My first year of teaching, he entered my fourth grade classroom on a first grade reading level and yet, by far, the biggest and oldest child in the class.
His physical presence dominated but his smile and warmth melted anyone’s heart.
Through services, he received free breakfast and lunch and it bothered him.
I took to him like kindle to a fire and he, to me.
There was a trust and bond that endured.
So when this child who had nothing presented me with clear slippers three sizes too small for Christmas, I accepted them with gratitude.
A child who saw me as his real-life Cinderella.
A reminder that we are much more to others than we may ever realize.
That’s where I was headed in 2005, with a roommate I’d spoken with for months over AOL but had never actually met in person. We had the lease to our apartment and I had a lead to a job as a script-writer with Dreamworks Studio.
Instead, I pulled the plug two weeks before I was set to move.
It remains to be, the road not taken for me.
In place of California. I lingered on the East Coast taking a room with a family of 6. In exchange for room and board, I provided care for the kids. As the youngest of 8, I had never had 4 younger “siblings” before and was terrified. Quickly, I adapted, finding myself taking particular interest in that first grader mastering reading.
I read the book What Color is Your Parachute by Richard Nelson Bolles and shockingly wondered if he could be right- were the childhood games I played as a teacher my destiny? Had I known and denied all along?
I moved back to my hometown in my own blissful, 1-bedroom apartment, and volunteered in the fourth grade classroom at my tiny, private elementary school, just to see if it was worth pursuing.
And, oh, it was.
I. Came. Alive.
Yes, this is where I was meant to be all along.
Until I had my own four children and stayed home to care for them. I quit my job as teacher and became Mama.
I started my own blog to continue my pursuit of writing.
A reminder of my failure to get her to sleep on her own like her three big sisters.
Have I become a statistic? The youngest gets whatever they want?
Or perhaps I am just too tired to fight.
Ha- let’s not play ignorance- they are likely one in the same.
I am tired and she was born to fight out of necessity.
So, here we are.
Prisoners in our own way.
Dependent on one another.
I remember convincing him that if he agreed to the fourth, she would be “mine”.
I took full responsibility, although he would never agree to anything but equal, which made me love him even more.
And yet, here I am. Lying next to her bed and as much as he has literally and physically attempted to take my place, there is no substitute for her of me.
I lie next to her and think, how I can make the most of this quiet time?
Unfortunately, it is forced, which is not a lovely place to be when you are trying to meditate.
So some days, I sleep. Others, I seethe in resentment of being on my 16th hour of parenting while he lounges on the couch.
And sometimes, I think, one day, I’ll miss this.
They won’t let me in their room.
Their room won’t be here.
I lie and wait. For that heavy breathing.
I leave, relieved, both for that she breathes and that I have the chance to catch my own.
