Insomnia
My husband is sleeping blissfully in our bed while I commune with the computer screen. I look over my shoulder every now and then to glance at him. I love watching him sleep--I think he's the only person I know who sleeps with a nearly perpetual smile on his face, though right now his mouth is parted ever so slightly and he's grinding his teeth. He's still so handsome though...
But I'm not watching him right now to wistfully marvel at his fine facial features. I am shooting him looks of dry envy because he gets to sleep at night, while I get to toss, turn, think, toss, turn, think, wash, rinse, repeat and then finally give up and go to the computer to pretend to lesson plan because that would actually be REALLY productive, but instead I'm puttering around thinking about anything related to hooping that I possibly can and wanting to write for myself. Not that nurturing (read: obsessing) about my art isn't productive in it's own personal right, but I have kids who can't read to think about!
Though, there is a certain defeated stink I feel coursing through me as I lesson plan. I have been asked--in almost so many words--to teach directly to the state exams that will be coming up in May. Sixth graders are only tested statewide in math and English, so they've instructed all teachers to only teach those two subjects to our students. Every week, the students will be tested on the standards that we were supposed to teach that week according to a program the school has purchased called Study Island. Which leaves me no room for real in-depth education, no creativity, no... nothing. It's easy to plan for, but very disheartening. The worst part is, we feel this pressure because of the No Child Left Behind act, which essentially reduces a school's success down to one cursed number solely determined by the scores on that equally cursed state test.
On another note, I had the sweetest day yesterday at Shade (monthly outdoor day party). First, there was an ethereal spinning moment I had dancing to my friend Nick's music. We were surrounded by budding trees, a cool air, dogs upon dogs, and a bajillion people spinning tools in the park. We shared food and threw Frisbees and I hooped until I could hardly move anymore. My sister brought my little cousins to the party to play as well. They are pale, impressively dimpled children who feign shyness for about an hour, and then gallivant around the park flirting in their childish way with anyone who will play with them. I carried them on my shoulders while dancing in the sunset with a hoop on my waist and a smile on my face.
These children make me ache sometimes. They're the offspring of my simpleton uncle and his epileptic, mildly disabled wife, who is expecting another child, which infuriates me. My family (which consists of an aging great-grandmother, a mildy insane mother, a bumbling aging father, and a couple of little sisters) essentially raises their kids as it is... but my incredibly Christian mother raises her arms to the heavens and praises the Lord for the blessing of another great-grandchild to be born into our overcrowded, underfunded household. Why is it that Latino Christians (at least, the ones that I know) are gluttons for punishment? In any case, for the moment, it felt so good to take the little ones out of their often suffocating, chaotic home and give them a dose of fresh, friendly, Burner party air. It revitalized all of us.
I have reached the end of the day, and only pray that my mind turns to "off" and I can revisit the chambers of slumber sans any tossing, turning, thinking, washing, rinsing, or repeating tonight.
But I'm not watching him right now to wistfully marvel at his fine facial features. I am shooting him looks of dry envy because he gets to sleep at night, while I get to toss, turn, think, toss, turn, think, wash, rinse, repeat and then finally give up and go to the computer to pretend to lesson plan because that would actually be REALLY productive, but instead I'm puttering around thinking about anything related to hooping that I possibly can and wanting to write for myself. Not that nurturing (read: obsessing) about my art isn't productive in it's own personal right, but I have kids who can't read to think about!
Though, there is a certain defeated stink I feel coursing through me as I lesson plan. I have been asked--in almost so many words--to teach directly to the state exams that will be coming up in May. Sixth graders are only tested statewide in math and English, so they've instructed all teachers to only teach those two subjects to our students. Every week, the students will be tested on the standards that we were supposed to teach that week according to a program the school has purchased called Study Island. Which leaves me no room for real in-depth education, no creativity, no... nothing. It's easy to plan for, but very disheartening. The worst part is, we feel this pressure because of the No Child Left Behind act, which essentially reduces a school's success down to one cursed number solely determined by the scores on that equally cursed state test.
On another note, I had the sweetest day yesterday at Shade (monthly outdoor day party). First, there was an ethereal spinning moment I had dancing to my friend Nick's music. We were surrounded by budding trees, a cool air, dogs upon dogs, and a bajillion people spinning tools in the park. We shared food and threw Frisbees and I hooped until I could hardly move anymore. My sister brought my little cousins to the party to play as well. They are pale, impressively dimpled children who feign shyness for about an hour, and then gallivant around the park flirting in their childish way with anyone who will play with them. I carried them on my shoulders while dancing in the sunset with a hoop on my waist and a smile on my face.
These children make me ache sometimes. They're the offspring of my simpleton uncle and his epileptic, mildly disabled wife, who is expecting another child, which infuriates me. My family (which consists of an aging great-grandmother, a mildy insane mother, a bumbling aging father, and a couple of little sisters) essentially raises their kids as it is... but my incredibly Christian mother raises her arms to the heavens and praises the Lord for the blessing of another great-grandchild to be born into our overcrowded, underfunded household. Why is it that Latino Christians (at least, the ones that I know) are gluttons for punishment? In any case, for the moment, it felt so good to take the little ones out of their often suffocating, chaotic home and give them a dose of fresh, friendly, Burner party air. It revitalized all of us.
I have reached the end of the day, and only pray that my mind turns to "off" and I can revisit the chambers of slumber sans any tossing, turning, thinking, washing, rinsing, or repeating tonight.