Dear Boundless Families:
I am a peacenik by nature. If I were king of the forest, I would have countries solve their global conflicts with laser-guided pillows.
But the last 10 days have changed my point of view. Pillows can be vicious.
How else to explain that a student was driven to the hospital for a pillow fight injury three days ago. And that a staff member broke her ankle three weeks ago in an epic dispute using these feathered projectiles.
We have now banned pillow fights. They are the leading cause of injury at Boundless. I am the Grinch.
Pillows be damned. Pillows be banned.
While my heart may have shrunk three sizes, your kids’ have inflated in the opposite direction. I do like sharing gossip. You should be sitting down for this.
We threw every last kid into the river yesterday (excepting Izzy, who filmed it). This is not a metaphor. The kids went ice swimming. Gasp. Literally. Equipped with ropes and wet suits, the so-called qualified teachers just felt it’s time for a dip. This included non-swimmers.
Call Children’s Aid. Frankly, I don’t get why the staff build this into their curriculum. I have enough to worry about.
When Kevin came by the office late afternoon yesterday, I sternly asked,
“I presume because you haven’t called 911 that people survived?”
“Everybody LOVED it.”
And so I moseyed along to actually see if the kids had a pulse while they were chilling back at the Ranch.
I see three kids skating. Quiche is doing gorgeous pirouettes. What do they put in the Scarborough cereal?
I go inside and am greeted by Seb who, now that her cough is gone, bear hugs me. My heart melts, as it always does.
Five kids are doing crafts in the corner of the great room. They are embroidering something. Izzy is telling me stories of her life. Seb’s ears perk up.
Playing the filterless grandpa, I ask them both,
“So, are you both best friends yet.”
This makes them smile uncomfortably, for they are not yet there. But I could see that they are both considering it. They have much it common and I think it’s only a matter of time.
The gang and I are gossiping about C. who suffered the pillow injury. He’s within earshot, but doesn’t chime in. Mad sits beside him. He is tickled by the gesture, but too gruff to acknowledge it, this boy, with a heart of honey and the exterior of a gruff wolf.
K. who has been here forever, and is regarded as the benevolent mother figure of the students, is visibly withdrawn.
“You Okay K.?
“What happens if I need surgery this summer. Can I come back in the Fall?
“K, we will bend space and time to insure your return.”
She stays silent, but seems twenty pounds lighter.
I keep a distant eye on the new kids – now not so new. In fact, they feel like they run the place now. The awkward adjustment period is now ancient history.
In fact, the whole dang group is thriving, right to the very last teen hormone.
Jim, their English teacher, has got them thinking. On day one, the kids were told to make up a Tinder profile – for monsters. They are studying World War Z, and are preparing for the zombie apocalypse. I have also observed first hand that poetry is being written in snow drifts. Can we not keep these kids indoors?
The kids’ masks came off yesterday, much to their relief. The staff? We aren’t so lucky. But we have passed the ten day threshold. So far so good.
I wonder if Omicron could be subdued by pillows?
All the best.