Snow Days

Today is the fifth day of no school since the blizzard and they have already called school for tomorrow. More than a week out. At this rate we’ll be in school until July.

My own children also missed the week before that, Son for a school trip and Daughter for an ear infection, and then two days from the week before that for a family trip. Nine, going on ten, days of missed school.

It’s been wonderful.

I moved to this school district for weeks like these, when I would have been screaming my head off about school endless closures and scrambling for childcare so I could get to work, but instead I am having a pleasant, impromptu vacation with my children. We’ve been reading books, sledding, making food, watching movies. Today, since roads are all clear and it’s a mystery why school is closed in the first place, we may hit up some museums.

But that’s not the case for all of my students.

Jaime Rodriguez has called me five times every day since the snow fell. Each day when I finally pick up he says in his impossibly small voice (Jaime was retained once, is 11 years old in the fourth grade, and towers over his peers), “Is there school tomorrow?”

“Well, I hope so. I sure miss you guys... But most likely we’ll be closed so they can fix up the streets and plow the parking lots.”

“Oh, ok.” There is silence, but he doesn’t hang up.

“What have you been up to, Jaime?”

“Nothing. Watching tv.”

“Are your grandparents around?” Jaime lives with his grandparents who both work early shifts, so they are never at home when he has to wake up for school. Many days he doesn’t wake up for school. We exchanged cell phone numbers so I could call him when he doesn’t show up. Or so he can call me five times a day to ask if there will be school.

“No, mostly I’m just here by myself…. So when will there be school?” I picture him on the couch in a living room crowded with furniture, photos, plastic flowers and hand crocheted doilies, a widescreen tv, no siblings or adults around, on the phone with me.

“I don’t know,” I admit. I hope there’s school on Friday... If we do anything fun tomorrow, I’ll give you a call and maybe you can join us.” I say this because I mean it, but even as the promise escapes my lips I wonder if I could really pluck Jonathan out of his life for a day (for a lifetime). How many more of my students are sitting at home, by themselves, nothing much to do, each snow day? How many kids could I pluck? I am reminded of the teacher in Bridge to Terabithia who takes Jesse to the Smithsonian for the day without telling his parents so everyone thinks he is dead. I never understood how that teacher could be so irresponsible (except for the fact that she was an art teacher in the 70s). Now I know. Maybe I am that teacher.

I return to my fantasy of buying an old school bus, painting it bright green, getting my CDL license, and taking my whole class on field trips every week. I am Miss Frizzle, magic wand in hand.

Jaime is a year older than most of his peers, tall, rail thin, sweet.  He never sits down, a reality which I mostly ignore. When I absolutely need him to be still (because I am losing my mind) I give him a piece of playdough and that absorbs his energy for a minute. He does not read. At age 11 he has learned to sound out most words, and to hear him you might place him at a late second grade reading level. But he will not pick up a book unless there is an adult sitting directly by his side. He cannot spell most sight words and his handwriting looks as if he has never been taught to form letters. Even in my class of below grade level students, he is an outlier.

Jaime cannot afford to miss school. He does not want to miss school.

“Ok,” he tells me. “See you Friday maybe.” His voice doubts that I will call him tomorrow. I will be at home, typing on my computer, no magic wand in sight, waiting for him to call me.