A new school year is underway. For me, that usually means quiet mornings with my planner and my bible, Nickel Creek playing on a loop, and a fresh set of goals. It means time to think and regroup after a fun summer at home with my kids. It means watching long shadows in the afternoons and wandering sleepy aisles in Target as I think about updating my fall decor. 

This year it means something different. 

In May, I accepted a job as a part time teacher. I’ve since discovered that no such thing exists. There is no such thing as a part time teacher. I can be part time standing in a classroom, which in my case means Tuesday/Thursday/Friday. But I am not part time anywhere else. I’m not part time at 1 a.m. when I’m sitting at the dining room table trying to set up Canvas or relearn Civil War history for the literature we will read the first nine weeks of school. I’m not part time when I’m reading every novel, writing lesson plans that I will share with the AP, or grading crisis-level spelling and grammar.

It’s full time.
Until May.
And I’m okay with that. 

I’m always off on Mondays. And on Mondays, I often find myself meandering through Publix, trying to figure out a week’s worth of meal planning. Meal planning is not my spiritual gift. I manage food like I managed potty training–it had to be done, but I took no joy in the process. I wish I could say this is different. I like sugar and I recognize good food when it hits my gullet. But I don’t require it and I don’t pursue it. I don’t watch what others order in restaurants. I don’t second guess my food choices. My mouth never waters. There are exceptions to this and there are types of meals and events that I enjoy preparing. But for the most part, I would IV feed if that were a viable option. 

None of this is actually pertinent. But it does explain why I people watch when I’m in the store. The food part does not interest me.

On Monday of last week, I ran into Publix late in the afternoon for a forgotten item. I needed fresh parmesan so I headed to the back left corner of the store. When I rounded the corner with my arms full of cheese, I noticed a small boy goofing off in the main aisle while his mom perused the dairy section. He had an empty basket, probably given to him to keep him busy. His mother was pushing and filling a cart. In the moments it took me to pass him, he hoisted the basket up from the floor and extended it over his head. His eyes got big and he called out for his mom. 

“Mom, look what I can do! I can pick up this bucket!” 

I loved that he called it a bucket. He continued because his mom had not yet looked over

“Look at this! I’m holding the bucket! I’m strong!” 

She finally broke gaze with the milk and glanced over at him. Sometimes these things don’t go well for kids. Sometimes moms get frustrated and knock the kids for a loop, whether physical or metaphorical. Sometimes the kids get no response at all. 

From what I could tell as I moved past, this kid got what he needed in that moment. He had worked so hard to press that basket to the sky, like a barbell deadlift that was a new personal record. He was excited about it. He knew in that moment that he had achieved something and wanted validation from his mom. 

He was strong. 

She agreed. 

But what if she hadn’t? What would happen to that kid if he had deadlifted a basket in some other place on some other day and there was no one to notice? Or what would happen if he went 5 pounds too heavy and dropped the bucket in the aisle, leaving him with the echo of plastic clattering on tile? What would he think about himself then?

What happens to that kid if a parent dies? Or a friend gets mean and cuts him off at the knees?  Or he gets too husky for uniform shorts? Or he doesn’t make the grades or the team or his goals?

What then?

I haven’t stopped thinking about that boy. Or the little part of him that is me trying to keep my own bucket in the air.
Hoping I can.
Hoping it matters.

Telling myself that who else sees it is not important. As long as I don’t let go.