The Next Station Won’t Be As Hard

For crying out loud I’m in the middle of a transition and I HATE transitions. HATE THEM. Every week is different. I can’t catch up. I’ve stopped writing a to-do list because THERE ARE NO MORE LINES. I know I can use my time better – to write, to read, to workout, to plan lessons, etc. etc., but I just don’t see how to do that right now. In my more rational moments, I know this won’t last. I know transitions are good and I get better after going through them, but I HATE THEM.

So I’m sitting at the kitchen table on a Sunday afternoon trying to sift through all there is to do when Hadley comes downstairs and says she’s prepared something for us.

She’s made math stations for everyone in the family including all the stuffed animals in the house to participate in. To the right of the chart is a behavioral chart.  Harper and I are in a group.

People of the world: don’t ever put Harper and I in a group and ask us to do the following: 1)be nice to strangers and make small talk with them; 2)complete math problems.

I hate math and I hate transitions.  I have no time for either of them.

But Hadley’s put Harper and I in a group and given us a set of problems to work on.  They’re all addition problems, triple digits on top of more triple digits.  Harper and I sit down next to each other and Harper says, “I don’t know what any of this means, Mommy.”

I can tell she wants to play the game of school Hadley’s set up so I try my best to explain what “plus” means and how to add, but I only have so many fingers and it isn’t working.  So I write a note:

Note my default: ask if I can just write instead of do math. It’s how I held onto my 2.0 GPA all throughout high school, folks.  They didn’t call me “Academic Lewis” for nothin’ back then.

Of course Hadley is going to let Harper practice her lowercase letters, I think.  As long as we’re playing the game, certainly she’ll let us do another school thing, right? After all, writing is just as important as math.

Here’s Hadley’s response:

Harper hands me the note and asks what it says.

“We have to do these problems, Harper,” I say after reading my seven going on eighty-eight year old’s note.

We sit at the table again and I tell Harper to go get a calculator.  Miss Feyen didn’t say how I had to help Harper.  She just said I had to help her.  So I show her how to enter in 345 + 765 = into the calculator.  Harper smiles as she pushes the buttons, sees the answers, then writes it down on Hadley’s worksheet with a pencil.

While she works, I pull out my planner again and look at my list. I study the things I’ve wanted to get done since August: essays I want to start, blog posts I want to write, ideas for teaching I want to plan, things I want to learn, a birthday party to plan. A little voice, I think it’s the devil, says, “You don’t have to write. You don’t have to blog. It’s all too much. It’s all too hard.”

I fold Hadley’s note up and stick it inside my planner. “I’m sorry if it’s a bit too advanced,” she tells me. “Did I mention,” she writes and reminds me that when things are hard, we are supposed to help each other.  Also, she adds, “the next station will be easier,” my little teacher tells me.

I hate not knowing when I will get things done and I hate not being on a schedule. I hate multi-tasking and rushing around. It’s exhausting. I’m exhausted. But I love everything I’m doing: teaching, writing, mothering. I’m sorry it’s a bit advanced, but I’m not giving any of it up.  I just need a calculator and faith that the next station will be easier.

“You are not in trouble,” my sweet girl tells me.

But figure it out.

Harper and I might’ve bent the rules, but we are still in the game and I hope Hadley never ever lets me off the hook.