The rabbit is loose!

I wrongly assumed a case of lice would be the worst of our day. A few times a year, my school invites white coated nurses into our school to carefully comb through every student’s hair—braided, curly, buzzed, or knotty, no coif avoids the nit-picking sessions. The kids love the process, and drool a little as the women comb through their hair inch by inch. Yesterday, upon hearing from a parent volunteer that the Licenders were speedier than usual, my class squeezed into an earlier time slot and I was hopeful that we could quickly filter in, filter out, unscathed by eggs, nits, or creepy-crawlers.

The kids who had been checked and cleared stood along the wall, chatting noisily with each other while I made small talk with some of the parents. I knew their volume was rising and that I should probably dampen the racket with a threat of no choice time, when all of a sudden two teachers burst through their classroom doors. Oh boy, I’m in trouble, I thought, assuming my animated, loud third graders had disrupted the teaching going on around us.

“Bring all the students in here. Now! Get them all into my room!” one of the teachers exclaimed. “The rabbit is out of its cage. Get all the students inside! The rabbit is out of its cage.”

I started looking around my feet and down the hallway. “Did one of them lose their class pet,” I wondered. Not having much time to think clearly, I herded my kids standing against the wall and those in the middle of being checked for lice, and corralled them inside the teacher’s classroom. Luckily her own students were in music at the time so the small room accommodated all of us just fine--the kids, nurse, parents, and nearby teachers. You know, just the normal reaction to a free wielding animal! My kids encircled me, asking whose pet escaped, what color rabbit it was, and why we had to lock ourselves in Ms. Thompson’s classroom if it was just a little rabbit. Good points all around!

“Don’t worry, the school just takes this type of thing very seriously. We’re fine, we’re fine. Think of this as a little, unexpected free time. Enjoy yourselves!” I didn’t know what else to say, since I was just as confused by the drastic measures being taken to protect us from a furry friend. But I shrugged and smiled, doing my best to remain somewhat in control during this lice-gone-wrong moment.

I turned to Ms. Thompson and asked, “What’s going on? How did you know a rabbit got loose?”

“The assistant principal got on the loudspeaker and said, ‘Attention teachers and students: The rabbit is loose. I repeat, the rabbit is loose.’ You know what that means, right?”

“That there’s a rabbit loose?”

“No! It’s our school code for ‘a dangerous person is in our school!’ An unidentified person in the building and could be dangerous. You’re so funny! You thought there was an actual rabbit?”

Yes, obviously I did. Call me literal. “Oh, wow! So someone is loose? Are we safe in here?” I worried.

“I hope so!” she said.

I gazed at my innocent, playful children skipping around the room, hovering around picture books, and whispering secrets in each other’s ears. The weight of my responsibility to protect and care for these children blanketed my own anxiety about the ‘loose rabbit’ and I knew that whatever happened, I was there for them. However, why our school has such a bizarre code for such a serious crisis was beyond me.

“Let’s sit in a circle and play a game,” I said, congregating the twenty-five eight year olds. “Let’s play Follow the Leader.” Shrieks of joy rang through the room, and they squeezed into the tight ring of bodies, hoping to find a spot next to their current BFF. As soon as the game was about to start, a voice boomed through the loudspeaker on the wall.

“Attention teachers and students. Sorry for this second interruption, but I’m happy to announce that the rabbit is safely tucked inside its cozy little cage. I repeat, the rabbit is back in its cage. Thank you for your patience.”

My students let out an audible, collective sigh, relieved the class pet was out of harm’s way but disappointed their impromptu fun time was now over. They arranged themselves in two neat rows, Ms. Thompson unlocked the door, and we thanked her for letting us wait in her room while the search and rescue commenced outside. “I’m so happy the bunny’s alright,” one of my little friends confessed.

“Me too!” I said, and I gave her a little hug. The kids instantly divided and assembled themselves into their pre-checked, being-checked, and post-checked groups. Many of them shared how relieved they were that the tiny pet was resting comfortably in its cage, and I was relieved that my tiny peeps were comfortably at ease back in the hallways of our questionably safe building.

As soon as the nurses and kiddies and parents were back into the smooth swing of licending, Ms. Thompson tugged at my arm and pulled me aside. “Guess what I just heard? Turns out the rabbit was a Mystery Reader!"

"What?!"

"He was in the boy’s bathroom, wearing a cape and a mask, when a boy came into the bathroom and screamed, ran down to the main office, and yelled that a strange man in a mask was using the bathroom! Can you believe it? A parent,” she shook her head and laughed. “Better safe than sorry, I guess.”

So, our unidentified and dangerous stranger was a parent in disguise. Bad move using the boy’s bathroom, and an even worse move telling the boy not to say anything! But apparently, even the most well-intentioned masked avenger can shut an entire elementary school down for half an hour.

When all was combed and done, the children were deloused and only mildly distressed. What started as a quick trip to the first floor nurse’s station, turned into a would-be terror threat. I learned our school code for ‘Save yourselves!’ and I think the kids learned a lot, too—the next time they hear a wooly bunny has escaped from its cage, the best thing to do is lock themselves in the nearest room, stay calm, and wait until the coast is clear. That shouldn’t require too much therapy!

The Girl With the Pearl Earring

Already late for work, I decided I had time for a small coffee and egg white veggie flatbread from Dunkin’ Donuts. I couldn’t quite hear the clerk when she asked me if I cared for sugar, and so I yanked off my earmuffs to have a better listen. Moments after taking my first sip of my morning Joe, I felt that odd sensation of the backing to my earring fall against my neck into my collar. It was as strange a feeling as when I lose a tooth in a nightmare, which is a common theme in my dreams that I know has something to do with a felt loss of power. And that’s exactly what was so strikingly odd about sensing my gold fastener tumble down—something so securely fastened isn’t supposed to come off or fall out!

I dropped my head to my shoulder in an attempt to catch the fallen bauble, and grabbed at my ear, feeling around for a back-less pearl. There was nothing there! Just a naked ear! At that point I clutched my breakfast sandwich for dear life (since dropping that too would really cause the morning to go to shit) and began hunching over while walking in slow circles around the register.

“Can I help you, miss?” the confused employee asked.

“I’ve lost my earring! It’s a pearl. I don’t see it though,” I replied, and then began disrobing in front of the cranky commuters. I knew it had to be in my jacket or purse or glove or even in one of my clogs! At least I hoped it was, because if I couldn’t find it there, I had no time to retrace my steps. The subway rumbled underground and reminded me I needed to cut this morning escapade short.

“If we find it we’ll hold onto it for you. Call back later, miss.”

“Thank you! Thank you so much! I will!” I said, even though I knew I wouldn’t. I have worn those pearl earrings everyday for the past few maybe five or six years. I sleep in them, shower in them, and go out in them. I even forget they’re there! Except when they’re not…

I knew that it was a lost cause. Suddenly, I recalled all the various nooks and crannies in the form of grates and potholes I encounter on my walk from the apartment to the station. The earring was gone, and I was bummed. But I was also seriously late for work.

Later that day I began searching online for a new set of studs, and was shocked to learn just how inexpensive they actually are! Relieved and feeling at ease, I then began to wonder why pearl earrings have such an uptight, elitist reputation? Why hate on such cheap little cuties? While on my Internet navigation, I also remembered feeling teased (note: I cannot remember who actually accosted me but I know it happened) by people in college for wearing pearl earrings everyday—and that was way before my current cardigan paired with pearl earrings uniform, which I do see as being a bit preppy. But again, why hate on such a cheap little cutie?

A little research later, and I recalled the reason for the pearl’s snobby rep. In their early days of popularity, pearls had to be made the old fashioned way—one grain of sand and one day at a time. Yet now, real pearls are made instantly and very inexpensively, diluting the market with millions of perfect, iridescent orbs. Almost anyone can access a pair of earrings for a good cost, and she needn’t be Cleopatra or Queen Elizabeth. So, the pearl’s reputation hasn’t changed with modern times and despite advances in mass production, the pearl earring is still an elusive item.

I then thought about why I have stuck to the rounded gems all these years, why I hadn’t mixed up my ear jewelry on a more regular basis. Truth is, pearl earrings to me are the new black. They go with everything by blending seamlessly into the wearer’s ensemble. I like how they delicately dot my ears and don’t hurt the sides of my head when I’m sleeping.

My research and reflections haven’t led to anything awe-inspiring or revolutionary, but losing my earring did force me to take a moment’s pause. Maybe I lost my earring for a reason—maybe the universe is hinting that I could use dose of mystery, like Vermeer’s girl with the lone pearl. So if you see me walking down the street with one pearl in, one pearl out, don’t worry… I’m just trying out my new look: Intrigue (with a dash of crazy.)

Next stop... Plateau?

I try to avoid crying under the covers. It reminds me so much of high school, back when stalking the boy of my eye would inevitably cause me to “coincidentally bump into” said crush and the apple of his eye. I was never a boy’s apple as a teenager. Rather, I was more like the odd star fruit—so delicious and sweet inside but painfully difficult to peel. And, being the prude and high-maintenance star fruit I was, I spent many a night crying under the covers, desperately wanting to be an apple, or even a slutty banana that strips down with one tug at the top.

That level of uncorkable crying is what I experienced last night, while sobbing into my Shabby Chic duvet and begging my husband to turn off the lights because the tears made me as blind and sensitive as a baby hamster. “Please turn off,” sob, sob, “the lamp.” Sniffle, sniffle. I know he was trying to help me by forcing me into the light, but I wanted to cry privately and quietly, like I did in high school, and try not to indulge the anxiety spouting out by way of tears and snot.

“Why are you upset?”

“I’m just so uncomfortable! I don’t want to go back to school. I want to stay home, with you—and my mom and sister. I don’t like going back.”

“I hear ya! But I thought you said school was good today?” Curtis offered, obviously confused, and uncomfortable himself by my sudden emotional collapse.

“I did have a good day. The kids were fine. Great even. I don’t know. I’m just feeling anxious and I’m sure it’s just nerves and post-holiday shit, but I’m really upset.” Obviously.

“OK…It’s OK to cry.”

“I know it’s OK to cry,” and upon spicing up my response with a pinch of sass, knowing that the last thing I needed was to spark a marital fight, I curled into his armpit and said, “I just hate not feeling right, you know?”

“I know.”

“I mean, am I going to teach forever? It’s already been three years.”

“Not even—2 ½, Jo. You’re not used to doing one thing for a long time. And that’s not even that long, but it’s just starting to feel easier, which is what’s supposed to happen after you’ve done it a few times. You don’t know how to just be.”

The truth is, I do know how to be—but being for me is synonymous with moving. This is the case for most people. You start kindergarten, lunchbox in hand, letter on napkin from mom, excited to take this official first step. No more pretend school, this is the real deal. But before the paste has dried on your macaroni collage, pig-tailed Jessica swipes your last piece of dry pasta, slaps it on her paper, and proclaims her carbo-loaded creation done. The teacher then gingerly hangs up Jessica’s sticky mess and says, “Oh, you’re an artist! Good job. Now you’re ready for the clay table.” Having earned her ticket to first grade, Jessica learned a very valuable lesson: The end justifies the means.

And the cycle continues, unbroken, allowing you to rise up in the ranks from freshman to upperclassman, doing what you have to do to get to the next level and reach the golden ring. Then, one day, graduate school is over, dust collects on your backpack and you’re supposed to have found this magical destination you’ve worked your whole life to find. You’ve grabbed the golden ring… Now what?

Yes, you'll probably receive a promotion or two, but that’s just so you can make more money doing more of the same. Promotions seem to odd to me, because usually they just plop more responsibility on your plate with a little more money, but when are your supposed to enjoy the financial gain when you’re stretched thinner than ever carrying out your new found responsibilities? If you ask me, it doesn’t add up.

As a teacher there are many routes I can take from here. I can go back for my administrative license and become a principal… But then I’m really out of the classroom, which is my favorite part about being a teacher-- having a community of little friends. I can become a consultant and teach teachers how to improve their craft… But then I’m not only out of the classroom but I’m traveling from school to school, and I am not a fan of being away from home, obviously. I can earn my doctorate and teach at a university… But after watching my husband complete his doctoral program I’m just about turned off to the whole idea of post-graduate work of any kind.

I’m not sure what my professional future holds. All I can do for now is go to work, bond with my little pupils, and read up on the latest and best teaching practices. And who knows, maybe one day I’ll graduate from third grade—if only I can just stop eating the paste.

Sobering Moment

When I tell people I'm not drinking this month, that I've temporarily given it up, I'm asked one of two questions. 1: "Did you join AA or something?" 2: "Are you pregnant?!" And frankly, I'm more flustered by the latter question and instantly find myself saying, "Oh God no, I'm not pregnant!" while sucking in my stomach. Even scarier than people scanning my midsection for a telltale bump is the idea that either way, alcoholic or preggers, the assumption is I've lost control of my own body.

My husband's friends quit smoking and drinking each January, ushering in a sober new year. And this December, for whatever reason, the notion seemed genius to me! I too was going to go wine and martini free! Tired of waking up hung over after four cocktails the night before, realizing my tolerance has plummeted to a new low, I knew this would be an interesting endeavor.

On New Year's Eve I watched what I drank-- I watched it go right down my throat. I stuck to champagne and I sipped water whenever I felt my blood alcohol level tip uncomfortably toward drunk. It seemed like I was doing alright... until I accosted the MTA teller when I couldn't hear him through the glass window and dramatically tossed each of my used Metrocards into the sky, one by one, as I yelled my discontents through the corridors of the subway. My husband stood on the other side of the turnstile, embarrassed, waiting for my ticker tape parade of flying Metrocards to end. The new year couldn't come fast enough.

Yes, I was ashamed of my behavior and awoke to the new year ready for strong coffee and a fresh start. But do one's actions on the most debauchery laden night of the year constitute a problem with alcohol? Doesn't everyone go all out, complete with hats, champagne, and noisemakers, waking up the next morning vowing never to drink again? Well, I'm pretty sure a lot of people do. But telling my friends and family, very casually at that, about my drinking ban has revealed the uncomfortable sting of a stigma. It's awkward for me to say I'm not drinking right now, especially when people say, "Oh, I don't drink enough to have to quit it. That wouldn't really be something I would have to do." Let me decode that for you: You obviously drink a lot more than me, so much so that you really need to dry out, but since I am an infrequent, one-beer-on-Friday drinker, I am better and more responsible than you. OK, that might not be what people mean, but that's how I take their personal justifications. I drink enough where this week there were three social engagements during which I could have had a glass of wine, and where those in my company did have a glass (or two), and that is three moments I have ordered a diet coke instead. I'm not exactly sure why I am on this sober bender, but here I am. Teetotaler. And even though I am counting down the days until February 1, and I'm not sure what I'm trying to prove to myself, I do know my smugness is on the rise-- a side effect of restraint. Out with one vice, in with another. Isn't that the truth?!