Tired Hearts, Crumpled Paper, Slow Sundays

The little girl in my room – let’s call her Maya – sometimes looks like a tiny, crumpled piece of paper. All sharp angles and tight lines, ready to tear at the slightest provocation. And you know what? Sometimes I feel exactly the same way. Not every day, mind you. Some days are good. But too many mornings start with a fight over sleep, or lack thereof, and end with both of us feeling brittle.

It's more than just tiredness, isn’t it? It’s this kind of exhaustion that settles in your bones, the kind that makes you snap at the things you love most. I see it in Maya's mom, Mrs. Rodriguez, too. She brings Maya to school with this weary look, like she hasn’t fully surfaced from a deep ocean. And after dealing with fractions and phonics all day, I feel her exhaustion pulling on me as well. Last week, trying to explain the difference between "there," "their," and "they're" nearly brought me to tears myself. Just tired.

My own grandmother always said sleep was like Sunday gravy – you had to put in the time, let it simmer low and slow, and not rush the process. She’d be up before dawn, stirring those pots, saying it needed “love.” I spent a lot of this summer actually *doing* that gravy thing again. A project she started years ago that I never quite got right. It turned out I was trying too hard to make it perfect – focusing on the recipe instead of just… letting it be. Letting it cook. And I realized, sleep is kind of like that.

We expect so much from ourselves as parents and educators, don't we? Be patient! Be understanding! Be engaging! But if you’re running on empty, those things get real hard. You can’t draw water from a dry well. Maya doesn't react well to my frustration; it just escalates everything. And I find myself needing a moment – sometimes longer than a moment – to just breathe and remember that she’s not trying to be difficult. She’s just…tired, like her mom, like me.

It’s funny, I spent a long weekend in Fishtown this summer, mostly on the porch with a cup of coffee, watching the light change on the houses across the street. Just being *still*. It sounds simple – and it is – but there’s something restorative about quiet. Something that helps you remember who you are when all the demands fade away. I've been trying to carve out those little slivers of stillness for myself, even if it’s just ten minutes in the morning before the kids arrive.

We talk a lot about teaching emotional regulation to our students – helping them learn how to deal with big feelings. But we often forget that *we* need to practice those same skills ourselves. What good am I telling Maya to take deep breaths when I’m practically vibrating with tension? It's hypocritical, and honestly, it doesn’t help anyone. The kids are watching; they always are.

I went back to Delaware County a couple of times this summer too, saw my aunt Carol again. She just has this way about her – unflappable, grounded. When I vented about the sleep situation, she didn't offer quick fixes or advice. She simply nodded and said, "You gotta take care of yourself first, you know? You can’t pour from an empty cup." It sounds cliché, I know, but sometimes those clichés are just truths we need to hear repeated until they sink in.

Maybe the answer isn't about rigid schedules or complex routines. Maybe it's just about creating a little more space – for rest, for quiet, for connection. For Sunday gravy simmering low and slow, while you sit on the porch with your coffee, remembering that even crumpled pieces of paper can be smoothed out again. It takes time, patience, and a whole lot of love. And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough.