I hate my job.

No. I just want to hold up my hand to anyone, to whatever question is asked, to whatever request, to whatever administrator. I want to hold up my hand: Stop. No.

Have still been in a bit of a fog, memories of Gramma care still so fresh on my mind, "are you warm enough?" she asked me about 700 times, the thank you's, the "I love you kids." Warm water from a straw in a certain glass, morphine patches and funny stories and middle of the night adjustments. Blankets and pillows to prop, hand holding, so much hand holding, wafer thin hands in mine that I would rub hand lotion into and up her arms, bone and loose skin. Funeral and family and bagpipes at the church, at the cemetery. Tears and stark awarenesses that I can't, I won't hear her voice again, ever. The tape I took from the player next to her bed, Ernie Tennesee Ford, spirituals; I played them on my way home from work today. Not necessarily what I would choose to hear, but my Gramma, I wanted to hear what she heard, I wanted to be close to her, still.

We had a big IEP meeting for M., my crazy Puerto Rican boy who speaks no English, who does no work, who wreaks havoc and writes foreign letters that have little resemblance to anything legible. I brought writing samples and stories of behavior, and 15 pages of documented incidents. The SPED teacher was 1/2 hour late, and brought little with her herself but stories of non-compliance. The principal sat in on the meeting as well, who I later had a meeting with about her observing in my classroom, standard, as everyone has done the last two weeks that I was absence.

"You and Ms. H (Sped teacher) were not prepared at all for the IEP meeting," she tells me. "It was an embarassment."

WTF? "I never had SPED kids in my class. I don't know how these meetings go. I'm three days back in school after being out for two weeks. What was I supposed to bring? He does nothing. I have nothing to show. You saw his writing. You saw the documented incidents."

"You should have counted the number of times he's run out of the room. You should have had a running tally."

Are you fucking kidding me?

"Next time talk to J. the SPED facilitator person and get a better idea how to be prepared. Don't worry about it for now."

Right. I'm not going to.

The meeting goes on. I don't know what the fuck she's talking about. MCAS's and FBA's and how many peace days have you had? and we have to get our attendance up, how are you documenting that?

D. continued to hide again today, J. was laying across tables, G. was found in the back of the classroom humping C. A. was pissed that he couldn't color all day long and sat in a corner banging his head saying "I'm stupid. I'm stupid." One of the children broke the pencil sharpener yesterday so there were no sharpened pencils. Fuck you.

"And you need to document every PD ... every team time, every mentor meeting - you can keep a notebook. I also need a portfolio of your lesson plans, attendence, FBA's, incentive plans..."

"uh huh, uh huh, right, sure, uh huh"

"And where are you in your licensure?"

I am a Montessori teacher, not fully trained, working on a temporary license. I'm supposed to take some teacher tests to get licensed, three hour long tests of general curriculum for public school that I have no fucking clue about. I'm still in training and have a shit ton of work to catch up and revise for my Montessori course.

"Well I'm still in training so I thought that would cover it."

"You have to take your licensure exam."

Fuck you. I go to work early every day. I leave late every day. I do the best I fucking can and now I need to put together portfolios and FBA's and write a note every single day to M.'s mother to let her know how he is doing, and have my para translate it to Spanish. Every day. I need FBA's on 6 of my kids, some behavior documentation shit. I need to get my third graders up to snuff to pass the MCAS exams coming up in the spring. And, apparently, I need to study and prepare for teacher licensure exams.

Blah and blah and blah and by this time I am so overwhelmed and already put in ample time not even including the hours over the weekend or the cutting out laminated materials or the creating my own materials. Not even including the hour and a half I spend in the car commuting every day.

Waitressing is looking real good right now. Being a check out girl at Shop and Stop is looking really good right now. Hell hole of a fucking school, "This school is a joke," my colleague said today, and you want me to do more work? Prepare for another exam so I can secure my license to stay here? What makes you think I want to stay here? Why would I want to?

was it always this exhausting?

Feel like I'm gonna drop to the floor. My classroom is still a mess from my hiatus, so much to organize and put back together. I stayed an extra hour yesterday and thought I would today and then thought "F it. I'll just come in early tomorrow" (and we all know how that goes, right? ... snooze button, snooze button, snooze button, oh shit I'm late...).

I feel so behind. My lesson plans are leftovers from what I didn't get done three weeks ago, the assessments are still on my desk that I never gave, my first graders have grown accustomed to the handwriting practice busy work... argh.

Kids are the same. M. is still bolting, despite his medication. My female M. - well she's not so much the same - must be on some new medication because she has totally mellowed to the point I don't even recognize that she's there when it used to be she was the most blatant presence in the class. But I still struggle - medication? Mind altering drugs? What do they do to a developing brain? Is it really good for the child, or just for the adults around him/her?
Def makes life easier, but .... uggg.

Work after death... I mean I'm not busting out into tears in the classroom (that only seems to happen in the evening, when it's time to call Gramma time and I remember with some kind of jolt that she's not there anymore), but something has shifted. My love, my patience, sure, I feel more mellow and appreciative, but I also feel more... tired. Exhausted. Just exhausted. Not just exhausted, but lethargic. Depression? Maybe it's that. Maybe.

I'm not quite as interested. Is that awful? A. was reported to DSS, not by the school but a neighbor? His hygiene is awful (E. told him once "you smell like garbage," which, really, is sometimes true). He's totally immature and is often in trouble for not listening, etc, and then sits around and says "I'm bad. I'm bad. I'm so bad." ... His father is in jail for I don't know what, so I often intervene with "you're not bad, you just don't always make the best choices" or something like this, though lately, as in the last couple days, I don't. Intervene, that is. Maybe it's a flavor of the month thing because now my eye is on D., the boy who hides and puts on this mean face and dodges and ducks and bursts into yelps for attention. I've been singling him out. Having him read to me, putting my arm around him, sitting next to him and I feel him mellow. I feel him ease. These kids, collectively and individually, need SOOOO much attention...

Maybe I feel a bit like D. I'd like to hide, to observe from behind a shelf, to bark to make sure that I'm still there.

I had an IEP meeting today for one of my SPED kids, S. Last year she was such a royal pain in the ass, but to a scary degree screaming about how she wanted to kill herself, she hates herself, choking herself and smacking herself until her face was bright red, slamming her head against the wall... She would throw fits and literally throw materials around the room, chairs, whatever. WE've had to evacuate on her behalf and get the kids away from her for safety. She's a third grader who is on a first grade level. Yet this year... there has been no threats of suicide, there has been no head banging or furniture throwing and I sat in this meeting this morning and thought wow... huge change... she's really coming a long way...

So at least there is that. And it's something.

I'm so behind. I feel so behind. It's exhausting just to think about so I think I'll take a nap.

back to school.

I was bombarded with love this morning. Arms and smiles clamoring for me, "Ms Lowe! Ms Lowe!" (though later one child mused "we don't even call you Ms. Lowe, we call you MihLo!"). It was a love fest reunion... All sympathy and smiles as they asked about my Gramma, questions overtaken by "I missed you!!!" G., one of my first graders, kept saying in this baritone voice for a boy, "Yeah. My teacher's back. Yeah."

Sure it made me feel good.

Everything today was seen through a haze of death and love. The new pencils, the popcorn for snack, the laughing raucous noise, the handwriting practice. It all seemed so precious and somehow fleeting, like I wanted to tell them STOP! Treasure this moment! This one, right now!!! -But I didn't. I just stood back and took it in.

And I gave some lessons. The children were so hungry for work, listing all the contractions in the English language, working on irregular plurals and labeling fractions. It was a good day. Even when it got loud and M. left the room running and A. put on his f-you face and left the room for no apparent reason with his backpack on and D. was back again, hiding in corners and under tables like a feral animal, it was good. It was good to be back.

Even though now I'm home with a mile of laminated materials to cut out and lesson plans that need more detail and meetings to prepare for - I haven't stopped yet and have more to go still - I think I'm okay with this.

I used to call my gramma on my way home from work or right after dinner. I miss her. I miss her badly. But life, indeed, goes on. And the cards I got from colleagues and even a fruit basket... all mean so very much; more than anyone can know.

life after death

And the beat goes on...
Home again after essentially helping my grandmother die... the most profound journey of sorts ever taken... so much to say about that it would take another blog altogether. Huge honor to be there. Life changing. Beautiful and tragic at the same time. Miss her so badly...

But back to school tomorrow, the subject of this blog. Yet my past couple weeks will undoubtedly weave it's way into new fabric and perhaps a way of being... I became so soft, so soft with my Gramma... So in love with everything, everyone - with air, with colors, with birds - all these earthly delights we take so hard for granted... And the children - I'm hoping all that love will extend and my temper will be just that much longer and my words will be just that much kinder and my patience will be noticably extended...

I have new stories to share with the children. I can't wait to go back, and I dread going back.
Will keep ya posted...

death does not come easy

I've been here with Gramma since Monday. It's now Friday. And I've actually left the house to come shower at my stepmothers and write this blog. It might just keep me sane.

Congestive heart failure and a strong diuretic is not ridding the water which means the kidneys will eventually shut down and we will all say goodbye. In the meantime it's a long, slow downhill battle and I am savoring every minute.

I've been sleeping with her in her bed, her propped up on five pillows, holding hands while she sleeps and I listen for every breath. I"m exhausted and I would stay up and will stay up for more days if I have to. We've moved to the living room now, to a lounge chair that she's propped up in with many pillows and blankets, oxygen hanging out of her nose and paper thin hands that reach for mine and I hold; fragile, delicate, silken, cold.

I've gone into her bedroom alone which likely she will never see again and I've wept. I look at the walls, the trinkets on her dresser, the old clothes hanging in her closet and I remember my whole life. I weep and I weep. But who gets to have their grandmother until they're 40? Me.

She opens her eyes and I"m right there. "What do you need? Are you okay?"
My brother has stayed with me the last two nights. We sleep on the uncomfortable couch and get her up at 2am, 4am, when she needs to use the bathroom. She can't walk anymore though so now we're just pulling away the lounge chair and replacing it with a commode in one moment's time so she can just stand up and sit back down. It exhausts her.

She's told me my whole life of her show business days in the 1920's as a young girl, dazzling Alfred E. Smith, some politician I think? It was only today that I found the bag of 1926 newspaper clippings of her and her sisters dancing on stages and rave reviews of the Dimond sisters and their grace. I'm still learning about her and she is almost gone. I will learn more, I know, when she goes.

I've been praying to my Pop; come take her, come take her. Her four sisters and brothers who have come before; come take her, come take her. She's ready although I may never be but I am but i"m not but I am.

My sister, my brother, my cousin, my stepmother, my father - we have all been there in shifts and I, for this is not my home anymore, this town, I park myself with her, next to her.

I called her every night for the past year. She's been living alone for the 25 years since my grandfather has passed. In moments I glimpse the intense loneliness she must have been feeling for so many so many years.

This has nothing to do with my school or my kids or other hard lives. Everyone's life is hard. In my readings of the past week I came across some snippet about a culture long ago that celebrated death more than life, for they knew when a baby was born that life was hard and full of trials, and peace comes only consistently in death.

She is a treasure, this woman, my grandmother. I have been blessed.

I called the teacher who works in the next pod last night. She said my class has risen, has risen to the occasion and things have been so smooth and I want to hug and kiss Ms. N, my para, who is a miracle worker in this intense time. She wants me to be here, knows how special it is, has not a shred of resentment in my absence.

I will stay as long as I am needed here. I will return to my life at my school, my work, my home, changed.

Chris is coming tonight, thank God. I've missed him and I miss my kids and I am so proud of them, who they are and how they live. I hear that M. is on medication now that has made him so much calmer, he's not running out of the room anymore. I can't wait to see him.

And A., my science boy. My neighbor teacher told me of a conversation I had of where I am, what I"m doing. He was excited, going to see his own grandmother and Ms. E told him that when she gets older, he can do the same thing for her. He nodded, he got it.

So much love. SO much love. Really, it's all that matters.

another movie

I'm in another movie altogether right now.

I knew my grandmother was in rough shape, so I came down Monday so my brother and I could pick up my dad to bring him down to see her which was really the best medicine we could offer.  But since then I haven't been able to leave.

Grandma will be 90 in January, if she makes it.  She's in the last stages of congestive heart failure, her legs are swollen like balloons and it's hard for her to walk.  She lives alone.  She has someone come over in the evening to get her dinner and get her to bed, and now she'll be coming in the morning as well but she can't start the morning until Saturday.  In the meantime, my gramma can't walk.  She can't get herself to the bathroom.  She can't do anything.  She hasn't been eating, she's been taking pills that are supposed to make her pee so the swelling goes down, but so far this hasn't done the trick.

Last night I stayed with her, slept over, got up four times in the middle of the night to take her to the bathroom, painstakingly shuffling the six feet it takes to get there which takes about ten minutes.  It sucks.  I looked at her last night, she was glazed and babbling about "take my necklace" etc.  I started crying.  She perked up.  "Don't cry! Don't cry!  I'll bounce back, I always do!" 

"But Gramma, you're tired.  You're so tired," I said.

She doesn't even watch tv, and she hasn't even had a cup of tea which is the major blaring red flag.

So what do I do? My father is in his own situation, her only son, he can't really do much from his chair in Huntington.  My sister and brother work (oh, right, so do I) and can't do much.

My class?  Ms. N just called me a little while ago, bless her heart.  She told me everything is fine there with the class and to take my time down here, I'm doing the right thing, this is more important, etc.  Yesterday I worried about my class.  I thought I'd go home last night and be back there today but now it looks like I won't be back til Monday.  And today I'm not worried about my class.  Fuck em.  This is my real life here, my family.  This is what's more important.  This is my reality right now.

and it pretty much sucks and I'd rather be with my kids but what am I gonna do?

field trip

It was okay. Exhausting. A. flipped out and kicked the wall for a few minutes, M. told T. that she doesn't brush her teeth and her mouth stinks, general running problems and antics, but we all survived. There was a little push and tumble before lunch when three children fell on top of each other and a couple parents gasped.

But to hear the kids - the gasps and squeals and "ooohh's!!!" during the planetarium show and the dinosaur exhibits... it was really very cool. As exhausted as I'm feeling right now, I might say it was worth it. It also might be true that there's several kids I'd much rather leave at school next time however....

I did leave M. and another A. Was really bummed about leaving A. since he is probably the smartest kid in my class and obsessed with science. What could I do though? After giving him ten warnings I finally had to make good on the threat. It sucks being a meanie but at the same time that ODD shit is serious.

When I got home there was a call from my school district. One of those recorded messages that goes out to every family. We get them every night before an open house or when something else significant is happening at school. The one tonight addressed "a couple of recent incidents." One being about my girl T. and the inappropriate man by the school doors. Apparently it wasn't the first time and they are "so proud of the student who reported it to her teacher." ... Right. Except when they accused her of making it up I guess?

And "there was another incident where a student brought a bb gun to school." But "I assure you the safety of our school is in tact and we are hiring another security guard by the end of next week" blah blah blah... "Thank you and have a wonderful weekend."

What's funny is that every single time we get these automated messages they are conveyed first in English and then in Spanish. This time, however, it was not translated. Which means that the 75% of our school population that doesn't speak English have no idea what was said.

Ask me if I'm surprised.

Gotta sleep. Thank God for a three day weekend.