they will throw in a free PDF to the secrets of earning seven figures or how to fight the world government - it just depends on what side of the internet you end up on. Just comment whatever magic word they command and the secrets of the universe will be yours. 

    I have discovered the cure for my Crohn's. Basically, I think I need to strip naked, find a mud hole, which around here would be dangerous - it might be cow muck - and do a moon ceremony while reciting the alphabet backwards. But also, apparently, it's all in my head and if I just believe enough it will go away. Or the aliens will beam me up and cure me with their magic powers. I guess those surgeries were unnecessary - if only I had discovered the internet sooner. 

    If you made it this far - well, you're also ready to delve into the internet until you get to the end. I have discovered cats waiting for you and some old man, that says it's the end of the internet and now I can sit on the porch with him. I think I'll pass on that one. 

    But anyway, good luck. I know next time you come back you will have six figures in your bank account, have an army of trained crow assassins at your command, and will have BOSS in your name. 

    In the meantime, I'm signing off the internet to go pet a real cat. It's better than touching grass. Unless you're allergic. Then go touch grass. But not too much because I saw a video about grass and....

    

    

    

Making Mistakes or you know, it's Motherhood

     In the small town next to our small town, we have a gluten free bakery. It's tucked away in a plaza that shares space with the local sanitary district, an occasional used car salesman and various other businesses that survive for six months and then blow away with the constant prairie wind. 

    Years ago I went to a church housed in one of the bigger office spaces. I don't remember much except they had made a spaghetti dinner for after the service and it didn't smell that great. Now, I have been to many a church function and some of those church ladies, they know how to make a spread. This was not one of them. But it was significantly better than the fundraiser I visited this spring inside a church and the church ladies had made boiled hot dogs. Do you know the color of a boiled hot dog? LOL - not a natural one and Baby Blueberry had to have one. 

    Now, to catch up new readers, I must say that Baby Blueberry is no longer a baby, but instead is a teenager. And if you're a reader from the start, then if you feel old, imagine how I feel? I don't feel old until I realize that my surprise baby from a pregnancy in my mid-thirties is now a teenager. This is why poets and songwriters make art about time slipping into the unknown. It is the most elusive element in science. 

    But I digress, as I often do, even in real time conversations. My best friend from when I was a teenager, we will call her SB, often joked about how we would bird walk in our conversations. When I moved half way across country, we were pen pals for a while and then it slowly died out. I missed her. Sometimes there's nothing as intense as a teenage best friend, besides maybe first love. A couple of years ago I started to get the intense urge to look her up. I would dream about her. She would pop into my head uninvited. 

    And so I looked her up. Her obit was the third down on the search. She had died just shortly before that of cancer. At 43. Grief is hard. Regret of not connecting again before she was gone is harder. 

    She had ended up being a fifth grade teacher. Something she had adamantly said she would never be. And now, I'm teaching fifth grade. Also, something I had said I would never do either. I wish we could joke about that. She would enjoy the irony in it. 

    But again I digress and now we go back to the bakery. This bakery is a must visit if you ever come to my area of the world. The baker has worked countless hours to make goods that taste delicious. Not it's pretty good for gluten free, but actually yummy. And so the other day I had the Husband, who does not get the moniker Hero Hottie anymore, because that relationship is in murky waters, pick up two blueberry lemon muffins. One for Baby Blueberry and one for me. 

    I did not eat it that day. I'm recovering from the second of two major abdominal surgeries - thank you Crohn's- and was not hungry yet. 

    The next day I went to get it out of the fridge and I find one muffin with the delicious and best part of the muffin - the top munched by someone else. I started crying and fuming. How could someone eat my muffin? I angrily toss it in the air fryer and ate the bottom of my muffin. 

    A little while later...Baby Blueberry is searching through the fridge, pulls out a whole muffin, not touched and munched and asks, "Where is my muffin? I was saving the bottom of it to eat later." 

    I stare at the untouched blueberry muffin and then look at her. I look back at the muffin and realized that I had grabbed her saved muffin. I sigh. 

    I tell her what happened and then offer my whole, untouched muffin in return. It does seem rather petty to demand the top of the muffin. The best part. The part she now gets to have two of, but I graciously offer my muffin to her. 

    She shared a bit of it, since she realized I didn't get a whole muffin. But man, I really missed eating my entire treat. So the mistake I mentioned in the title - you thought it would be me confessing to some mistake with my child? No, it's the mistake of grabbing the wrong treat in the fridge, believing someone had taken mine, not bothering to look further because if I had, I would have found it, and then missing out of the best part of the muffin. 

    If only I could have hidden my muffin in my secret chocolate stash in my underwear drawer. I used to hide the chocolate in the cupboard, but they - the children - found it. So it had to go where no child is going to search - their Mom's underwear drawer. 

    Anyway, that is how good those bakery treats are - that I wrote a blog about a missing muffin top. Maybe I should put that in a Google review? 

 And also, having treats and kids is the definition of a paradox. 

Divine Signs in the Sky or Maybe it's Just Science...But Also, Mom sends me rainbows

 My mom sends rainbows. They are little gifts that show up randomly. 

    According to the internet, most places will experience a rainbow less than six times a year. So out of 365 days - not really that many chances to see one. 

    Then you think about how many days of the years are full of sunshine - in my location over 200 days and the odds grow smaller. 

    And then for you skeptics out there - rainbows are a natural occurring phenomenon and can not be sent by our deceased loved ones. 

    But what if they could be?

    What if the world is this wonderful blend of the science we've learned and the divine just on the other side? And what if sometimes that rainbow, or that song on the radio, or that butterfly landing on you is the bridge between here and there?

    Just a whisper. An invisible thread like gossamer. Where you can only see it when the Light shines just right. 

    My mom loved rainbows. They made her happy and I completely regret not asking her why. Did the colors soothe her soul? Was it just a flash of color that brightened her day? Or was it her link to her ancestors and their whispered encouragements? Did she feel the same tug I do now when I spot a rainbow arching across the stormy gray clouds in turbulent skies and shimmering behind big, fat droplets of water?

    One of the first rainbows came on December 24th, 2020. Her blue heeler had already been sick and old when she passed in March that year. And when my mom was dying, I promised her I would take care of my dad and her dog. That holiday, my dad decided to visit his siblings. He needed to get away. The first Christmas without is a lost feeling. You can try to decorate it and wrap it in pretty paper, but the box is empty underneath the bow. 

    He left the blue heeler with me.

    And when he brought her in - he had to carry her inside the house. She was already ready to go. 

    I didn't want to be responsible for this.    

    I just prayed she made it until he got back. 

    She would not. 

    The day before Christmas Eve, I called him and explained as gently as I could...

    She has to go in. It's just too much to wait. 

    He said call him in the morning.    

    And I did. And so before the girls woke up on Christmas Eve morning, while the house was quiet and decorated with a tree and lights...

    The husband gently carried her to the back of the car - and laid her on her dog bed which we had set back there to make her journey comfortable and soft. 

    We drove her to the vet and sat with her while she left this earthy plane to join my mom. 

    And when we walked into the parking lot, there was a full color rainbow in the winter sky. Just in the clouds. No storm. No rain. 

    Just a rainbow. With colors. 

    And as we drove home...the rainbow ended up being over our house. 

    Over our house. A rainbow in winter. 

    And I bawled. 

    And my mom didn't seem so far away. 

Actual photo of the rainbow on that winter morning. 

    

 Can we throw out the bath water without throwing out the baby? 

    Since the first week I've been subbing full-time in a fifth grade class. Honestly, it wasn't my first choice. Nor was it my second choice. I tried to obtain two other long-term subbing positions and at the last minute they both were changed. 

    The only one that was left open was fifth grade. It took me two days to decide to apply for the position. I've subbed fifth grade.

    Horribly. With disaster. With tears. 

    Mine, by the way. Not theirs. They were unfazed. 

    Perhaps the universe decided I needed to learn something. Or it hates me. Or it's laughing at my expense. 

    I took this fifth grade position and like Bean reminded me. "Mom, you get paid even if you come home crying." For the first two weeks it was my mantra. 

    And then I started to figure out the 10-11 year old lingo. Their hormones. Their obsessions. It's an intense age and the wrong look from a student can send someone into the depths of despair. For the first few weeks their vocabulary was like listening to a string of Tik Tok videos all day long. In fact, some of the students were even writing in this annoying lingo. I was about ready to crash out. Did they even know English any more? We were heading straight for Ohio. Their writing scores were cooked. 

    Luckily, living with Baby Blueberry, who is 12 now, keeps me hip and cool by keeping me updated on the new Tik Tok trends and internet references. I quickly learned if I used words like, 'Ohio,' Sigma, Gucci,' I could get the students to stop using them because I made them uncool. 

    Whoops. My bad. 

    Now I wish I could say my students were very demure, very mindful -  but they aren't. They're a rowdy and busy group who has experienced sub after sub over the last four years. Do you know what kinds of bad habits you develop as a student when you don't have a consistent teacher? 

    I have students who don't know their 3's on the multiplication chart. Do you know how difficult it is to learn two and three digit multiplication when you don't know your basics?

    But get going. We have a schedule. Lesson 6.1 is on Monday and don't get behind. Students don't know- that's too bad. Keep going. Keep pushing. 

    Do we move to middle school? We're dumb, Ms. H. We're cooked. I got an F. I'm flipping burgers at Wendy's. 

    I'm working at McDonald's, says another student. 

    Is the focus starting to happen? Can I clarify things for you? These students will finish fifth grade feeling dumb and incapable.

    But at least we did Lesson 6.2 on Tuesday, right? 

    Should the education system change?

    Absolutely, yes. 

    Today, I had an admin come into my room to have my students write apology letters for a trip they took and I thought they did pretty good. Perfect, hell no. But good. 

    But here they were writing apology letters. I think the idea was so their behavior was even better next time. 

    But I had a student ask if he needed to write an apology letter because... he wasn't there. 

    He wasn't there. 

    And the answer was...yes. He needed to write an apology letter too. 

    I can imagine how I would write it. "Dear so-so, I'm sorry for my behavior on the trip I didn't take." 

    Can we change the education system without throwing out the baby? 

    We have to. 

    Our kids. 

    Our grandkids are depending on us. 

    But we need to start with an empty tub and figure out what should go in. Because my students aren't even ready for Lesson 6.3, and we're supposed to be on Lesson 6.5 by the end of the week. 

    Maybe we can memorize our 3's by then. 

    

    

Grief coming around like a circle

 

Grief is a circle, so they say. We walk around along this path, coming away from our grief and then walking back to it. Sometimes we travel big and wide circles and sometimes they're tight, little circles. 

Actually, I've heard grief compared to many different shapes, as if this hard emotion needs the easiest of analogies to compare it to. It's a ball inside a box, it's a triangle full of sadness, it's a circle that never ends. Or maybe it's a lack of shape - it's a hole inside our chest. 

Grief is an ocean wave, flowing and ebbing and moving in and out like tides. High tide and low tide. 

So. many. analogies. 

Sometimes I close my eyes and I see my mom in that last scene where she's alive and conscious. She's in her pajamas, hair unkept, and body pain filled. We sit down and have cookies. We talk about the ordinary. 

The ordinary. The normal. I tell her about the girls. I talk about subbing. I have to share the conversation with my dad, who calls on his lunch break and talks for half an hour. 

I imagine driving over to her house and stepping into that scene- because in my head it is frozen in time. When I left that day, I said I will see ya later, mom. I remember staring at the stained deck stairs as I leave, holding a bag of Walmart French fries she has sent home with me because my Dad couldn't eat them. In my memory, I'm swinging this bag. This white Walmart bag, heavy with frozen potatoes. 

It is the last gift my mom will give me. 

Frozen, Walmart French fries. 

But it is ordinary. Sending something home with your kids, right? That is the gesture here? We live our lives in the ordinary. In just the other moment? 

My middle daughter is still grieving in heavy waves that I can feel roll off her sometimes. Grandma didn't live to see her graduate from high school. She just recently talked about that day. It was a painful day for her. 

Grandma wasn't there. Grandma made her older sister's graduation, but she wasn't at hers. 

Also, her shitty boyfriend at the time ditched her graduation to pack a suitcase. 

And her other grandma ditched her because she couldn't stand the other people coming to the graduation dinner, so instead of being an adult she chose to hurt her granddaughter. 

Grief is a photo frozen with pained smiles and big events. 

Grief is a lack of a photo. 

I dreamed of my mom the other night. She pulled up in her bright, red mini van and I swung the heavy, side door open. Just like I did a million times before. The sound of the door echoes in my head. I can hear it my ears. I feel the weight of the door in my fingers. She's in the driver's seat, explaining that she knew she was going to die and it was okay. We chatted a while and she drives away. 

I do believe she knew. She started teaching my dad how to make tator tots in the oven, and she wrote down the dog's medication list for my dad to follow the week before. She refused to go to the doctor before that day, because she kept saying she didn't want to die alone in the hospital. 

She knew. 

I still have that list, written in her shaky handwriting. 

Grief is a shape. Grief is water. Grief is explained best in analogies. 

Grief is part the ordinary. 

My mom died a year ago and I'm still not over it

1 year later. 

And sometimes I still grab the phone to text her exciting news.

Or I still think I should call and make sure she has what she needs.

Then I remember. Or maybe I'm not really forgetting...I just hope that I'm wrong.

This year has been a struggle.

Made even harder because she's gone.

Baby Blueberry still struggles...a year later, which has to be even longer in a eight year old's mind. 

This month she has made it a habit to eat mainly the snacks Grandma would make her.

Chocolate cereal with rice milk. Mott's fruit snacks.

And she asks Gibson quite often, "you're missing her, huh bud?"

I had promised my Mom I would take care of her dog.

On Christmas Eve, Hero Hottie and I had to take her blue heeler in and have her put to sleep.

On the way home a beautiful winter rainbow appeared out of nowhere and arched right over our 

house.

Sometimes fulfilling promises hurt like hell.

This morning I was going to climb to the top of the hill with a mug of coffee and watch the 

sunrise, because she died just before the sun came out. But today is windy and cold and the town 

is on fire.

Instead...

I will just miss her.

Just like I have the last 364 days.

Grief Shopping for a House or How Not to Deal with Death

          On last week's episode we had learned that our heroine was awashed in grief. Rather than turning to the usual devices of grief control - drugs, alcohol, shaving her head, or binge watching Netflix - she decided to buy a new house. This was grief shopping to the extreme. Our heroine was obviously lost and a little crazy in the head, but she was being driven by her strong emotions and a narcissist real estate brother who was desperate for a sale. Would her childhood demons take her down the path of a bigger mortgage or would common sense prevail? Lets tune in.

       Our heroine is answering the phone...

        "Hello." 

        "Hi, my name is C. from the C.'s Team and I scheduled your photos for your house on Friday." 

        "What? That's not what real estate brother said. I can't be ready by Friday. My bathroom is torn apart to the sub flooring. The house is a mess. I have a trash pile out back."

         "Well, we want the house listed by such and such date, so it has to be this Friday."

        "Umm, I won't be ready." 

        "Then we can't list it by next week and we want to do that, so I have the photos scheduled." 

        "Wait, real estate brother said if I wasn't ready we could just take a photo of the outside."

        "We don't like to do that. We want all the photos when we list the house." 

        "That's not going to work. I need to talk to real estate brother."

        "I'm just trying to get your house listed by the date you wanted."

        "I understand that, but I won't be ready." 

         Quick goodbyes, and click, followed by frustrated screaming. Our heroine is clearly feeling her inability to have a confrontation, in the chest, in the gut. Calls real estate brother. Sets the time for a little bit later. 

         A week later and the house is clean. The bathroom isn't completely finished, but it will have to work. There is a huge garage pile in the back ready for a dump load- the old sink, the old toilet, and junk from the sub flooring. Surely, the photographer won't take a photo of the garage pile for the listing photos.

        He takes a photo of the garage pile. But it's a good looking photo on the official MLS listing site. 

        The listing goes live and suddenly there are a hundred million real estate agents wanting to see the house. Our heroine is overwhelmed as she repeatedly packs up kids and dog and escapes the house. One real estate agent doesn't realize that the door was locked and just thought it was stuck and proceeded to try to bust down her door. Luckily, the trim was easily repaired. 

       Another real estate agent starts complaining to her about the Team's lock box system. 

         Like she has any control over it. "Please, complain to me some more, I will change their whole system for you," she thought to herself as she said out loud, "They just put it on my house."  

        If she had any lingering thoughts of becoming a real estate agent, they were killed with every interaction she experienced with the real estate agents. Our heroine wasn't saying the reputation of real estate agents was earned, but they started to remind her of used car salesmen in better suits and expensive shoes. (No offense to used car salesmen.) 

        In twenty-four hours an offer comes through, it's only 3500 less than what they were asking and real estate brother says it's the best offer they are going to get, so they better take it. She was already not happy with the listing price and now she's supposed to take 3500 less in a market where houses in her neighborhood are going like hot cakes. Like cupcakes during the cupcake craze. Like donuts used to before cupcakes took over. Either way, she thinks they should wait for a slightly better offer. 

      But she's a people pleaser and so she says...yes. 

      Our heroine is slowly starting to realize she might be her own worse enemy. And the childhood poverty. But her lack of backbone is certainty dragging her down a path she feels unable to leave. 

     And the more she crunches she the numbers, the more she worries that although the mortgage lender says she can afford more house payment...her bank account is screaming at her with a different story.

    But does she listen to the bank account. No, she shuts him up and tells herself she's going ahead with the path, because to say something different might make her a failure. 

    Why couldn't our heroine just shave her head like normal people? 

     

         

Selling House- Buying House-Do not Attempt During Grief

         Before my mom died, we had been contemplating moving. Our neighborhood had been undergoing a transformation during the last ten years and it had made us question staying there. 

       When we had first arrived, it was composed of residents who were in their seventies and eighties. During the cool evening hours they would work in their yards; trimming perfectly shaped hedges and neatly trimmed edges along the sidewalks. Their houses were always freshly painted, and if their garages were opened, all the tools were lined up in perfect rows on peg boards. They always had a small amount of change for buying fundraiser items - candy bars from the orchestra kids, popcorn from the Boy Scouts, and Girl Scout cookies. Were they all friendly elderly people who ask about your day or greeted you during your walks - absolutely not. One older gentlemen had stopped caring about the state of his house many decades ago, and the latest addition of an old and greased stain recliner chair on the front porch was only the most recent eye sore of the street. Additionally, the children avoided his house for fundraisers because he often came to the door in various states of undress. Nothing exposed, but a lack of concern for his condition. 

      And then the older residents would move out. Some went to nursing homes or assisted living places. Other residents went to - well, I don't know the state of their eternal souls, so we can only wonder where they went. As they left, the houses, being part of a working class neighborhood, were bought by investors for rental properties. It didn't take very many years for the hedges to lose their sharp edges or for the yards to fall apart. The street started to have another beat, another rhythm to it. On weekends, you could listen to the neighbors two doors down yelling, shouting, and threatening each other. The more drink, the louder it was. And they weren't afraid to reprimand the neighbors either. Oh, and if your dog is barking louder than their fight, they're going to band together and start yelling at you. One time the neighbors above them couldn't keep their break up private and they were yelling in the street. They yelled at them to take it inside. 

      One time someone on the run had dumped a gun in one of the yards. My daughters woke from their sleep because the movement of flashlights in the backyard had awoken them. It was law enforcement trying to find the discarded weapon. Another night it was gunshots just a few doors down. The drug houses had started moving in. I'm sure our experiences were nothing like the inner city, but for our once quiet and family friendly neighbor, it was a troubling change. 

     Two weeks after my mom died, a house came up for sale across town, on the Westside. Ohh, a different zip code. The desired zip code of our town. Yes, our small town only had one desired zip code. The other zip code included the North side, the downtown, and our neighborhood. The post office had a separate zip code for the PO Boxes. If you lived in the annexed part of town that had bad water, roads that ended in weird dead ends, and where people could get a way with shooting off illegal fireworks, that was the last zip code. 

     We just had to put our house up for sale. It only needed a new bathroom, the sheetrock fixed in the basement, and a new roof. Suddenly, I put a frenzy of energy into preparing the house for our listing. I enlisted Hero Hottie into putting in a new vanity and floor into the bathroom. Enlisted? I think I was half crazed with something that had overtaken me. It wasn't grief -- it was the opposite of grief. It was avoidance. The more energy I shifted into preparing the house, the less I had to think about the state of my heart. You would expect that as I repaired, cleaned, and organized my house - the ever widening grief would diminish. 

     Hero Hottie liked the idea of moving Baby Blueberry into a different school district and so he poured his energy into the bathroom. Which as we pulled up the floor, we realized it needed a whole new sub flooring. He gritted his teeth and got to work.

     Grief blossomed and bloomed like the dandelions taking over my lawn. What was a house, a home, except something you escaped from when the pain was too much. My parents haven't given me an anchor of wood and shingles in my childhood. The only stable thing in my life had been my parents, especially my mom. 

     And she was gone. 

The Good Witch Lied, You Can't Just Click Your Heels and Go Home or Grief Covid Style

         By the time I had reached the age of eighteen, I had moved at least fifteen times. Take a moment to think about the implications of that statement. The math would suggest I moved an average once a year. If only that was the case, it would have been easier. But the funny thing about averages, is they don't mean much. Some years I moved two or three times. The longest length between moves was about four years. It was the most stability I had - those four years.
        A few years ago when I was writing for my local newspaper I would interview people working in the social work field. They all seemed to have big hearts and a desire to make peoples' lives better. They also all seem to have a lack of personal experience of what it means to live in less than middle class. But who attends college? The middle class. The upper class. Sometimes a person from the working class manages to bridge that gap. Or claw their way through the middle class language, vocabulary, and invisible barriers.
      In my town they would hold seminars for the working professionals in social work in which they would pretend to be poor. They would be given cards that would give them scenarios to work through. Examples included your car broke down and you can't make your doctor's appointment or the food pantry is half a mile pass the last bus stop, how do you pick up food?
       I was often asked when I conducted these interviews if I had a background in social work before journalism because I knew what they were talking about.
       No, I don't have a background in social work.
       I have a background in social class. In working class. In poverty.
      It wasn't until later when I grew up and started experiencing other social classes, (If you don't think American has a class system, then you're not working class. Consider yourself lucky and just make sure your town puts a bus stop out to the damn food pantry.) that I began to realize that moving fifteen times in a childhood wasn't normal. Moving half way through a school year wasn't ideal.
     Yes, I was always that kid. "Hello, class. This is so-so and she's new today. So everyone be nice to her." Do teachers realize how much a new kid loves to be told to stand up, have the entire class' attention on them and made to tell something interesting about themselves to the class? Yeah, I didn't think so, because if they realized how difficult it was to be the new kid, they might not make them the center of attention.
      I tell you these details about me, not because I ever thought they were relevant to my life today or because I seek some kind of sympathy, but because my mom suddenly passed away on March 30. And if that connection doesn't make sense to you, don't worry. I have found that in my grief, I struggle with putting all kinds of thoughts together. Some of them click as they should, and some don't. But neurons don't care when they are being destroyed by grief. So weird things happen in the brain.
    My Mom was only 59 years old and because of Covid, the hospital had strict restrictions about visitors. I wasn't even there to say goodbye or to be there for her. Hell, my dad wasn't even allowed to be with her. I was allowed to say goodbye through FaceTime, while she was sedated. But not completely, because her brow furrowed when I talked to her. When I said goodbye. And I couldn't make it better. I think the only thing she feared was dying without family by her side.
     Since that time I have struggled immensely. with grief. with a sense of failure for not being there. for failing to give her a house at the end. My Mom grew up in broken down trailers, and in tiny rooms of the back of bars, and in conditions that were not suitable for a child. If I don't know what the meaning of home means because I never stayed long enough to figure it out and I've been searching ever since,  than she wasn't even aware that she was looking for something.
    My parents moved seven more times after I turned into an adult. They might have stayed in the farmhouse, but 9/11 destroyed her business, and took nearly everything they owned after that. They house surfed after that, driven by storms they had no buffers against except for the weak ones two of their children managed to provide. Their third child, had to run to Texas to escape her poverty made demons, and I would tell her, if she was talking to me, that there is never enough distance in the entire world to run away from our own personal demons.
    My heart aches with the fact that my Mom died in a broken down trailer, with a leaky and moldy office room, windows that allowed the fierce Midwest winds in, and rats that crawled through her kitchen drawers. There were holes in the sub flooring which trips you on the way down the hallway, and the deck was falling apart. My brother had purchased them the trailer outright when they couldn't afford the rent on their last space. If he could have bought them something better, he would have.
    For years they had lived in my basement, before Baby Blueberry came along and we needed more room. I gave them shelter for the cost of running the Cove heaters because damn, those are expensive.
    I couldn't do more. I wanted to do more.
    I wanted to give her what she had spent her hard and difficult life seeking and I failed.
    But even had I provided a house for her. For my dad. Would they have finally found it? And what is it? I thought I knew. That's why I bought a house three days before I got married to Hero Hottie. And then my mom died and I find that I don't know what this idea of home means.
    I thought my lack of decorating was because I believed I wasn't artistic enough to decorate. I thought it was because the only thing I ever saw growing up, was that my parents would get permission from the landlord to paint the walls a light blue. In every single house. I thought my lack of style was because my mom used cheap, garage sale knick knocks and passed down doilies to decorate our spaces and I didn't like that style, so I didn't do anything.
    Then I had a realization as I spent hours thinking about my mom and my childhood, after she passed, I never took the time to decorate my houses, because even though Hero Hottie and I have been in our current house for over ten years, I expect to pack and move without a moment's notice. I'm always in waiting mode, ready to clear out. Ready to leave. Why decorate a space that you're going to leave? Heck, I have numerous dreams where I have to pack a bag and just leave. And in my dreams I'm always worried about taking the items that mean something to me.
    My mom has left me lost. As Baby Blueberry said, the first week of quarantine we did okay, the second week we started getting grumpy with each other, the third week Grandma died. And then counting the weeks stopped.
    Dorothy just clicked her heels and she found her way home. I lost the only stable point I ever had and I'm spinning like a tornado who might land in Oz or Kansas, or back in Oregon. And it doesn't matter, because no matter where I land, I've tried clicking my heels, and I still haven't found home.

Where Did the Queen Go? Subbing in the 2nd Grade

      Unless you already know the teacher, the uncertainty of subbing starts when you accept the job. Through the digital platform my school district uses, besides the day and time, I get to see the teacher's name, their subject and grade level, and their building. The rest is a mystery. It's similar to scheduling an interview for an article - you might have Googled them, but so much is a mystery until you're sitting across from them.
         On the sub software, the teachers have an option to add files or notes, but I have found most of them don't fill that field out. Occasionally, I will run into one that says, I have morning duty, please be here on time.
      I thought a sub had to arrive on time, and I think most of them do. Okay, perhaps that isn't correct. Half? I was late one day - the first time since I started this gig. Ten minutes late and I was about ready to trip over myself with my readied apologies that I had composed in my head all the way over to the school.
    "Sorry I'm late. My six-year old decided to be sick today. Today. I don't work everyday, why couldn't she had picked a day when I'm home doing college? So anyway, I really sorry that I'm arriving seven minutes before the bell rings," I composed in my head as I missed my turn to the school and had to go around the block. Twice.
      Can I get lost in my neighborhood? Perhaps.
      I hurry into the office and the secretary hands me the paper to sign in and only half the subs have signed in so far. A pattern I have started to notice at other jobs. I pause over my apology.
       And then the secretary says something about being a sub herself and I swallowed my readied apology. She doesn't seem concerned, probably because she is involved in the mystery that consists of subbing at the office. At this point, I'm not going to worry about being ten minutes late. She tries to explain where my classroom is and by that point - remember when I mention how often I can get myself turned around - well, it includes walking around these different school buildings too and I'm completely lost. But this could also be because by this time she has pointed down three different hallways trying to remember which way the second grade wing is. Finally, she stops trying to explain where the room is and grabs a passing teacher to take me towards the right area. The kindly teacher offers to take me to my classroom and uses a shortcut through the literacy rooms and the library. I don't even know which main hallway to use. It was a nice gesture, but unless you want me taking my entire second grade class through the literacy room, then please, please show me the main hallway next time. 
      I have only a few minutes to turn on lights, read the sub notes, figure out what programs I will need to have up on the computer and the Promethean board. A neighboring second grade teacher pops in and says if I need anything, then she is right down the hall. And I could tell she actually means this! Relief floods my voice when I tell her thank you. I have quickly found in the last three months that not all the teachers want to help the sub, and in fact I was in one school last week where I made a minor mistake with grabbing my students from recess and our classes sort of tangled in the hallway. No one was hurt, injured or otherwise maimed, but I had destroyed - albeit for thirty seconds - the routine of the hallway. The horror of it. After that she made it her mission to glare at me and ignore anything I said to her. Seriously, ignored everything I said to her. I even apologized, and nothing except a dark glare.
     The second graders pore in and say hi and then tell me everything I'm doing wrong with the sign- in system for hot lunch. I quickly get it fixed and we move onto morning meeting. Which has turned into one of my favorite parts - because I get a chance to chat with them before we move onto assignments.
     Between writing assignments, preventing the class clown from taking over, (although to be fair, he was funny) and messing up on explaining the math lesson, we managed to work amiably towards the end of the day. I had two students stay in for recess and lunch because she was recovering from a tonsil removal and couldn't be outside. Again, back to the mystery of the subbing. I didn't know I would be having lunch with students that day.
    And then we got to the guest speaker, our last assignment of the day. I thought, whew, Miss B is coming in and leading the class and I can take a breath. And that's when Miss B showed up, not a teacher like I assumed, but a eighteen year old senior in high school state beauty pageant winner. 
    She came in wearing a stylish sweater, her hair swept back into wavy locks, thin high heels on her feet that clicked against the classroom floor, a small, but shiny tiara on top of her head, and a sash across her chest with Miss HomeTown State. This was our guest speaker, doing a Veteran's Day project with a classroom full of second graders. Mmm, I was going to have to make sure they listened to a teenager. Oh, boy.
    And then I realized that all the second graders were staring at her, their eyes wide and they were listening to every soft spoken and perfectly articulated word she said. And when she said it was time to grab the construction paper and create cards for veterans - they eagerly got to work. She circled the room, visiting with each student. I was helping a student with his card when he gives me a panicked look. "Where did the queen go? Where did she go? I wanted to see her again."
    The queen?  Oh, my. Tiara. Sash.
    "Miss B? She's over there, helping your classmate."
    "Oh, good. I thought she left."
    His classmate across the desk looks at us. "She's a princess. I'm so glad she's here. We got to see a princess today."
   I look at Miss Hometown State and tried to see what the classroom of second graders are seeing and I can see it, with her poise and her grace and the way she softly and royally makes her way around the classroom. All those hours I know she has spent learning how to glide have paid off. I didn't know you could even glide in high heels?
   But I think it might really be the tiara too. It's shiny and pretty and Disneyish.

   Mmm, perhaps stickers aren't the key to subbing - wearing a tiara and sash is. And then I remember how I don't glide in high heels, my words are not always articulate, and I don't own a tiara.
    I decide to buy more stickers. They're cheaper than a tiara anyways.
   
    

Adventures in Subbing

    I was standing in the middle of a different kindergarten room, determined to succeed this time. Which meant this time I wasn't going to allow a huge tub of crayons to be dumped on the floor, ran over by chairs, and then caught by the para pro as if I didn't know what I'm doing. (Uhh, not really...but no one needs to know that.)

    It was only a half day and I managed to catch the teacher before she left, which I have found to be extremely helpful. I get to ask questions, like what are the bathroom rules for your class. Some teachers remember to write down this important rule and others forget. Which can be a disaster, because what I have discovered is that the kids will tell you that they are free to skip off to the bathroom, together in large groups, gathering friends from other rooms on the way, and they can stay there all day.

   So far I have found this rule to be incorrect and one of the first things I do when I arrive at a classroom is to find the bathroom passes. If a teacher has bathroom passes hanging by the door - it's usually a good indication that there are some bathroom rules.

   The Kinder teacher is friendly and equally relieved to be talking to me as I was to have the chance to chat with her. Another thing I have discovered is that most teachers prefer to make a little contact with the sub before they hand over their group of students.
   She runs me through rules, technology, and behavioral issues. And then she stops and looks at me.
  "We've had a lot of lice in this class. I don't know just how many probably have lice right now. I got lice twice last year and I only started to wear my hair down again. I hope you didn't spend a long time doing your hair today?"
   My hand goes to my long locks, which secretly I had been thinking were looking especially wavy and pretty today. I was actually having an excellent hair day - something of a rarity for me. But the moment she mentioned lice, I pulled the hair clip from my hair and swept it all up and out of the way. I did not need to take lice home from work. I already had to worry about Baby Blueberry bringing the little pests home from her own Kindergarten class.

   The students arrive back from lunch, eyeing me with curiosity and hesitancy.  It is at least more welcoming than the fifth grade class I had recently subbed in - they made a big production of being upset over having a sub and their behavior that day had reflected that attitude.

   We run through the material and everyone is participating except for three little boys - but I'm considering this a win. The class is growing restless though, writing is still a difficult skill at this age and they have been working hard. But we have another math sheet to get through.

  I dig in my bright blue backpack that I've started carrying with me. It's my sub pack and it has grown in size with every new class I have subbed in. Because I have found that I need my own supply of first aid items, colored pencils and other teaching necessaries to do a proper job.

    I pull out doggie and kitty stickers I had added just for the younger classes. They are photos of the cutest, fluffiest, and adorable pets that someone could find. I don't think you can find cuter kitties any where in the world and they are my secret weapon.
   "All right guys, I know you've been working so hard. You are doing great on your work, but we have one more sheet to work through before your special class. (language with another teacher) See these stickers - everyone gets one if you finish your work."
    The ooo's and ahh's fill the room. Who doesn't want the cutest doggie or kitty sticker ever made? I hand out their math sheet and they eagerly go to work. And I happily hand everyone a sticker that afternoon.

   We end the day with a coloring sheet and no crayons on the ground.

     And I bring home no lice.

  

   

Subbing in Kindergarten

    I'm standing in the middle of chaos - wondering what the hell I'm doing here. Interviewing physicists and clergy is much easier than what I've just signed up for. Heck, even interviewing chefs is easier than this and they oftentimes possess inflated egos. All I can say about that - is the Food Network has created small hometown chefs who think they are celebrity chefs just because they can grilled a steak properly. To be fair - I can't really grill a steak properly- so I will give them props for that.

    But media jobs are hard to find and I was in need of some income - so I signed up to be a substitute teacher. After all, I homeschooled the girls during their middle school years and we work on assignments during the summers. I also have a background in education, although not formal classroom experience - so why not?

    After a background check and two and half hours of training I'm ready to lead the classroom. Or so the sub coordinator tells me.

    Um, no. I thought I was ready to lead the classroom and then I decided to sub for a kindergarten classroom for my first time.
    It was like 24 Baby Blueberries at the same time. I wasn't a temporary kindergarten teacher - I was a manager of chaos. A director of potty breaks, Band-Aids, and oh, please don't eat the math cubes.

    To be fair the day had no chance not to be a little on the chaotic side- the teacher had gotten ill and went home half way through the day. So the little guys went to lunch and when they came back- there I was to take over - after they had only attended two weeks of school. They don't even have their routine down and their teacher has gone missing.

      It started out calm and managed though. Our first assignment was watching a Leapfrog video on the alphabet. But I couldn't find the video. So we searched the Youtube for it. I found it, but not the entire song.
    "That's not the right one," one little boy told me.
    "I don't know which one it is, guys."
    "It's that one," another student insisted.
    "No, it's not. It's that one."
    "I see Pete the Cat on there- can we watch that?"
    "No," I said, finally finding the correct Leapfrog video.
     All the kids joyfully sang with the song and tried to make their letter sounds. Okay, this sub thing is going to go okay, I think to myself.
     Then we have to work on our All About Me books. Do you know how hard it is to pass out books when you don't know anyone's name and half the class isn't listening for their name? And some of the kids can't even pronounce their names well enough for you to understand them?
    Finally, all the books are passed out and I'm reading a book to them while they color.
    Then total and complete chaos erupts. The noise level has slowly and steadily grown higher and then I turn around to see that two of the little girls have dumped a tub of crayons on the floor and the two boys sitting at their table are running over the crayons with their chairs. OMG
   
    And that's when the parapro walks in to pick up a student.

    I haven't been that embarrassed for a long time - not since I asked a chef how to make peasant soup instead of pheasant soup. (He was wondering if I was seriously asking about cannibal recipes.)

     She instantly goes to the front of the room and threatens to take away recess if they don't quiet down and start listening to the sub.
     A startled hushness falls over the previously noisy kindergartners. Lose recess? The horror.

    And for the rest of the day - when ever the noise level started creeping up- all I had to do was remind them that they wanted to go out for recess, right? Instant quiet.
   And I also kept the two little trouble makers separated for the rest of the day. That helped a lot.

   At the end of the day the counselor came in to do a activity with the children- they kept her on her toes too. She had a photo of her dogs and do you know how much five years old want to talk about all their pets - dead and alive? I'm now aware that there are quite a few cats and hamsters buried in people's backyards throughout town.
       After the children leave she comes up to me and says, do you know how many people won't sub in kindergarten because of how busy they are? Quite a few.
      I nod, still trying to catch my breath. But surprisingly, I found myself thinking I would come back - but with stickers. Definitely stickers and maybe Goldfish crackers.