Hey, man. Sorry about not posting lately. Things are insane. I've taken on more responsibility than one person could ever attend properly, and hopefully it will keep me so entirely stressed out and busy that I will be distracted as my SICLE anniversary swiftly approaches. Hopefully, I will just wake up to find February hanging around on the wall...
1997. Picture it: me sitting at my desk bleeding like a stuck pick after having my second trimester child ripped out of me in pieces. Bleeding, bleeding, bleeding... so much that I'm afraid to stand up at the chalk board. It's Friday, the 14th, and the children are covering my desk with pretty paper hearts and heart-shaped chocolate boxes. Hugs here and there. Their little arms come flying at me; they shower me with love. Little hands and faces. Little sounds coming from little mouths. Love, love and more love... because they're wired for it; it's all they know how to do. I sit there stunned and tormented by their sweetness and fragility. I sit there bleeding.
I lasted two and a half weeks after that, and I haven't worked since.
It was in the midst of a forever-moment of watching a child's tiny fingers painstakingly unfurl a precious raspberry fruit roll-up, and hearing him read and laugh adorably at the joke printed on the waxed paper beneath, that I knew I would never teach again.
So perhaps I will keep me busy until March.
I could always get pregnant again. I don't remember worrying about due dates last year. Physical torture has its perks.