She fought for justice for all, against mustaches. Ruth Bader Ginsburg. Ruth Bader Ginsburg. Dissent collars and statement earrings and glasses. The right in the world feels so very wrong today. Ruth Bader Ginsburg. Ruth Bader Ginsburg. Thank you for all you have done. We'll be persistent.
On top of a poo-on-a-stick week, we won the flu lottery! And by we, I mean Little Thing. Poor sweet Little Thing is puny. I hate it. Here’s a synopsis (in haiku fashion nonetheless) of today’s events.
The thermometer
beeps at one hundred and two.
No wonder she’s chilled.
Climbing into bed
with me, she proclaims, “I’m fine!”
“Yeah right, tiny one.”
A petite furnace
ignites her forehead and limbs,
aflame with fever.
Tissues and TV
flushed cheeks and pillow snuggles
beneath her blanket.
Her granny arrives
to take care of her and bring
her to the doctor.
A text says: it’s flu.
Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.
Poor sick Little Thing.
To Tamiflu or
not to Tamiflu–that
is the question now.
Considering she
gags on liquid Tylenol
we will pass. No thanks.
Time to stock up on
Sprite, pain reliever tablets,
and so much Lysol.
Off topic: I did have a bright spot today. A student gifted me a temporary tattoo of a llama blowing a bubble. He might have pilfered it from his little sister’s Valentine’s Day gift box, but whatevs. It’s adorable, and it’s lifted my spirits every time I’ve looked at it today.
I am only posting because I’ve committed to writing a post weekly. Be prepared to be less than underwhelmed.
(Disclaimer–These are not true to form haiku and run together to form one mildly incoherent poem.)
I’ve taught class all week
with an annoying fever
and ear infection.
Why teach while I’m sick?
Because if I don’t show the
kids are lunatics.
I try to save days
for scheduled doc visits
and personal leave.
I save my sick days
because I’m a mother and
my kid gets ill, too.
Teaching while febrile,
delirious, and loopy
makes students nervous.
I love an excuse
to force students to question
my stability . . .
(and ‘cause messing with
them while I’m sick makes me feel
a tad bit better.)
At this point, Little Thing and I have been on the road for three weeks. We are tired. We are delirious. We’ve been on planes. We’ve been on trains. We’ve been in Ubers. I don’t know what day it is and have forgotten what our house looks like in Louisiana. These haiku are the best I can do this week.
I love my girl, but
traveling with little things
takes lots of patience.
She sips ginger ale,
then malevolently spears
ice with her black straw.
The germy tray table
must remain upright and locked
right now, Little Thing.
The man in the seat
in front of you would prefer
you not to kick it.
Is there anyway
to convert used gross tissues
into gold or cash?
Mommy, how dare you
place the baby green pencil
next to the pink one.
Baby green and pink
just broke up so it’s torture.
Please separate them.
San Antonio,
Chicago, and Milwaukee?
What WAS I thinking?
Why did I download
thirty-three new kitty apps?
Ugh. So much meowing.
Aunts and cousins mock
Little Thing’s necessary
eight o’clock bedtime.
Want to scare people?
Ignore your Iphone and write
poems with a pen.
We’ve been state testing for three consecutive days. Here are some haiku poems that I wrote based on thoughts pondered during the tedium of testing. (I took liberty with true haiku format–expect similes, they’re not about nature, nor are they imagery rich.)
1.
I forgot to bring
a book for after testing
so haiku it is.
2.
A floppy ribbon,
red as a licorice stick,
makes my eyes hungry.
3.
My unwashed split ends
fork in fourths, wishbones, and Ks.
Time for a haircut.
4.
As soon as I sit,
a number two pencil breaks.
Get it sharpened, stat!
5.
Offensive haiku
litter the small legal pad,
disguising boredom.
6.
The blue sticky note
saluted the desk, waving
in the AC’s breeze.
7.
The clock heaves tick tocks
like an asthmatic reaching
for an inhaler.
8.
My foot falls asleep
so I shake it to rid me
of pins and needles.
9.
Sessions one two three
Wednesday, Thursday, Friday
ELA and math.
10.
I teach ELA.
I have no clue how to work
your calculator.
11.
12.
Please read directions.
They’re not trying to trick you
students I promise.
13.
Testing overload.
The students look like zombies
waiting for May’s end.
14.
Tired of long silence,
they rebel with loud cackles
and loquaciousness.
15.
The bad internet
kicks students out randomly.
Please log back in quick.
16.
None of these haiku
were written maliciously
nor during testing.
