Monday, February 28.
I welcome my students, like I always do,
taking special note of who is maskless.
There are only a few kids,
T is one of them.
I am not surprised.
He has struggled with masks all year.
Later, I work with him and several of his maskless buddies in a small group.
"I love not wearing masks," says G. "I can breathe again."
"And you can see what people look like." says B,
casting a sideways glance at a current love interest.
"What do you look like?" T says to me.
The questions surprises me.
"What do I look like?"
I don't quite know how to answer.
I look like an old lady. I'm still a little offended by senior discounts.
I look like a veteran teacher. Almost forty years in the classroom.
I look like a mom.
Two pretty much grown sons who still live in my house. But rarely talk to me.
I look like a dog mom.
Rooney, the service dog I'm training,
snores in his basket at the side of the classroom.
I look like a reader. A writer. A walker.
A beach lover.
And this month, I look like a slicer.
I think I've done this about ten times.
And I'm looking forward to doing it again this year.