At lunch, with Maria in my classroom and the students that roost in there chattering, someone brought up the subject of crying in public. A couple of the students pointed out that they'd seen me cry--tear up, I corrected--when I talked about one of the quotes another student had written on my wall. I teared up again explaining it to Maria.
And later, during the period I spend with other teachers, Annelies told me about the personal statement another of our students wrote. It explained how she thought school was pointless and was ready to drop out until she had Annelies' class her sophomore year, how that class inspired her to join IB, and how now she comes to school and enjoys it all--and, once again, I was tearing up.
Fortuitous events, both of them. I don't cry in public. Tearing up is as close as I get. And yet, after a phone call I got during the midst of student mentor training after school, I found myself sobbing silently in the hallway, trying to think of somewhere I could go cry without risk of anyone seeing.
J won't be accepted on a new insurance plan after all. I submitted her application yesterday. This afternoon the broker received a memo explaining that the insurance company will not be accepting applications for children under 19 until they determine an open enrollment period, and even then, they will only accept children as part of a family plan. I am locked into my current insurance until next October. It appears that this is what all the insurances are doing so they don't have to accept children with prior conditions.
The short version: as of Friday, my asthmatic, twice ERed, newly discovered gluten-allergic three year old will be uninsured.
I am still looking into other options, but I hate everything right now. Especially this horrific country where people care more about the bottom line than making sure children get proper health treatment.