Grounded

I’ve referred to the phenomenon of Frequent Flyers at school once before, and I am linking that post here.

Once again we find ourselves in the twilight zone between Spring approaching and Spring Break still a couple weeks away. Last week in our 8th grade team meeting we collectively decided that we needed to add several more students to the No Fly List.

This morning a colleague who was reviewing notes from the Leadership Meeting held yesterday remarked at how emblematic our current school-wide “No Fly List” is of the middle school arc in general:

6th grade: 1 student

7th grade: 4 students

8th grade: 28 students

It’s very grounding to me to keep that arc in mind, realizing that those 28 eighth grade students will all have a fresh start next year in their respective high schools.

Remember to breathe. Remind your students to breathe. Especially if they are eighth graders.

Cat on a Hot Shingled Roof

The warmer days of early Spring have spawned some unusual activities within the wild kingdom of my Douglas Park neighborhood.

Early this morning, one neighbor posted the following FYI on our neighborhood listserv.

"Just saw a very fast fox chase a black cat across my backyard [1700 block of South Pollard Street].            Hopefully the cat was faster than the fox. Providing as an FYI for those who have outdoor pets."

A reply to her FYI by a second neighbor reported another concerning event:

"A few days ago a huge vulture feasted for a long time on a dead squirrel on the roof of a neighbor's backyard building on South Monroe near South 12th Street."

So imagine my concern when I arrived home on this first 80 degree day of 2026 to some breaking news of our own: the more adventurous of our two seven month old kittens had stranded herself on our front porch roof! 

Apparently she'd pushed through a screen in the upstairs office window and could not figure out how to get back inside. Fortunately, my son heard her confused meows when he headed outside to take his daily walk and was able to coax her back inside from upstairs.

So now we have collectively placed restrictions of 1-2 inches on bottom-up window maneuvers, favoring instead the safer top-down maneuvers for the foreseeable future! 

How Lucky Am I?!

Being an Emotional Support Person is a job that entails precision. My desk sits in the same alcove as my client, but facing 90 degrees to the right. Close enough to be a sounding board, but not in the line of vision. 

Being an Emotional Support Person is a job that entails boundaries. If her headphones are on or her “in a meeting” tent card faces forward, she’s either in a meeting or doing intense spreadsheet work. 

Being an Emotional Support Person is a job that entails personal sacrifice. It’s a gorgeous early Spring day, close to 80 degrees outside, and I’m sitting here in this windowless room giving moral support at 4:00pm, until tomorrow’s ACCESS make-up schedule, test tickets, and related emails for are complete.

Being an Emotional Support Person is a job that does not go unnoticed. I receive more kudos from my client than she receives from her Admin team, even though she has taken on the Herculean task of coordinating all of the WIDA ACCESS testing for 275 English Learner students in our building.

I do this job because my client is an Extra Special Person.

But really, I ask myself, how lucky am I to sit in this cramped, windowless, mice-ridden room, in a fifty-five year old building that is falling down around us, working late with my two all-time favorite colleagues, knocking out our desk work in preparation for the last day of make-up testing, our upcoming Student-Led Parent/Teacher conferences, or any other task that comes our way?

Pretty lucky indeed!

Costco Sundays

Costco Sundays at Pentagon City used to be a viable venue for a lone shopper, especially if you went first thing in the morning or during a Commanders, née Redskins, game later in the afternoon. But nowadays I recommend a strategic, team approach.

At 2:43pm, Thomas and I grabbed a rare parking spot on the street instead of joining the backed up ticket line. After a short trot up the sidewalk, we each grabbed one of the last two flatbeds and swiped our respective member cards at the entry way. 

By 2:47pm we were bee-lining straight to the garden area, about half of the way back in the middle section of the store, equidistant between the two main extra wide aisles. 

By 2:58pm both flatbeds were loaded with ten 40 pound bags of the organic soil/compost mixture, the maximum purchase number allowed per person. At that point I texted our pick-up truck getaway driver, Paul, that it was time to approach the area for a rendezvous.

In line, Thomas and I were each offered a pre-check, which meant an expedited trip through the checkout line. We gratefully accepted and reached our respective checkout clerks at approximately 3:02pm. 

At 3:06pm I checked my texts to find this message from Paul: “I am not gonna attempt that line-up into the lot. Meet me in the loading dock area around to the right of the store, just beyond the handicapped parking. You’ll need to roll your carts down there, through the exit gate.” It sounded like a brilliant plan, and meant we didn’t need to worry about validation for Paul’s now-nonexistent parking pass. 

By 3:17pm we had converged in the loading dock area, filled the bed of the truck with our 20 bag haul, and both pick-up truck and Thomas’s car were headed over to the TJMS Community garden to unload over the fence.

In less  than 50 minutes, our collective chore was complete, start to finish. Costco Sunday did not defeat us this time! 

Digging Deeper

This winter I returned to my favorite type of exercise for the first time post-pandemic: deep water aerobics. 

First I signed up for a Saturday morning class, which was the only one I saw listed in the Arlington Recreation catalog. From other class participants I learned about the Monday and Wednesday classes, so I signed up for the Wednesday class on site. I’m sorely tempted to sign up for all three classes next go round.

I feel my leg strength returning when I climb the long stairs at school, and my mid regions are starting to feel more flexible, firm, and balanced. Each class is a solid hour of constant movement with resistance. Each class is a commitment to self-care. 

With this renewed commitment to exercise comes renewed resolve to schedule my other activities around my classes, even if it means less time out digging in the school garden this Spring, or not posting here every single day.

Nature Lovers

Today I had the opportunity to hang out midday with my family, after returning home from my husband’s post -op appointment. 

Our seven month old “twins”, Sabrina and Roan, were both planted at the back window watching a squirrel rebuild its nest in the Willow Oak. Every five minutes the busy builder would scamper down the tree trunk to grab another mouthful of leaves while intensely focused feline faces followed every clasp of the claws and every twitch of the tail. 

A short while earlier, according to my daughter, Roan had followed the flight of two female cardinals alongside the big picture window, only inches from the glass barrier, still too young to make the gutteral chitter of the huntress she is becoming. 

My son’s clinking of glasses and plunking of silverware as he unloaded his share of the dishwasher signaled the end of this afternoon’s outdoor nature lesson. Sleepy eyes sporting heavy eyelids suggest that nap time is near. 

 

The Weekly Goodbye

I watch as he puts them into the car, so carefully, lovingly.

The weekly goodbye.

Then he watches as the car pulls away.

With his face buckled in pain, he follows the little heads until they are out of sight.

His beloved young children. Who love him dearly. Who did not want to say goodbye. 

But such are the arrangements of grown ups.

Observed one evening a decade or more ago, under the portico of a local apartment building, while dropping off my daughter for her weekly voice lessons. 

Winter Still-here-ness

The snow that is now falling would be grand…

If I hadn’t just spent my weekend puttering and pruning in the garden beds,

If we didn’t have 200 more ACCESS Speaking tests to administer this week,

If this were late November, or January,

But I did, we do, and it isn’t.

The grayish-white vista now forming outside would be cozy and comforting…

If I hadn’t just taken my red and cobalt blue planting pots out of storage yesterday,

If we didn’t have a new unit to begin in ELA 8 this week,

If this were December, or even February,

But I did, we do, and it isn’t.

The wildlife of the back yard would be skittering about…

If I hadn’t seen the teeth and chin bone of a deceased rabbit, or squirrel, beside the driveway yesterday,

If we didn’t have a huge nocturnal opossum hiding out in our crawl space killing all the mice,

If this were a month from now, or even two,

But I did, we do, and it isn’t.

I guess I’ll just go take a nap.

My Rag-Tag Gal

Some years back, when my first gardening neighbor retired and moved to Winchester, another micro-climate away, she gifted me her much-loved gardenia and we enlisted our shared handyman to help with the transplant. At that point in time, the gardenia was several years old and she still barely fit into the two-piece green floral plant cover that was conveyed to me in the transfer. But every year, as she has grown, I have had to cobble together all manner of burlap, old grill cover, and retired shower curtain liners, minus their sheered off mildewed bottoms.

One reason I agreed to this whole adoption arrangement is that my husband grew up in Texas from sixth grade on, and he fondly remembers the pleasing aroma of his mother’s gardenia. It is not overly strong, like lilac or magnolia, rather a subtler blend of fresh, floral flavor that is not easy to describe, yet something glorious to inhale. I’m sorry to say that this winter may have been the gardenia’s Waterloo.

Several weeks ago, as the temperatures plunged I frocked her thoroughly, with more drapes than in prior years. During stages of the wintry mix, I cleared snow, then sleet, then ice from her outer coat, after which I waited almost two weeks for temperatures to climb back above freezing, at least in the daytime. Finally I was able to pull off the layers and invite our cloistered friend out into the sunshine. I honestly feared she’d be dead from two weeks of darkness, but this was not the case.

However, another snow event last week featured temperatures just above freezing, but a wet and heavy mix weighing down limbs for several hours. Judging from the belt of ragged, brown leaves this last bout of winter may prove to have been the knock out punch that I’ve dreaded for the past five years. Yet I know the roots are strong, and many of the leaves are still lapping up sunshine. So I can’t be sure.

This will no doubt be the year that our now-ragged gardenia gets a long-overdue haircut and styling. A proper coiffing, once her surviving blooms have had their moment on center stage. Stay tuned for an eventual update.