caroline price

🖤

a girl obsessed with time

Disgusted: Systemic Conflict Avoidance for Seventh Graders

September 24, 2026

Originally posted on Facebook on September 21, 2026:

I’m going to get on a platform that is arguably a landmine, and I’m not one bit sorry to do so. My opinion is my own and does not reflect my public educator spouse. And this critique is not about the district my children attend and certainly not pointed at any educators I personally know, who literally live out their passions for educating our children both at school and in their personal lives, too.

When I was in the 5th and 6th grades, in the early 1990s, we regularly discussed the situation in Kuwait.

In 7th grade, Bill Clinton and George H.W. Bush and Ross Perot were running against each other for the Presidency, and we held a mock election.

I realize that politics is polarizing in 2026. But I would argue that it is systemic conflict-avoidance that prevents public education from being able to bring current events into the classroom, not popular polarization.

In 2026, there is absolutely no excuse for not discussing the fact that any segment of the Press is barred from the White House currently.

I asked Oliver when he got in the car today, and why, no, as a 7th grader he had no idea that CNN, MS NOW, and Politico had been barred from the White House, and he also had no idea that ABC, CBS, NBC, and Fox News had jointly agreed to suspend pooled coverage with CNN, for coverage of the President.

We are living through some of the most historic First Amendment tests in the history of the United States, and we are not discussing any of these current events in public schools?

That it is off-limits for discussion is inexcusable. Public schools are the primary foundational arena for civics education, and where at least the likes of my own and previous generations to mine learned the importance of staying informed. Simply focusing on general government and law structures as civics education is wholly insufficient to raise an educated populace.

I realize we teach to the test in many cases, not by choice, and there are historical structural educational changes that happened in the early 2000s that led to the current situation of social studies education.

Ignoring current events as has shaped the past twenty years’ of education is already costing society civilized public debates in real-time, and that ignorance comes with real-life costs that are showing themselves in new ways every day, with real breakdowns in social public life.

Banning such discussions in schools is only going to lead to further divisiveness in American society. And, vast ignorance, to boot.

Disgusted. Public civics education can and should do better.

Photo of our cat Bess because she is sweeter than me.
The Careful Season

September 21, 2026

It hit today, like a freight train.

It hits every year like a freight train, without warning. A large one, that takes my breath away.

Nothing prompts the change. Most years the weather is a hint, but in 2026 it is still hot like summer on September 21. It might be a little harder, actually, that the weather is not cool yet as it should be.

It’s like seasonal affective disorder, but not.

It’s that my whole emotional biome is just kicked out of balance, wherever it was on the spectrum to begin with. The calendar should tell me every year, but every year I am thrown for a loop.

Monday, September 23, 1996 I was in the throes of my first psychotic episode. That is the day I was hospitalized for the first time. I was 17 years old.

And every year since that time, whatever the situation at hand, whatever my pre-existing mental situation, it feels like a ton of bricks is hitting my body around the 20-21 of September.

As I said, it’s like seasonal affective disorder, but not. This time of year, I am legitimately more vulnerable, more fragile. I have experienced more than one psychosis that began in the Fall.

Today it hit by my utter inability to get out of bed this morning when my alarm went off. Oliver had a dentist appointment; thankfully it was at 7 AM so Jared was able to take him and he wasn’t even late for school. But there was no way to make my body get up when that 6 AM alarm went off.

And 9 AM rolled around and my body just felt heavy. I managed to get up a little after 10 AM to get some breakfast, but I quickly realized that what felt just tired to begin with was turning like sour milk into a depression. So I texted Jared, and went back to sleep.

At 12:30 PM, I heard the house alarm turn off, and looked at my phone. I’d missed a call 13 minutes prior. Jared was home for lunch.

And that’s all it has taken today; Jared came home, fixed us both lunch, got dishes and laundry started, and we set two priorities for my afternoon: switch the laundry when it finishes, and get myself cleaned up.

Those feel like high bars this afternoon. And I’m not even that sad at the moment, though seeing Jared midday really did help. It just seems like a lot of work to even move— it’s a literal physical depression, not a sadness, not a despondency. I know my life is a good one.

I told Jared when he was home that I was worried about getting done what needs to be done before we leave to go see Liam in Grinnell later in the week. Mostly all that needs to be done is laundry, but there is a lot of it and I had planned to spend the entirety of today keeping the machines going nonstop, to get it all done.

An evening trip to Wash Bowl might be in order for tonight, though I didn’t tell Jared that before he left.

The body keeps score, my body keeps score, and today marks the beginning of the careful season of bipolar disorder with psychosis. The season of being extra nice to myself, of letting housework slide, of letting Jared take care of me, of tending to my sleep and taking my meds above all else.

This year marks 30 years of careful seasons; the anniversary had not occurred to me until I drafted this post. Some years I’ve been more careful than others.

17 years old. I shake my head and sigh at that; I was so very young. Too young to have to face what many people see as their worst nightmare possible: the idea that my very own brain and thoughts might not be universally trustworthy.

This week I’ve had reason to pause to consider that very situation; that my diagnosis would be some people’s (let’s face it, a lot of people’s) worst case scenario. And I’ve decided there are actually gifts in knowing what it is for my mind to fail me. In my case, I’m extraordinarily lucky that I come to in the aftermath, back to reality. That doesn’t happen for everyone.

But the bigger gift is this: because I have had some very public psychotic episodes, and because my social sphere has mutated and shrunken due to that fact, I have become very, very comfortable in my own skin. I am me, I am comfortable with my situation and my lot in life, and I happen to know that the people who are in my life are genuinely there because they want to be there, not for some superficiality I never aspired to.

So, if you’re reading this, thank you. Thanks for reading, thanks for whatever roles we play in each others’ lives, thanks for not writing me off as a lost-cause mental case, as I know for a fact some have.

It may be the careful season, but this careful season, however heavy my body is, I know I am lucky.
Those QR Code Cards were Brilliant

September 21, 2026

Birthdays are interesting. Last Wednesday the 16th was my 47th birthday.

My boys made my birthday this year, for sure. Jared had them all record video birthday greetings for me, which he compiled in Google Drive and made QR cards for, which he placed as the cards in the flowers he came to the door to deliver about 10:30 on my birthday morning. It was very romantic, and very Jared, and my boys were very sweet to play along.

This gift was particularly effective given that two of our three boys are off at college, so I was unable to actually see them on my day.

Then I went and hung out with Jared at his work, so I didn’t spend the day alone, and for most of the day, it was pretty awesome.

And then about 6:30 PM I got melancholy for reasons I won’t go into here. Jared took me to the Marina for the sunset that night of my birthday, which helped tremendously. But that’s life, right? I mean, nothing is perfect.

But can we just talk about those flowers, and those QR codes, and those birthday greetings from my boys? My husband is the absolute best.

He could have just shown up with the QR codes in hand– or an email link to the videos– and I would have been giddy. It for sure wasn’t about the money spent. It was about the effort that went into showing me how much he and my boys love me. Jared could have taken a piece of paper and written me a note, or had the boys write notes, and the message would have been equally effective: spending a dime was unnecessary to have the tremendous effect of spoiling me that he did.

Jared shows up. Every time, without fail. I am the luckiest girl on Earth. And he’s there in melancholy evenings, too.

I love you, Doodles.
How an Empty Nest Happens

September 19, 2026

One of the bittersweet things about having three children with two of them off at college is facing the reality that things and furniture left in their rooms can be repurposed.

We toyed with (and asked permission about) the idea of switching out Oliver and Porter’s rooms. Oliver decided that was NOT what he wanted to do.

Oliver has gotten really, really into simulated racing. He spec’ed out, at age 11, a Moza simulation rig. It’s sobering how good he actually is at racing, and when he turns 13 he plans to get into iRacing.com’s platform.

Unfortunately for Oliver, when I bought his current L-shaped desk off Facebook marketplace, I only had a homework station in mind. I had no idea we’d eventually have a competitive gamer on our hands. It was a very inexpensive used pressboard desk that is not sturdy or stable enough to support the kickbacks of his Moza rig.

So, his Moza rig is slowly tearing his desk apart.

And so, with his brothers’ permission, today is re-arranging day: we are making an L-shaped configuration with both of his brothers’ desk, as at least a temporary situation until we can figure something else out.

And it’s a seemingly little thing: some rearranging of some furniture that otherwise sees no current use, no investing in new, nobody was using these desks anyway.

But in this Mama’s heart, it is a reminder that we are solidly in a new season of life.

When I asked Porter about the idea, I was reminded that we are less than two years away from his college graduation. We talked about his grad school plans, and reminded him he will always have a place to live here. His furniture and belongings will always be his, and if he needs to move back in he can.

But there are no guarantees that will be a need.

And to be completely honest, Liam’s instant agreeableness to Oliver using his desk took my breath away.

It’s a different season. We are extremely fortunate that all is as it should be with our children, in each of their own phases of growth.

They’re just desks; it’s just rearranging of rooms. Minor things. It may be temporary until we can afford to get Oliver a more permanent situation.

But it’s a reminder that the nest is emptying. Our older boys’ rooms will not remain a memorial to their middle and high school days forever.

This is how it happens, too: seemingly small changes; a quick phone call to ask for permission as a courtesy. The reminder that home is always home.

And so, we’re all changing, one afternoon of rearranging at a time.
Today’s a Day for Banana Bread

September 15, 2026

There are lots of Mrs. Ruth stories.

Lots.

I remember the first time she walked across the front yard to speak. We’d just closed on the house, May 31, 2016. I suspect she sort of dreaded talking to us; we quickly discovered she’d seen us turning around across the street from her house in the city access drive on the back side of the soccer fields many, many times as we came, driving by our new soon-to-be-ours house in the spring of 2016.

I really didn’t know what we were getting into with our new neighbor. I remember the nervous dread of seeing her walking my way that first time. I didn’t know that I was about to meet one of the best friends I’d have for the next decade.

Oh, if I only knew then what I know now.

Mrs. Ruth is the single best thing that happened to me in the last decade.

Oliver was 2 years old, Porter was 9, and Liam had just turned 8 when we met Mrs. Ruth.

My Nannie, my own grandmother, had died the year before I met Mrs. Ruth, in 2015.

Most times when I took the dogs out, there was Mrs. Ruth, to chat.

Mrs. Ruth was there during some of the hardest years of my life.

Mrs. Ruth did not bat an eye when I shaved my head in 2020 after the botched bleach job. Whatever she really thought, she told me she liked it and went right on talking.

She didn’t care that I was on SSDI for bipolar disorder and PTSD. I ended up hospitalized during the time we lived next door and she acted like it was just something that happens sometimes. It was a non-issue for her.

That’s pretty unusual for someone of her generation.

For someone who hated the magnolia trees that were in our yard but whose leaves fell in her yard, she never said a single solitary thing to us about it.

I could talk to Mrs. Ruth about anything and everything, and did. And I’m pretty sure she felt the same.

Mrs. Ruth died last week.

It was her Japanese tulips that I’d go photograph every April or so whenever they bloomed. But I have lots of photos of them. We had light pink ones in our yard but she had a gorgeous deep plum-colored Japanese tulip tree. I posted a photo last week from 2024’s blooms. She called me this year to say that they wouldn’t be worth taking a picture this year.

Moving six minutes away from her street in 2021 meant that we had to pick up the phone instead of walking out into the front yard to see Mrs. Ruth, but we still talked frequently and visited, too.

There are lots of Mrs. Ruth stories. Some, I will never tell.

But this one… this one is worth telling.

In recent years, Mrs. Ruth had taken to presenting me with banana bread when I visited. Sometimes holidays, sometimes random visits.

So sometime in the past year, I said, “Mrs. Ruth, I want you to make a list of the ingredients for your banana bread and I want to bring them and I want you to teach me how to make your banana bread.”

So she said, “Here, I’ll show you,” and led me to her pantry, where she promptly presented me with this box of premixed Pillsbury mix, telling me to take it home with me.

I hadn’t laughed so hard in a long time, and she laughed, too. I laughed about that for weeks— the banana bread tasted homemade, and it really was some of the best ever. She said it was better than her homemade receipe. It does rival my own grandmother’s, my Daddy’s Mama’s, banana bread.

I held onto that box of banana bread mix, not in any hurry to make it here at home.

But tomorrow is my birthday, and I’m missing Mrs. Ruth terribly. I got to talk to her the day before she got sick last week, and I’ll be forever grateful. I’m grateful it was just a normal, like so many times in the past, conversation.

Just a regular check-in.

So today’s the day for baking her banana bread.

I’ll be forever grateful that, whatever our differences, and there were many, and however unconventional it was for someone her age and someone my age to be good friends— I’m grateful that I got to know Mrs. Ruth.

I didn’t know in 2016 how badly I needed a friend just like her.

Grateful.