relationships

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the quiet room

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The kids sat, desks spread out throughout the classroom, concentrating on their work. Work they didn’t want to do. Didn’t have to do. If only they’d simply behaved. Work they were doing as a punishment for their uncooperative behavior.

The teacher also sat writing notes, ideas about upcoming lessons. Her back was aching from hunching over. Her eyes scanned the room, watching the kids. She wondered why a last ditch incentive didn’t curb their misconduct like it did with most of their peers. Peers who were in another room enjoying the reward of staying focused, putting in their best effort. Why does it seem to be a joke, a given right to misbehave with this group of kids?

She reflected on herself as a youth. A young girl who simply followed the rules, followed directions and was respectful to those around her, especially the adults. Especially her teacher. Not these kids. They defy everything, say they don’t need to listen, and Who cares! And she knows that is a big part of the problem. Who does care? Anyone? Is there an effort to teach them to be productive and valuable individuals? Or does it not matter? Just give these kids whatever they want and assume everything will turn out okay.

The teacher knows, though, that it won’t be okay unless someone besides herself, at this moment, during this year, and more importantly, throughout their life, sets boundaries and maintains some sort of structure in their lives. Everyone plays a role in the growth of each child. Everyone involved.

The kids are tired, she notices, just like she is. Some of them look up, look at her, but then quickly bow their heads, returning to their work, defeated. She wishes she can change everything, make them understand the importance of responsibility; but, they just roll their eyes at her, not accepting her explanation.

For the moment, they are quiet here in the quiet room. Working because she told them to, because they have no choice, because she has expectations. But, when the bell rings, alerting them that their day is done, the kids spring from their seats, and once outside, return to their shenanigans.

Tomorrow is another day she tells herself. A chance to try again.

by

another woman

I heard he was interested in a girl, a younger woman. Someone he met, somewhere. She had dark hair and dark eyes. And was supposedly nice. A nice, simple girl.

He didn’t talk about her, and she didn’t talk about him, but somehow I knew this woman was someone who may, or may not, intrude on our life.

The day we went to the local fair, he and I, with our kids, I saw her. Just talking. I didn’t know her. Yet, I knew she was the one. Somehow I just knew.

He had wandered off, taking our youngest on a ride. I stayed behind, just hanging out with my daughter.

I walked over to the girl, said hello, and asked her if she was indeed interested in him.

The strange thing is, the fact is, that even though we didn’t know one another, at all, she knew who I was talking about and answered as if we were best friends. I think so, yes, she said. He’s nice. Very nice. She went on to say other things, nothing big deal, but things that confirmed her interest in him.

When she was all done talking I stated, He’s my husband, the guy you are considering a relationship with. The girl didn’t seem surprised by my admission. And neither did she seem pissed, as if she’d been duped. She simply stared at me with her big brown eyes, saying nothing.

Later, at home, I said to him, I know about her, and if you have plans to pursue something, anything, count me out. He looked at me, didn’t respond. Not five minutes passed when I restated my thoughts. No. Never mind. Just the fact you are interested has uninterested me in you. I’m done.

Suddenly I awoke, from the dream I was having about my husband considering an affair with a another woman.

I rolled over in our California King bed and found him there, lying on his side, turned toward me, looking at me. Good morning, we whispered, simultaneously.

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the road

Rudy drove along the peaceful road, reflecting about the past two years he spent living and working in Arkansas. Two years of necessary income but, two years without a full-time family. As he drove, heading home to us, to California, he smiled, took a picture, and sent it to me via text. Almost there!, he wrote. Almost there!

About a week and a half ago, without hesitation, Rudy resigned from his job in the color lab where he was working, stating it was time to return home, time to reconnect with his family through daily interactions. Neither of our boys minded that they’d be taking a step back, allowing their dad to resume his role as the alpha male. And, of course, our daughter Liz was ecstatic to have him back in town, knowing her dad would have tons of cooking ideas to pass on to her.

When Rudy first called me with the news, I did what I always do. I completely supported him, telling him to come home, that everything will work itself out. Ah, just listening to you is soothing, he told me. I can’t wait to get home. I repeated the sentiment, laughing, feeling happy, concluding with an I love you.

And so it began. The reflective road trip home. Rudy drove for two days, stopping only once to sleep for several hours at a rest stop. The road trip gave him time to think about the experiences he gained in Arkansas, the family he misses, and what plans he has for his, and our, future.

Things are as they should be.

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