Lauren Takes Leave Gerstenblatt, Julie (classic literature list txt) 📖

Missed recess? Assigned a whole extra packet? Well,it’s not my fault that your teacher is a bitch, I think. I take a deep,cleansing breath and say, “Putting your homework in your folder is yourresponsibility.” Though the fine line is quite wavy between his list ofresponsibilities and my acts of indentured servitude.

“I’m not doing it,” he shouts, hurling the tennis ball atme and trudging over to the swing set. “You can just write a note to my teacherexplaining what you did.”

And you can just go to hell, my friend, I think, ’causeI’m not doing that.

“Don’t talk to me like that!” I call after him.

“Ay, Dios mio!” Laney exclaims from the blacktop, whereshe is standing with Becca.

“What?” I ask, jogging to their side. “Becca, are youokay?”

She nods from under her bicycle helmet and silently pointsat Laney.

“She bit me!” Laney says, clutching one hand in theother. “Like a dog.”

“No!” I say. But I’m not really sure of that, so I ask myvery quiet five-year-old. “Becca, did you bite Laney?”

“We were playing a game called Cats and Dogs!”

“Becca!” I yell. “You never hurt someone on purpose.Only accidentally!” Which might not be the best way to explain what I mean,because Becca’s nodding her head in furious agreement.

“I didn’t mean to, Mommy! Really!”

How many times have I heard that from her, I wonder,trying to catalogue the most recent examples. Last week, it was a boy down thestreet who she didn’t mean to punch, and the week before that it was ateacher’s aide on the playground who she “accidentally” kicked in the shins.Since she started kindergarten, I’ve spent more time at Becca’s school than atmy own.

“How did this happen?” I say, looking to the sky for ananswer.

“Well,” Laney begins, “first, we pretended that we were ata kennel…”

“No, Laney, not this,” I say, gesturing to thesmall, jagged teeth imprints in her flesh. “This!” I say, sweeping myhands across the playground in a generous motion. “My life! The way things arefine and then, suddenly, bam, they aren’t! They are very not fine!”

“Oh,” she says. “That’s like, what do you callit…existential, right? I am going back to the house to clean this and put on abandage.”

Everyone else has left the playground now that the sun issetting. Metallic creaking from Ben’s swing and the chirping of a few birds arethe only sounds besides a roaring in my ears. I sit cross-legged on theblacktop and rest my head in my hands, trying to still my pounding heartbeat.

We were having so much fun, I think. Why does mytime with them always have to slide into chaos and stress? I try to floodmy mind with serene images: a turquoise ocean, a palm tree, the hot sun.

It helps, a little.

“Googly’s here,” Becca says, gently tapping me on the arm.“And I’m sorry.”

“You’ll have to apologize to Laney back at the house,Becca,” I say, sighing. “But I thank you for saying it to me, too.”

I stand up and walk with her toward our favorite littlepooch, a gray Poodle who always has a pink bow in her hair.

“Hi, doggie,” Becca says, petting the sweet animal.

“Wearing your sweater today, I see,” I say, talkingdirectly to the dog.

“Yes, we’ve just come from Miami, where it is so warm, andshe loved it,” Googly’s owner, an elderly man with a French accent informs us.“But here, the evenings are still chilly, and Googly is very sensitive tocold.”

“Aww…” We nod, petting the dog and making a big fuss overher. Ben ambles over slowly. He doesn’t acknowledge me, but he has picked upthe tennis ball and now throws it for Googly. She dashes after it and grabs itbut won’t give it back. My kids think this is hysterical.

Their laughter lightens the mood and helps me startbreathing again.

Maybe all we need to ensure family harmony is a dog with asweet personality and comedic flair.

“She’s not much of a retriever,” her owner acknowledges.Googly wags her tail in agreement, eventually giving up the ball.

“My turn!” Becca shouts, throwing the ball for the dog,who looks lazily past it and decides instead to chew some dandelions. Ben runsafter the ball and a game of catch ensues.

“So, Miami, huh?” I say, by way of conversation with thisman who I see all the time but whose name I do not know. At this point in ourrelationship, it would be sort of awkward to ask, so I let it slide.

“Yes. It was splendid,” he says, nodding at the memory. “Suchan easy trip, you know. So many direct flights from New York, so manywonderful, dog-friendly hotels in South Beach. The best little getaway I knowof,” he sighs.

I sigh too, wrapping my arms around myself in the crispevening air. “Sounds perfect.”

It’s getting late. I announce that it’s dinnertime, and wewave good-bye to Googly and her owner.

The kids spend the entire walk home—and most ofdinnertime—pleading for a dog of their own.

I’m thinking about Googly, too. How nice it must have beenfor him to get away from chilly New York for a few days.

Right before Laney leaves for the evening, I remind herof tomorrow’s schedule. “You will need to take the kids to the bus in themorning, so be here by eight.” She nods. I don’t tell her why, that I’ll be ona train to Boston to pick up a sweater and then meet a friend for coffee. Evenin my own head it sounds crazy. “And I have that party to go to at night, soI’ll just be home to change around dinner time before going back out. I’m notsure what Doug’s schedule is,” I say, unsuccessfully trying to keep theannoyance out of my voice.

“Okay, then. Bye, mis amores!” Laney calls out, blowingkisses to the kids. “I had fun with you today!”

Later, as I’m cleaning up in the kitchen and overseeingBen’s homework, I panic. Homework, I think. What’s my homeworktonight? Tests to grade? Lesson plans to write? Reading, to stay a chapterahead of the class?

The rolling seasickness passes as I remember: I’m onleave. No tests to grade this week. No lesson plans to write, no books to readfor class, no parents to e-mail. Relief washes