The Homemade Pizza Company: A new take-out place in Teacher Town prepares pizzas with fresh ingredients, to order or from the refrigerated case if you choose, wrapped in parchment paper and ready to be taken home to eat. The catch is that they don't cook it--we do. The first time I went into this establishment, I felt a little "had" when I realized that it didn't smell like pizza in there because they didn't own an oven.
Well, what if I don't want my pizza to go?
"I want to eat it here," I picture my demanding self speaking sternly to the teenager behind the counter. Then I picture myself standing in front of the store, peeling off plastic to scoop soft dough, raw, crumbly cheese, and cold sauce into my mouth. The truth is that it's not worth making a stink. The pizza tastes damned good when you bring it home and bake it in your own oven.
My brother and his family is in town this weekend, and after a long, crowded day at the zoo, we gathered at our place for dinner. Kids, not as tired as grownups, rode scooters and bikes until dark. Two and a half year-old niece ran up and down our driveway in bare feet. I preheated the oven while Rob made a run for the pizza. Before we turned in for the night, we baked "homemade" cookies in the oven for dessert.
Friday, April 2, 2010
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Day 32
We're not fond of cauliflower in our household. I would eat just about anything, but in no way do I seek out its bland and unusual texture. The fact that my husband, the primary cook of the family, has a serious aversion to it has surely contributed to the boys' avoidance of even trying it, even as it has arrived twice already in our weekly Green Grocer box. I suffer some level of guilt for not setting a better example for them. Try it before you decide that you don't like it. Just look at Sam and his green eggs and ham before you turn your noses up. But the last time it arrived uninvited, we set it aside until it grew subtle bursts of gray mold on its surface. This week, we promptly found it a new home where it would be welcomed and enjoyed.
I recently finished a course on early adolescent development where I read about James Marcia's Theory of Identify Commitments. It appears that our children are still in what Marcia describes as the foreclosed stage. They have simply internalized our commitment against cauliflower, among countless other things we are consciously and unconsciously teaching them. Sometime in the future, we can expect them to explore and experience moratorium, which will likely be accompanied by some distress, especially considering the smell of the vegetable when steamed. Surely, they will eventually reach the achieved level of a identify development, but will they come out on the other side of this tumultuous self-discovery with cauliflower on their plates? It is one of those mysteries that I will watch with anxious anticipation over the next several years. Parenthood is indeed full of adventures.
I recently finished a course on early adolescent development where I read about James Marcia's Theory of Identify Commitments. It appears that our children are still in what Marcia describes as the foreclosed stage. They have simply internalized our commitment against cauliflower, among countless other things we are consciously and unconsciously teaching them. Sometime in the future, we can expect them to explore and experience moratorium, which will likely be accompanied by some distress, especially considering the smell of the vegetable when steamed. Surely, they will eventually reach the achieved level of a identify development, but will they come out on the other side of this tumultuous self-discovery with cauliflower on their plates? It is one of those mysteries that I will watch with anxious anticipation over the next several years. Parenthood is indeed full of adventures.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Day 31
Before dinner, my family of four gathered in front of the house with hockey sticks in hand, goals planted on either side of the street, and an old tennis ball. It's a rare occasion that we get to play two on two. I usually leave the street hockey to the boys of the family; I can't help but admire Rob in his enthusiastic footwork and joyful eyes when he plays with his sons, but I usually admire from our front steps. It was grown-ups against kids--better for Tuck and Will to play with each other than against--but the sweetest part was that every time I made a goal, Will hugged me in a victory celebration even as we played on opposing sides. Tuck doesn't hug much in public anymore, but when I got a hat trick, he put an arm around my shoulders to congratulate me. For the past week, I've been trying to wrap my mind around being the mother of three boys, and each day, it's the boys I already have who let me know just how lucky I am.
And that, readers, is my thirty-first Slice of Life. Mary, a fellow slicer, said it nicely when she wrote the effort worked to "untangle the knotty string of thoughts" in her head. I'm in whole-hearted agreement on that point, and it is for that reason that I hesitate to call it quits now at the end of the month. Daily writing has played an important role in my last thirty-one days, and I'm glad to have been part of this community that values it, too.
And that, readers, is my thirty-first Slice of Life. Mary, a fellow slicer, said it nicely when she wrote the effort worked to "untangle the knotty string of thoughts" in her head. I'm in whole-hearted agreement on that point, and it is for that reason that I hesitate to call it quits now at the end of the month. Daily writing has played an important role in my last thirty-one days, and I'm glad to have been part of this community that values it, too.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Day 30
My kiddos have taken to the ice--we're on day two of a three-day clinic at our local iceplex. With four and a half years between them, there aren't many opportunities for me to sign them up for the same activity, but their common hockey obsession made skating lessons an easy pick for our stay-at-home vacation. My only concern was the growing sibling rivalry I've seen over the last few months. I braced myself for possible tension.
At the start of their class, they thought they'd be together. When I signed them up, they automatically placed them in the same level because neither of them had any formal training, and although he'd be careful not to show it, this was obviously a comfort for Will as he followed his big brother onto the rink. But Tuck stood a good two heads above the tallest kids in the class and his footing was sure once he stepped onto the ice. It didn't take thirty seconds before the instructor led him to the far end of the rink for a more appropriate level. Will looked on as his brother skated away. All I could do was choose a seat on the observatory level where I could watch both levels from above.
Once Will got over that initial feelings of abandonment, they've both made a lot of progress. We've hung around after the lessons for open skate where they practice news skills and pick up some speed with free access to the whole rink. That's when the metaphor for their relationship becomes clear: The more they skate on their own, the more confidence they each gain. Finally, that's when I see them meet up on the rink to glide side by side for a while and then chase one another with rosy cheeked smiles.
At the start of their class, they thought they'd be together. When I signed them up, they automatically placed them in the same level because neither of them had any formal training, and although he'd be careful not to show it, this was obviously a comfort for Will as he followed his big brother onto the rink. But Tuck stood a good two heads above the tallest kids in the class and his footing was sure once he stepped onto the ice. It didn't take thirty seconds before the instructor led him to the far end of the rink for a more appropriate level. Will looked on as his brother skated away. All I could do was choose a seat on the observatory level where I could watch both levels from above.
Once Will got over that initial feelings of abandonment, they've both made a lot of progress. We've hung around after the lessons for open skate where they practice news skills and pick up some speed with free access to the whole rink. That's when the metaphor for their relationship becomes clear: The more they skate on their own, the more confidence they each gain. Finally, that's when I see them meet up on the rink to glide side by side for a while and then chase one another with rosy cheeked smiles.
Monday, March 29, 2010
Day 29
I met a friend from high school tonight for dinner and a movie. Our schedules are so different these days, it often takes a vacation to get us together--she runs a restaurant, so her hours are opposite to my school days. She's also not married, no kids, and she enjoys late nights and sleeping in. Still, she's my primary movie buddy--whenever we can match our hours for a night out, we're always on the same page for what we want to see.
We're Ben Stiller fans, so we picked Greenberg, a story about an aging guy who can't seem to dig into adulthood like his peers, i.e. jobless, homeless (sort of), and loveless. You get the point. I liked the movie, but I'm writing more to compare the plot to the preview for Babies, which showed right before the movie began. It's a new documentary detailing our species' youngest in their soft and adorable splendor. Carrying a baby now, I was one with every minute of precious footage, but I couldn't help but feel annoyance on behalf of anyone's ticking biological clock. It's propaganda for propagation. I can see commitment-phobes everywhere running like hell from movie theaters. Babies are beautiful--we get that. but who needs a movie with music, farm animals, and drooling cuties to prove that to anyone? In fact, Greenberg, quite the avid letter writer, would be writing a formal letter of complaint to the directors of Babies right now.
Yup, after that preview, my hormonal self was tempted to go see it; but on behalf of Greenberg and his compatriots everywhere, I think I'll wait for the DVD.
We're Ben Stiller fans, so we picked Greenberg, a story about an aging guy who can't seem to dig into adulthood like his peers, i.e. jobless, homeless (sort of), and loveless. You get the point. I liked the movie, but I'm writing more to compare the plot to the preview for Babies, which showed right before the movie began. It's a new documentary detailing our species' youngest in their soft and adorable splendor. Carrying a baby now, I was one with every minute of precious footage, but I couldn't help but feel annoyance on behalf of anyone's ticking biological clock. It's propaganda for propagation. I can see commitment-phobes everywhere running like hell from movie theaters. Babies are beautiful--we get that. but who needs a movie with music, farm animals, and drooling cuties to prove that to anyone? In fact, Greenberg, quite the avid letter writer, would be writing a formal letter of complaint to the directors of Babies right now.
Yup, after that preview, my hormonal self was tempted to go see it; but on behalf of Greenberg and his compatriots everywhere, I think I'll wait for the DVD.
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Day 28
I'll admit that my emotions have been very close to the surface lately. I'm usually not one for tearing up, but pregnancy has brought out a whole new side of me. This was especially true today at the Capitals game with my two sons and husband; the noise of the horn, the flash of the jumbotron, and the energy from the fans made my throat clench up, my heart thump in my chest, and my eyes water on a few occasions. I was touched when they sang the Canadian National Anthem as well as our own. I was proud to see my son's friend down on the rink, riding the Zamboni as a mid-game perk. I became part of the collective panic when our home team was down two points in the last period, forcing the crowds to "unleash the fury". It was almost too much to bear.
At the moment, I can hear my younger son singing to himself in the shower, and I could cry at the sweetness of his voice combined with the spray of the water. My older son just sneezed in the other room, making me realize how few occasions I get to hear this twelve year old sound vulnerable anymore.
Is it temporary or am I turning into my mother, who cried at AT&T commercials as easily as she cried when we sang at church. That remains to be seen. For now, I'll just stock up on some extra boxes of tissues.
At the moment, I can hear my younger son singing to himself in the shower, and I could cry at the sweetness of his voice combined with the spray of the water. My older son just sneezed in the other room, making me realize how few occasions I get to hear this twelve year old sound vulnerable anymore.
Is it temporary or am I turning into my mother, who cried at AT&T commercials as easily as she cried when we sang at church. That remains to be seen. For now, I'll just stock up on some extra boxes of tissues.
Saturday, March 27, 2010
Day 27
Growing up in the Washington area, I used to wish that I lived in a small town. I thought that the people were cold, and the nice ones always moved away anyway. I wanted a quaint country home on a long winding road with cows on the hill. I wanted to walk down Main Street and recognize everyone who passed by. Well, my husband and I didn't settle in the country, as we thought we would when we were first married. We didn't get a long winding road or cows, but we did find our small town even it's only a mile or so from my childhood home.
My boys and I walked down to the neighborhood library today. I picked up some baby name books and made myself comfortable at a table by the door. It seemed that everyone who walked in was a friend--some I see regularly, others that I've missed over the last few months because the winter weather kept us all inside. It was the hot spot in town, apparently, and after a few chats at the table, I felt lucky for the chance to catch up with them.
Next, we stopped at the market for some bread and a few other items, but with my items all rung up and in bags, I realized that I left my wallet on the counter at home. I didn't have my $9.23 to pay the man, but he was unfazed. "Don't worry. Here, I'll give you the receipt. You come back with the money when you can." So we went home, ate our sandwiches, and dropped off some cash a little later.
No, we don't live in Mayberry. It just feels like we do sometimes.
My boys and I walked down to the neighborhood library today. I picked up some baby name books and made myself comfortable at a table by the door. It seemed that everyone who walked in was a friend--some I see regularly, others that I've missed over the last few months because the winter weather kept us all inside. It was the hot spot in town, apparently, and after a few chats at the table, I felt lucky for the chance to catch up with them.
Next, we stopped at the market for some bread and a few other items, but with my items all rung up and in bags, I realized that I left my wallet on the counter at home. I didn't have my $9.23 to pay the man, but he was unfazed. "Don't worry. Here, I'll give you the receipt. You come back with the money when you can." So we went home, ate our sandwiches, and dropped off some cash a little later.
No, we don't live in Mayberry. It just feels like we do sometimes.
Friday, March 26, 2010
Day 26
This was the last day for students to finish up their own short stories. On this day before Spring Break, when most kids were probably visualizing themselves running through their free-from-school world, my 125 students clicked away on keyboards, referring to their revision guides.
For the first time all year, I spotted a good number of kids marking up their text with proofreading marks and notes to themselves in the style that I mark their papers. The messiest papers were the ones that earned highest praise from me this week. "Check out that active writing," I'd say to my student-teacher, and we'd smile with pride. A couple of students even asked me, "How do you make that dash? Not a comma, but different from the three dots?" These impressionable kids--they're just so easy to mold. Maybe they could ignore daydreams because they were concentrating on their own fantasy worlds on the page instead.
My students complete a portfolio self-evaluation at the end of the quarter. This time, they included their memoirs, a drabble or two, and their short stories, all of which shared some major writing tools like dialogue, character development, setting, etc. They responded to the question, How do you see yourself improving as a writer this year? Most of them are only twelve, and they've never been asked this question before, so I love to get a glimpse of how they see themselves. I read that they think that their description is better, they can write more than before, or they like the way they can shape a character with action and dialogue. By third quarter, there's a rise in confidence in themselves. They've got the middle school thing down. They're even beginning to believe me when I tell them, "You are all writers."
Now vacation is here. Oftentimes, that means that the kids will return to school to hit a mad-dash to some standardized tests. We'll begin fourth quarter of a year that seems to be flying by, and it won't be long before they are long-gone into dreams of summer. Pre-summer lethargy will set in. It's the natural rhythm of a school year, no matter how much we try to fight it. Maybe that's what made their focus, their attention to their writing, and their messy edits, that much more enjoyable today.
For the first time all year, I spotted a good number of kids marking up their text with proofreading marks and notes to themselves in the style that I mark their papers. The messiest papers were the ones that earned highest praise from me this week. "Check out that active writing," I'd say to my student-teacher, and we'd smile with pride. A couple of students even asked me, "How do you make that dash? Not a comma, but different from the three dots?" These impressionable kids--they're just so easy to mold. Maybe they could ignore daydreams because they were concentrating on their own fantasy worlds on the page instead.
My students complete a portfolio self-evaluation at the end of the quarter. This time, they included their memoirs, a drabble or two, and their short stories, all of which shared some major writing tools like dialogue, character development, setting, etc. They responded to the question, How do you see yourself improving as a writer this year? Most of them are only twelve, and they've never been asked this question before, so I love to get a glimpse of how they see themselves. I read that they think that their description is better, they can write more than before, or they like the way they can shape a character with action and dialogue. By third quarter, there's a rise in confidence in themselves. They've got the middle school thing down. They're even beginning to believe me when I tell them, "You are all writers."
Now vacation is here. Oftentimes, that means that the kids will return to school to hit a mad-dash to some standardized tests. We'll begin fourth quarter of a year that seems to be flying by, and it won't be long before they are long-gone into dreams of summer. Pre-summer lethargy will set in. It's the natural rhythm of a school year, no matter how much we try to fight it. Maybe that's what made their focus, their attention to their writing, and their messy edits, that much more enjoyable today.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Day 25
We saw perfect little hands and feet today--and the sweet profile of our newest member of the family. For the last few hours since, I've been trying to picture the personality that's going to join us at the dinner table, get hugs and kisses and then give hugs and kisses. I can see this baby wrapped in a blanket and in my arms as we snooze on a summer morning. I can see this baby's eyes follow big brothers everywhere they go.
Rob had to go back to work after the appointment, but we've exchanged several texts and phone calls already because it's so fun to know that we're not just expecting our third baby. We're expecting our third baby boy. Joy.
Rob had to go back to work after the appointment, but we've exchanged several texts and phone calls already because it's so fun to know that we're not just expecting our third baby. We're expecting our third baby boy. Joy.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Day 24
My second grade son came home from school yesterday near tears. It turns out as they wrapped up science class for the day, his teacher called out that if they didn't finish their work before dismissal, they would earn a check minus. He couldn't finish in time. Now this is news to me: Will is not interested in check minuses--in fact, he's aiming for check pluses. Good to know, but he broke down crying, and I could practically see a movie behind his eyes playing out the traumatic scene.
"Well," I said, "I can tell you're pretty upset about this. Would you like me to let Ms. Mack know how you feel?" He was still upset, but he said he'd like it if I e-mailed her. Because I'm a teacher, I'm wary of becoming that over-involved parent who scrutinizes everything my kids do at school; it can sometimes be tough to balance advocacy of my children and respect for the time and decisions of their teachers; I decided to take that chance.
Here's what I wrote to her (under his supervision, I might add):
Hi Ms. Mack,
I just wanted to touch base with you--Will was upset when he got off the bus today. He said that he ran out of time on a science assignment and that he was embarrassed about earning a check minus on it. He's wondering if there's a chance of getting extra time on the work. I told him that I hoped he had used his time wisely in class, but that I was proud of him for wanting to do well in his school work.
Anyway, I understand if this instance is an opportunity for us to talk more about Will's work habits. Otherwise, he said he'd be happy if I got in touch with you to let you know how he felt.
Thanks for any advice you have on this.
Leah
Later in the evening, once he'd relaxed a little, he wondered aloud what Ms. Mack would do, so Rob and I played out our conversation with her. Would she say, "Well, I'm sure Will would have finished on time, if only he...
"Hey, I said, "I'm a teacher. I know what kids do when they're supposed to be doing work."
His mood was very different when he got off the bus today. "Science is my favorite subject!" he exclaimed. He reported that Ms. Mack gave him some extra time to finish his assignment because he was asking such good questions yesterday. He also said he finished another lab report and earned a check plus plus. Wow, an extra plus? Now, that's worth tap dancing about.
"Well," I said, "I can tell you're pretty upset about this. Would you like me to let Ms. Mack know how you feel?" He was still upset, but he said he'd like it if I e-mailed her. Because I'm a teacher, I'm wary of becoming that over-involved parent who scrutinizes everything my kids do at school; it can sometimes be tough to balance advocacy of my children and respect for the time and decisions of their teachers; I decided to take that chance.
Here's what I wrote to her (under his supervision, I might add):
Hi Ms. Mack,
I just wanted to touch base with you--Will was upset when he got off the bus today. He said that he ran out of time on a science assignment and that he was embarrassed about earning a check minus on it. He's wondering if there's a chance of getting extra time on the work. I told him that I hoped he had used his time wisely in class, but that I was proud of him for wanting to do well in his school work.
Anyway, I understand if this instance is an opportunity for us to talk more about Will's work habits. Otherwise, he said he'd be happy if I got in touch with you to let you know how he felt.
Thanks for any advice you have on this.
Leah
Later in the evening, once he'd relaxed a little, he wondered aloud what Ms. Mack would do, so Rob and I played out our conversation with her. Would she say, "Well, I'm sure Will would have finished on time, if only he...
- wasn't tap dancing on his desk...
- face-painting his neighbor to look like Spiderman...
- singing Weird Al Yankovic songs aloud to the class...
"Hey, I said, "I'm a teacher. I know what kids do when they're supposed to be doing work."
His mood was very different when he got off the bus today. "Science is my favorite subject!" he exclaimed. He reported that Ms. Mack gave him some extra time to finish his assignment because he was asking such good questions yesterday. He also said he finished another lab report and earned a check plus plus. Wow, an extra plus? Now, that's worth tap dancing about.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Day 23
Many circles of my life overlap, from home to work, spouse, kids, neighbors, colleagues, students. First of all, I can see my school from my bedroom window--when I wake up, I look out the window to see the lights twinkling in the cafeteria. I can hear our head-custodian call to his staff from the loud-speaker as the night shift starts, "Miss Pat, the pizza's here."
I started working there when my son was two years old; now he he's in the seventh grade. He wasn't in my class last year, but he sat in science class right across the hall. I could spot him chewing on his pencil in the front row on test day. One of my students was in my son's play group, starting at four months old--I remember feeding her Cheerios from zip-loc bag, and next thing I knew, I was coaching her on the use of figurative language and how to format dialogue. Tuck has a friend over right now--he was in my class last year, too. I just grilled him about what writing pieces he was going to submit to my literary magazine this year because I happen to know that he's good with words.
When I checked my e-mail, I saw I was copied on a message from my husband, the soccer coach. His entire team goes to my school. They say hi in the halls between classes, do double-takes when they see my growing belly, and groan, "Can you tell Coach Rob not to run us to hard at practice? We had to run the mile in PE."
This morning, I sat in an IEP meeting with a mom I've known since the birth of my second son when we were on maternity-leave together. She and I talk almost daily as we wait for our kids at the bus stop right in front of her house. We've clinked champagne glasses at midnight for the last five or six New Year's Eves. But his wasn't the first meeting we've sat in together this year--her oldest son, while talented in many ways, struggles with school. I feel the weight of his circumstances as if we're talking about my own son.
I left my current school for four years and worked at another middle school across our very small county with some of my favorite teachers around. The four of us meet monthly for Writing Group. We cross paths at county-wide meetings. We participate in on-line courses together and gather for departmental PLCs. We read each others' slices.
These overlapping circles are like a kaleidoscope. If I squint into the light, the colors and shades shift and turn in new and interesting patterns, sometimes light and sometimes dark, brilliant, complex, and never dull.
I started working there when my son was two years old; now he he's in the seventh grade. He wasn't in my class last year, but he sat in science class right across the hall. I could spot him chewing on his pencil in the front row on test day. One of my students was in my son's play group, starting at four months old--I remember feeding her Cheerios from zip-loc bag, and next thing I knew, I was coaching her on the use of figurative language and how to format dialogue. Tuck has a friend over right now--he was in my class last year, too. I just grilled him about what writing pieces he was going to submit to my literary magazine this year because I happen to know that he's good with words.
When I checked my e-mail, I saw I was copied on a message from my husband, the soccer coach. His entire team goes to my school. They say hi in the halls between classes, do double-takes when they see my growing belly, and groan, "Can you tell Coach Rob not to run us to hard at practice? We had to run the mile in PE."
This morning, I sat in an IEP meeting with a mom I've known since the birth of my second son when we were on maternity-leave together. She and I talk almost daily as we wait for our kids at the bus stop right in front of her house. We've clinked champagne glasses at midnight for the last five or six New Year's Eves. But his wasn't the first meeting we've sat in together this year--her oldest son, while talented in many ways, struggles with school. I feel the weight of his circumstances as if we're talking about my own son.
I left my current school for four years and worked at another middle school across our very small county with some of my favorite teachers around. The four of us meet monthly for Writing Group. We cross paths at county-wide meetings. We participate in on-line courses together and gather for departmental PLCs. We read each others' slices.
These overlapping circles are like a kaleidoscope. If I squint into the light, the colors and shades shift and turn in new and interesting patterns, sometimes light and sometimes dark, brilliant, complex, and never dull.
Monday, March 22, 2010
Day 22
This could be just a symptom of our busy lives, but it was a thrill today when I walked in the rain to meet my son at the bus stop and from under my umbrella, saw my husband strolling toward me, hands in his pocket, and his orange raincoat hood on his head. Rob and I share the school routine: He gets Will to school in the morning; I greet him in the afternoon when he gets off the bus. It's an equitable arrangement, but never flirtatious. Only today, Rob was working from home, looked at the clock, and decided to walk on down the street because he could.
The usual cluster of neighbors stood, chatting about the weather and other inconsequential details of the day. The bus had not yet arrived. Our eyes locked, and we met in the middle. "Fancy meeting you here," I said. No, he didn't grab me in a mad embrace or lean in for a ballroom dip--that might have been awkward in front of the other parents--but it was still nice to break off from the group to exchange workday snippets, and whether Will noticed it or not, I'm glad he had two parents to welcome him home when he jumped down the steps of the bus.
We walked side-by-side on our way home from this unexpected rendezvous, which is much better than our usual cell-phone talks around the same time. He still had work to do, so he headed back into the study; I had a slice to write, so I got the boys situated with snacks and logged in to my Blogger account. And I'm pleased to report that romance is alive in Teacher Town. Not bad for a Monday.
The usual cluster of neighbors stood, chatting about the weather and other inconsequential details of the day. The bus had not yet arrived. Our eyes locked, and we met in the middle. "Fancy meeting you here," I said. No, he didn't grab me in a mad embrace or lean in for a ballroom dip--that might have been awkward in front of the other parents--but it was still nice to break off from the group to exchange workday snippets, and whether Will noticed it or not, I'm glad he had two parents to welcome him home when he jumped down the steps of the bus.
We walked side-by-side on our way home from this unexpected rendezvous, which is much better than our usual cell-phone talks around the same time. He still had work to do, so he headed back into the study; I had a slice to write, so I got the boys situated with snacks and logged in to my Blogger account. And I'm pleased to report that romance is alive in Teacher Town. Not bad for a Monday.
Sunday, March 21, 2010
Day 21
My two boys are in the thick of some good old-fashioned sibling rivalry, and given the fact that this tension is emerging now, at age 12 and age 8, one could say that it's about time. There's a 4 1/2 year spread between them, which could have something to do with the delay, but now their different stages of life seem to be the source of their disagreements. I can relate to their situation. I'm a middle child, between an older brother by five years and a younger sister by seven; this divide between us both kept the peace and fed the fire depending on what was going on at the time. Adolescence was a Duraflame log--as long as one of us was navigating its rocky road, a sibling was an easy target for displaced venom. That's not to say that my seventh grader and his emerging hormones are completely to blame; my second grader watches with satisfaction out of the corner of his eyes when he's able to evoke any type of reaction from his brother, a smug smile growing over his averted face.
As often as I spot an arm on the other's shoulder in support, they come out on opposite sides of the coin. Their interests have mirrored one another, from Legos to books to favorite sports, but there hasn't been a Superbowl yet where they've rooted for the same team. Now, as we wait for baby #3, one desperately wants another boy and the other wants a girl. The other night at my birthday dinner, the two sat side-by-side across from us, and we watched them go from laughing at each others' jokes to practically wrestling their way onto the floor. Such is life with boys?
Tuck returned from a school trip to the Chesapeake Bay this afternoon, and you'd think that with three days apart the boys would have some patience stored up. Some driveway lacrosse practice was at first a sight full of brotherly love. Will looked up to his brother with appreciation as he stepped in for the drill. Will offered Tuck the better stick. Tuck coached with kindness on how to better hit a target. I walked away with confidence in this nice moment. I could hear just an undertone of their conversation and the thump of the ball on the garage door from the kitchen as I cleaned up after lunch. Minutes later, I detected an edge to their voices. Thumps became faster and took on a tinnier quality. And then a loud, "Aaargh." The porch door slammed, but only one brother stormed past me at the kitchen sink.
"What happened?" I asked the little one.
"Nothing. I told him the rules, and he said, 'That's stupid.'"
"Whose rules?"
"Mine."
I've intervened enough lately in an attempt to resolve their conflicts, so I decided to let this one lie, and since the outburst, they've just kept their distance. Hours later, though, the two of them sat at dinner, united by a common interest in building a zip line from our backyard tree house to the soccer field over the fence. These days, it's better to hold on for a little while--they're sure to come together again.
As often as I spot an arm on the other's shoulder in support, they come out on opposite sides of the coin. Their interests have mirrored one another, from Legos to books to favorite sports, but there hasn't been a Superbowl yet where they've rooted for the same team. Now, as we wait for baby #3, one desperately wants another boy and the other wants a girl. The other night at my birthday dinner, the two sat side-by-side across from us, and we watched them go from laughing at each others' jokes to practically wrestling their way onto the floor. Such is life with boys?
Tuck returned from a school trip to the Chesapeake Bay this afternoon, and you'd think that with three days apart the boys would have some patience stored up. Some driveway lacrosse practice was at first a sight full of brotherly love. Will looked up to his brother with appreciation as he stepped in for the drill. Will offered Tuck the better stick. Tuck coached with kindness on how to better hit a target. I walked away with confidence in this nice moment. I could hear just an undertone of their conversation and the thump of the ball on the garage door from the kitchen as I cleaned up after lunch. Minutes later, I detected an edge to their voices. Thumps became faster and took on a tinnier quality. And then a loud, "Aaargh." The porch door slammed, but only one brother stormed past me at the kitchen sink.
"What happened?" I asked the little one.
"Nothing. I told him the rules, and he said, 'That's stupid.'"
"Whose rules?"
"Mine."
I've intervened enough lately in an attempt to resolve their conflicts, so I decided to let this one lie, and since the outburst, they've just kept their distance. Hours later, though, the two of them sat at dinner, united by a common interest in building a zip line from our backyard tree house to the soccer field over the fence. These days, it's better to hold on for a little while--they're sure to come together again.
Saturday, March 20, 2010
Day 20
I woke up to the sound of children playing on the sidewalk outside our open window. In addition to the warm yellow sun streaming in, I could tell it was going to be a beautiful day by the laughter in their voices as they chased each other down the street on scooters and three-wheelers. We joined the neighborhood fun just a little while later for our own sidewalk parade, and then a longer adventure out on the bike trail. My son rang his bell when faster bikers passed him and the metro roared in the open air. Those little ones must be inside for dinner now, but I can hear the bounce of a basketball next door, the swishing of a broom, and some whistling, too, as the day winds down.
Friday, March 19, 2010
Day 19
My student-teacher has been out sick almost all week, so maybe I'm paying for all that gloating I did in an earlier slice. Still, I found that while it's nice to share responsibility with another adult in the room, I found it to be quite invigorating to have my students all to myself. That's really one of the best parts of being a teacher. I'm not stuffed in a cubicle, listening to the drone of my co-workers' telephone calls or the clicking of their keyboards, and it's better than a corner office--I've heard it's lonely up there at the top. Me? I've got an entire room that seats 28, a couple computers, whiteboards, loads of books, two (that's right, two) trashcans, and even windows--but not only that, I get to greet about 125 interesting people five days a week who come into my class and listen to me and my ideas. Plus, I get to listen to them and their ideas, and at eleven or twelve years old, that makes for some very entertaining listening. Whoever says teachers are in it for summers off can come talk to me.
Now it's Friday and unless my young apprentice has jumped ship (which is highly unlikely, since she appeared to be having a grand time until she turned green), I'll pass the baton, once again, back to her. I can share my posh space with her and we can compare notes again about how best to reach our writers. But at least I know for sure that when she heads out into wider world of education in May, I'll take my class back with an eager heart.
Now it's Friday and unless my young apprentice has jumped ship (which is highly unlikely, since she appeared to be having a grand time until she turned green), I'll pass the baton, once again, back to her. I can share my posh space with her and we can compare notes again about how best to reach our writers. But at least I know for sure that when she heads out into wider world of education in May, I'll take my class back with an eager heart.
Thursday, March 18, 2010
Day 18
This eighteenth day of the SOLC happens be my birthday, too. Spring is showing its best side, so we're headed out for an after-school walk around the neighborhood before a family dinner out. My students sang to me in class, some dear friends (not just of the Facebook world) sent kind words, and my colleagues treated me with some extreme chocolate cake at lunch. The baby's kickin' this afternoon; okay, maybe a reaction to the sugar, but I like to think (s)he's wishing a happy birthday to mom. And a very happy one it is.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Day 17
In lieu of faculty meetings this year, our staff has divided into smaller groups, a.k.a. Professional Learning Communities. The aim is to strike up open and honest dialogue among teachers in an effort to address the achievement gap we have in test scores. I'm one of my group's facilitators, although the PLC plan is spearheaded by one of our Assistant Principals. We meet monthly to decide which articles to discuss and what structure to follow; for this reason, I probably feel more connection to our objectives, even if I'd rather cross things off my to-do list at my desk than attend one more meeting.
Today, we focused on the whole child. Not too revolutionary, I realize. I happen to be a fan of the whole child. Funny, though--I guess it never occurred to me that the idea of acknowledging our young ones in all of their complexity is quite infuriating to some. I can be quite naive about some things.
We always begin our meetings with "identify stories". This time, we compared stories of when we were students and considered how our teachers could have better served us at that time. Several members of the group said with confidence that they didn't have any trouble in school--their needs were met. One of my colleagues said that any of his down-falls in school were his own responsibility.
"Well, my one problem was that I didn't do my homework, but that was my fault." He aced tests, so he saw no need to do the busy work.
"Obviously, you didn't see any purpose to the homework," I said. "What if your teachers recognized your potential and provided opportunities to go further in the curriculum?"
He didn't think he would have wanted to. He was happy to take the extra time to strengthen his talents in another area instead. He chose his own course in school without the help of teachers. What about the kids who aren't so self-directed? Sink or swim?
My own experience as a student was more stormy, and I floated around aimlessly for years. Aside from the occasional teacher who acknowledged that I had potential, there weren't adults in my school community to offer concrete guidance or support. Now in middle schools, teachers gather in team meetings to talk endlessly about student concerns. I can see my name coming up in my own school. My social studies teacher might comment, "Has anyone noticed that Leah hasn't done any homework this week?"
"True," the others would reply. "She seems lost in class, too. The only time I see her enjoying herself is when she's doodling in the margins."
"Let's see if we get her to open up and connect to school here. Maybe we can get her to join our art club. I'll talk to her tomorrow."
It took me a while, but eventually I became a huge fan of learning. Maturity played a major role in my improvement, but I think if I had a teacher looking out for me, maybe it wouldn't have taken quite so long.
The questions I'm left with today are: How much do our own experiences as students shape us as teachers? Can we expect others to change their attitudes about students if they never needed support along the way?
Today, we focused on the whole child. Not too revolutionary, I realize. I happen to be a fan of the whole child. Funny, though--I guess it never occurred to me that the idea of acknowledging our young ones in all of their complexity is quite infuriating to some. I can be quite naive about some things.
We always begin our meetings with "identify stories". This time, we compared stories of when we were students and considered how our teachers could have better served us at that time. Several members of the group said with confidence that they didn't have any trouble in school--their needs were met. One of my colleagues said that any of his down-falls in school were his own responsibility.
"Well, my one problem was that I didn't do my homework, but that was my fault." He aced tests, so he saw no need to do the busy work.
"Obviously, you didn't see any purpose to the homework," I said. "What if your teachers recognized your potential and provided opportunities to go further in the curriculum?"
He didn't think he would have wanted to. He was happy to take the extra time to strengthen his talents in another area instead. He chose his own course in school without the help of teachers. What about the kids who aren't so self-directed? Sink or swim?
My own experience as a student was more stormy, and I floated around aimlessly for years. Aside from the occasional teacher who acknowledged that I had potential, there weren't adults in my school community to offer concrete guidance or support. Now in middle schools, teachers gather in team meetings to talk endlessly about student concerns. I can see my name coming up in my own school. My social studies teacher might comment, "Has anyone noticed that Leah hasn't done any homework this week?"
"True," the others would reply. "She seems lost in class, too. The only time I see her enjoying herself is when she's doodling in the margins."
"Let's see if we get her to open up and connect to school here. Maybe we can get her to join our art club. I'll talk to her tomorrow."
It took me a while, but eventually I became a huge fan of learning. Maturity played a major role in my improvement, but I think if I had a teacher looking out for me, maybe it wouldn't have taken quite so long.
The questions I'm left with today are: How much do our own experiences as students shape us as teachers? Can we expect others to change their attitudes about students if they never needed support along the way?
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Day 16
I usually operate under the understanding that my husband's profession and mine are on very different planes, but after an interesting dinner conversation with a winemaker, I've finally found some common ground.
One of our six dinner guests last night (certainly not the wisest choice for a Monday night after Daylight Savings Time, and my bleary eyes are paying for it) is actively working to eradicate the scoring system he believes has plagued the wine industry. If you enjoy wine, you're probably familiar with the famous wine critic, Robert Parker, who in a regular publication, The Wine Advocate, assigns points to bottles of wine in what's called The Independent Consumer's Guide. His opponent, our guest, insists that this scoring system is robbing winemakers everywhere, giving disproportionate attention to a select few, and leaving the rest of the independent wine makers subject to either neglect or poor scores, which just isn't good for business. He went on to complain about a poor analogy that was recently presented to him: Wines are like runners in a race. The scores just measure where they come in at the finish line. I suggested it makes more sense to compare the system to the grades we give in school, more specifically, the grades we give in English.
The quality of writing, like the quality of wine, is difficult to measure. While one aspect of a grade can be attributed to the quantifiable (composition, mechanics, sentence structure, etc.), the remaining points are subjective. I see this every year when we work as a committee to score writing samples. From one reader to the next, it can be the difference between passing or failing. I work under a set of standards, of course, but when it comes to giving grades, it is the objectives I set for my students that I consider. I am merely one reader. Why do we trust Robert Parker, or any one taster for that matter, to assign points to a wine? And who am I to decide who has succeeded or failed as a writer?
Grades. We don't often stop to explore their purpose, nor do we examine the effects they have on students, parents, and us. If I weren't pregnant, I'd say we should all sit down with a glass of wine and talk it over.
One of our six dinner guests last night (certainly not the wisest choice for a Monday night after Daylight Savings Time, and my bleary eyes are paying for it) is actively working to eradicate the scoring system he believes has plagued the wine industry. If you enjoy wine, you're probably familiar with the famous wine critic, Robert Parker, who in a regular publication, The Wine Advocate, assigns points to bottles of wine in what's called The Independent Consumer's Guide. His opponent, our guest, insists that this scoring system is robbing winemakers everywhere, giving disproportionate attention to a select few, and leaving the rest of the independent wine makers subject to either neglect or poor scores, which just isn't good for business. He went on to complain about a poor analogy that was recently presented to him: Wines are like runners in a race. The scores just measure where they come in at the finish line. I suggested it makes more sense to compare the system to the grades we give in school, more specifically, the grades we give in English.
The quality of writing, like the quality of wine, is difficult to measure. While one aspect of a grade can be attributed to the quantifiable (composition, mechanics, sentence structure, etc.), the remaining points are subjective. I see this every year when we work as a committee to score writing samples. From one reader to the next, it can be the difference between passing or failing. I work under a set of standards, of course, but when it comes to giving grades, it is the objectives I set for my students that I consider. I am merely one reader. Why do we trust Robert Parker, or any one taster for that matter, to assign points to a wine? And who am I to decide who has succeeded or failed as a writer?
Grades. We don't often stop to explore their purpose, nor do we examine the effects they have on students, parents, and us. If I weren't pregnant, I'd say we should all sit down with a glass of wine and talk it over.
Monday, March 15, 2010
Day 15
I love words, but I'm especially pleased when my students show them some love, too. They posted their drabbles, as in one hundred well-chosen words to tell a complete story, on our on-line forum, and students set to work to identify the "golden line" of their pieces today. I told them that if they squinted their eyes a little bit as they read, surely the words would begin to sparkle on the page, revealing themselves in glorious splendor.
"What if I can't find a golden line?" several asked throughout the day.
"Take out your polishing cloth and make one shine," I replied. And for the most part, they all examined or revised their writing thoughtfully before they pulled out the most valuable nugget within their brief stories. Obviously, there was a lot of variety. Some kids zeroed in on figurative language, others focused on imagery, and others chose lines that aimed to surprise their readers.
Here are some of my favorites:
They have atennae as tall as the empire state building, mouths as wide as the titanic, bodies as big as the country, and legs as long and hairy as a mammoth.
I glanced back to see a dark shadow slinking the halls.
"Donuts...amuse me." He winked, flicked his tail, and like blowing out a candle, he was gone.
Time was running out, seconds, minutes, ticking away like the wilting petals of a flower.
It was as if the bones were popping out on its black skin; anywhere without the bone-pop was clear with a bluish tint.
Shadows from your past remain with you for the rest of your life.
I see trees falling in the distance like toothpicks trying to stand on their tips, but being blown over right away.
Their faces were spinning around in side of my mind, sending me into the dark abyss that is the past.
The little dog was barking, the thunder was rolling, and something smelled horrible.
No one said anything; they just continued typing like nothing was happening.
Fortunately, something was happening, and that something was happening within the golden lines of their writing.
"What if I can't find a golden line?" several asked throughout the day.
"Take out your polishing cloth and make one shine," I replied. And for the most part, they all examined or revised their writing thoughtfully before they pulled out the most valuable nugget within their brief stories. Obviously, there was a lot of variety. Some kids zeroed in on figurative language, others focused on imagery, and others chose lines that aimed to surprise their readers.
Here are some of my favorites:
They have atennae as tall as the empire state building, mouths as wide as the titanic, bodies as big as the country, and legs as long and hairy as a mammoth.
I glanced back to see a dark shadow slinking the halls.
"Donuts...amuse me." He winked, flicked his tail, and like blowing out a candle, he was gone.
Time was running out, seconds, minutes, ticking away like the wilting petals of a flower.
It was as if the bones were popping out on its black skin; anywhere without the bone-pop was clear with a bluish tint.
Shadows from your past remain with you for the rest of your life.
I see trees falling in the distance like toothpicks trying to stand on their tips, but being blown over right away.
Their faces were spinning around in side of my mind, sending me into the dark abyss that is the past.
The little dog was barking, the thunder was rolling, and something smelled horrible.
No one said anything; they just continued typing like nothing was happening.
Fortunately, something was happening, and that something was happening within the golden lines of their writing.
Sunday, March 14, 2010
Day 14
I imagine that some people out there plan ahead to make up for the entire hour we lost this weekend. Those individuals must be responsible and practical people who get their kids bathed and dinner on the table early. They slide the movie that was chosen in advance into the machine with plenty of time to spare before they're scheduled to snuggle into their beds for the night, clocks adjusted and alarms set to avoid any confusion the following morning. Although that evening sounds completely delightful, we are not those people.
Even "with child", a perfect excuse to bundle in with a "no thank you" on a rainy night, I accepted an invitation for a late night dinner out. My husband's work takes him to great restaurants in the area; it also requires him to host winemakers as they get to know their customers and introduce new vintages. Occasionally, but not always, I take advantage of his employment perks, so even with a 9:30 reservation (before the time change), I willingly sat at a table for twelve, one of whom was one of our favorite vintners from Oregon, and enjoyed the company. Among other tasty treats, I feasted on a delicious seared scallop dish, caramelized in a way that will go down in the memory books, and most tables were cleared when we made our way to the door to say good-bye.
We lived in the moment without regard to rest. While I envy those who managed to sleep and feel refreshed this Sunday afternoon, like many things my rational side approaches with hesitation, I'm glad I said yes.
Even "with child", a perfect excuse to bundle in with a "no thank you" on a rainy night, I accepted an invitation for a late night dinner out. My husband's work takes him to great restaurants in the area; it also requires him to host winemakers as they get to know their customers and introduce new vintages. Occasionally, but not always, I take advantage of his employment perks, so even with a 9:30 reservation (before the time change), I willingly sat at a table for twelve, one of whom was one of our favorite vintners from Oregon, and enjoyed the company. Among other tasty treats, I feasted on a delicious seared scallop dish, caramelized in a way that will go down in the memory books, and most tables were cleared when we made our way to the door to say good-bye.
We lived in the moment without regard to rest. While I envy those who managed to sleep and feel refreshed this Sunday afternoon, like many things my rational side approaches with hesitation, I'm glad I said yes.
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