Today is The Pony's birthday.
I've got a kickin' Pony essay in me just trying to get out. Kind of like Thunderhead trying to get out of Flicka in the Mary O'Hara classic. It's my journey, not his. I don't want him to be embarrassed by it one day when he accidentally stumbles over it on the internet. So I don't know how fair it is to use his existence for my own selfish purposes. You know. Unlike all the blog posts I've written about him.
This afternoon, I bemoaned the fact that make-up work is driving me crazy. Make that craziER, as some might unkindly point out. I can't get caught up for grading absent work and homebound work and previous-day work because some kids like to relax during the guided practice time and take their assignments home.
The Pony said, "You're sinking into a miasma."
Never one to let a Pony moment go unobserved, I asked, "What exactly IS a miasma, anyway? Do you even know what that means? What kind of 8th-grade kid uses a word like that? 'Help! I need my inhaler! Miasma is acting up again!' Is it like that?" Though I said it with a terribly inauthentic Irish brogue. Just because.
That elicited a chuckle from The Pony. "I've always thought of it as a dark, swirling, vortex."
Yeah. That defines my situation. Precisely.