The Januarys

Something about the depths of winter (I’m looking at you, January and February) exhausts me. I don’t know if it’s the perpetual gray skies, the drudgery of having to bundle up every time you close the door, or the endless stretch until summer, but every January seems to be the same. I long to quit my job, burn my clothes, cut my hair, sell my house, send the kids to camp Grandma and grant myself a giant do-over.

This year, I seemed to skip right over the worst of it. I came back to work relieved to be through with an unending holiday season. I tried on some new structures with teachers that had been tricky, and felt a little success. Instead of dwelling on my own desperation, I found myself soothing friends and colleagues, “Don’t worry. This will pass. It’s just the Januarys. If you still feel this way on March 1st, we’ll talk.”

But today, today I have the Januarys. The list of to-dos seems insurmountable, and worse, uninspiring. The kids’ noses seem like they might never stop running. The teachers I work with seem ungrateful and unmovable.

I think I’m going to move to Australia. (In March.)

A Personal Challenge

I’ve never blogged. If I’m being truthful, I’ve never kept a diary or a journal, apart from a few days after my 6th birthday.

Lord knows, I consider myself literate. I read, read, read. I have trouble naming hobbies that aren’t connected in some way to books. I even trace my obsession with the Academy Awards to more truly be an obsession with narrtaive.

But I’ve let this area of literacy be completely dormant in my everyday life.

And here’s the most embarrassing part: I tell teachers every day that they must, must live the strategies they teach their students if they want to increase the power of their writing instruction. But the most thoughtful writing I’ve done in months has been a letter to our winter break housesitter.

So, I hide no more. I walk the walk.