Placeholder title. Write in my journal. Let my mind drift, hover over the things I did this morning. I did exercises for my neck, worked through a Drops lesson on Hebrew (boy am I slow), watched a video on how to learn, watched another. While listening, I took a shower, thought back to childhood and the I brought to adulthood. I miss the cat picture I made from torn magazines. Greys, blacks, I think I think I used more light greys than whites. I wish I had a photo. I have no idea where it went, who threw it out and when. This has bothered me for decades. It comes up frequently in thoughts about other things. How I taught Jacob. How I took and dropped out of university half way through Teacher’s College, right after getting married. That bothers me too.

It shows up in a variety of ways in the memoir that’s half finished on divorce and leaving. Why does it have a place here, where I’m thinking about skills I have and grew? It usually makes me think back to my first Teacher’s College placement, a grade 2-3 split where my primary assignment was to work with the lowest reading group: what I learned was how much I already knew, and the importance of observation and instinct. Following my gut. Jacob.

In the shower I thought back to the birth of my children: with Joshua, waking in the night, telling the nurses that he needed to see me, knowing that it didn’t match their schedule, but understanding how it connected to what we had been through during his birth. It was rough, and this night visit mattered to whether and how we started our connection. With Jacob separation was by necessity, a week in controlled oxygen, things inserted between us, incubator, gloves and gowns. Doctors and surgeries, calendar dates filled with tests for him and us, so much to learn and do; I learned to watch intently.

Jacob’s first day home, I noticed his anxiety, withdrawal, overwhelmed. We went to upstairs to rest and as I placed him in the yellow bassinette we’d been given as a gift, I took one of the baby blankets, tiny layette thing, smaller even than a crib. I draped it over the top of the bassinette and pulled it open just a few inches. Placing my hand down gently on his back, I stroked him, just my thumb. I felt words flow between us, tiny bursts of air. I let our eyes meet, opened and closed mine, like my thumb across his back. “It’s okay. You don’t need to be afraid. We can go slow. Let’s start with the bassinette, one room, one place at a time. We’ll get there.”

Why did I do that? Why did I even think he’s understand? Like the girl in grade 2, it was something I saw and couldn’t place, a look, a movement; a difference from the boys. Explaining reading and language, I could see she was lost in a different way. Jacob was the same. Something too many, too much, I felt it in his look. And like with the students, I started with smiles, with reassurance. I’d seen how it worked and applied it again. I knew what it was to be afraid, I too withdrew in school, at home, and for a long time, hid in silence. “I can do this”, I thought, “This is our place, we can do this”, and gradually, we did.

*** *** *** ***

I write short pieces. I’m patient.

Reading through long works is hard.

I did well in school, but it was effort.

Even art scared me, essays too.

I learned to be afraid at home.

Mixed messages, abuse, subtle meanings,

misunderstood. I learned that right answers

had nothing to do with being correct,

though I was corrected often.

I learned to hide.

*** *** *** ***

Jacob woke me from this place. He walked me through a thousand fears. My mother said my life was over the second I had him, and I knew that though her words were right in many respects, in much bigger ways, Jacob saved me from hiding and taught me to become myself. Writing his story is writing my story. I’ve been asked many questions about what I did, what it was like raising him, what I learned and could teach others; his teachers, 1:1 workers, his and my friends. I’ve told and retold those things many ways through the years; stories into the moment where a need arose. This may be different, though the stories are the same. Writing and telling have their own rhythm, they bubble like springs, but they move in different ways. I want to enjoy this, I want to learn as I go, like I did in living it.

One day, this may be a book with a title and cover. I hope my fingers on the keys and things I say while typing tell me what they are and how I will know when find the right ones.