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Oh I already know that I'm going to wish that this post didn't exist but I'm going with it regardless. Father, forgive me but the hardest part of March for me is being of Irish upbringing. All the days we wake wholly optimistic and the greener it gets outside, the keener I can be about christening spring with hardcore socializing and pouring of drinks. A beer for them, a mix of very specific spirits for me. It's all fun and games until, I have to pick up at night at slice something. So in light of that theme I give you today's topic...
Internet browsing history.
This is probably one of the most secretive parts of all of our lives. I actually have a pact with friends about wishes we have for one another after death. All of which touch upon the importance of clearing our browser history. For the record I just want to say that none of this is ever illegal nor is it shameful, shiiiiitttt, I think it's downright funny - all of it! However in the context of adulthood, with children, and under the eye of people who are not us, some of these browsing histories can easily be considered embarrassing.

Take yesterday for instance. My little family spent the day parading in town, with friends and their kids. The children had a blast. They required little attention from all of us so it turned into a real great parent playdate. We drank, ate, and migrated to one of our homes until way later than we expected. The day became something fuzzy. So little effort was necessary for the good times being had. I remember all and none of it at the same time. However, my phone did show a whole 8 hours of activity had. More incriminating than photos and texts can be, internet browser histories are - for good and for bad - a direct window to our yesterday selves.
So who was I yesterday?
Well let's see. At some point I looked up "Napoleon Dynamite clips" on YouTube specifically focusing my search on the karate guy. I remember that our friends who were coming the next day were curious about my son's karate master. This is whom I felt most represented our Master David. There's a lot more that I could explain to enhance the essence of him, but I fear he may find out and break me like a board in two. He's a character and I'm afraid he might find it one day and the stress from that kind of threat is more than I can take. I will have no choice but to delete this whole paragraph tomorrow.

Who else was I yesterday? I was a person who looked up the parade start three separate times. 1pm. I googled if Hershey milk chocolate eggs were gluten-free in 2020. They are. And if the rapper Nelly was still alive. He is.

I looked up my old curling iron (purple Hot Tools 1.5 inches) and where I could buy it the cheapest. It's no surprise that I found the answer to be Amazon. And that it was already in my cart but saved for later? And dammit to hell, I bought 4 other things that I didn't need but would really make my life easier plus PRIME DELIVERY and FREE RETURNS!

I looked up how to play The Rolling Stone party game on YouTube. That was a gift I bought the friend I was with for her birthday earlier in the week. Unfortunately our crews were all a little too Irish to play anything requiring thinking last night. Just basement shuffleboard and roller skating...

I want a new automatic hand soap dispenser. Used to have one when my sons were constantly sick from being really young and disgusting but it was junked before we moved. Now seems like the perfect time to revisit that affordable invention considering... and wait, they make them of stainless steel? SHUT UP! I have to go see these later in the week!

I see that the park district spring soccer registration page is open and I recall a discussion on the age limits not meeting up with the grades listed. Ages 8 and up isn't 3rd grade in April. It's the end of 2nd for many and - I don't care, he wants to do it so- I'm just going to go ahead and register him; let them try and stop me and my affinity for fighting for/against thefineprint!

Yesterday's me found some really comfy ladies' board shorts in navy for our upcoming vacation. I mean they look fine and have pockets but I won't lie, I don't think I'm cool enough to pull them off. Maybe vacation me will be cool enough but regular me - no f'n way can I pull those off... or can I?

Something I found out earlier in the week popped up in my history for yesterday: our school district's superintendent has a blog! She's very smart, has a quick-lip, takes no prisoners. I like what she's done for my sons' schools and what she's leaving to do for the state. It was my huge surprise to come across a personal, professional blog she writes. And that she spotlights different women in the administration field of education and has them guest write on her page? Well that's pretty great. I like it. Am for it. Currently reading retroactively and apparently sharing it with others.

I had a related search on two separate windows. A movie groupon for a theater nearby and the showtimes listed for that theater. Specifically the intel on how they still host Rocky Horror Picture Show midnights there! I have never done, but do consider stripping down to my inner Janet Weiss like a major goal for my bucket.

This brings me to the last bit of internet-worthy interest to me this weekend... The Illinois Recreational Use FAQ page. Now this one I do remember quite well and it makes perfect sense that every link was clicked violet, having been read and shared aloud among friends.

Now I don't think the list above is an accurate description of me but it is a definite glimpse into one day of my curious brain under the influence. Am I ashamed? No way! I admit to all of it, obviously, or I wouldn't have shared anything. I am guilty of leaving browser windows open for months at a time and/or emailing them to myself for later reference. I feel no shame for this. What I do wonder is where YOUR browser history would lead me. What have you had open for a long time and do you even remember why you went there in the first place? It's an interesting game to play by yourself and a great way to fill foggy writing days that start uninspired.

(c) B. Butler, 2020. All rights reserved.

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Oh I already know that I'm going to wish that this post didn't exist but I'm going with it regardless. Father, forgive me but the hardest part of March for me is being of Irish upbringing. All the days we wake wholly optimistic and the greener it gets outside, the keener I can be about...

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Dear Parents,

First of all - You've got this!

Now that I have your attention, here's one thing I have learned as a teacher over the years -- if you are a planner, you need to slow down and plan for the long haul. If you are not a planner then you have a little time, but you still need to plan for the long haul. So that means in our current situation, we have a little wiggle room!

The first thing we all need to do is breathe. You need to breathe. Your kids need to breathe. Your family unit needs to breathe. There is a LOT of change happening. Our kids are watching. Our kids are listening. Our kids are trying to process all of our emotions. This is real. This is happening. We all need time to find our way into this, although temporary, new normal. What kids need more than anything right now is you. Just you.

Educators and authors, including myself, have been sharing plans, ideas, and resources for online learning. The creativity and generosity are amazing. It can also be overwhelming. Remember, we are planning for the long-haul. Right now, you are being inundated with "what" to do, but "how" you do it might be more essential. I think we need to bookmark and organize all of these resources and first develop a learning, living, home community.

As teachers, this is what we do at the beginning of the year. We develop our systems and structures with our students. We get to know them as students and let them know us. We decide how we are going to learn together, be together, and support one another in our learning community. We also organize our learning space with our students. Where will the supplies be? How will we organize the books/magazines/text in our community? How will we rotate jobs so we are all contributing members of our community? Where will we work? What will we do when problems arise?

I think this is the work we need to do in this first week home. Give yourself time to create your learning, living home community.

Here are some things to consider :

1) Play together - play is the motor of learning for young children - board games, dramatic play, building, puzzles, etc. Let them create games. Give them time to play and join them as you can - it will reduce stress for everyone.

2) Get outside - go for walks, notice nature, notice parts of your city or neighborhood you have missed in the past, build a fort, create scavenger hunts for objects or pieces of information.

3) Watch TV together - let's face it there will be some screen time coming your way. When you are able, watch, respond and relax with them.

4) Problem-solve together - if you are working from home then you will need time to do that work. Talk to your kids and let them know what you need. Ask them what they need and work it out together. Plan the time you will work and ask them to help out by planning what they will do during this time. How can they be a part of the solution? Everyone loves being helpful, let them be a contributing member.

5) Family meals - plan, cook and eat together. I remember doing this with my parents and with my kids when they were young. Your kids will also remember.

6) Keep it real - don't try to be perfect and don't try to keep up with what others post online.

7) Listen - so often we are in a rush - we are moving on to the next thing on our list while still involved in the previous thing on our list. Slow down, listen, talk, question, linger, and appreciate the time we have to connect with our kids.

8) Journal - create a journal for drawing and writing. A historian on-line yesterday recommended that everyone keep a journal. This is a significant moment in history and your children will someday be a primary source of this event.

9) Investigate together - kids have a million questions, and now you have time to answer them WITH them. Join your kids in curiosity and learning for the pure joy of learning.

10) READ - read to them, with them, and next to them. It doesn't matter what it is or how many times you reread it. Read together!

Kids are going to be okay. You don't have to have a home-school up and running by Monday. Take this first week to be together. Stay in your PJs all day, have breakfast for dinner, go on long walks, laugh until it hurts, and don't feel guilty when you need to take time to do your job or just have a moment to yourself. Change takes time, take the time to help your kids through this change.

Breathe - you've got this.

Clare

Thank you, Stacey, Beth, Betsy, Kathleen, Melanie, Lanny, Kelsey, Marina, Amy, and Therapi for hosting this weekly forum and the March Challenge. Check out the writers, readers, and teachers here.

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Slice of Life: Dear Parents ... #SOL20 #TWTBlog - Clare Landrigan

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Dear Parents, First of all - You've got this! Now that I have your attention, here's one thing I have learned as a teacher over the years -- if you are a planner, you need to slow down and plan for the long haul.

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Wandering around the Albuquerque Airport Terminal, after learning
my flight had been delayed four hours, I heard an announcement:
"If anyone in the vicinity of Gate A-4 understands any Arabic, please
come to the gate immediately."

Well-one pauses these days. Gate A-4 was my own gate. I went there.

An older woman in full traditional Palestinian embroidered dress, just
like my grandma wore, was crumpled to the floor, wailing. "Help,"
said the flight agent. "Talk to her. What is her problem? We
told her the flight was going to be late and she did this."

I stooped to put my arm around the woman and spoke haltingly.
"Shu-dow-a, Shu-bid-uck Habibti? Stani schway, Min fadlick, Shu-bit-
se-wee?" The minute she heard any words she knew, however poorly
used, she stopped crying. She thought the flight had been cancelled
entirely. She needed to be in El Paso for major medical treatment the
next day. I said, "No, we're fine, you'll get there, just later, who is
picking you up? Let's call him."

We called her son, I spoke with him in English. I told him I would
stay with his mother till we got on the plane and ride next to
her. She talked to him. Then we called her other sons just
for the fun of it. Then we called my dad and he and she spoke for a while
in Arabic and found out of course they had ten shared friends. Then I
thought just for the heck of it why not call some Palestinian poets I know
and let them chat with her? This all took up two hours.

She was laughing a lot by then. Telling of her life, patting my knee, answering questions. She had pulled a sack of homemade
mamool
cookies-little powdered sugar crumbly mounds stuffed with dates and
nuts-from her bag-and was offering them to all the women at the gate.
To my amazement, not a single woman declined one. It was like a
sacrament. The traveler from Argentina, the mom from California, the
lovely woman from Laredo-we were all covered with the same powdered
sugar. And smiling. There is no better cookie.

And then the airline broke out free apple juice from huge coolers and two some medicinal thing, with green furry leaves. Such an old country tradi-
little girls from our flight ran around serving it and they
were covered with powdered sugar, too. And I noticed my new best friend-
by now we were holding hands-had a potted plant poking out of her bag,

tion. Always carry a plant. Always stay rooted to somewhere.

And I looked around that gate of late and weary ones and I thought, This
is the world I want to live in. The shared world. Not a single person in that
gate-once the crying of confusion stopped-seemed apprehensive about
any other person. They took the cookies. I wanted to hug all those other women, too.

This can still happen anywhere. Not everything is lost.

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Gate A-4 - Wandering around the Albuquerque Airport Terminal, after learning

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So, she sat on the couch in the third room.
"Ahhh, this couch is just right," she said happily and then looked at the price tag.

After she sat in all the couches, she decided that she was feeling a little overwhelmed. So she walked into the kitchen section where she saw three different types of chairs.

Goldilocks sat in the first chair to rest her feet.

"This chair is too hard," she exclaimed.

So she sat in the second chair.

"This chair is not right either," she whined. But just as she settled down into the third chair to try it out, she went into sticker shock!

Goldilocks was very tired by this time, so she went back into the car with her family.
There is always another day to shop!

THE END

Each year since March 2015 , I engage in Two Writing Teacher's Annual Slice of Life Story Challenge.

Slicing allows me to ponder life, literacy, and learning, capturing small moments poetically

through writing, photography, and digital art.

Day 9 of 31 days of writing March Slice of Life 2020 Story Challenge

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So, she sat on the couch in the third room. "Ahhh, this couch is just right," she said happily and then looked at the price tag. After she sat in all the couches, she decided that she was feeling a little overwhelmed. So she walked into the kitchen section where she saw three different types of chairs.

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My youngest son has a make believe friend. He just appeared one day after reading a story about a lion. His name is Roarie, and he's small enough to fit in the palm of my 2 year old's hand.

Roarie spends most of his time outside our dining room window, unless he's being used to convince Adam to do something.

"Roarie? Do you want some chicken?"
"Roarie? Why don't you come and put on your shoes?"
"Roarie? Come jump in the bath!"

One day, we were playing in the family room. Adam, per usual, was being a stinker, refusing to come by me for some reason or another.

"Oh look, Adam, I have Roarie here!" I held up my open-palmed hand and smiled.

Adam squealed and came running.

Much to my dismay, Adam reached out his hand, plucked Roarie from my palm, and proceeded to pop the poor lion into his mouth.

"Adam!" Nathan yelled, his mouth hanging open. "Did you just eat Roarie?"

Adam grinned - a toothy, triumphant smile.

Luckily enough for Roarie, he was immediately spit back into my outstretched hand, apparently unscathed. Since then, Roarie has materialized through walls, multiplied exponentially several times, been eaten and regurgitated more times than I can count, been at the center of many a magic trick, and provided endless hours of amusement.

I've always known imaginary friends can't be explained with logic, but I always wondered how they are invented. Turns out they simply appear one day and adeptly defy the laws that bind the rest of us.

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My youngest son has a make believe friend. He just appeared one day after reading a story about a lion. His name is Roarie, and he's small enough to fit in the palm of my 2 year old's hand. Roarie spends most of his time outside our dining room window, unless he's being used to convince Adam to do something.

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Our background is what we skied earlier that morning - almost to the valley floor, which is way out of sight here.

"Woah. Really? That's a huge day."

That was my initial response last week when Mike put out an idea for a Saturday Backcountry Ski Plan With Friends. The tour that he had in mind was one that he'd done a handful of times before, one that had been on his list for years before that, and one that I'd heard described by him - the crazy strong and efficient guy who is on skis almost every day of the season - as "fun, but that second skin up is a bear."

To my Weekend Warrior self, this particular tour seemed like a pipe dream - maybe something I could attempt in the spring, when I'd have more than six backcountry days under my feet and a little more confidence on board. Now didn't seem like the time for me to jump right into this kind of massive adventure.

But, here's the thing about me. My self perception can absolutely be influenced by those I trust, love, and respect. When my brain is going, "oh my god, there's no WAY that I could do a day that big on skis", and then Mike tells me that he thinks I'll be fine and that I can totally handle it and I won't hold the group back at all on the uphill parts and that I'll absolutely rock the ski down parts ... Sure! I'll give it a go.

So I gave it a go.

Beginning...

Middle...

Upper middle...

End! Back on the valley floor, 8 hours later. One tired cookie.

Our day contained the following pieces of information:

3750' of up

7864' of down

13,300' as a top elevation

8 hours of movement in ski boots

12+ miles of travel

Extremely variable snow. From a few pitches of soft and creamy dreaminess to most pitches of sun crusted nastiness, and everything in between.

4 miles of (adding insult to injury) skating back to the car

4 incredible friends

0 foot blisters (a minor miracle!)

1 redefined view of myself. I did it.

So, as it turns out, I'm stronger than I think I am. I know myself well enough to be armed with Kristina's Tools For Success (headphones, a killer playlist, some stashed chocolate chip cookies, and mind-body connections breathing techniques for when my smile finally fades from my face on the last pitch of the absolute BEAR of the second skin up), but it also serves me well to listen to what others believe I can do.

Now, Mike and I are off on a getaway to soak in the local hot springs for the next two days. I wonder what next weekend's adventure will be...

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I'm stronger than I think I am (Day 1/31 #sol20)

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"Woah. Really? That's a huge day." That was my initial response last week when Mike put out an idea for a Saturday Backcountry Ski Plan With Friends.

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What' the Most Important Element of a Good Story

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What' the Most Important Element of a Good Story

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What's the Most Important Element of a Good Story?

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At this year's Aspen Ideas Festival, we asked a group of writers, journalists, and producers to explain what makes a story great. According to House of Cards showrunner Beau Willimon, the answer is a simple one: "The most important element in a good story is conflict.

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Target Tales are stories or poems from my observations of and interactions with fellow shoppers at the retail store Target.

"It's NOT here," shouted a woman with a voice that's seen a lot of whatever she was looking before.

"What???" questioned an older gentleman.

I continued down the central aisle and found the source of the loud shouting, I mean conversation-an elderly couple, pushing a cart down the handsoap aisle.

"But it should be by the soap. It's hand sanitizer. Jenny told us to buy it," said the older gentleman.

"I know Bob. I heard her, too, but we can't buy it if it's not here."

Hand sanitizer was my Target list too. The hand sanitizer was hiding at the end cap of the hand soap aisle.

As their conversation continued, I tuned out and stared at the options in the bins before me. Small travel-sized bottles. Blue goo and green too. A peach variety and original unscented. I wanted to choose a scented sanitizer but decided on the generic unscented one. Why this choice? I thought ironically; the hand sanitizer would probably be the products that held the most significant number of germs on them in the entire store, with so many people picking bottles up at Target to combat the recent Coronavirus U.S. outbreak and its news coverage. I decided unscented was the best option because selecting it involved the least amount of touching the bottles.

The woman saw me and her back straightened.

"Bob. That lady over there has some."

"I said THAT LADY OVER THERE HAS SOME BOB," hollered the woman.

The couple shuffled over to the hand sanitizer and additional hand soap aisle.

I smiled at the couple as they moved closer to me.

The woman smiled back.

She looked up and down and noticed that there were only travel-sized bottles.

"Bob, they only have those tiny bottles. We need big ones."

"Why? We can just buy a bunch of those small ones."

At this point, I asked, "Do you need some help?"

The woman said, "No, you aren't wearing a red shirt. You don't work here."

I replied, "You're right, I don't, but I'd be happy to help you."

"Thanks, but no thanks. You've got places to go," as she turned back to discuss the bottle-size dilemma, Bob.

I smiled, and although I had no place in particular to go, said, "Well, then have a nice day."

They didn't reciprocate the farewell because, at that point, Bob had asked her what I asked his wife.

I hope they found the big bottles of hand sanitizer for their peace of mind and Jenny's too.

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Target Tales are stories or poems from my observations of and interactions with fellow shoppers at the retail store Target. "It's NOT here," shouted a woman with a voice that's seen a lot of whatever she was looking before. "What???" questioned an older gentleman.

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Your name is a flower, but you are more thorny than fragrant. You wear your defiance proudly, creating a space around you that few will brave. I thought I knew you before I met you; I knew your older sibling, both of your parents and, of course, I knew the very public story that was splashed across the local papers several years ago. And then you came into my classroom.

For months we have sparred. I approach, you block and turn. Duck, dodge, parry, thrust...elegant sword play, but with less emphasis on the elegant. Emails and phone calls to home reaffirm that I am doing my best, that your parents care and that the problem is all you. One hundred percent you. Even the counselor and the other teachers agree, it is all you.

I have watched you move further and further away during class, sinking into the biggest chair that is as far away from me as possible. This physical distance is so symbolic of your emotional state that it is cliche (but 7th graders always seem to walk the fine line between reality and caricature). You will occasionally come to ask a question, cautiously sitting beside my desk in the Conference Chair...but you almost never have a question, just a statement of defeat. "I don't know what I am supposed to be doing."

You were so happy during Spirit Week because you could wear your hat, pulled down low, hiding even more of you from the world. I joked with you that Friday, asking what you were going to do when you couldn't wear your hat anymore. You answered, "Oh, I'll still wear it," and we laughed, but I knew you weren't really joking.

Since then it has become your test: you put it on, wait for an adult to attempt to enforce the archaic dress code, and, when the they do, you take it off, wait a bit, and then do it all over again. Wash, rinse, repeat. Ad nauseum. I saw it happening and watched with bemused detachment. I rarely engage with the dress code enforcement, and students seem to know that I am a safe space, generally speaking.

And then, suddenly, I found myself the unwilling participant in this battle. I don't really know how it started, but somehow I have to believe that you conjured this up on purpose. Did you put on the hat and walk directly in front of me while I was talking to the Assistant Principal? Yes. Did you put on the hat and walk across the crowded cafeteria not once or twice but three or four times, daring me to say something or risk giving you tacit approval in front of 250 students? Yes. Did you collapse into that giant chair in the corner today, hat pulled down with your binder in front of your face, pretending to hide? Yes. And with each infraction, I said, "Take off your hat" or just "Hat" and you pulled it off, audibly somehow, just to reattach it to your head once the moment had passed.

So, finally, I pulled on my big-teacher pants and called you into the hall. I told you I had to write you up. This was the mother of all teacher cards and I had pulled it. You grunted, said you "get it" and asked to put your hat in your locker. I watched you reenter the class, hatless, and the battle was over. I had done my job and you had done yours. You slept through the rest of class, eyes wide open.

Teacher, mother, partner...writer?? Time to put it out there, I suppose. I started this on March 1, 2019 as a part of a challenge to write, everyday. March is over and yet I am still writing. Maybe not every day, but still writing. View all posts by amyilene

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Your name is a flower, but you are more thorny than fragrant. You wear your defiance proudly, creating a space around you that few will brave. I thought I knew you before I met you; I knew your older sibling, both of your parents and, of course, I knew the very public story that was...

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As I'm anticipating the rush and reflection of March, I'm reminded of my already hectic life.

For example, today we had our monthly Staff Meeting after school. This meeting puts me in a crunch to pick up the youngest boy from the baby-sitter or preschool on time. The dreary day was keeping any enthusiasm I might have for the meeting at bay. Trying to get ahead of the afternoon hustle, I text my husband to see if he would be available to run pick up duty.

"No seat" was his reply.

We've been experimenting with the booster seat. Technically, G needs to gain one more pound to use the booster, but it is much easier to move from vehicle to vehicle. Either way, Todd has no seat, so the responsibility is mine.

As soon as I could escape without being rude, I hit the road, a bit later than usual, but on time. With drops assaulting my windshield, I pulled into the parking lot of the preschool. I unbuckle my belt, step out into the rain, and hop up onto the curb. The door is unlocked and I notice the lights are off inside the window.

From the darkness, as I open the door, Miss Tessa simply says, "It's Tuesday."

I know that. I look at her trying to understand why she is telling me it's Wednesday..."Fudge!" I pivot on my heel, using my backside to push the door open again. G is at the sitter on Tuesdays!

The race is on now. I've wasted what time I had salvaged in leaving promptly by traveling to the Monday, Wednesday, Friday location. TODAY IS TUESDAY!

I'm speeding to the sitter's house, grateful it's not too far away. I make it in less than 10 minutes, with no time to spare. I jump out of the car already apologizing, "I'm sorry I'm late..."

The sitter is graciously smiling. G is waiting by the door, "Mommy!!!" Everything is fine.

I get in my own way so often. I really should take some time and slow down.

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As I'm anticipating the rush and reflection of March, I'm reminded of my already hectic life. For example, today we had our monthly Staff Meeting after school. This meeting puts me in a crunch to pick up the youngest boy from the baby-sitter or preschool on time.

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Each time I visit a school as part of a Meet The Author Day and talk to groups of young writers about the writing life I am passionately pursuing, certain questions arise during the course of a session:
Where do you get your ideas?
What inspired you to write poetry?
Do you have a favourite poem?
Do you prefer rhyming verse or free verse?
How long have you been writing poetry?
How did you get your poetry book published?
How long does it take to write a book?
All these questions are valid. All of them quite normal. But one Grade 6 boy's question set me to thinking more deeply about my response. He raised his hand and asked, 'Do you like sport?

I have been asked this question many times before. In fact. It has been raised with me on numerous occasions and it is always posed by boys. I suspect that in the minds of many boys, poetry and sports are viewed as mutually exclusive pursuits. Poetry is seemingly passive and sport, an active pursuit preferred by the majority of male role models in the li...

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Each time I visit a school as part of a Meet The Author Day and talk to groups of young writers about the writing life I am passionately pursuing, certain questions arise during the course of a session: Where do you get your ideas? What inspired you to write poetry?

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Today, March 3rd, 2020, I'm participating in Two Writing Teachers' Slice of Life Story Challenge.

Grasping gloved hands, we quick-stepped across the street toward the trailhead. My breath hung cloudy in the air, while cold wind whispered in my ear, reminding me it was still winter. "So, what did you write about yesterday?" asked my eight year-old daughter, looking up at me from beneath her pink polar fleece hat. The two of us had just snuck out of the house, bundled up in hats, gloves, and snow boots, to steal an early morning weekend hike while my wife and other two daughters slept in. I had just reminded her that the 2020 Slice of Life Story Challenge had begun.

"Well," I began, "I wrote about you. And that Cyndi Lauper song we heard yesterday. . . you know, the one called 'Girls Just Wanna Have Fun?' Remember we listened to that song yesterday?"

Suddenly dropping my hand, my daughter burst out into the frigid winter air, "Aww, come on, dad! That's what you wrote about?!"

Surprised by her reaction, I suddenly felt pangs of guilt. Gosh, maybe she feels offended that I wrote about her without her permission, I thought to myself. We had now reached the trailhead and had begun to traverse up the snowy path toward the barren forest. Winter stared at me from every angle. "Well," I stammered, "I mean, I didn't just write about you and that song. I, uh, also wrote about how it reminded me of high school, and other thoughts..."

My daughter interrupted my awkward explanation. "I mean, girls want a job and a life, too, Dad!" she quipped.

Wait, what did she just say? I tried to connect the dots of this surprising conversation. Then suddenly it occurred to me that her indignation originated not from a parental breach of privacy assumption; no, she was taking issue with the song lyric. "You mean, girls don't want to just have fun?" I asked trying to clarify.

"Yeah!" my daughter giggled. "I mean, that's dumb. Girls. . . we want a job and a life, too! That song is dumb. I don't like it."

"Right, honey. I hear you. Girls want more than to just have fun." With snow crunching beneath our boots, we grabbed hands again and headed into the forest.

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Slice of Life Story Challenge 2020 Day 3

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Today, March 3rd, 2020, I'm participating in Two Writing Teachers' Slice of Life Story Challenge. Grasping gloved hands, we quick-stepped across the street toward the trailhead. My breath hung cloudy in the air, while cold wind whispered in my ear, reminding me it was still winter. "So, what did you write about yesterday?"

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Today, on a field trip, I was asked to write my name on this name tag. I paused. I had to try a second time, when I messed up the first. I was a little off balance. Those two words at the top, "School Teacher," gave me pause. "School Teacher" isn't an identity I've ever claimed. But why? I'm a passionate advocate for public schools. I've been a teacher in the public schools for nearly three decades. It might not seem to make sense that I couldn't identify with the label.

Identity is an idea that has been percolating on my back burner for a while now. Identities we choose. Identities we wear proudly. Identities assigned to us by others. How those identities comfort us....limit us...fit comfortably or uncomfortably. Identities that make demands on us. Identities we hide behind. Identities we attempt to shed. Identities that bring us together. Identities designed to divide.

As with any complex adult, there are many facets to my identity. Here are a few:

Not "School Teacher." Those two words, joined together just so, have a specific connotation in my mind born of judgements disguised as questions. "Should a School Teacher be going into a liquor store?" "You're a School Teacher, aren't you supposed to know everything?" "Why are you dressed like a School Teacher?"

As I stood there writing my name on the name tag, I wondered if maybe I was the only one who heard the difference between teacher and "School Teacher." So, what is the difference? "School Teacher" is an identity I was glad to peel off at the end of the day.

Categories Posted on #SOL20

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Today, on a field trip, I was asked to write my name on this name tag. I paused. I had to try a second time, when I messed up the first. I was a little off balance. Those two words at the top, "Sch...

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Even though it was Monday, the day started off full of promise. The sky was blue and the air had the feeling of spring, light-sweater warm as opposed to heavy-jacket cold.
Walking up to my line of students waiting to be led to the classroom for the school day to begin, you could feel the excitement. Many were carrying extra bags overflowing with pillows and stuffed animals and favorite books to read. We had decided last week that we would do nothing but read, read, read for the first hour and a half of school to celebrate Read Across America Day. After being out sick last Thursday and Friday, I was looking forward to a little quiet time to get caught up on the mountain of paperwork piled high on my desk.
I wasn't too surprised or too worried when it took my class a while to find their spot, lay out their blankets, and settle down. Settling down quickly is a skill this particular group of kids hasn't quite mastered yet. After a few "Okay, we should all be settled down and quietly reading" announcements from me, they finally quieted down and began to read. Well, mostly. I found myself on several occasions winding my way between blankets and stuffed animals, trying not to step on outstretched legs as I made my way to the other side of the room to remind students they should be reading and not talking. Or throwing stuffed animals.
On one of my many passes through the obstacle course of third graders, one of my students approached me at the back of the room.
"Mrs. Regan, my neck hurts," J. whined.
"I'm sure that's just because of how you've been lying on the floor. Change your position," I suggested.
He quietly went back to his spot to continue reading and I returned to my desk once again. It wasn't long, though, before I was making my way back to the rear of the classroom. Once again, J. followed me.
"Mrs. Regan, my neck still hurts. And I feel like I'm going to throw up," he said.
Before I could respond, he bent forward and made a heaving motion. Shoot, he wasn't kidding! Quickly, I grabbed the nearby trash can and placed it in front of him. Thanks to my split-second timing not a drop of the vomit that promptly spewed from his mouth landed on the floor.
After sending him off to the office, trash can in hand, I returned to my desk wondering what other unexpected pleasures the day held in store.

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Even though it was Monday, the day started off full of promise. The sky was blue and the air had the feeling of spring, light-sweater warm as opposed to heavy-jacket cold. Walking up to my line of students waiting to be led to the classroom for the school day to begin, you could feel the excitement.

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He took my hand, firmly, and pulled me gently into the other room. I left the dishwasher open as there was an urgency to his need.

He held my hand tightly in a way that suggested a serious situation needed to be addressed. The room was strewn with toys and evidence of childhood but it was clear he was on a mission.

He led me to the couch and sat as close as he could. He sighed as he leaned in, knowing what was ahead.

"Read, Meme," he instructed me. It was not a question, not a request, not a debate. "Read this book."

When we got to the last page of How to Track a Truck, he got up and raced over to the bookcase. "Another one?" he asked, yet it really wasn't a question. "Dragons love tacos," he began as he placed the book in my lap and climbed up as quickly as he could.

He may be little, but he already knows I am like putty when a book about spicy tacos (or any other book) is placed in my lap!

I'm participating in the Two Writing Teachers Slice of Life Tuesday, today, and hope to write every day in March during the SOL challenge. I always feel anxious and unsure of my ability to undertake such a challenge; however, I'm going to try to document the moments and memories of my life.

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He took my hand, firmly, and pulled me gently into the other room. I left the dishwasher open as there was an urgency to his need. He held my hand tightly in a way that suggested a serious situation needed to be addressed.

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We said goodbye
to a family
that is moving elsewhere
to get the health support that one parent so desperately needs
as she recovers from a major health crisis.

This young family,
with little children,
has had an outpouring of support
from their extended family, neighbors, friends, colleagues, and church,
for months now,
and to say goodbye and wish them well,
even in this hopeful way,
was hard and sad.
Their children - oh, I know this is hard on their young children,
to weather such a big transition,
to see one parent in such pain,
to move somewhere new,
it must be so very confusing and stressful.

Yet,
how truly blessed they have been,
and we have been,
to know and support one another.
Their family,
despite acute challenges,
stays together.
This is a rich community.
We do not want
for support.

I think about how much trauma, and crisis, and pain
is man-made
in our world today,
and so many people
do not have the support and caring of others.

Our government is
quite pointedly
cutting off caring and support
in so many ways
to so many.

For example -
Policy changes for welfare,
removing families from rolls, and
poor families cannot get food for their babies.
A wall so impenetrable that
locals cannot pass even a bottle of water to the needy on the other side.
Purposefully separating children from parents at the border, and
not tracking where family members have gone.
Manipulating asylum laws so that many are forced to return
to cruel and inhumane situations.
Laws tightened and revenge sought so that
communities cannot offer sanctuary to the needy.

On and on and on.

It is a cruel focus.

Families suffer.
Children suffer.
We suffer.

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We said goodbye to a family that is moving elsewhere to get the health support that one parent so desperately needs as she recovers from a major health crisis. This young family, with little children, has had an outpouring of support from their extended family, neighbors, friends, colleagues, and church, for months now, and to say goodbye and wish them well, even in this hopeful way, was hard and sad.

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My favourite parking spaces are occupied, so I drop the boys off and start round two of the hunt. All the usual spots are inexplicably taken. It's snowing a little, but the temperature hovers obstinately above freezing and the streets are deep in slushy puddles. The going is tough. The city is behind on snow removal, parking spots are scarce, and plenty of cars are taking up an awful lot of the pavement. My mirror nearly touches theirs as I slowly slide my car down the streets.

I sigh and turn down another side street. Grr! The red and white no parking signs that indicate snow removal is imminent taunt me from atop the snow banks. No wonder I can't find a space. I do a quick check of my rear view mirror, touch my brakes and pause. Deep breath. Snow removal is good, I remind myself. Yes, I will likely spend a lot of time trying to find parking tonight, but tomorrow and the days that follow will be much easier.

10 long minutes later, I find a spot. It's not ideal, but it's good enough for tonight.

I'm reading Gregor the Overlander out loud while my older son draws. He's sketching another manga character, and he's not happy with the result. As I turn a page he snarls, "I hate this! It's terrible!" He's about to crumple the drawing, but my hand catches his before his fingers close around the paper.

"Hey," I say quietly, "give it a second. What's wrong with your picture?" "It looks " He's looking away from his picture, not at it.

"Mmm. Can you tell me about it?"

He hates it all. I suggest if it's that bad then it would make a really great place to experiment - just try a few new things. On second thought, he hates a few particular parts. Then he just really hates... wait, maybe he could...

He goes back to drawing; I continue to read.

The first week back to school after the winter break, I couldn't bring myself to publish a blog post; I couldn't find anything that rang true. Every word I wrote seemed to leave out another. I didn't think it was awful, exactly, but I couldn't find Hemingway's one true sentence (even though, I'm just putting this out there, I really don't like Hemingway). I wrote and deleted, wrote and threw away. I struggled, then I gave up in a huff.

The next week I paid attention and by Monday I had plenty of observations to choose from. To avoid writer's block, I decided to write by hand first. I got as far as the date.

I had to pause. I didn't have much choice: I clearly wasn't going to write a slice of life by beating myself up.

Tonight, no parking spot magically appeared; my son's drawing didn't suddenly become excellent. Pausing didn't solve things, but neither did it mean giving up.

So here I am, writing, pausing, and writing again.

Published by Amanda Potts

I'm a high school English and Special Education teacher in Ottawa, Ontario. I'm also a reader, a writer, a partner and a mother of two. I'm using this space to think and write about teaching and living. View all posts by Amanda Potts

Published

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My favourite parking spaces are occupied, so I drop the boys off and start round two of the hunt. All the usual spots are inexplicably taken. It's snowing a little, but the temperature hovers obstinately above freezing and the streets are deep in slushy puddles. The going is tough.