buses only

February 6: Abel only brings his backpack to school around once every two weeks, and on those days, he usually leaves it in the classroom and only remembers it after the school has already been locked up. Today was the only day for the last three weeks that he brought his backpack. It smelled so rank that I had to push it out in the hallway to stop the rest of my students from gagging.

February 7: We FaceTimed Uncle Steve so that my detective class could have the chance to talk to a real detective and hear what a day in the life of one was like.
Celeste was the first to raise her hand. “Are you old?”

February 8: Shanah had me wait outside of the bungalow so that I could walk with her and her family. “Miss Skye said she would get me a chocker necklace for Valentine’s Day,” she said as we waited for the light on the street corner we separated at. “I hope she does so that I can be more like her.” She gave me a side glance before heading towards home. “No offense, Miss Heather.”

February 9: I found a “No Parking, Buses Only” sign jammed into the plastic cover of the fluorescent ceiling light that was at least 10 feet above my head. I made all of my students pinkie promise that they would not park a car upside-down on the ceiling. Three of them refused to make such a promise.

February 10: Nancy keeps calling me aside to make guesses as to what George is up to right now. They usually involve him jumping up and down on the bed or breaking into the fridge to eat all of the carrots. Today, she suggested that Addie and George were having a food fight by way of magic.

February 11: A woman pushed her toddler in a stroller past us and there was a bottle of champagne and a plastic jug of orange juice stashed in the under storage compartment. I aspire to be that kind of mother some day.

February 12: Luli and I kept getting distracted during our talk about how our wedding planning journeys were going because a man decided to show his children how a push mower worked without teaching them to not stick their tiny arms through the twisted blades to pick up pieces of shorn grass.



much love,
hedgie