Follow the Yellow Brick Road

Day 1 of the Oratorical Contest, we welcomed Dorothy, last year's winner, back to our middle school to perform her speech on stage in front of every eighth grader. Her command of the stage grabbed our attention as she addressed the power of her own voice. She needed no podium to brace her, for her words, her posture, her hands made her appear as if she were floating above us, hovering even over the solid surface of the stage. I wish she had come sooner--my thoughts must have echoed through many minds in the auditorium this morning, especially among those who were scheduled to present today. How many of them thought back to dubious decisions of the weekend, which may or may not have included watching another episode of __________________ instead of picking up their speeches to memorize? Fortunately for some, her arrival was not too late--many first-day speakers soaked up some of that energy and confidence for their own moment in the spotlight, and I clicked my heels together with pride. The rest of them, with eyes set on one of the three days ahead, I pray that with courage, heart, and a brain, they will see the same success as those who paved the road before them.

Like radish seedlings

One son of mine just finished measuring the effect of salinity on plant growth. Because he was concerned about the timeline at hand, he researched seeds that sprout the fastest and found that both radish and rye would likely grow before results were due. And grow they did. Even plants that he fed with salt water grew in brown starter pots set up in rows on an aluminum cookie sheet. These plants took the place of decorative flowers on the dining room table--rustic, but charming in my view. The radish seeds grew quite rapidly, within a day or two, and they continue to reach toward any light that streams through the curtains.

We weren't gone long--36 hours at most--but I swear both of the older boys looked taller when we returned; the oldest is not only taller than his dad now, but he shows off wing span as a way to show potential for future growth. Raising children is no science experiment, but the availability of changing data is there for me every single day.

Gap post

What was designed to be a mini-vacation--kids with the grandparents & hotel reservation in the city--there didn't turn out to be much down-time. As R described it, "It was an epic weekend," complete with a Napa Valley wine tasting, March birthday dinner with friends, and a Chesapeake Bay crab feast. We didn't lounge around, and I barely made it through the first short story in a new collection I recently picked up. The sun didn't shine much either; in fact, large snow flakes fell on this spring day. But in these hours, we filled in space so often left empty in favor of busy family weekends by toasting good times together.

Therapeutic dusting

Typical of any day, I didn't manage to fit everything into the time I was assigned, so after I sprinted (track practice was not enough) to the pick up my littlest one, I thought to myself, "Why end my work day now?" I pictured my early evening chasing the scooter and emptying the dishwasher while my cluttered thoughts sapped my full ability to say TGIF. I changed my plans and instead of running home, little B and I went to check out my school. There was no chance that I'd correct a single paper, no chance at all, but I did set my room up for Monday. While Cutiepie drew on my whiteboard, reminded me that I have a stuffed kitty, and tried out my ping-pong set, I wiped down counters, filed papers, and stored materials to use for next year. Today was the last day of third quarter, and our teacher-work-day may have been displaced in favor of snow days, but now that I've cleared away some of the junk, I'm ready to take on more busy days ahead.

A model speaker

Mr. Shneebly is passionate about music, but he lacks optimism. He wakes from a mindless stupor from his teacher's desk where he stares listlessly at his students who boldly ask to learn. This simple request from these innocents jolts him to attention, and he remembers his own pulsing blood and beating heart that keep the tempo strong. He stands like a composer, upright posture, waving arms, and he speaks with a voice like a forte piano, first soft, then loud, then soft again. His audience rides the melody of his message with rapt attention. He thought he had nothing to teach, but between his expert delivery and love of the music that sings to his soul, his words are one in syncopated importance. Sure, he's mad at The Man who holds him down, but surely with such adoration for Rock 'n' Roll, Mr. Shneebly will dance and play in spirito straight to a brighter tomorrow.

Silver lining

I got into my car today and found the gas tank was empty. By the time I fit in a trip to the gas station, I ended up with the slowest pump at the station--it could have taken 15 minutes for 15 gallons if I hadn't given up at 12. The bag of green beans I bought on Sunday were already slimy when I went to prepare dinner tonight. I had to wrestle with my sheets to take them out of the dryer. My vacuum cleaner is broken. The universe and me, we're not seeing eye to eye.

On the plus side, I got to sit at a table all day with some of my favorite teacher friends. We went out for lunch that didn't come from a brown bag. We had a plentiful supply of sticky notes and highlighting pens. I got to collect ideas I can use in my classroom, doodle in the margins, and I only froze once when my popcicle stick was pulled. I think I'll be ok.

Now at 0%

I’m sitting in a cold boat house, the beat of techno music and the whhhiiiissshh of the ergs rattles my brain, and my laptop, my sole source of warmth, is only at 7% charge. I’ll be here for 45 minutes longer as “dock sitter” and I worry that I will be colder and even more aimless when my battery life, not unlike my patience for this day, is fully depleted. It is simply my aim to finish my daily post--that will be one item of many that I can cross of my list. Too bad the rest of my list will sit untouched back on the desk from which I rushed at dismissal.

It occurred to me recently as I scrolled through this month’s posts that I tend to lean toward the bright side of life. Who wants to read about my cruddy day? So if you are in the mood for little lambs playing with homemade play-dough, feel free to click your way off my page because this slice will sadly disappoint you. Ha, don’t I sound a little like Lemony Snicket? Uh oh, 5% charge.

From 5 AM until now, my journey has swung back and forth between home and school as I endured tears from a toddler, a bleary-eyed 7 am meeting, sad truths from my teen’s teacher, that empty feeling I get when I teach to the test, and finding myself double-booked between parenting and coaching. 3%...that last paragraph was a tough one.

So here I am, in the purgatory of a day that shows little sign of improving. But I know that tonight, I will rest in my warm house. Some of the sourness will remain, I know, but we will be together. The stereo sings, “Take me away,”’ between a pounding drum and the whhhhiiisssshh of the erg-the perfect soundtrack of this moment. 1% and I’m done.

On the right track

It was the first day of this season's track practice, my second year as assistant coach.  I wasn't much of a runner when I was growing up, but since about 1999, running has been one of my favorite pastimes, so when almost 200 kids signed up for team last year, I said, "Sure, I'll give this gig a try." This year, our team count is 250! Just like a second year of teaching, I know more about how I want to guide them. I watch the group made of Speedy Gonzalez, Slow Tortoise, and a whole lot in the middle, and I aim to maintain a careful balance of advice and encouragement. That said, with a big group like this, I'm not afraid to order up some push-ups if they're not listening to the coach. Funny, they usually laugh through this punishment.

The best news of the day is that my own son, a sixth grader, is one of the 250. This kid of mine, famous for his, "School--just a place where they tell you what to do," proclamation, has always been reticent about organized events. Still, he signed up without an ounce of pressure from me, and it sure looked like he was having a good time, even as we ran teeth-chattering drills on the field. And even when he dropped to give us 20. 

Lion still in town

She's roaring outside my bedroom window right now, in fact. We all thought we'd be greeting the kinder creatures by now, but here we of with the first day of track tomorrow and it doesn't look like we'll have much sun to warm the path. Saturday was yet another kind tease for spring days ahead. We had short sleeves and bare legs. The bikes were out and the door hung open through afternoon chores. Today's chill chased us back inside to pine for our trip down south in just a few weeks. I know, enough about the weather. Since I'm just about frozen with the thought of this ugly weather, I'll try to let it go. 

Happy day

I can't say I felt happy when I woke for a 5 am start to my Saturday, but I did feel proud standing dockside as my son and his seven teammates rowed by. I finished the day at a dinner table, a restaurant that feels like home, my parents hosting, and a mix of table-side visits from fun acquaintances, plus plates of farm-fresh goodness and chocolate cake. I won't bother to fill in the pounds of business I took care of in between because the day began and ended just as I would have wished.

Tradition revisited

My oldest son was two when I first started teaching. After a couple of years of mothering and taking graduate classes, our day's routine had a comfortable rhythm to it that included morning walks, breakfast picnics, trips to the park across the street, and evening walks under the sidewalk lights after bath time. Then I started my career, and the pace of our lives was altered indefinitely.

To ease the transition, for me as much as for him, I'd make sure I headed out the door as soon as I could at the end of the week. That day was always designed to be an adventure. We'd head to the park, the bakery, even into the city sometimes for walks around the mall or the zoo. The rules said wheels weren't allowed at the zoo, but the guards on duty would always encourage my kiddo, so skilled on his scooter at a young age, and we'd zip around from afternoon until dark before we'd head home for even more cool stuff with his dad. We called it "Fun Friday".

Two kids later, I've let the tradition go. We might grab an ice cream cone or make homemade pizza, but I don't even use the label anymore because I don't want to draw attention to it when it's not...fun. Too often, I find myself stuck at my desk, digging myself out. Even as I planned my escape today, the minutes raced by in my attempts to sort, reply, and consult with colleagues about pressing issues. By the time I made it home, I felt weighed down, defeated...until we put on our sneakers. 

Cool air on our faces, we three set off to the trail for a run and a bike ride. My little one sat straight up in the jogger for the best view of riders and robins. My middle one zoomed ahead at his own pace, stopping periodically to tease his brother. I got to run. We ended up getting a playground all to ourselves, and each of us had burst of energy that had us doing stunts around the slides and swings. It's not even Saturday, see, and we've already started the party. Fun Friday, welcome back. 

Ah, youthful optimism

How do your passions impact the world? 

This is a difficult question for anyone to answer; however, my concerns lie with my 100 eighth graders for this year's oratorical contest. It challenges a writer to be confident in her opinion, to be tapped into her role in the world, to be alive and aware of the effect she has on those in her circle.

I'm old and wise now--I 'd better have some ideas of my own up my sleeve--but how would I answer when I was in the eighth grade? I was stuck in a semi-awkward state with full-fledged sense of adolescent bewilderment. My energies were not flowing from my abilities; instead, they were more entrenched in everyday wishes to measure up to my brother, acquire a pair of Guess jeans, and navigate my way through troubling scenarios on my school bus each morning and afternoon. What did this all mean? In my effort to figure it out, I ran out of time to pursue my passion about anything. Come to think of it, I'm pretty dang sure nobody asked me anyway.

So it is with awe that I watch a great many of my students approach this topic with earnest attention. Between the anecdotes and the quotes, the heroes and the moments of glory, my eyes are opened to such sweet individuals through their speeches. Art, music, sports--these are common topics for the life lessons they teach--it's also fun to read about passion for spontaneity, rooting for the underdog, teaching and caring for children. When in the last 14 years did these kids decide what they cared about? For some, these ideas might have been brewing for years; for most, I think they dreamed their ideas up just last week. Either way, imagery from their personal experiences makes the timing of this awakening irrelevant.

Will they hold on to these passions or not? Chances are good that their minds are or will be drowning in countless distractions in the years ahead, but maybe they'll remember what they discovered about themselves this time around.

Soft and squishy

When the flakes started falling last Sunday, I was grateful for the rest but wanted to snub most snow day activities. Sledding, igloos, hot chocolate, homemade cookies, blah, blah, blah. We fit some of that obligatory fun into our day off, but the real joy came from the play dough I made from scratch.

Flour, salt, water, oil, and a pinch of cream of tartar in double-boiler combine to make this bready mixture so warm and comforting. It's warm when I knead it on the counter, elastic and forgiving. Crunchy lumps are instantly smoothed when they are swallowed by the ever-moist core. Green or blue? I wish for rubber gloves for only a moment when dark drops of food coloring stain my hands, but like an eraser, this glob absolves all sins. One ball of each oceanic color encourages mixing like whirlpools and waves, they will twist and swirl alone or together, a baptism in beauty.

Our first creations are snakes, of course. Silly snakes and then a cake. But soon enough, we're molding heads with cavernous eyes or beady ones, pointy noses or prominent nostrils. One looks like he might sneeze, his mouth hangs wide open, tongue dangling. It's not sad, but these unique creatures do have a very short life expectancy. Just a few glorious minutes is all it takes for each one to brighten the day. We laugh out loud and then smoosh! 

Just a small slice, please

Last weekend was so full of big celebrations. Big run, big dinner, big brunch, and even a big snow. Today marks a big birthday, and even though I've been looking forward to this milestone, I prefer to stick with a small celebration. We have a family dinner planned. I look forward to an early bedtime. Just what the doctor ordered on a chilly Tuesday night. 

Fact or fiction?

Speaking of Go Dog, Go, the party I described yesterday, the raucous celebration dogs enjoy after they've climbed a terrifyingly high ladder rung by rung, takes me back to a pre-school event I attended. The details are fuzzy, but I remember that my mom was chaperone to my small group that walked from the classroom to a home that promised to have a magnificent tree house. Although most of my classmates were excited about this fun opportunity, I do believe I approached the party with fear and dread. Perhaps I was envisioning a treehouse party like the one in this familiar storybook? The puppies smile and dance in the illustration, but truth be told, they also look like they're about to fall off the edge, straight to their death. 

According to my vague recollections, my mother took us on a brief detour to browse in an antique store and chat with the owner. There was a stuffed parrot in a bird cage and a live, black dog (but no silly hats). Why would a group of kids stop at an antique store on a field trip? The idea is not at all far-fetched if you know my mother. 

Once we entered the backyard, I remember my group members went running. I took one look at the ladder that went up the tree and made my decision clear by tightening my grip on my mother's leg. For the rest of the afternoon, I imagined the excitement and adventure taking place so high in the sky. I even imagined myself taking on that height rung by rung, like brave doggies do. But I never did, and every time I read that story to my son, I wonder about the fun that I must have missed.

Sunday story time

Go Dog, Go was one of our bedtime stories tonight. It's the one where dogs of all shapes and sizes interact in herky-jerky ways. Two standout characters are the male and the female who are in conflict over headwear, his always more conservative than her wackadoo style. "Do you like my hat?" She asks repeatedly, only to be rejected again and again. "No, I do not like your hat." Fortunately, he makes amends at a big doggy party atop the highest tree imaginable with a canopy that's wide enough to accommodate cakes, tennis, and many other festive activities. Her hat is a colorful arrangement of streamers and pompoms--any dog would be crazy to insult it--and when he finally admits that, "Yes, I do like your hat," the two ride off after the party, both wearing fanciful toppers, into the sunset together.

Long run

From start to finish, my morning race was 26.2 miles, and after months of training, I was more than ready to get this day started. Because those months piled on crusty, icy sidewalks, and even though my running partner and I managed to keep to a schedule, this mean-old winter worked her hardest to inconvenience us. She tested and taunted us with the occasional sunny day, and then, bam! we'd find ourselves digging out after yet another storm. Good for putting our feet up with some marshmallowy hot chocolate. Bad for training for a marathon. 

I have great memories from the course like running up the Rock Creek Parkway and down Capitol Hill with no cars allowed. There were some long stretches of boredom when aches took advantage of my sole attention, but I loved to see familiar faces among the spectators and overjoyed that we found a mid-race port-a-potty station with NO LINE.  My running buddy and I held hands through the finish, resulting in identical time--fitting for the journey we've shared--and my family was so proud that they danced with me to celebrate. 

Now I'm all done, and now that my feet are up (water, not hot chocolate) I'd say I'm feeling pretty great. Okay, it appears that I've lost a couple of toenails...don't worry they're small ones. 

Surpassing expectations, part 2

Upon further reflection, I realize there's much that I left off of yesterday's list.

This year, I have also witnessed eighth graders...

...chase each other around chairs.

...abuse the glue gun privilege.

...click randomly straight through a multiple choice test.

...leave one person in a group project to do all the work.

...flash their big, fat pack of gum in my presence.

...shout over each other.

...screech lyrics to John Lennon's Imagine.

...take my "strike the but" semi-colon joke too far.

And so I suppose as I compare these two lists that it's not just the kids who have surpassed my expectations, it's my love for the good and the bad that makes up this wackadoo year of school. 

Surpassing expectations

As we near fourth quarter, it's been long enough for some to ask, Are you glad you switched to eighth grade? I am glad. Do I miss sixth grade? Yes, of course I do sometimes. But last summer, I was nervous to move from my cozy preteen home to my new digs upstairs. Thank god most of my assumptions about this teenage age group have been turned upside down. Here are some of my pleasant surprises.

This year, I have witnessed eighth graders:

            ...reflect honestly on mistakes.
            ...ask for Disney music as our class soundtrack.
            ...stand up for each other when someone's rude.
            ...reach out to new kids.
            ...appreciate (and implement) writing advice.
            ...work quietly when I ask them to.
            ....collaborate when correcting grammar.
            ...tolerate classmates no matter their differences.
            ...show up at lunch and after school appointments when they say they will.

            ...write for pie.

Sssshhhh, listen.

I'm a big believer in talking for ideas. Just about every one of my lessons allows time for kids to talk BEFORE they write. If I didn't give them semi-structured time to pitch a few ideas to each other, they'd find a way to do it anyway. Making noise is a big part of who they are. It's a big part of the world they live in, too, maybe one of the most important reasons to emphasize the value of silence. 

Life is loud. So here I go in my old-age harping on today's generation for hooking up to every dang device they can get their hands on. Entertainment flashes at the push of a button. Music plays in their ears. Screens tip side-to-side for Flappy Bird's new buddy Kitty Jetpack. And this is just the battery-operated aspect of life. Busy schedules for either them or their parents (or both) makes for some noisy nights of late dinners and rushed homework.

Because I'm a part of this world, I can understand why some kids come in without completed homework. It's not such a shock to see a blank page when I've asked them to pour their hearts out. Writing asks a lot of kids. I get it. But lately, when kids tell me they didn't have time, they had to study for World Geo, science, Spanish, that they didn't understand, I just wish they had more time to be alone, more confidence in their own thoughts, more space to hear what their minds are trying to say to them. 

As I reflect on silence for them, I pledge to seek the same for myself.

Misery loves company

I have a good friend who expresses extreme displeasure, hatred really, toward day light saving time every year. It's not that I haven't agreed with her, but this particular event never caused me to use foul language. When I read her blog post today, I examined the evidence and realized that she has been right all along.

Exhibit 1: The most perfect batch of homemade granola bars I was baking on Sunday? Burned.

Exhibit 2: Even though I am consuming water, supplementing with electrolytes, and eating a careful balance of greens (yes, kale) and whole grains (charred granola bars, grrrr), I've been daydreaming about naps for days. 

Exhibit 3: I read "happiness" instead of "misery" aloud to my students, entered an entire class of grades in the wrong column, and required an embarrassing number of attempts to calibrate my interactive white board today. The most troubling aspect of this last item is that I enjoyed the challenge (thank god I was alone).

There's plenty of proof--I'm practically daffy as a result of the time change. In an attempt to sooth the pain, I dumped that blackened batch in the waste basket today. I kept a careful watch on the clock, and I took it out at just the right moment to preserve the golden hue that honey-soaked nuts and coconut deserve. DST does suck, but I'm glad to wait it out with my chewy granola bars and a newly calibrated screen.

At one point, it looked like my friend had let this year's shift come and go without much noise. Now I thank her for shedding light on one hell of a week...and it's only Tuesday. 

Don't worry, be happy

My students are joining in a school tradition to participate in an oratorical contest run by a service organization. There is so much to admire in our sponsors, a group comprised of "civic-minded men and women motivated by the desire to contribute to the community". I do believe that the writing and speaking experience the kids will gain through the process will be invaluable. Today, we read over the club's creed.

A little background: I was a pretty grumpy eighth grader, and since I can relate to those kids who look at me skeptically when I smile, it's one my aims to remain light-hearted. And I'll fake it 'till I make it on the days that I'm not feeling the love--because yes, there are plenty of those days too. That's part of my unofficial job description, right? Introducing the steps and timeline for this endeavor, I've invoked blue skies and rainbows. I even played Bobby McFerrin's "Don't Worry, Be Happy" and Pharrell Williams' joyous tune when angst-ridden questions threatened our mood. One resorts to these things when up against some pretty grumpy eighth graders.

But jeepers, is it me or does this creed have some lofty goals? 

 Promise Yourself - 
• To talk health, happiness, and prosperity to every person you meet.
• To make all your friends feel that there is something in them.
• To look at the sunny side of everything and make your optimism come true.
• To think only of the best, to work only for the best, and to expect on the best.
• To be just as enthusiastic about the success of others as you are about your own.
• To forget the mistakes of the past and press on to the greater achievements of the future.
• To wear a cheerful countenance at all times and give every living creature you meet a smile.
• To give so much time to the improvement of yourself that you have not time to criticize others.
• To be too large for worry, too noble for anger, too strong for fear, and too happy to permit the presence of trouble.
• To be so strong that nothing can disturb your peace of mind.

No problem if it does. Listen to this song and you just might believe every word.

A whole new world

How is it possible that it is only with my third of three boys that I have interacted with a urinal? Raising these fine young gentlemen has certainly opened my eyes to some new behaviors that may or may not relate to the y-chromosome. But hey, maybe if I had daughters, I'd still be scolding them about heaps of sweaty clothes on the floor and chuckling every time anyone said the word, "nuts". This morning, the smallest one--so proud of his ability to control his own bladder--led me straight into the unisex locker room and walked directly to a shiny, white trough on the wall.

Okay, I've gotten close to a urinal before. Who didn't sneak into the boys' bathroom at some point in her elementary school career? Naturally, I was curious about this off-limits place, and my chance came during an evening performance at my brother's school. Lizette and I excused ourselves from the audience and raced in for a quick look-see on this rare occasion that we had the site completely to ourselves. The risk of getting caught resulted in a pounding heart that it kept me from fully appreciating the finer details.

Today I held little shorty up to assist his aim. I took inventory of the mesh guard and deodorizing cake, as well as the same ability to flush as a traditional toilet. Fortunately, we were the only ones standing before this impressive row where efficiency and convenience overshadow a need for privacy.

Parenting, like teaching, is such a give and take when it comes to lessons learned. They learn from me; I learn from them. Today was one of the days when I was on the receiving end. Thank you, son.

Dystopia

She lived in the present moment, and her mind was not tangled with regrets from the past or expectations for the future. Every day was a journey, some full of joy and others drenched in sadness, but because she learned from her own mistakes and remained open to the unique path that others were on, all was well. Until she opened the door to her sixteen-year-old's bedroom.

This sixteen-year-old's entire life was built from the love and sacrifice of his family. He grew in a world of nurturing acceptance. In a beautiful balance of success and failure, he was in synch with the universal plan until the balance reached the tipping point.

"Can you tell me about your room?" she asked the boy who was raised in this so-called perfect society.

"Uh, what do you mean?"

"Is that the pasta I packed for your lunch last week?"

"Yeah."

"And the sandwich I made for you yesterday? How is it that every article of your clothing is on the floor?"

"I don't know."

"How can you function at school with half of your papers stacked on your dresser? And your laptop is about to fall off your bed. Where in the world are your pillow cases?"

"I've got it taken care of."

"What's in that mug? Good god, the spoon is stuck."

"Yeah. You have to admit this is kind of funny."
"How in your right mind...?"

"Mom, tell me how you feel right now."

And with this remorseless, sloppy, teenage boy, she lost her footing when it became clear that her utopia could be only be achieved outside. It was when she opened her own door that the present moment became the biggest challenge of all.

Utopia

We live in the present moment and our expectations are not tangled with regrets from the past or expectations for the future. That's not to say our people don't learn from mistakes, nor should one assume that we don't look forward with joyful anticipation for what lies ahead. We are a thoughtful group that appreciates and learns from each other. When we have reason to celebrate, we do. When we have run out of steam, we acknowledge our current state and give respect to fatigue and the need for rest. We don't look to one another for validation because we are accepting of whatever factors influence our state of mind. We are responsible for our own actions and understanding of the potential impact we have on one another.

"I'm sorry I didn't do my homework," said a newcomer to this world.
"No apology is necessary here. What were you doing instead?"
"My friends blew me off. I got a mean text. I couldn't concentrate, so I watched my favorite shows instead."
"How do you feel now?"
"Annoyed because now I have twice as much to do."
"How are things going with your friends?"
"Better. We sorted it out."
"What will you do next?"
"I'll catch up."
"There's nothing like a fresh start. Trust that you'll feel better when you're past this."
"What about you? You'll have a bunch of late work to grade. Aren't you mad?"
"Stacks of work do get me down, but that's the nature of my job. I'll get through it, just like you will. And I'll appreciate your patience I take time to get it all done."

What is in store for this society's future? Does this world fall to ruins where the pace of life slows and the population turns soft, lazy, apathetic. Or is true balance achieved as this united sense of tolerance allows equal portions of achievement and error?

Wrap it up

My tale began at nearly midnight last night when I was folding laundry, several baskets full. There's nothing like a visit from a mother-in-law to get that "urgent" sticker slapped on a household chore, but midnight is simply too late to be up on a school night. I dragged myself and two sons to school early this morning, introduced the famous oratorical contest unit to a whole lot of eighth graders, worked with more kids after school (some of they posted their own slices :), and plowed through four hours of student-led conferences before I made it home again.

What I didn't mention was the chicken I left in the Crock Pot. That's right, I left dinner cooking all day and thanks to broth and salsa, it still tasted delicious even after I cooked the hell out of it. I assembled some black beans, arugula, avocado, more salsa, and cheese (sorry, this may as well be a Facebook photo of my meal) and my fractured family + a grandmother ate pretty well. We rolled up those super tacos before we wrapped ourselves in blankets and said good night.

I believe in spreading the joy

When I first introduced the Slice of Life challenge to my students two years ago, I made this Wordle for them. (I'm pretty sure I used a whole lot of ideas from TwoWritingTeachers' website.) A good number of the kiddos were up for the same challenge I was taking on, but most were looking for ideas.

I hesitated to propose the writing challenge to this year's students because I didn't want to compete with other academic responsibilities, i.e. a national oratorical contest, standardized test prep, and additional initiatives that I did not initiate. Many of them express that their plates are full. But emboldened by my four days of "slicing," I decided to tell the kids about it today and invited them to join in. I was pleased to see several of them perk up at the suggestion, and I was even more pleased to see my first writer post in less than an hour after school. He wrote about the smile he couldn't wipe off his face all day, and the grin on my own face grew wider as I read. Several others have posted since then: one about her dreams, another with a list of the many places she's lived, and more.

My prediction: Unless I require a certain level of participation, my "challenge" group is going to be small.

My resolution: To be happy with any number of kids who dig in because I'm as proud of my writers as a grandma at a piano recital.

"Reasons to be proud"...and the Worldle comes to the rescue once again.

Back in my day

My childhood neighborhood crew used to spend every minute of each snow day on the hill. My brother and I would pull on gear, mostly hand-me-downs from our New England cousins, and dig through our garage to find anything that resembled a sled. We had these metal disks that resembled the bright, plastic that kids use today--were they meant to be sleds or were they scrap metal from the air force base where my uncle worked? Inner tubes, handy during the summer on the lake, did the trick as long as we could avoid getting scraped by the poky nozzle. My brother commandeered one half of a snail topper that rode above our car on long trips. Bunches of us fit inside although I can't say we picked up any speed. My mom found us a good old-fashioned toboggan. Bo--rrr--ing, although rubbing candle wax along the blades was novelty enough, even if it made no difference in the ride.

The Wilsons lived right across the street from the sledding hill, and once or twice we made it into their second floor kitchen for hot chocolate. While it was fun to see Coco's bedroom and play with her Barbies (a coveted toy I wasn't allowed to have), I remember getting antsy in my still-wet clothes. Mostly we'd slug back to our house with drenched snow pants and frozen feet. My mom would build a fire in the wood stove that gave off enough heat for three houses, making our family room into a coma-inducing inferno. Hershey's was the base for our hot chocolate and on lucky occasions, the marshmallows were stale and chewy, better for snacking. Maybe we'd watch TV or maybe we'd ask Scott Wilson to draw something so we could ogle at how effortlessly precise details fell on the page. Eventually, we'd get stir crazy and someone would suggest that we head out again, so we'd reassemble boots, mittens, hats that were hot and hanging on the metal rods attached just for that purpose. Off we'd go, a parade of four to six to glide, tumble, and climb, to feel cold air in our faces and play until the tips of our fingers screamed and the wood stove called our names again. 

I can't complain

I groaned when I first heard the forecast. I whined when the meteorologists claimed 100% certainty. The snow has already brought enough of her winter gifts: sledding, igloos, snowmen, and hot chocolate finales. But her gifts have been interlaced with punishment: power outage, stomach flu, cranky cabin fever. It's also worth mentioning that I signed up to run a marathon this month. Back in November, I didn't consult the Farmer's Almanac to see that outdoor training was going to be a problem--and I definitely didn't think weather would get in my way in March. Winter and me--we've not been on good terms.

On our way to an Oscar Party last night, they called off school, and not surprisingly, I had a change of heart. It appeared that weather was extending an olive branch, and I was her fickle friend. I welcomed this new chance to stay out a little later, sleep in, and even grade the 30 remaining papers on my kitchen table. Turns out that my husband's flight was cancelled, too. Looks like we're going to get some bonus family time before he goes. Thank you, I appreciate this goodwill, and if I'm honest with myself, I need some forced rest before the race. For the moment, the positives outweigh the negatives. 

Let it snow.

Purple pen

How many times have you been asked to think of your favorite teacher? I put mine, Mrs. O'Malley from my 4th grade year, in my back pocket years ago to avoid the uncomfortable mental sorting I'd do through the ones who scared, embarrassed, ignored me. I know they didn't mean it--in fact, I bet they all believed their style was the right one.

Times have changed--no more paddles or noses in the corner--but teachers are still human, and we still have the power to ruin a child's day. About two hundred papers are stacked on my kitchen table this weekend, essays that students have written, one analytical and the other personal, and it's my aim to assign a grade to each one. I have been noting successes and difficulties in the kindest way possible, but as we all know, it's tough to be on the receiving end of judgment.

There was an English teacher at my high school--the legend was that the first essay grade you got for the year would be the same grade you would get until June. Two students allegedly proved the theory by trading names on their papers. I shared this anecdote with one of my classes last week, and I was encouraged to hear a couple of students say, "No way does that happen anymore." These were the days before rubrics, I pointed out, and instead of a detailed explanation of strengths and weaknesses, we just got a big red letter on the corner of the page. Today I call myself "coach" to my students, guiding them to better writing. Do they see it that way? Does my pretty purple pen and occasional smiley face make the news any easier to take?

The lamb and the lion

This was a quiet day that included a double-batch of chocolate chip cookies, a behind-the-plexiglass hockey game, and finally, my toddler napping in my lap. Today, when I found I didn't have to button my coat to my chin, and that I was content with bare calves to follow the scooter round the cul-de-sac, I welcomed this lamb of a day. The soft ears and fuzzy fur of this easy Saturday will surely morph into the lion that early March promises to be when tomorrow night's sleet and snow sweep over our pleas for spring. It will even open its mouth wide to roar in protest when I put my toes on the starting line of this busy month. Still, it's nice to know the lamb has already shown its face--it is sure to return. In the meantime, I will  pray that during this duplicitous month, the lion and lamb will lie together.