Road Trip

I failed to mention that on our trip to Austin, Isabel threw up in the car. 

Not just a little bit.  Not like a hiccup.  Not spit up. THROW UP.  Which includes hurling.  Thus the phrase 'hurling' as a stand in synonym.  Not to be overly descriptive, but I want you to get the picture.  Rolling down 35 to Austin--Jack head-phoned, listening/watching a movie on the DVD player, laughing way too loud at the parts that were probably not really that funny, the guy gets his attention-hogging guffaw from his mother--to do our civic duty at the rally on the steps of the capitol in Austin when I hear this moist splat. 

I look back wildly at Isabel, who's flummoxed, not upset, not crying, just kind of "what is THIS?" silently poised on her not able to form words yet cupid's bow mouth.  "Isabel threw up!" I yell at my husband at if this is not readily apparent.  We screech over to the side of the highway.  As luck would have it, a female police officer is a little ways back tracking speeders, no doubt, and comes quickly to our aid.  (Why is it even when I rationally KNOW I've done nothing wrong, I am still as flop-sweaty by the sight of a police car and/or officer as I was back in college?).  This turns out to be a real blessing--this female cop and her speedy arrival--considering I don't even have a freaking tissue.  Yes, of course I have an ENORMOUS diaper bag littered with chew toys and stuffed animals and straw wrappers and diapers, but somehow I've managed to leave the house without even ONE wet wipe or anything resembling a towel. 

The wind is whipping crazy while cars zoom past and we disrobe my tiny daughter, more than a little annoyed at being stripped on the side of the highway.  I grab the extra outfit I did have the wherewithal to pack, praise God, and the cop comes back from her car with a roll of scratchy but useful paper towels.  We sop up what we can.  She even gets in her car, puts on the lights, and lets us follow her to the next rest top.  We wash a little, but the noon hour, rally start time, is fast approaching.  Not to be deterred, we climb into the KIA once more, looking exceedingly less adorable than when we left the house this morning.  Distinctive upchuck odor a potent reminder to speed, policewomen notwithstanding.  Somehow during this hullabaloo, Jack has continued enjoying his movie. 

When we finally make it to the rally, while Brad parks the car with the baby, I follow behind my 7-year-old boy, who seems utterly clear where he is going.  Careful to say excuse me, holding his "Save Texas Teachers" sign above his head, he marches up past crowds of kids and adults alike clutching similar paraphernalia.  He guides us from the back of the place to the front in about a minute flat until he can see the man who is talking behind the microphone.  Turning back to make sure I am still with him, he reaches his hand for me, pulling me up beside him.  His eyes are shining.

He is my reason for being here ostensibly, the reason this education crisis has a name and a face that has called me to action.  I'm not going to lie. But in another maybe more important way, I am here too for the children whose parents cannot be.  Whether they are working, struggling, maybe on their own taking care of multiple children, maybe survival is the most they can think about.  Maybe standing up for their own rights, rights supposedly awarded everyone in this country, are luxuries they have no time or money to afford.

A well-meaning friend said to me, "Why don't you just move him?"  She meant that there are private schools, maybe not the too expensive top-tier, that we could probably get Jack into.  Maybe, indeed, if these cuts actually make it to the final budget, if Jack is crammed in a classroom with thirty-five kids and one exhausted overwhelmed no matter how exceedingly qualified teacher, maybe we will.  But I want to be part of the public education solution, and that means putting time and faith into a public school.  

"It's complicated," I tell her.  And it is.  These choices are hard, there is not one right answer.  I might screw it up.  But I am afforded a choice.  I am aware this is a luxury.  Spanning the vast city of Dallas, flat wide plains of Texas, great expanse of our entire 'everyone is created equal' United States of America, the number of those who must take their lumps and eat it or starve is staggering.  Is growing. 

Parents and children who simply do not have a choice.