There is a teacher at Walkers school from… let’s say Britain.   Her name is a joy to say if you were to exaggerate it and draw out all of the vowels in a very English fashion.  In fact, I cannot ever convey--in font-- the joy I derive from saying her name repeatedly, using my awesome cockney accent. Let's just say that I might have overdone it, as is my tendency. Walker has forbidden me to … [Read more...]

When I was in sixth grade, my teacher was frustrated out of her mind.  No matter where she moved me in the class, I chatted up my neighbor.  I remember each new class day, in an attempt to reign me in, Mrs. Hill shifted me to a different seat, hoping that I would get the hint and button the lip.  But I found common ground with the each neighbor in turn.  I made new friends. Silence, to me, does … [Read more...]

I’m taking my emotionally drained self to bed.  This shooting has hollowed me out.  Too much empathy and I cried earlier.  Couple glasses of wine and the nightly news and it was a rain fest.  I really lost it. Little innocent children, all 20 of them dead. Walker’s passions are her juice, her ice cream, her play dates.   She’s so bright but emotionally she’s 9.   Bocce in the front yard.  Can … [Read more...]

At Walker’s school, volunteering is mandatory—you have to put in a certain amount of hours per year.  It’s still very minimal, especially compared to past co-op preschools where it was like having a second full time job.  I do more hours because Walker’s face lights up when I walk in her classroom and I get about 5 hugs per 10 minutes, and the other girls make me feel like a rock star and that’s … [Read more...]