In an attempt to be well-rested for my Sunday volunteerism, I went to bed around 10:00 PM. The rest of my friends were out, as usual, drinking at a local bar (I am so glad I didn’t go).

My two dogs, Kira and Toro, ran up the stairs happily as they knew it was time for bed. Kira snuggled in next to me and Toro at my feet.

I dozed off for what it seemed like an hour until I was startled by Toro’s heavy breathing in my face. He was on all fours standing over me. Ugh. I knew what this meant. I asked him in a whisper, “do you need to go potty?” Immediately Toro jumped off the bed, grabbed a blue rubber chew toy, and started sprinting ahead of me down the stairs. Kira, the senior of the two, took her time, reluctantly waking down the stairs. I knew she didn’t want to get up, but as a loyal dog does, she followed slowly yet obediently.

I flung the back door open and burst of cold air swallowed me whole. Toro sprinted down the stairs to our backyard and then it happened…It was like a kid sitting on a million whoopee cushions at once. I knew once I heard those sounds that I was in for a long road ahead this evening.

Toro came back up the stairs and I grabbed the back of his tail. Hunched over, half asleep, freezing cold, I began to wipe the excess poop out of his rear and tried to clear the mess out of his many strands of hair. This is not how I envisioned my night, but there I was. I am their caretaker, owner, and one they rely solely. There is no other option, it’s me or nobody.

The rest of the evening is the same.

Toro wakes me up.

I follow.

Kira follows (she eventually stopped).

Toro poops.

I wipe Toro’s butt.

We try to sleep together for a couple of hours.

We woke up this morning, groggy together, and sauntered into the kitchen. Kibble just wouldn’t do for this morning’s breakfast. Sunday called for boiled chicken. Boiled chicken is easy on the stomach and oh so tasty. Toro and Kira had a satisfying meal of free-range chicken and I loved watching them eat it.

Toro will be okay.

If this is what raising a newborn is like, then I guess I’m ready? Although having a good night’s sleep is ideal, knowing that Toro is okay makes me feel all the less tired.

PRE

wild young and free

nothing to worry about

I should have done more

________

it is all cancelled

a momentous occasion

will it ever end

Post?

yes, we now have hope

everything is opening

let us rejoice now

Ok, so this is the best photo I could find (see below). I know you’re looking at a box of Halloween- themed donuts and we are clearly not close to Halloween, so for that, I am sorry. But guess what? Tt does not matter. What matters are the doughnuts or is it “donuts?” I’ll never know, but that is inconsequential as well. The donuts speak for themselves. Don’t you just want to grab them threw the screen? I know I do…

All I want right now is a donut hole. Literally right now. It is 7:22 AM and that is what I would prefer eating. These donut holes are the most delectable treat as far as the genre of donuts are concerned. Let me show you what I mean.

These delicate balls of goodness are cake-like donuts holes. They are toothsome, thick, and a tad spongy. Unlike other donuts like your traditional glazed that kinda sinks down after you bite into it, these donut holes rebound beautifully like a spring. Transforming back to their original, fluffy form. I particularly do not enjoy things that are overly sweet, sometimes donuts can be way too contrived with their countless toppings of cereal, candies, and the like. These donut holes are the right balance, with no frills. They have a little icing and the occasional sprinkle. Each donut hole is brushed with a thin layer of icing (vanilla bean I presume). The sheer layer of icing of these gorgeous treats reminds me of black ice on the sidewalk. You can see it, but it doesn’t look too slippery, but when you try to walk over it you slip and fall. Just like these donuts, with their thin layer of unassuming icing, you may not think there is enough icing but when you eat one you slip, slip into a trance of wanting more and more and more. The flavor and texture is a smack to the face. The subtle sweet flavor mixed with the yeastiness of the cake donut for a celebration of utter joy.

I order these babies on the weekends because they also don’t make them on weekdays. Maybe I’ll order tomorrow? For now, I will enjoy my mixed berries and coffee, but do not think I won’t be dreaming of these things all day.

And it’s that time… time for speed dating otherwise known in the world of education as parent-teacher conferences. It is the most exhausting day of the year other than back-to-school-night. Can I get an amen? You agree right? PTC’s as the pros call it, feels like running a verbal marathon with no end in sight. My back hurts, ankles are swollen, and my thirty-six year old knees feel like they’ve been ground into a fine powder.

Fortunately conferences are online this year, so it’s easier to end the date early if it is not going well. You can easily say, “well, there’s someone else in the lobby, gotta run. Oh no, I just lost my internet connection. My camera is acting up, sorry I cannot turn it on.” The list of excuses are endless to get out early, although I never use them, I do feel better knowing that they’re at my disposal if I have an unruly date. Just like they say in dating, you need to break a ton of eggs to make an omelette, so I guess I need to subject myself to some uncomfortable situations until I finally find my match.

The good dates, which I definitely have many, are where both parties have realistic expectations. Good dates are self-reflective. Good dates are timely, not too short and not too long. Good dates make everyone feel seen, valued, and appreciated. Luckily, at my school, most of my speed dating experiences are not even good, but great. That still doesn’t mean I am not exhausted and feel like I’ve been pushed through a meat grinder to be made into a sausage stuffed in a casing.

With that said, good luck to all the teachers on their many speed dates. Honestly, I have to be grateful that I even have dates this year (21 to be exact). Not everyone is in the same situation as I, so I need to be mindful. Instead of saying “I have to do speed dating today”, I will say “I get to.”

CHEERS!

The moment I woke up this morning, I heard it. The pitter patter of rain on the roof. It sounded unusually loud and I knew. I knew that today was going to be less than easy. As a dog owner and a teacher, the forecast of rain is almost never ideal.

As I sit here and type about my annoyance, I can feel the pressure on my keyboard intensify and the typing growing into a crescendo of frustration. My fiance, startled by my typing, told me I am typing like I’m annoyed. Why is it so loud he thought. So you get it now, right? If you don’t, let me crystalize it for you.

Rain & Dogs

Walking your dogs in the rain almost always guarantees that your dog will not poop and if you have more than one there is a 50/50 chance. This early morning proved my theory once again. One pooped. One did not. YAY! Now I can look forward to a finding Toro’s gift to me after a long day of teaching. Toro usually leaves his present in my office upstairs. Now I wish this present was wrapped neatly with a bow, but you know Toro, this present probably won’t be wrapped with fancy paper, there will be no bow, no tissue paper. Also, rain and Shepherds do not mix. They’re full of fluff that captures the rain and the stench of the earth. Nothing like a wet dog smell, right? After you walk them, you need to bribe them with treats so that they sit still as I clean the crevices of their paws and dry off their damp bodies. As if walking the dogs at 5:30 AM was hard enough, now I have become a groomer and a full-time employee on poop patrol.

Rain & Teaching

Teachers, you feel me right? What does rain and teaching mean to you? Well, to me, it means the following:

1. Indoor Recess
2. Indoor lunch (with our Covid protocols it should be interesting)
3. Indoor arrival
4. Indoor dismissal
5. Indoor enrichment
6. Indoor physical education

Do we notice a theme? Anything indoor means we are going to be like a shaken pop bottle ready to explode. Too much energy. Not enough focus. All the while you’re still trying to teach students how to read. Why not make teaching even harder? The only people who truly feel my pain are educators. We are in this together, but I am still annoyed.

Dear Writer,

Some days are going to be harder than others. While on other days, ideas will pour out like a faucet that I sometimes “forget” to shut off while I am putzing around in my kitchen (I think I leave the faucet on because I genuinely like the noise). Writer, I know that feeling of writer’s block slowly creepy in like a cough that eventually turns into a really unbearable cold. The blockage is real and palpable. Writer, it is ok to feel this way; to feel that anything you write isn’t clever, funny, meaningful, or the slightest creative. This is the advice I am going to dispense and hopefully you will let it marinate and follow my lead.

1. Start reading more. Read other writers. Take their ideas and make them your own.
2. Make lists. First times. Last times. Momentous times.
3. Create a writer’s notebook. Leave it by your bedside. Writer anything that comes to mind. Just jots will do.

So writer, now you have tools, tools to move forward. Tools to craft something beautiful to share with the world. And guess what writer? I should probably take my own advice too.

Sincerely,

Me

Disclaimer: I stole this idea from another writer.

I am a lover of animals. I am particularly fond of the four-legged kind, dogs. Every early morning, I can be found cuddling up to my Belgian Shepherd in our bed at around 4:00 AM (it’s a routine kind of thing). I am a lover of things that are pickled and salty. Unlike bacon, salt makes everything better. Open up my kitchen cabinet and you will find countless jars of olives, capers, hot cherry peppers, and pepperoncinis. I am a lover of fitness. There is something so satisfying about lifting weights until the muscles in your body feel like they’re boiling hot, on fire. I am a lover of BBQ. Anything and everything including ribs, brisket, pulled pork and burnt ends. I love the sweet, sticky BBQ sauce that smears all over my face, it’s so good it slides underneath my fingernails too staying there for what it seems like weeks on end. I am a lover of coffee. I drink it each day and it every form. I do not discriminate when is comes to coffee. Holding the cup makes me feel warm, safe, and capable. I am a lover of reality tv. Yes, I said it, reality tv. I love the way I can sink deep into my couch, turn off my brain, and learn how to make a terrine or learn all about who is dating whom. Lastly, I am a lover of the written word. There is so much you can say or can not say, but once it’s written it’s permanent. It’s part of you.

Most thirty somethings would be out on the town living up their Saturday, but not me or my friends. We’re not standing in packed bars waiting to get a watered down vodka soda with a sad lime wedge hanging over the side shouting at each other over loud music none of us Millennials can relate. We’re also not wearing our velvet blazers and sequined dresses trying out the lasted Michelin star restaurant. What are we doing you ask, well the answer is quite simple…playing Tripoli!

If you have not played Tripoli, you have not lived. It’s like someone telling me that they’ve never seen the epic movie Titanic or they hate pizza. Tripoli is a game for ALL. Tripoli is a game that caters to each individual who loves games of chance, strategy, and cunning. This game brings people together (for hours on end), which can be good or bad. “The good” is that the game can go on forever, just like like night when I stayed up until 1:30 AM playing with my eyes barely open. Update, the game is on pause because we had to call it a night. I will keep you updated as to who wins (eventually).

Stay tuned…

There is nothing I enjoy more than waking up early on a weekend morning. I know many adults my age enjoy the pleasures of sleeping in, but I on the other hand do not. I love being out on the DC streets where it feels still, lifeless. I am able to walk both of my dogs without keeping their leashes taught the entire time. My back and forearms finally get a break. Walking in the early morning allows me to be present, rather than playing Frogger in the evening trying to figure out how many different ways I can dodge and avoid other dog’s and their owners (who most happen to be oblivious to the fact that some dogs are dog-aggressive and some dogs have anxiety). Walking in the morning allows me to observe the world in ways I wouldn’t otherwise. Like, I know there is a shiny disco ball hanging from the ceiling on the third floor of a rowhouse on Swaan street, or there is a woman who rides her Peloton in the basement of her apartment facing T Street each morning. It’s those noticings that only occur on those soft, silent mornings while walking my two dogs. Everyone else is fast asleep, while I am awake, alert, and ready for what’s to come. Now I said everyone is fast asleep and that is not entirely true. There are those early morning characters who I have come to expect and wonder constantly about.

The Lady In Black

When I get to 16th and T around 6:15 AM, I always see this more distinguished woman picking up pieces of trash alongside of the street. She is always dressed in black, from head to toe. She wears a wide-brimmed hat, which happens to be black, black leggings, black Mary-Janes, and a black jacket. She always carries a plastic grocery bag with her and meanders along collecting little bits of paper, plastic, and other forms of discarded material. We have never spoken. I just observe from afar. This morning, the 5th of March, some careless human left a scooter in the middle of the sidewalk. The Lady in Black was there and threw the scooter into the bushes as it made this loud beeping sound. Again, I did not speak to her, but I did feel a palpable sense of anger as she hurled that scooter out of everyone’s path. She’s probably misunderstood, as she keeps to herself and focuses on her one duty. The Lady In Black is just trying to take care of the environment in a way that suits her. She makes sure the sidewalks are clean for everyone else who eventually wake only to crowd the streets of DC. I can guarantee she will be out tomorrow morning too.

For now, I will leave you with the image of her. There are more characters to come, but for now one will do just fine.

Well, I guess it’s that time again. A time for my formal teaching observation. A time for high-stress and a time for high-stakes. After all these years and countless observations, I still get nervous and I still question myself. Why? Why must I do this to myself?

Formal observations, in my opinion, are the worst. You know that feeling as soon as you see your administrator come into your classroom, laptop in hand, and trying to navigate amongst a sea of children, settling down in a child’s chair where they look quite out of place and even more uncomfortable. It’s the same feeling you get when your stomach drops on a rollercoaster. You expect it but don’t expect it. Now it’s time to take a deep breath, center yourself, and begin the lesson.

“Ok students, today we will…by the end of the lesson you will be able to…” I begin to read the smart goal for the lesson. I make sure to repeat myself so that my principal knows I stated the lesson’s objective. Do I normally do that on the day-day? Yes and no, I guess not in the theatrical way I do during observations. What a total waste of 3 minutes. As I continue to talk, my voice gets louder and louder. It’s as if I am trying to speak English to a non-native speaker. No respect for volume and adding crazy gesticulation. Again, why am I doing this?!? My face feels hot and red. My cheeks are permanently stained pink; I feel flushed. As I continue, I begin marching around the room checking in and checking out. I know I am going to hit my step count for that day. I feel manic and need to hit every single point and need to speak to every single student. Do I do this on the regular? Well, I have been teaching almost 15 years, so what do you think the answer is? Absolutely not! Burnout is a real thing and meeting each child for each workshop is almost unattainable, but don’t worry on this day I will. It’s the formal observation, right? Everything becomes a blur, like mixing all the primary colors together until they turn brown. Nothing stands out, nothing is visible. Once the principal shimmies out of that teeny tiny chair, they give a way, and head out the door. Then, I literally go to my desk put my head down and breathe. There could be a fire behind me, explosions going off, and kids hanging out the window, but I don’t care. I am too tired. I am too drained. I feel like I had just ran a marathon. The rest of the day is shot and I have nothing left to give. At least I’m off the rollercoaster and am sitting in the station. I can finally breathe again.

In sum, a formal observation is like using the fine crystal stemware you have tucked away at home, but you maybe use it once a year It looks nice and it’s pleasing to the eye, but there’s no real utility. Actual teaching is like your everyday mugs, dishes, and the like. They’ve got chips, cracks, and stains. They’ve been through the ringer, but you use them faithfully. Maybe one day we can figure out how to make these observations less than contrite. For now, here we freaking go. Buckle up, folks.