Logged In and Running

My writing performance for this year's SOLC matches my running record for the last 30 days. I still enjoy doing both quite a lot, but I'm not feeling 100%, as evidenced by my overall slower pace and inconsistency about both logging in and lacing up my sneakers. However, even with some heavy footing tonight on a pre-dinner jog, I was positively filled by the dirt path, the canopy of threes overhead, and finally the lighthouse. I just wouldn't have been there if I didn't run. And then where would I be? With just minutes left to post on March 31, my fingers keep getting hung up on autospell and mistyping periods on a screen that's too small. Plus, I have a nagging feeling that I've expressed these same sentiments in a Teacher Town post of the past. Yet, I'm really pleased to finish off another year--to have this collection of daily--almost--posts that capture who I am (in March anyway). I just wouldn't be here if I didn't have this writing challenge. And then where would I be?

A Rare Old Craft

We sailed aboard the Pequod today, the Miami skyline as our backdrop and the spray of Biscayne Bay to keep our eyes open against bright sun. I don't have much in the way of seafaring experience, but boats are not foreign vessels to me. Growing up, I got good at planting two feet atop any bow or stear and used balance to keep me upright against winds or waves. Keep in mind that these were freshwater conditions. The wind occasionally blew tidy whitecaps and ski boats sent miniature waves to the shore, but mostly water lay like green glass. Today, my brother-in-law, a former merchant marine, Mass Maritime graduate, Naval officer, and now Coast Guard lawyer, was captain to steer us on course and navigate rough winds. Our youngest sailors provided the most help and everyone got lessons in harbor courtesy, tacking strategies, and how to look at the horizon to combat green-faced sickness.

Note even close were we to the whaling expeditions of one famous Pequod--neither geographically or conceptually--but considering my few and far between ventures on the open water, this was a speed I could handle.. 

Unbreakable

Females are strong as hell...and Kimmy Schmidt is my hero. I could go on about this new series released by Netflix, but this female power-house needs to go face-to-face with a never-ending week and pack for an early flight in the morning. No time to chat about the sitcom about a once-victim who turned into a feminist Pollyanna, and sadly, no time to keep watching. But guess what? I get a week with a bunch of ladies that I love down in Miami--me and my boys--and I bet I'll get some time to watch Netflix too. 

Happy spring break to three more of my favorite ladies. P.S. You are strong as hell.

Thanks for your kind words

Impossible. I am charged with selecting three boys and three girls out of my 120 students to move on to Round 2 of this year's oratorical contest. My heart is in my throat with my notes, photos, and their writing before me. This year, the number of students who dug to the depths of their personal experiences and shared them with us overwhelmed me. In my last class of the last day of presentations, two students had us in tears. We passed the tissue box around. One student had to visit the counselor. In the class before, some of us teared up from laughing. Let's just say it's been an emotional week.

Yes, I had seen the typed drafts, but isn't it fitting that the spoken word was most generous for this unit? I am proud of my kids. Relieved that they are finished--just in time for a week-long break from school--and full of awe for the challenges they take on just because we ask them to.

Beyond individual contributions, I established protocol for the audience: cheer for the students as they walk up to the podium (instead of only at the finish) and compliment speakers when they finish. Each kept a log of compliments as they listened, so not one kid was speechless when it came to boosting each other up. 

So much positivity has me reeling. The Optimist Club has successfully taken my brain hostage. Consider this post an IOU for some grumpster writing soon.

Second Chance

Protists and fungi. Between one retake and a quiz, the last few days have been all about heterotrophic eukaryotes and don't get me started on asexual reproduction of spores. Science has never been a strength or an interest of mine, but it is obviously an important part of my journey as a parent. I don't expect this is the last time my seventh grader and I will dive into the textbook and consult the Google machine together. These sessions certainly shed some light on the gaps of my Catholic school education. Oh well, it's never too late to learn. Why should the youngsters be the only beneficiaries to our fine educational system? Call on me--I just might know the answer this time.

Hello? Anybody there?

We thought that maybe we were missing important calls when our home phone went dead a few months ago, but none of them could have been that urgent because we survived almost as much time unscathed without replacing it. Not yet ready to join the new age, we decided to continue phone service and plugged some landlines in. Unfortunately, this expense was only met with a few sales calls here and there, and seeing the number on ID, I'd just let it ring.

Out of the blue, though, our 4-year-old took notice of the bell. He has been stopping mid-motion anytime the phone calls out, pushing any of us aside to say with determination, "I'll get it." He loves to talk, so this job is perfect for him. When he first took a sales call, he let them know firmly, "Rob isn't here." When another group to request our time for a survey, he asserted, "We're about to eat dinner," like an expert. The person on the other line must be a slightly charmed, in addition to his/her annoyance, because they still wished him well. "You have a good dinner too," he said tonight before he set the phone down. He builds social skills and we get to avoid the unpleasantness of saying, "Not a good time, but good luck to you."

What other exciting things can we accomplish with a good old-fashioned telephone?

Celebrate Success

Who was more nervous, me or my students? I was out of sorts this morning when I pictured my first presenters getting ready for school, full of angst about standing before their peers to deliver a personal speech. Each one of my 120 13-year-olds are now engaged in this endeavor, and even though this is my second year in, when a student asked, "Why?" during homeroom, part of me wanted to ditch it all. 

One of my quietest girls, whose voice seems to have grown softer over the few months, looked so lovely in her speech attire when she walked through the door, but when I asked her how she felt about speaking that day, she almost burst into tears. Who knew she would step away from the podium when it was show time and project a confident voice in a tone I had yet to hear until now?

Another student revealed her reluctance to the project last Friday in one word: "Phobia," she said. Oh dear, aside from my cheerful words that were met by her blinking eyes and some gentle comments on her Google doc, I wasn't sure what to do. Turns out, I wasn't holding the hammer after all. She nailed her own performance with dissenting, but humorous, opinion about optimism. Her audience didn't just laugh and applaud, but they even thanked her for her honesty. 

What other gifts will tomorrow bring?

Perspective Matters

The dining room table was strewn with seventh grade papers on Friday afternoon. Thank goodness it was then that my son and I checked in on the online grade book to find the state of emergency. For it is now Sunday and instead of the mountain of materials that seemed an insurmountable climb, there are now file folders, labeled by subject, containing printed grade sheets and check marks for each assignment that didn't make into the teachers' hands. 

It appears that while I was giving my students round-the-clock attention to their writing, one very important student in this house needed some attention of his own. I don't need any help finding the solution to this problem.

But I (we) do need some help deciphering what to do with the eight inches of papers that still have no home. I'm puzzling over quite a few questions, actually, as I ponder the fact that I work in the same building where my son goes to school. Do I push this much paper on my students? Do my students recognize the names of assignments? Or better yet, could they explain why each matters? Do the parents of my students feel as bewildered as I do right now?

Whatever the answers, the good news is that he's focused now on homework that's due tomorrow. That fact offers satisfaction enough.

Running Free

Track practice, rain or shine, meant running indoors, wall sits/pass the medicine ball, relay races, and Tabata intervals that made the kiddos fall on the floor in melodramatic pain. Of course, I joined them (except the falling). Don't worry, they were still smiling when they said good-bye.

Shortly after, I made a stop at daycare and realized that my son's teacher didn't approve of the way I let him sprint down the hall each afternoon. The thing is, it seems he waits all day to run free like that through those sparkling corridors. Otherwise, it's all about walking in a line for the next 100 years. And jeez, if it were up to me, I'd join him. 

Do I sound like I'm ready for spring break or what?

Let It Go

“Discard anything that doesn’t spark joy.” I read about Marie Kondo's approach to decluttering one's home a few weeks ago, and at first glance, I didn't take it seriously. Yet I've applied her touch-system to identifying objects that I don't need many times since then. "The moment you touch it, you know the answer," she writes, so that is what I've been doing in my efforts to donate baby gear and clothes for our day care center Kids' Stuff Sale this weekend. 

I've been great about passing clothing and toys on to cousins or friends, even my favorite items. But a little over a year ago, I reached for our Kelty backpack, the one that held each of the boys, starting with the biggest one, and the thought of donating it made me ache. This object didn't spark joy when I touched it, but it was electric with memories. I felt the weight of my first-born on my back as I carried him to our apartment laundry room, to take out the trash, and on our countless walks around the neighborhood to watch the street lights glow just after dark. I was back on the beach with my middle, the one where we had to hike a mile down the trail to see the water. Then there was the vision of our youngest on his dad's back looking over his shoulder to watch him do home repairs with the drill. 

"If we acknowledge our attachment to the past and our fears for the future by honestly looking at our possessions, we will be able to see what is really important to us." Today, I picked up the backpack again, and I knew it was time for it to go. The memories, still so alive, are safe and sound, and that is what sparks joy for me today.

Birthday Retrospective

How convenient it is that this annual Slice of Life writing challenge takes place through my birthday month. I kept a journal into my twenties, but I don't fill notebooks anymore with handwritten thoughts and observations. Today, I clicked through nearly 6 years of Teacher Town to read the snapshots I've taken of my life on this day (or approximately). It was more fun than iPhoto. 

Things that have made my birthday happy since 2010:

1. One kicking baby in my belly and chocolate cake
2. Delusions of a pickup line 
3. A sprint against my teenage son (in which I lost)
4. Artistry of a chef and a friend
5. Family dinner celebration

Early this morning, my middle son sneaked up behind me with a life-size stuffed dog, a gift from all of the boys. We've been daydreaming of getting a dog, and this sweet dalmation sure seems to be part of the campaign. Now after my birthday dinner, we're scratching behind his furry ears and making him a doggy bed. Only time will tell if this slice will come to life in the year or years ahead, but I'm thankful for this account nonetheless.

Strong, Fast, and Fresh From the Fight

When a friend asked if I had heard about Nancie Atwell's recent award, I was already feeling deflated. I had heard about it, but the pride I felt in being a witness to her workshop has lost its sparkle. Those were glorious days, back then, not just in the week we spent observing Nancie, Glenn, and others in action at the Center for Teaching and Learning, but in the months that followed where my colleague, Tracey, and I were free to collaborate on sound writing instruction focused on individual progress. We had fun planning authentic writing assignments that blended genre study with technology. Kids wrote a bunch and smiled a whole lot, too. Oh, and reading mattered--our own version of a reading workshop was seamlessly integrated into our classes. 

Since then, each year has changed more and more. First, the shift centered around a common assessment tool that would interrupt instruction several times a year. Turmoil now also stems from initiative overload coming from both the county and school administration that undermine the creative process and overvalue data. My problem is that I never entirely gave up on what I always knew worked for kids, making my days a complex flow model aiming to satisfy everyone all the time. I'm compliant to a fault. Tough luck that the two least satisfied of the group are teachers and students.

"The yardsticks for measuring teacher achievement, especially in the U.S., I don't think are accurate or humane," she says. "I would like to be a model for the kind of teacher that is autonomous, creative and thoughtful."

Shouldn't I feel inspired by these words, for if her work is celebrated, it will have some effect on us? At the moment, the reality of her vision is further than a plane ride to Dubai, so I've either got to start channelling Atwell again or find a good travel agent. I need a hero right about now.

Rough Edges, Smooth Finish

Going out to breakfast once in a while is such a treat. We all met Grandma at the corner joint called Mary's before we left Weddington this morning. Sitting at one of three tables (with a little room for the dog bowls), we grabbed some place settings, made our own coffee and served it up. We placed our orders of eggs and pancakes, calling out a change or two to the woman in the kitchen. Mary had just left minutes before we arrived, but Joan was really friendly, sharing stories of raising her kids on the same block. We bussed the table and learned that the building was condemned. Mary's will close its doors forever in a week. 

As we said good-bye, one of my sons said earnestly, "That was the best breakfast out I've ever had." Aren't we glad we got there when we did?

Road Trip Shift

We hit the road to Delaware yesterday for my brother-in-law's wedding. It's a trip I've taken countless times since my own wedding--the big difference this time is that my oldest, 17, was behind the wheel. On 95. In a car loaded with three of my four most favorite people. He needed the experience of a long drive, so off we went.

Two hours is a long time to have one's emotions collect and concentrate at the top of one's throat. He proved that he's a good driver, calm and focused. He made smooth lane changes, maintained a steady speed, and he pumped the gas, an added perk to the trip. It was just that one moment when the highway split and one audibly fast driver cut us off at the tail, swerving right by us in what seemed like a near miss that made us both gulp for air as we watched him disappear ahead.

My son is growing fast into adulthood, and I'm proud to see him driving with two hands on the wheel. Then I consider the instances when best efforts don't matter, and I'm back to gripping the door handle and my knuckles shine white. 

For the Love of Dust Covers, etc.

My youngest, age 4, exclaimed that everything was great today at school. Even though it seems he was born on the right side of the bed, I believed his even brighter description of the day. His teacher is a dream as evidenced by the many moments B breaks into cheerful songs I've never heard. She taught him about authors and illustrators and the purpose of a dust cover. Just yesterday, I walked in for pick-up to find tears and frustration. His teacher successfully reminded him of a story book, one that detailed a storm, a traffic jam, and arguments, that ended with the clouds that cleared to show the sun--at this point, he took a deep, cleansing breath and explained his source of upset without an ounce of whine in sight. That's right, she has her students thinking in metaphors. For students and teachers, the people we meet vary widely. I'm so glad this one of those years that I don't want to see end.

Iron It Out

The wrinkles on my huband's new shirt triggered a memory this evening. 

"Remember how I used to iron your shirts?" I asked, willing for the moment anyway, to help out with his casual wardrobe. Those were the days, we reminisced, when dropping shirts at the dry cleaner was too pricey consider. And I was pretty sweet back then, he said, to stand at the ironing board with a pile of collared shirts and a can of starch. 

I helped him pack for his first trip to France, and my support was evident in the way I folded his sweaters and pressed his pants. The very idea seems so novel these days, so quaint that anyone in our house would have time to take out the iron for more than one item. Now we both employ the metaphorical iron and work on all of our wrinkles just about every day--with love, of course--but the shirts have to wait in line.

Hello and Good-Bye

Hello, porch, how I've missed you. It feels like a long time ago that we bundled the furniture up in a larger than large tarp, pushing it to the corner furthest from the rain, wind, and snow. When the sun came round this week, blue sky and white whimsical clouds, there were a couple of us here at home that couldn't wait to free the cushions and push the pieces back into place. We've had two days already this week when I set myself up to work al fresco. With my feet up and mild air warming my way, I've been free to look out at my back yard and say...

Good-bye, snow. Thanks for coming, but it's time you got on your way. I've been dodging crunchy crystals on my walk to school for a couple of weeks now. The mountains of blackened slush are a gross temptation for my 4-year-old, slowing down our walk home by a good 20 minutes. Two of three sons have outgrown their winter boots. We've lost a couple nice pairs of gloves. If the sky opened up tonight and lay down even one inch of a winter wonderland, it would be a struggle to love without the temptation to gaze out my back door and say...

Hello, porch. It's about time we got reacquainted. Let's spend months together, you and me.

Home Schooling

I tried to hide my grumbling when I first read the social studies assignment my 7th grader brought home. He's learning about the Great Depression, and he was charged with preparing one meal within a budget that matched the period. In keeping with our family of five, he had to plan a meal for under $4.50.

As a former social studies teacher, I appreciated experiential learning. However, when I considered the fact that I basically keep to that budget for my own lunches--my measly crackers in a baggy didn't do the trick today--I hated the idea of taking on hardship for dinner too. It felt like an invasion of our home. It felt more like Catholic guilt than historical enrichment. I felt put upon. I also knew that we would not skip it. Of course, in the end, one night just isn't that bad.

The Great Depression was a dark time indeed, but a homemade batch of pasta pomodoro was bright on the plate. It's true that some felt hungry less than an hour after dinner (I can hear the seventeen-year-old rower rummaging through the kitchen right now), but I was glad for the chance to teach my son to chop an onion and peel garlic among other kitchen tricks. 

The conversation over the table about what cuts we'd have to make if conditions were similar to the 30s reminded proved that my kids are more grateful for their quality of life than I give them credit. Cost of living aside, the faces across me at that table hold more value than what I ate for breakfast, lunch, or dinner. In this brief experiment, it was a luxury that I could recognize the riches on and off the plate.

And as the lesson sinks in, now a day later, I'm ashamed to think of how easy it is to reach for nutritious food from our cabinet at a moment's notice, and given my resistance to the lesson, it's plain to see that I still have a lot to learn. 

Strike the but

There are two occasions in my English class in which I recommend that students "strike the but" from their writing. The first is when I take notice of a tendency to begin sentences with conjunctions.

"If the tone is informal, fine. But don't overuse conjunctions at the start of a sentence. It can add rhythm, sure, but there are a lot of other fresh ways to do that."

See? Strike the but in the example above, and the meaning stays the same. Some would even argue that the message is more clear. Fewer words =  less clutter.

Then there is the lesson on the semi-colon or the dash. Conjunctions do the job when one has two independent clauses to marry, but a semi-colon or a dash might add some style.

For example:
Jujubee baked a cake, but she forgot to add the baking powder.

Strike the but and try these options for variety:

Jujubee baked a cake; she forgot to add the baking powder.

Jujubee baked a cake--she forgot to add the baking powder.

On the other hand, if you strike the but and leave a comma to do its job, watch out!

Jujubee baked a cake, she forgot to add the baking powder.

"Help! Save me!" called the comma. "I can't handle the weight of two sentences on my own!"

Between the but that was struck and the comma in need of better-fitting britches, that sentence is a mess. 

There are other conjunctions to strike--I won't deny that. And, or, so, and yet offer striking opportunities galore, but none provide the long-lasting smile than "striking the but" in a room of goofy eighth graders does.

New Year's Approach

Last year, I was training for a marathon. It was an ugly winter, too, and I am proud when I met my 15-mile goal in the freezing rain one Friday afternoon. The sun had already gone down, I was drenched, but with my running buddy, Playlist, I ran my best pace straight to the daycare center to pick up my babe in plenty of time. Later that month, I ran with my real, live running buddy and we found ourselves along Kirby Road with a dangerously narrow shoulder due to the crusted ice mountains pushed up by the plow. It was so cold that day that my iPhone drained its charge with 9 miles in and 8 miles to go. We hadn't tapped into our knowledge of green vs. blue street signs in a long time, but even without Google Maps to guide us, we found our way home. It was experiences like these that me feel "hard core" before my fortieth birthday.

This year is different. The season recently dumped what I hope are the last pounds of [beautiful] snow on our neighborhood. My forty-first birthday is coming up. I've had a medical procedure that left some bruises behind. I'm pre-occupied by compression stockings and relatively interested in the benefits of vitamin supplements. Dodging ice patches is highly imprudent at this time. This spring--when we hit 60 and the daffodils bloom--I'm going hard core all over again. Just wait. Now? I'll hang back while this town thaws before I prove it to myself that I can. 

Flipped Classroom

Winter weather has kept us home, and because I have a screw lose, I've kept in touch with a lot of my students over the last 48-hours. I know, I'm awful. The last cancellation already resulted moving a deadline. When the weather called for a 100% chance, I was the mean teacher to say, "Come on, kiddos, stay focused." What was I thinking?

Google Drive is both marvelous and malevolent. I've had the good fortune to interact with writers, sometimes in real time, in a way that I don't often have the luxury to do in an actual classroom. I've also had the unfortunate experience of watching a student suffer with writer's block, his cursor blinking blankly at me when I've checked in on his draft. I get it. I've been there. But the very same student was spotted on another draft, leaving a string of Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzs in a very unsupportive manner. He stopped once he saw my bright initial pop up in the upper right corner of the screen. And then I logged out.

It was time for me to attend to matters on the other side of the screen--matters that include negotiating the number of marshmallows my kids get in their hot chocolate and folding the seventh load of laundry that was calling my name. Isn't technology grand?

Pass the Smelling Salts

I'm one of the queasy ones, and it was in a follow-up visit at the hospital today that I remembered this fact about myself. My light head might have come from standing on one leg for too long, not enough lunch, the after-school rush to the appointment, but it was probably from the bandages she had just removed for the first time in almost a week. That blood-rush-from-the-head-sensation reminded me of the time I was in the emergency room of the same hospital several years ago. I stood over my 3-year-old, and in an attempt to be an attentive mother, I zoomed in on his split forehead right along with the doctor. He looked, I looked, he spoke about options, and everything went black.

I heard, "She's out!" and the metal rings slid across the rod as help pushed through the curtains. Two nurses lifted me up to the hospital bed that was designated for my little boy, and when I opened my eyes, he and I were sharing the space. Of course I was embarrassed, just as I was today, but with some sips of water, I willed quick recovery. I managed to stand by as his still-perfect head was stapled up and we were discharged to go home.

On the Same Wavelength

I sponsor the literary magazine committee at my school, so every Tuesday afternoon, writers from each grade level grab laptops, check out what's new on our online blog, and log on to our club's Google folder for submissions to read and rate. Sounds rather anti-social right? The reality is that their virtual chatter is as active as their actual banter, and I get a kick out of the way kids ages 11-14 connect with each other every hour they share. Two new kids showed up today--an eighth grade boy and a sixth grade girl--and while each was uncertain at first, they were both inspired by published writing on the screen to create original sketches on the page that I'll scan and upload for the site. From digital to analog and back again. I bet they'll come again next week.

Ice Racing

My littlest one is eager for summer so he can float his newest boats on Island Pond. We share this dream for 80 degree days to submerge ourselves in water, in fact. That didn't stop us from taking Blue and Red out on the crunchy snow-covered field today for some heated races. It was so satisfying to launch each one across the white ocean of snow. They dodged cracks and crevasses, footprints left by so many winter boots just like ours, but they each cleared a cool distance. We ran behind and scooped them up for another go. B made up a song, "Antarctica, Old Antarctica. Antarctica is beautiful, so full of icy snow," his voice so warm that I wasn't bothered at all by my frozen fingers. 

The sun did shine its magic on us, and on our way home, I heard the river of water flowing into the storm drain. It won't be long until Old Antarctica has melted away, which leaves us no choice but to embrace his frosty ways while he's still around.