Day #157 Writing Through COVID-19: Boundaries and Peanut-butter Cookies

Day #2 back at school, still without students.

This afternoon a colleague stopped by and didn't realize the barrier I'd constructed with staggered bookshelves was intended to keep people out of my safe zone. He walked right past my rampart and plunked down in MY desk chair. I was over by the window, where I stayed through the duration of the visit.

I should have asked him to move to my student seating area. But I'm still trying to find that elusive sweet spot where I can establish my own boundaries without hurting anyone's feelings.

So why am I mousing around the feelings of people who are not adjusting their behaviors to CDC recommendations during a pandemic? Good question.

Iowa Nice is sometimes a liability.
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My think-space today was dominated by assessing my own sense of safety; counteracting behaviors of others whose parameters are looser than mine; and practicing firm, diplomatic defense of my boundaries.

I hope come Monday I have a wee bit of brain left over to actually teach.
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Since the bookshelves-as-boundary idea obviously isn't working, I contacted HR and asked for a retractable stanchion to mark off my space more clearly. Two hours later, the stanchions were delivered to my room. I appreciate my district's efforts to accommodate my safety needs. 

But I would not have these needs if:

1) We were teaching online.
2) We used a hybrid system that established consistent distancing.
3) Masking and distancing were required and enforced.

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This afternoon our rock-star FCS teacher wheeled a cart through the halls (masked, gloved, and wearing a RAYGUN "Iowa Needs Sex Education" t-shirt) to deliver peanut-butter cookies. "Stress baking!" she announced cheerfully.

On every level, it was the best cookie of my life.
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After school, I came home and sat in the sun. I began reading "I'm Thinking of Ending Things," a novel my friend and fellow English teacher Randall gave me today. But on page 10 my head began to bob, and I then napped for 40 minutes sitting (mostly) upright on the porch.

That's tired. 

Enough.
Be well.
Write.

Allison

As Andrea says, Wolf's little hand "just melts me."