My son’s teachers go on strike today.
Arlo loves school and he is doing well. His French is skyrocketing. He is cared for and caring to others. Most of all – best of all – Arlo is happy. I hope the opposing parties can quickly reach an agreement.
I feel like I am living a fairy tale on school days.
We hustle our bike up leaf-covered streets in the mornings, flanked by brick and metal and murals. We arrive at school and my child bounds up the stairs, cheeks pressed with the compromise of tinted Chapstick and the stubborn insistence of his little sister. He disappears and the doors close, embracing him.
Afternoon pick-up is a drama that unfolds with such anticipation and adoration it should be streaming live. We parents huddle around those doors, tick-tock, tick-tock, chatting about mornings and chasing babies, pulses quickening. The bell rings and I salivate. He appears and we lock eyes. We smile. We wave. He is released from his teacher’s hand and bounds down the stairs. I kneel to receive his embrace; he asks if I brought a snack. This is our holy reunion.
Change is coming to school just as sure as moms bring snacks and leaves become snow. I hope school stays open, peacefully and to everyone’s satisfaction, so the fairy tale can continue.