LJ Idol: 3 Strikes Week 2: What Really Matters
The alarm screams and I am immediately in denial: It can’t possibly be time to get up yet, can it? But it is, so I throw my feet over the side of the bed and propel myself toward the bathroom.
After quietly creeping into her room, I rub my daughter’s back and whisper to her that it’s time to get up as I grab the clothes we set out the night before with my other hand. Her eyes open, she giggles, and hides under the blanket. “Find me, Mommy!” she commands with a level of giddiness only a four-year-old can muster this early in the morning. I tickle the mass of blankets, stuffed animals, and little girl and remind her that today is a school day and we don’t have time to play. She nibbles on a banana as I brush her hair. I stuff her lunchbox into her backpack as I rush her to get her shoes on. I kiss my husband and usher our daughter into the car. My daughter kisses me goodbye in the front office and I still can’t believe she has this whole life of her own that doesn’t include me; it’s bittersweet, really, that she simultaneously builds her autonomy and that I don’t get to bear witness to most of it.
I weave through traffic, reviewing my day in my head. It must be nice not having anywhere you need to be, I think before chastising myself for my petulance.
At my desk, I tap in the password to my computer. An email dings. They need someone to take a class during 4th period. Hm. The student I was supposed to assess is absent today, so I could actually do that. I click on the lesson plan link. That’s a pretty easy activity for $80 an hour. But do I really need that extra money? I could finally grade the characterization paragraphs I assigned two weeks ago. Ultimately, I don’t respond to the email, but I don’t end up grading the assignment either.
An email dings again. I groan as I read that a parent wants to know why their student is failing my class. Because Johnny spends half of class time arguing over having to wear a mask and the other half trying to play games, I think, but instead I type out a response explaining which assignments Johnny is missing and ask that the parent or student notify me when the assignments are completed to ensure they make it into the gradebook. I click “send” as I shake my head wondering, again, why parents don’t just check the gradebook themselves, especially when it’s all part of the same online interface they had to log into to email me. I close the window dreading the possibility of having to take the time to re-grade those individual assignments that were due weeks ago and possibly even hoping a little bit that Johnny doesn’t complete those assignments and then feel immediately remorseful.
The bell rings and students shuffle inside. I explain the directions to the day’s assignment, including an example, and ask if there’s any questions. I leave the front of the room to input the roll into the computer system, but as I pass between two rows of desks, Johnny catches my eye and asks, “Wait, what are we supposed to do?” I sigh and return to the front of the classroom and repeat everything again. By the time I finish, Sam has her hand raised and declares that she can’t find the assignment. This exact same scenario happens an hour later in the next class period, except that now it’s Julie who doesn’t listen to directions and Todd that can’t find the assignment.
I feel guilty reading during the 30 minute lunch period rather than grading that characterization assignment, but I put up my feet and lean back regardless. When the bell rings after what feels like a mere ten minutes, I hurry to shove the last strawberry in my mouth and close the lid on my half eaten sandwich. I take a deep breath and do it all one more time.
“Mommy, I missed you!” my daughter squeals as she runs toward me from her classroom. She wraps her arms around my legs briefly before climbing through the open car door.
At home, as we put away our lunch boxes, the clock on the stove tell me it’s 4:48pm. We take our daily walk around the neighborhood and review our days. Today I learn that Claire brought a Spider-Man book to class and my daughter tripped on the playground chasing Ava.
Before dinner, I stand at the counter making sandwiches and cutting up fruit and veggies for lunch the following day. I wistfully remember the days of grabbing leftovers out of the fridge as I ran out the door before my daughter was born, but remind myself that I can’t eat the way I used to and, a bit in awe, that I am now someone who eats fruit voluntarily.
While my husband cooks dinner, I help my daughter with her homework. I beam with pride as she declares her plan to complete the “easiest” portion of the worksheet first. In a moment of frustration as she draws another G, she whimpers, “I’m not getting any better at this,” which prompts a conversation about how practice is messy and if she knew how to do this already, she wouldn’t have to practice. I think of all the things I am afraid to try and hope she can’t see through my facade.
After dinner, I assess my options. I should run. Or at least do some yoga. The floor could use a good sweep, too. But, ultimately, I can’t muster up the motivation or break my attention away as my daughter shows me the classwork inside her folder. Maybe tomorrow.
All too soon, it’s time for bed. I help my daughter change into pajamas and brush her teeth. She grabs a book from the stack of library books and curls in next to me on the couch.
After I tuck her into bed for the night, I run the shower. I rush through washing before increasing the temperature of the water and letting the hot water scald my shoulders and back as I feel my muscles finally start to relax. I find myself daydreaming about all the things I wish I could learn if I had the time and energy to learn how to do.
I plop onto the couch next to my husband and turn on whatever that show is that we started watching last week. Moments later, my husband gently jostles me awake as the credits appear on the screen. “Did you fall asleep?” he asks. I blush as I give him a little nod in response.
I look at the clock-10:07pm. I have almost an hour before I should be in bed and repeat the whole process again tomorrow. I need to finish that library book before it’s returned. I unlock my phone and navigate to the Kindle app. But then I remember something I wanted to look up earlier but didn’t have time. I might have actually done that, but the next thing I know I’m suddenly scrolling through social media even though there’s nothing new posted since the last time I checked it. I glance at the clock again. 11:10pm. Dammit, where did the time go? I should be in bed already and I still have to brush my teeth. I shuffle back toward the bedroom reluctantly. This is going to hurt tomorrow and I didn’t even use the time on something productive or particularly enjoyable.
As I finally settle into the warmth and softness of the bed, my thoughts begin to wander. At the end of the day-at the end of my life, even-what will really matter? Will it matter that I am educated? Will it matter if I paid those loans off early? Will it matter what type of house I live in? How clean it is? Will it matter what type of job I had, whether I did a service job to support my community versus a mindless job in a cubicle all day? Will it matter if I was good or, even one of the best, at my job? Is it even really possible to accurately measure that? Will it matter if I managed to find time for hobbies, exercise, or relaxation? Will it matter if I never actually write that story, knit that blanket, create that scrapbook? Will it matter if I spent all my free time with my daughter instead? What messages do my choices demonstrate to her? Is it really possible to have too much of a good thing or does the absence of, the yearning of rare and sometimes impossible things, make them more special and, therefore, more appreciated or valued? So many spinning plates…am I actually doing any of these things justice or am I failing in every regard by splitting my focus and attempting everything? With the staggering amount of “tiny” decisions we make every day, how do you know that you’re doing the “right” thing?