Wrap your head with this material...

 Last night my 7 year old told me I'd make a great emotional support dog. I asked him what made him think that. He said he could picture me walking around all day telling a kid he could do it and encouraging him. As both a teacher and a mom, I can't imagine a better compliment. 

 I feel like I'm always writing about longing, longing for being a better me, success, better writing, more engagement in my own life longing to escape my flaws In person, I lean into my flaws. I call them by name as if to scale them to a height I can tackle. It's often hilarious. I make incredibly funny mistakes. I am likely to put my underwear on inside out and tell you in a disarming moment. I once fell off of a desk in a roomful of 8th graders during a video so the crash was thunderous. I was bleeding. I couldn't even pretend I was like a cat that hadn't just done that. Last week, I'd had a rough day of sassy backtalk from teenagers at work. This is not common in my relationships with students and I was a little on edge. After school there was a 40 min packed timeframe with my own kids, and to meet it, we'd have to be by-the-minute. I arrived to get one son and he was not ready, though his teacher had said he would be. I walked into his room, told him to get

 You, the senior English class today, in September of 2020 are the rumble of a dumptruck starting up. That sound is the sensation of a building growl my throat.  I'm supposed to sing the song of tomorrow,       of the promise of college,                      but there is a growl in the way as I tumble.  Instead of a teacher, a cement mixer, I am a stone in the metal bin of a rock tumbler,   grumbling around, hoping I will come out polished and shiny with all the answers for them.  Someday I'll have every detail for you laid out perfectly                                                 a cloth with bedizened items well-lit, displayed   and you'll simply pluck all you need from the pile.  "tada! this one's me."  but for now, you will arise from the confusion to discern your own Bob Ross "Happy Accidents" from the lessons I lob your way.  Sometimes my lessons are sandbags tossed, sliding, "whomp" into a corhole game No points or rips or spills