There is not remotely enough waterproof mascara for this week. Or comfort food. Or comfort adult beverages. Or rolls of Costco toilet paper masquerading as tissue.

Tomorrow would have been our last day of school. Our lovely little 1950s school building is getting a facelift and remodel, adding space for kids to be creative, better flow to the building as a whole, and an office with a window for me in the actual office (this is huge…trust me.)

Earlier this week, we would have had our little ones’ continuation ceremony on to first grade and our eighth graders’ continuation ceremony to move on to high school. And we would have had field day on the very last day, with a clapping out of our graduates and everyone moving up a level, and all the chaos that comes with dismissal on the last day of school. And a teacher dance party in the gym when all the kids had gone home with families.

I remember thinking that I would have these last-day-of-school moments every year like they do in the movies, with touching monologues by kids or others, and music in the background to match all the feelings in the scene.

I’ve yet to have that sort of ending to a school year. The first year, my classroom looked like a bomb went off inside, with left-behind papers, books, extra materials, and chairs and tables askew and filthy with leftover BBQ fingerprints from little siblings. I learned after that year that being OCD about cleanup and routines is a good thing–brings a sense of sanity to an insane day.

This year will be heart-wrenching.

End of year assembly by Google Meet.

Virtual ceremonies for little ones and ceremonies still up in the air for our 8th graders.

It ain’t right, I tell you.

And my babies who are graduating high school, this was the first year I would have been able to go to see graduation because we were already out…and theirs are all either virtual or up in the air too.

I never really thought that ceremonies mattered, but they do. It’s a closure–the bridge between one phase of life and another.

And I’m not sure how we can share in that closure together remotely and do it justice. And that hurts. You can remind me all you want about safety and how important it is to take these precautions–I agree it’s necessary–but it doesn’t make it any easier…

None of this is remotely easy.

I went to school today and packed up the last bit of my office. I’ve had mixed feelings about it for several days, on one hand thrilled for new office smell, windows and natural light, and flooring that’s all one color…and on the other sad, because this tiny space was a safe space for kids, quiet and calming, and the only office I’ve ever had. Much like my job, I got to make it my own.

Before we transitioned to crisis schooling mid-March, I had a wonderful mother notice that I was putting packing off (I am a well-known procrastinator in our building) and she took it upon herself to pack 99% of my stuff to ensure it’d get done before our deadline in May. She asked questions about things, but otherwise Tetris-ed her way through packing things up within a couple of hours. Boxes and boxes of reference books, gifted best practice, how to teach math, writing, science, reading, yearbooks signed by kids… And my friend’s son packed the boxes of things that matter most a few days before the wonderful mother arrived–the gifts from kids and their families, notes from kids, drawings, handmade origami flowers… I was thankful for both of them this morning when I walked in…it made this process less painful.

I really had very little to pack, so it took about an hour and a half to pack up the last bit, put files in the cabinet, and put the last bits of things I wanted or needed to take home into bags and boxes and haul it all out to the car. I purposely put on an audiobook to listen to (which I’m sure all the construction guys enjoyed–historically-based mystery spy romance… ) so I wouldn’t think too much.

I took down the love notes and pictures from kids and put them carefully in a box for later. I made my “open me first” box with Phil’s note saying hi that he’d left last Chili Night on my door and the cup of “extra bits” to my desk he left for me after he put it together tucked inside next to pens and tape and paperclips and sticky notes. I cleaned out my drawer and shelves, packing away lightbulbs and index cards and pens, feeling a bit guilty about the hojillion spoons from the lounge I’d hoarded unwittingly. I put files in the filing cabinet, and packed away the tutus, Medieval peasant dress, and 800 extra coats and shoes intended for recess duty into bags to take home.

I hauled things out to the car bit by bit, pictures and boxes and bags (and the dog’s crate and baby gate) wondering where I’d put it all once I took it into the house.

And I probably shouldn’t have, but I took down the sign outside my door and put that in a box to go home too. No one will miss it.

I took video before I started and after and didn’t cry during either one. I was numb almost. I looked down the hallway at the skeleton of the building, left gaping and open, dust and debris covering every surface. It would never look the way it had when I left in mid-March again. Our home. I sent a text to my director, quarantined in the office so that the rest of us could pack up in shifts on opposite ends of the building, and teary-eyed, said goodbye from behind our masks 6 feet apart, stifling hugs.

This stay at home stuff is getting old, particularly after two very snowy days, but a part of me is beginning to see this process much like the one our building is going through. We’re down to bare bones right now–dust and debris all over the place, working through where everything will go and what needs to be packed to keep, what needs to be demolished to make space for something better, and what needs to be remodeled or repurposed. We’ve been given a gift of time to realize what’s most important. Our schools, the buildings themselves, aren’t the most important. It’s the relationship and connection with our kids, their families, and our own families (biological or chosen) that matters most and makes our lives rich with memories. We’re all under construction right now…and perhaps that’s not a bad thing after all.

Today in my Facebook feed, a fellow educator (Tina Boogren/Self-Care for Educators on FB) I love and admire greatly noted that we should journal today…about this…all of this. So here we are…you and me, my furs without jobs, and half a gin and tonic remaining.

To be clear, I generally don’t drink often, just socially (and as an introvert, that’s rare), but of late, it’s becoming something that makes me feel…better, I guess. I shared an ugly cry last weekend with a bottle of wine provided by a wonderful mother during the holidays because we won’t see this batch of kids again before school is out. I sobbed uncontrollably through three out of four glasses (that fourth one was because you just can’t leave one glass in a bottle…) I sat on my deck several times last week with a crowler of Hazy IPA and food truck food (#supportlocal #shopsmall) trying to do my part to keep the people I care about in business. I participated in a virtual happy hour with a group of which I was the outlier, but I loved listening to their stories of one another, of people I once knew. Not my tribe, but near enough for a few hours.

I held myself together in Costco yesterday, but just barely. We went for the long list my boyfriend had made of things his house needed and all I needed was toilet paper. I had two rolls left and apparently you have to be willing to give a kidney to get more. I left with near $100 in other things (salad, raspberries, yogurt, the above referenced gin) but as he flitted through the aisles (Note: We do not shop the same way in a crisis, or otherwise..not one bit. And I will learn to live with it because I love him–he shops like my father and it drives me absolutely insane.), I stayed with the ever increasing in weight cart at the end of an aisle watching others, in makeshift face masks, rush through to snag everything they might need for a while. I watched unmasked parents with unmasked kids wander from aisle to aisle as though time didn’t matter much and they were just seeing what all was there…and witnessed one little one getting a lecture about why kids don’t run ahead of parents in places like Costco and then pitch crying fits when they look back and parents aren’t there.

There was a list on a big whiteboard when we walked in that noted all the things they were out of, all the things they were short on. And I saw people sigh heavily when half their list was on either side of the board. I, too, sighed audibly when I saw that toilet paper was on the “don’t have” list. I got lucky, and spied a pile of it in the rear of the building, and so now, barring any huge allergy attacks, I have toilet paper for a while. But I’m lucky. I have to worry about me, my furs without jobs, my mother, and my boyfriend and his family. We can cobble together things among all of us if need be.

What hurt the most to see was people queueing up outside as someone wiped down a cart for them, both masked and maskless. with kids and without, but all with the same nervous look in their eyes. Fear.

I lost it a bit when we got into the car. I hate this, I said to him, as he got out another disinfectant wipe to wipe down the steering wheel after touching it with gloved hands that had touched the cart and items we’d bought I’d rolled my eyes when he wiped down the door handle for me when I got in the car…

I hate that people are ecstatic when they can score something as simple as toilet paper or eggs. I hate that friends who have lost parents in the past couple of weeks cannot have proper funerals or burials for their moms and dads and grieve in traditional ways…with people they love surrounding them and food and proper wakes or receptions. I hate that kids can’t play together at the park or outside in neighborhoods, and I hate that I worry which of my 11 other neighbors might have touched the doorknobs to get out of our building and haven’t washed their hands and might be a non-symptomatic carrier. I hate that I can’t walk across the parking lot and sit in my mother’s house for long–I know that every time I do at her request, it might be MY fault she gets sick and dies, because lawd knows she’s old and high-risk. We can’t have healthy and simple things up in here…

I hate that I can’t socialize my puppy properly, taking her to coffeeshops and breweries and the dog park and puppy class and to be with kids at school where she can learn not to herd humans and bite their ankles when they leave my office. I hate that our lead and staff meetings are online and I don’t know if my coworkers are wearing pants at all (pretty sure they are, but…). I hate that our teachers, all of them in my building and beyond, are killing themselves trying to figure out how to do this the right way, to meet the needs of kids and families at the same time, and still be hardasses about incomplete work and accountability, all while their own kids are melting because they can’t log in to see their classmates and their spouses are considered “esesential.” I hate that friends who do church and crave that connection can’t be with their people on Sundays. Online streaming is great, but there’s nothing like the electricity of a church full of people whose hearts are together in prayer. I hate that the one thing I love about the Easter season–a preacher from somewhere else talking about “Sunday’s a-comin'” has to be streamed this year–not experienced live. I hate that people think this is a joke…a left-leaning liberal coup to cause problems for the current administration.

I hate that that news anchors cry when they interview yet another person who has lost a loved one to this because so many won’l take it seriously and people are out there spreading outright lies. I remember when Peter Jennings teared up reporting about 9/11 for far too many hours in a row and how others before him had cracked voices when reporting on tragedy in wartime–that created a humanity in an event that was incredibly scary…and here we are again.. I hate that yet another principal or teacher succumbed to it. I hate that nurses and doctors and home health care workers and EMTs and all the others who are considered “essential” in times of crisis don’t have what they need to be remotely safe, and have to send their kids to live elsewhere (or move themselves) so they don’t increase the possibility that their loved ones will catch this. I hate that they can’t do the compassionate work they were called to do–to be with those in times of suffering–the way they want to, leaving other human beings to die alone.

I hate that I can’t trust my government–people elected to office to represent us as a whole. I can’t trust that they’re being straightforward or honest, because on so many occasions they have not been. I can tolerate a lot, but dishonesty and lack of integrity are two things I cannot. I hate that our stay-at-home date keeps getting pushed back and the number of confirmed cases of this and deaths from it keeps increasing and I can’t even say that it’s accurate…so few can be tested that we have no idea of any real numbers…we just know people got sick and died.

I hate that parents are now facing the fear of unemployment. I hate that my tribe has to file for unemployment, disaster loans, and other supports because their businesses can’t even be OPEN much less functional.

I hate that kids whose home lives are less than ideal are stuck. My heart aches for them. Those who don’t know whether they’ll have breakfast tomorrow or if their parent will be able to come home at all or need to pick up another shift to make rent because rent is still due. I hate that kids whose home lives are violent are more at risk now than before–at least they had a few hours of respite at school three weeks ago. I hate that families who were already struggling to survive are more at risk than ever before. I hate that schools need to provide breakfast and lunch, and that families have to ration what they do receive because there may not be much else. I hate that kids who “have not” really have not right now…

I’ve been listening to a mystery series on our library app for a few weeks and it’s about British spies during WWII and it just kills me how much people in Europe had to give up to simply survive when the war began–might not be the best writing but the author did her research. Food was rationed. Work was scarce. One never knew if they’d make it home each night… And here we are, worried about having enough toilet paper to last so we don’t have to make an emergency trip to Target or Costco and hope for the best, and looking at over 10,000 dead in our own country–not a third world one, mind you–from a disease that has circumnavigated the globe, affecting everyone from the poor immigrant trying to find a better life to the prime minister of a fairly wealthy country.

And I rolled my eyes at him from behind my sunglasses as he wiped down the car door with a disinfectant wipe so I could get in. I put on my buff to humor him as we entered Costco. The fear is real, folks. We joke about it on social media, but the fear is real.

And I don’t like being afraid. I want this to be over. Done. Finished. I want people to do their damndest to stay home, to distance appropriately when they do go out, and to not be jerks about this. I want them to take it seriously. Democrats/liberals in America didn’t create this as a way to get back at the current administration–people are dying world-wide and quarantined around the globe–to the point that they can’t walk their dogs outside without the threat of jail time or fines because of it and have to go to the market on specific dates by last name or address number. This isn’t a joke.

I don’t like being afraid. I hate it. And I hate that kids are more afraid than I am…I have lived through scary things…this is their first. And it’s one that they shouldn’t have had to live through at all.

So my glass is empty and my words are…well, let’s just say there are too many that aren’t organized reasonably in my head to keep writing. I apologize if I’ve offended anyone–it wasn’t my intent. I feel the things, for more than just me sometimes. And if I have the ability to put words to…screen, I guess…then I’ll do it on behalf of all of us who can’t.

I wish the best for all of you, dear readers–that you can find something good in every day, even if that day it’s something tiny like a new bloom or the buds of leaves on a tree. Do what you can to bring joy to someone else. Take care of your needs–if that means a nap, a drink, or a walk outside in the sunshine. Take care of your people…your tribe. Make sure they know they are loved and appreciated for all they’re trying to do. Love your furs without jobs if you have them, and spend a few extra moments cuddling them. Laugh and find joy where you can.

We’ll all get through this….together.

I am an introvert. When our staff created a sticky note chart of where we fell on the introvert/extrovert scale a few years ago, my sticky note was in the other room. I am like a iPhone 5C that loses its charge really quickly just by existing in a room with other people. I have friends who drain my energy just by my thinking about upcoming plans with them. I crave alone time not because I’m anti-social, but because I need it to recharge. I need time to process, to think, to consider options, and time to just be in the quiet.

Before I came to teaching, college was incredibly difficult for all the people I encountered during my classes and in between. I was the kid who came early and sought out a spot to internally prepare for being in a room with 30-50 people for two hours. I was the one who, after class, bailed quick and sought out spots in corners outside to just be by myself. That said, I worked in industries that required talking and peopling all day. Thankfully, the places I worked, a small copier and fax sales office with little foot traffic and optical retail required only short bursts of in-person peopling and telephone interaction. When I moved into insurance service and sales, things became much more difficult–I talked to people ALL day long as a customer service rep in a room with hundreds of others, often being yelled at because the logical consequence of policy cancellation due to non-payment of premium was a thing and I had to ask people to commit to trusting our agency or company with their coverage.

Teaching is incredibly difficult for an introvert. I find most of my introverted colleagues come to work early to prepare both materials and themselves or they opt to come in at the last minute, having spent time alone before school to internally prepare. My role isn’t in the classroom anymore, but I still find I need to mentally prepare for the day, flexing my expectations of how I want my day to go with the needs of others, serving kids or teachers or parents who need support in some way. I am exhausted by the time the day is over, often coming home and napping, thankful that the only things I am beholden to are cats who may or may not care I’m home and a fuzzy puppy who has figured out that I need a little grace before playtime.

We are on a stay-at-home order here effective at 6am today. I still haven’t peeled the cat off the ceiling–he was laying on the phone when the reminder alert went off. This week is what would be our Spring Break. My days aren’t much different than they would be if we weren’t on orders to stay home, honestly–I’d still get groceries delivered, still sit on the porch with a book and a beer, but I might see a friend or two for lunch date. (A few of us are planning a Zoom wine date soon just on principle, for the record…)

A friend and I chatted the other night–she wanted to check on me because as a fellow gifted introvert, sometimes too much alone time isn’t good. She has kids and a husband working at home, so she’s not really alone right now, but I am–beyond the cats and dog, there’s no one here.

She asked how I was and I couldn’t really answer. I don’t know how I am. I felt purposeless last week, and kind of still do, but I’ve given myself permission to treat this week as Spring Break and not think about purpose just yet–I’ll have time next week. I’ve napped a lot. I’ve watched anything that’s not the news. I’ve taken the dog for walks to the park, sat on my porch in the sun with coffee, listened to audiobooks, and removed dust because there seems to be a great accumulation of it. I’ve worried for our small business that’s impacted by the stay-at-home order, but realized that I can’t fix it and don’t have any other ideas yet. I’m not uncaring or unfeeling–I just really don’t know how I am. There’s not a word for it that I know of though German might have one…they have a word for everything…and if they don’t, they simply make one up.

I tend to overthink a lot and want everything to be perfect for those I care about. I’m watching my intensities pretty closely right now, knowing that I’m stuck and needing to think outside the box, outside my comfort zone, both for self-care and the care of others. Maybe in another week or so I’ll be able to answer my friend’s question about how I am.

I worry more for those who are more impacted by all this than I am–I can’t fix things for any of them really. The healthcare workers and their families, those who are considered essential workers to keep things going, those who are sick with this virus or something else who are worried that it might become something worse, the business owners wondering how they’ll stay afloat when they can’t be open, those who have been laid off and will have to wait a long while for unemployment because everyone else is in the same boat. And I worry too for those who are in denial. Those who think any of this can’t possibly impact them or that somehow the rules in this situation don’t apply to them–what will have to happen to them for them to realize that we are stuck in this together–all of us world-wide–and see that it will take ALL of us realizing that to get through it.

So ask me next week how I’m doing. My gifted intensities are fairly dormant right now, but I’m sure a good cry is coming, and perhaps eventually I’ll have a word for what all this is.

Every summer, my director tries to get me to downshift shortly after school ends. I’ll go in, expecting to find people and work on projects, chatting about next steps together, and instead I find that everyone has closed up shop and downshifted into summer and though they did tell me they were gonna, I never quite believe them.

We’ve been forced into a downshift that none of us were prepared for. This is our school’s spring break, which typically would involve meetups with friends during the day for breakfast or lunch, hikes with people you can’t see while school is on, and relaxing a bit at home or somewhere exotic (like the Hot Springs) or maybe getting to all those home improvement projects you notice needed doing during a long weekend.

This downshift, though, is different. We’re not on a formal quarantine as in other parts of the world, but working from home and staying at home as much as possible is kinda the norm right now. As much as I have always wanted to have a flexible schedule and work remotely from home, I realize that a piece of me hasn’t been ready for it in long stretches and definitely wasn’t ready for it to happen quite the way it did. Last week was VERY difficult for me, in that while I had check-ins with other staff and emails and such, I had no true purpose–I hadn’t had time to process how this all might work. There was a lot of napping and snacking and taking the dog for walks and social media–note that only one of those was really healthy.

Sundays at 9:30am, I hold what I call a “Mindset Meeting” with myself. I’ve done it for a little over a year and I have found that it’s helpful to set the tone for how my week will go…or at least how I would LIKE for it to go. During the late summer and early fall, I’d go to a coffeeshop, get a latte and quiche or breakfast sandwich, and plan out long term projects, make note in my V.E.P. (very expensive planner here) of upcoming meetings, due dates, tasks to be done, and appointments. I continued this every week at home once the weather got colder, sitting on the floor as I am now, at my coffee table (because my dining table is housing placemats and dishes for cat dining so the puppy won’t wolf down their food too) and schedule a session using Focusmate, which pairs you with a random human for accountability while you work for about 50 minutes. Not only is there accountability (it’s video so you see one another) but it’s also focused time to plan the week…to reflect on what you accomplished during the last one too, which is something we all forget to do because by Wednesday, the whole week is effed up completely anyway, right?

I was paired with a gentleman from Barcelona this Sunday. We chatted a bit before our session began and things are much worse there than they are here…not as bad as in Madrid or anywhere in Italy, he noted, thankful that while he’s having to stay home, it could be worse. He’s used to working from home, but the constraint to STAY there and use Zoom or Google meet is really difficult. We worked together on different projects for about an hour, wished one another love, light, and good health, and went on with our day oceans apart. That hour-ish made the world a little smaller…to be together in the room with someone else experiencing the same things you are, with many of the same worries and fears running in the background… It put things into perspective a bit. We aren’t alone in all of this.

I sat down this evening after devouring my empanadas and glorious Raspberry Milkshake IPA from a local food truck and neighborhood brewery, and started to really think about how I can make this remote work work. How can I find a sense of purpose and make this time, for however long it may last, worthwhile and productive so that my job isn’t deemed unnecessary altogether when things return to whatever our new normal becomes? How can I continue to maintain connection to my tribe when we are all so far apart?

I listen to a number of podcasts, and tonight, this one was most helpful as I go into tomorrow. Both Focus on This and Michael Hyatt’s are the ones I like to start my week with. Usually I listen while I’m in the shower getting ready for work–it’s a nice way to begin the day and focus my thinking around being productive and how I can best use my time to serve the kids and adults I work with. Tomorrow, I’ll rework my plan…make lists of projects I can do that will be helpful, and make lists of connections I can make remotely (for now) that can become something bigger in the future…when we go back to normal.

I have many friends who have been laid off altogether or furloughed indefinitely, and know lots of small businesses that are up against a wall–closing completely may very well lead to bankruptcy (because no one cares where their money comes from, just that it comes and it’s on time), while remaining open, even limited hours and contact, might generate enough to keep the doors open until this is over and they can go back to a somewhat normal existence. Everyone has an opinion on what small businesses ought to do, how they should modify their existence…but few with opinions have a true stake in the decisions being made by the small business owners.

The fact is that our work lives, whatever they looked like a week ago, have changed. Whether we’re working remotely from home, downshifting into uncharted territory, or thinking of creative ways to keep ourselves afloat and sane for a while, we’re in this together. We’re not alone.

To the gentleman in Spain, thank you for sharing an hour-ish of your Sunday with me this week and helping me understand that this downshift is bigger than all of us. Teachers often say that it takes a village to raise a child, and I think that it will take all of us together to make it through this mess, supporting one another however we can…granting grace to each other and practicing kindness.

I have stayed fairly quiet since leaving school last Friday afternoon when I slipped out quickly after a staff meeting that outlined steps for the next week. I didn’t want to be caught–it would have been too much. Mixed feelings.

I’ve shared memes and puppy updates and learning opportunity ideas online, checked email, scheduled appointments for Thanksgiving Break, listened to multiple books and podcasts, and avoided the news as much as possible. I’ve done laundry, cleaned the bathroom and kitchen (my GOD how does it get so dirty when there’s only one of me and I’m not here much??), and gone for lots of walks with the dog, hoping she’ll figure out that cars aren’t evil and the park is good. I’ve spoken to my elderly mom by phone, agreeing that me not going to visit is best. I’ve napped, chatted online with friends, and made a few trips out to get things I didn’t realize were needed until there wasn’t any left.

All the while, I’ve watched post after post on social media from parents and teachers, both excited to get to try online learning or homeschooling and frustrated because it’s difficult to do with littles, multiples, and while you’re also supposed to be working at home or still have to go to work because your job doesn’t do “work from home.”

Some teachers are all about using the online platform to work with kids and planning lots of activities for the kids so that they feel like they’re doing their job, and experimenting with new ways to reach kids–this brings them joy. Teachers everywhere are working hard to prepare engaging lessons that look a lot different than we’re used to, rounding up resources and videos to share with kids and families, facilitating chats and video meets, and sending reminder emails to kids about missing work that kids have a bit of time to finish now.

Some teachers are worried about how to meet the needs of kids who aren’t part of the “haves…” Those who are food insecure, home insecure, care insecure. Those for whom school was the safety net. Those whose parents have to still go to work every day leaving them behind with no internet and smaller siblings to care for and entertain until one or more family member can come home to sleep between jobs. They provided general guidance before all of this started–read a lot, practice your math facts, play games you learned in school, and play outside. They want to do more, share more, provide more…but may not have a way to connect to the kids they miss so much.

Still others are concerned that kids needs aren’t being met due to IEPs and 504s and parents and other caregivers not being able to support those needs. And what to do about the meetings with parents scheduled for end of year? Kids moving to new schools need to have meetings with new school personnel to explain the plans and talk about how things will work next year…if there is a next year.

Parents are being rock stars overall though–keeping it together for the sake of their kids, getting creative with time and childcare and family needs, arranging for food and medications, learning opportunities, time outside, and mediating squabbles like a boss. Those working at home are doing a fantastic balancing act…and those still working at work are too–balancing the worry with the work that must be done. Compartmentalizing skill must come with the parenting book. There’s meme’s a-plenty about wine or whisky in sippy cups, but I wouldn’t judge anyone if that is what they found helpful during this stressful time.

And some of us are stuck in limbo. Our role depends on having people to serve yet we are stuck at home. We longed to work from home on projects that make our hearts happy, and now that we have the time to do so, the projects for which we sought uninterrupted time to work on are also in limbo….can’t very well plan a conference that may not happen at all–no one is willing to commit. Don’t need to prep for state testing as it’s on “pause.” (I’m not mad about this…I’m really not.) Can’t test kids that are at home with test materials that are at school. Can’t meet with people beyond virtually, and the topics of discussion are kind of moot given the situation anyway. Suddenly, the projects I had in my mind as being critical, aren’t, and audiobook mysteries moved up the to do list.

It’s difficult to remain in the quiet of the unknown and uncertainty, even for this introvert who craves quiet and alone-time to recharge. I am fine with being at home with my fuzzy beasts, but struggling with lack of purpose and direction. My head aches with tears that are stuck–seems silly to want to cry over all this but I do. I miss my tribe. I miss my purpose. I read earlier today that it’s ok to take some time to just be…perhaps tomorrow I’ll be able to set some new professional and personal goals and work on projects that I have extra time for…presentation ideas and online learning possibilities. And maybe I’ll move the cats off their cushions and vacuum underneath them and teach the dog to put away her toys when she’s done playing with them.

All while remaining quiet.

I gave a presentation at a recent literacy conference entitled “Perfectionism and the Gifted Writer.” As I was researching to make sure my strategies had basis in best practice and not just stuff that had worked for me in the past, I came across a list of words that described perfectionists.

One that keeps popping back into my head is this one:

Overcommitted

When I initially considered how on earth that word could relate to kids, to gifted writers in particular, I couldn’t see it. But the more I thought, and the most introspective I became about my own writing life, I realized that in fact, it’s a huge part of perfectionism.

For young writers, their story has to be longer, more intricate, with hundreds of chapters, and illustrations, and myriad plot points. Young gifted children’s explanations, written or otherwise are often more infused with detail, reasons, or facts (relevant or not). Their projects are bigger, with more moving parts, huge ideas that we can’t possibly create on our own but can’t explain what we want.

A friend’s child noted on the drive home recently that she hates art. She’s a wonderful artist, with years of beautiful art pieces hanging throughout their home showing her progression as an artist. Her reason? Art isn’t perfect the first time. It takes constant revision and change to become what it is you see in your head…that which you’ve committed to creating.

We overcommit so easily, even as children…

I find now as an adult, the overcommitting is so very real and happening almost daily. It’s no longer taking 21 credit hours and working 2 full time jobs. Now it’s task based. Sure, I’ll make that phone call, write that letter, handle that situation, meet with that family. Of course I’ll be happy to go to that meeting for you, write that op-ed, review those comments, cover your class, clean up that mess. Yes, I’ll take on that role, wear that hat, and of course I’ll do those tasks on behalf of others who aren’t able to. I have so many hours in the day, just like everyone else, but yes, I’ll do that for you, lest you be disappointed or let down.

I began this day with high hopes for productivity, and while I got some of the tasks on my list taken care of, others again ended up on the back burner, and now I’m unable to prioritize any of it because I’ve overcommitted so much, and in the eyes of everyone around me, their needs ought to be the most important even if they aren’t saying it out loud. The eyes of a colleague rolling when I try to explain that no, I can’t handle that right this second because I have x, y, and z to take care of right now hurt. I never thought of people rolling their eyes and letting out that disappointed sigh as having a physical hurt attached to it…but today it did. There’s a pain in my heart and my head that wasn’t there earlier today.

So after dismissal, I will pack up my computer and planner and the dog’s knuckle bone and take my dog home, where I will pop an aspirin or cry (not sure which will help the headache more right now), go for a walk because once again we are having false spring, take a nap, and eat something reasonable before falling asleep early.