We can’t measure the promise of a day in the good luck moments of a morning.

We don’t find it in the right bright sun.

Or in the still calm.

The lack of sirens, honks or shouts don’t hint at anything.

Looking for signs as we trace our regular routine route from many a morning before is also futile.

It’s not in the full cup of coffee. The wiped clean board. The stacks of notebooks, ready.

It isn’t in the quiet. In the noticing. The hoping.

It isn’t hiding waiting to be found.

The promise of a day doesn’t know itself.

It doesn’t announce its arrival in advance.

It doesn’t whisper or yell, “I am here. Notice now.”

The promise of a day is felt in moments. There is a shiver, an extra breath, an extended minute.

When it happens, you will know. Even if sometimes, you hesitate.

But absolutely, the promise of a day is known as night falls.

You have collected it in your arms like a snuggly child. A pile of warm laundry. A stack of tippy books.

Now when you pause and give it your full attention, it unravels and reveals all of its intricacies.

It was possible all along.

In the frustrated sighs.

In the timid smiles of pride.

In the tiny moments of kindness.

It was there when you smiled. When you laughed instead of roared. When you listened instead of talked. It was there when you nodded at a question not spoken aloud. In the little hand that reached for yours. When your response held no judgement. When you welcomed forgiveness.

The promise of a day will happen again. Tomorrow.

Slice of Life is hosted by Two Writing Teachers. I thank them for the community they provide. Read more slices here.

That kid on the piano, right at the top, he’s my kid. My student. He should be upstairs right now, in my classroom. But instead, he perches atop the piano in the downstairs hall. The piano that gets wheeled back and forth into classes when music happens.

Not a good idea, sitting on top of the piano. At the very, very top. But really, kinda brilliant. When you don’t want to run back outside and you couldn’t get ahead of that adult trying to herd you upstairs, climbing up there must have made pretty good sense.

They will try to talk you down. But nice and calmly. Nobody wants to be responsible for a child falling or a piano being damaged. If you can dent a piano by climbing about on it. Who knows? They seem to be pretty sturdy things. And 8 year olds aren’t all that solid.

That kid atop the piano, he’s angry. And sad. But he’s just going to show you the angry. It comes out loud and stormy and stompy and it involves a lot of knitted eyebrows. That kid has the most expressive eyebrows.

Good luck to those trying to talk him down. His part of the conversation will sound like “No!” at various volumes for quite some time.

“Do you want me to help you down?”

“No!”

“Do you want to go for a walk?”

“No.”

“Should we go see what your class is doing?”

“NO!”

“Okay . . so do you want to help me . . .?”

“No!”

It’s going to take some time. Some time and some space. Some time for quiet. The adult will need time for something clever and persuasive. Think, think, think. That kid, he needs his head to slow down. Calm, calm, calm.

He is going to focus on the fact that everyone is mean. He is going to perseverate on being blamed. Not fair. Not fair. Not true. Not fair. When a moment of sad or scared sneaks in, he is going to get madder. And grumble and yell a bit.

His foot will start tapping the wood. Piano wood. Piano wood that shouldn’t have tapping feet. He won’t notice he’s doing it until the adult can’t notice anything else. Then he will do it more and harder.

Staring him down won’t work. Remember the eyebrows? They will win. Distracting him might. If it doesn’t feel contrived because he’s pretty clever. Just don’t let him know that that tapping is really making you nervous. Your upset is easier than his upset and he will be drawn to it.

This is the time you need to hope for someone to walk by. A younger kid, not an older one. An older one will make him feel shame and a lot angrier all over. He will pull up his feet and precariously balance in a huddled heap. Where huddled heaps aren’t meant to balance.

A younger kid might look at him in kind of disbelief and genuine awe. It won’t be intimidating. He might even say, “Nothing” when he’s asked what he’s doing up there. He might not even grumble it.

This is the time for that persuasive brilliant thing the adult has been thinking about. He’s distracted. He’s out of his head. Give him a yes or no question that lets him leap down and follow you. Don’t turn around to see if he does it. Trust that he will and he might.

Walk him for a bit and then give him a job. Don’t talk to him. Narrating nonsense on your walk is fine. Comment on the sunshine. The peeling paint. The shiny waxed floors. Give him something to notice.  A place to put his attention. Then give him something to carry. Up and down the stairs for a while.

When he complains, he’s ready to go to class. The kids won’t know he just sat on top of the piano for quite a while. And he’s not going to tell them. He can slip in and join in with their building. They will notice his arrival. Notice and go back to stacking blocks. One of them will nudge the bin closer to him. He will stack too. And lose himself in the chatter and the bustle and the noisy blur of playtime.

I stand there and watch him for a minute.

Shining in the sunshine coming through the windows.

I see the bright energy return under those stormy eyebrows.

The kid who spent part of the afternoon on top of the piano. That’s my kid. My student.

Slice of Life is hosted by Two Writing Teachers. I thank them for the community they provide. Read more slices here.

3:30 p.m. Monday. The office is empty. But for one girl. Two teachers. Multiple phone numbers where no one is answering.

The walking-her-towards-home-conversation-sound-bytes:

One of us: “We’ll check the program then if that’s where you think you are supposed to be.”

Her: “Yeah. I think I just forgot.”

One of us: “You walk this way every day?”

Her: “Yeah. But not by myself  . . . not mostly.”

One of us: Noticing. “Wow. That’s a lot of garbage down there.”

Her: “Yeah. The bad people leave it there.”

Her: “Hey! Are those cameras?”

One of us: “Yes. Looks like they are shooting a movie.”

Her: “My building will be famous! I’m so lucky!”

Both of us: (Deep Breath)

One of us: “So the people at your program are expecting you? We should try there first?”

Her: “Yeah I think. You can’t go up in my elevator. Not without a key. Oh! Oh no.”

One of us: “What is it?”

Her: “I was just thinking about when I walked here Friday.”

One of us: “Oh?”

Her: “There was a bad guy. He followed me and (insert name here).”

One of us: (Breathe) “Really?”

Her: “Yeah. So they had to call the police.”

One of us: (Breathe deeper) “Really??”

Her: “Yeah.”

One of us: “And?”

Her: “I think they came. There’s lots of bad guys.”

One of us: “Oh.” Because, yes, there are.

Her: “That’s the door. I can go alone now.”

One of us: “No, we’ll walk you in. We need to check.”

Her: “And because of the bad guys.”

One of us: “And because of the bad guys.”

The walk back.

Both of us shake heads. Bemoan the world. Share various expletives. Quick and sharp. Walking back to our safe, not back there, adult world and as we shake off her back there, not safe, childhood home.

Really? Really! Really. 8 years old. Her all but 6 hours life. The not at school life. The can’t make it up life. The where are the eyes and the outcry and the why life?

At the base of the bridge, we are asked to wait. A scene is in progress. Dark clothes. Shady characters. Filming “bad guys” it looks like.

When we walk by, the actors smile.

And we smile back. Both of us, as we shrug off the guilt, the outrage and the sorrow.

Fast forward.

You can watch the made for TV movie. The one about bad guys with her building as a back drop.

You won’t watch her story. Her everyday, all but 6 hours, childhood. The one where she feels lucky her building is famous. And we feel lucky we watched it in a movie.

Deep breath.

This is the second week that I have joined the welcoming community of writers hosted by Two Writing Teachers. Read more slices here.

At this time of night I shouldn’t be anything. But sleeping.

Instead I circle around in to the too tired to do any of it and the too tired to admit it place of should be . . .

Should be tidying. Should be planning. Should be list making. Should be tackling a pile.

Children should be counted – two of them in beds, devices captured in the land of our room, lights off. A nightly dance that should be easier. Because it sounds almost the same every night.

I should be able to admit that no, I don’t have 5 minutes of energy left to do anything. Not the emails. Not the laundry stack. Not the swooping through the house turning off lights someone else turned on.

Not this very blog I shouldn’t be writing.

Teeth should be brushed. Book should be found. Small lights on. Bright lights off. Settling should be happening.

I am like a persistent toddler. A stubborn teenager. A lonely puppy. Resisting sleep for no good reason.

I should know better. I am old and sort of wise. But in this overtired state in my over busy world, I am beyond reason and beyond action. Feebly, I protest my inability to be on top of it all by sitting ridiculously unproductive in the middle of it, when really, I should call it. Done for the day.

Should be sleeping. Should know better.

Should be.

I am excited to finally join in the wonderful community hosted by Two Writing Teachers. Read more slices here.