A kid in my morning class takes a nosedive and I immediately grab him into my lap and hold him close as he cries. He smells, as one of the OTs described it, like a farm. I know this boy is in a shelter; he never wears clothes that are the correct size. It’s hard to put the smell aside and comfort him, but how can I not?
Riding the bus, taking home the kids from the early class. Our newest kid is screeching at the top of his lungs and talking about “Teacher Poophead.” I’ve already tried directly asking him to stop. How do I play this? Do I deal with it head on or ignore it? Ignore it, I decide, it’s a play for attention.
It persists for the entire half hour he’s on the bus.
Okay, we decide, it’s feasible. We can afford to have another child – we’ll shoot for next summer so I don’t have to use any maternity leave.
Despite the fact that I’ve been yearning for this, I am nothing other than terrified.
“Hi, honey. I’ve been in an accident.”
The car is totalled, due to no fault of my hubby’s. No one was hurt. But we will surely be a one-car family for a while (how long?) which means I will be housebound six days a week.
We’re lucky – so lucky – that nothing worse happened, that the school bus picks me up and drops me off daily at our doorstep.
Still, this is a dismal outlook.
Olive and I, stuck home all day on a Saturday, watch the Aristocats, bake chocolate chip cookies, and dance.
We do the “hopey popey” and as we turn ourselves around I wonder…