Here’s a little peek behind the curtain: I’m actually writing this part after almost everything else. This month has been eventful, and it was easy to write about the adventures (and misadventures) that have transpired. So now it’s time for the hard part: an introduction.
… Actually, you know what? Screw it. This letter is long enough already. I can save the explanation on why I’m doing this for a month when I don’t have as much to talk about. For now, it’s story time.
Work
If you keep up with my dad’s letters, you may recall that I work at Kids After Hours, a before- and after-school childcare program for elementary students. I like to think I’m pretty good at it, and my boss Chris (the director at the center I work at) has made it no secret that he agrees. But I’m by no means perfect, and I’m cognizant of my many, many failings.
Like early this past month, for instance, when a girl broke her arm.
I’m not going to say her name here; I’m just going to refer to her as “Spring.” (There will definitely be a lot of kid stories in forthcoming letters, so I’m going to need to come up with a bunch of codenames.) I saw the whole thing happen: Everyone was outside, and she was crouched near some bushes, half-hiding from some girls who were chasing her as part of a game. The girls spotted her and she stood up to run away, slipped on the grass, and took a little tumble—a tiny fall! The tiniest fall! Onto the dirt! It looked completely harmless!
But she was clearly in a lot of pain, so I took her inside to get some ice. I asked her to roll up her sleeve to check for bruising. There was none, but something was clearly… off, in the bone department. It didn’t look right, but I (an idiot) thought, hey, maybe her elbow is just like that. And I didn’t want to make this third grade girl self-conscious by saying, “does that look wrong to you, or do you just have weird elbows?” so I asked her to roll up her other sleeve to compare them.
She said that she couldn’t. That, combined with everything else, should have been a clear indication that something was very wrong. But I guess I was so scared of getting dismissed or even scolded for making a big deal out of nothing that I (still an idiot) didn’t tell anyone. I just gave her ice, helped her get as comfortable as possible, and resolved to keep a close eye on her myself.
A few minutes later, amidst the mild chaos of everyone coming back inside from the playground, my coworker asked me if I could take over greeting—that is to say, staying outside while parents arrived and calling for their kids over walkie-talkie. I (did I mention that I’m an idiot?) had gotten a bit distracted from Spring by the aforementioned mild chaos, so I agreed. The cruel power of my ADHD knows no bounds.
I got so wrapped up in greeting that I completely forgot about Spring. Even when her mom arrived, it wasn’t until a couple minutes after I’d called for her that I remembered her injury. While waiting for her and her siblings to come outside, I went to her mom and gave her a heads-up that Spring had gotten hurt. At some point, I went inside to help her carry her backpack out to the car.
It might have been my imagination, but her arm seemed to have gotten noticeably worse since I’d last seen her. The crookedness was visible even through her long sleeve. Her mother was instantly able to clock it as a broken arm. It was only as I described the event that had caused the injury that it occurred to me that I really should have given her mom a ring a while ago, or at least told someone else what was going on so they could’ve. Thankfully, her mom didn’t seem mad, even though she had every right to be.
So, yes. That happened. And, somehow, it wasn’t until I was walking home a few hours later that it hit me just how terribly I’d handled the situation—and I still hadn’t told any of the other staff about it! My imagination conjured up scenes of Chris, completely unaware of what had happened, receiving an unexpected phone call from Spring’s mom. So I texted him an apologetic explanation of the day’s events, half-expecting him to yell at me in response—not because that would be particularly in character, but because I would deserve it.
He didn’t yell at me. He wasn’t even angry. Just gave me some advice on what to do next time, which put my mind at ease and let me sleep that night.
Spring showed up two days later with a full-arm cast and a sling. She’s okay.
Then, the day after that… well, I think this journal excerpt conveys my feelings on the matter fairly well (if you’ll pardon my bad handwriting and the curse word):
This time, it was a third grade boy whose codename shall be Goalie. He twisted his ankle weird while playing soccer. I didn’t see it happen this time, but I saw him struggling to limp to the door supported by his two friends, so I went inside with them. It’s against policy for me to pick him up, and I’m too tall for him to do the arm-around-the-shoulder thing, so I just let his friends continue to be his crutches while I awkwardly hovered, prepared to catch if he fell. It was actually quite sweet to see the other two boys patiently helping him, determined to be there for their friend.
This time, I immediately let Chris know what had happened over walkie-talkie. That’s what we call character development, baby! Goalie’s mom was, by chance, just arriving to pick him up while we were bringing him down the hall, so Chris had time to tell her before she saw her kid limp in, flushed and teary-eyed.
Goalie showed up after the weekend with a boot. He’s also doing alright. Please believe me when I say that this sort of thing doesn’t happen on a regular basis.
To give you a taste of what I do at work outside of these rare disasters, enjoy this anecdote: The Friday before the Super Bowl, Chris instructed everyone to wear the colors of the team they wanted to win, and write their name on a list of their chosen team’s supporters. On the following Monday, he explained, the winning team’s supporters would get to give the losing team’s a pie to the face. (The “pies” would actually be paper plates piled high with whipped cream—same effect, less waste of delicious confections.) As my father’s child, I was born into a blood contract to support the Eagles, so that Friday, I donned Dad’s Jalen Hurts jersey and declared my loyalty to the team.
I took the pie to the face with the same dignity and grace with which the Eagles took that ridiculous holding call.
Utah
As my dad mentioned in his letter, I spent several days in Utah this month to visit my sisters. We didn’t really do much more than hang out, which is fine by me. Hannah (who keeps trying to usurp my position as the queerest family member) took me to a local LBGTQ+ bookstore. I walked in thinking, “I shall buy a book, perhaps two,” and then they had graphic novels and short story anthologies, so…
I also went to a nickel arcade with Sophie, our cousin Fae, and their respective boyfriends. I’m glad I’ve never been to a casino, because I can assure you that I’d almost certainly accrue mountains of debt from the gambling addiction I would inevitably develop.
School
As I’m fairly certain my father has mentioned in passing (and as I’m equally certain most of you have forgotten), I have been taking college classes to qualify for a promotion at work. KAH is paying for them, too, so that’s pretty rad.
Less than a week ago, I turned in the final project for my Child Growth and Development course. The assignment was to document the development of a fictional child from the prenatal period to elementary school. The child had to have a disability chosen from a list provided by the professor, so we students would have to write about how their unique condition impacted their development rather than copying down the developmental milestones of a “typical” child. I chose spina bifida; specifically, the most severe form: myelomeningocele (which I can, for some reason, consistently spell correctly on the first try, unlike “spina bifida”). Hers was located high on her spine, causing complete paraplegia. Why did I go this unnecessarily difficult route, you ask? I have no idea. Heck, Down Syndrome was on that list! I could’ve chosen that and interrogated my grandparents about my uncle! But no, I just had to go and give my fictional child paralysis—something I know absolutely nothing about.
Griping over my own poor decisions aside, I actually did enjoy learning about spina bifida, paraplegia, and the ways people have learned to handle them. Did you know that an open spine can be surgically closed before the baby is born? It doesn’t prevent all of the associated medical problems, but it can save their life. Medical science is amazing. Wheelchair technology is amazing. Human beings are amazing.
Oh, and I got a 100% on the project. No big. Just a perfect score.
When I asked dad about the average word count of his letters to make sure I wasn’t rambling too much, he said “about 2,500, which is way too long.” My word count (prior to proofreading and revisions) currently stands at 1,645, so it looks like I won’t need to cut anything. Maybe someday I’ll get a better feel for this, but until then, you’re stuck with this mess.
Thanks for reading it.
Love,
Ari
Official dragon tamer of The Famlet Monthly