Tonight was the 8th grade dance. I strutted inside, looking around the dance floor, openly pretending to not see my students (who were playing the same game). Someone called my name, and as I turned around to wave, a kid plowed backwards into me. He popped my cheekbone with his elbow or fist...I'm not sure of the body part, but I know it hurt. It's still a little sore. Back in 1991, at the last 8th grade dance I attended, I would have been mortified and spent the rest of the evening staring into Lake Mirror and holding back tears. This time, I took in my student's laughing faces and joined in. I meant it. Then I ran around telling the story as many times as possible so I could laugh even more.
It's been a busy week for me. I left my house at 4:30 Monday morning for my drive down south and pulled back in my driveway at 1:20 this morning. The days have been long, too, between working at the new school from 7:30 until 3:00 or 4:00 and then working at the new place until 9:00 or 10:00 each night. I now have callouses on my fingers and not one intact finger nail. I think I've also developed a new twitch somewhere on my face. One afternoon this week, I stood in the middle of our new living room and took in the sight of missing drywall, a growing hole in the floor and soaked up my husband's predictions that we still won't be ready to paint by the weekend. All I wanted to do was cry. All I felt was nothingness. Numbness. Anyone who has ever reached the point of numbness knows that it's scarier than feeling like you're falling apart. It's one step beyond feeling like you're falling apart. I couldn't help but wonder just what we had gotten ourselves
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