Deluge

Yesterday was moving day. Our first Sunday at home in eons, we arranged to borrow The Forest Society truck in order to move my 30+ boxes of school materials from our basement to my new classroom. In between isolated thunderstorms that tore open the skies and filled the gutters and truck bed with rushing water, Peter and George (the Liberian kid from next door who was keen on earning ten dollars) cleared out several hundred pounds of musty books, plastic containers, informational posters, math materials, model projects, craft supplies, files, binders, paper clips, books, books and more books. A couple of hours later my pristine 20 X 30 classroom was cluttered with several hundred pounds of musty books, plastic containers, informational posters, math materials, model projects, craft supplies, files, binders, paper clips, books, books and more books. I have my work cut out for me. And that's before I even begin starting to think about how I am actually going to teach these ten year olds. I have 21 days before my students walk through the door. It's time to get to work.

And then there is life. Kids still need to be fed and taken to the doctor and held and played with. Friends will visit. We have party invitations and day trips planned. Neighbors need to be convinced that John McCain would be a disaster for our country. I would like to go swimming, and go to the beach, and pick more berries, and hike a couple of mountains. It is still summer, after all. And my brain is still relative mush from a year of survival mothering. Somehow I must figure out how to shift gears soon, or else panic (my forte) may set in. As Oma so eloquently put it, August is just one long Sunday evening.

Saryn is visiting for a couple of nights, and I appreciated the excuse to pick blueberries, go for a swim and cook a good meal. Jasper, delighted that he didn't have to go to school today, was in perfect form.