My Day, My Heart

A first-thing run, crisp air, a shining sun
Personalized pancakes, chocolate chips on two number fours
A rainbow kite, the faster we raced, the higher it soared

Budding blossoms, the backdrop to a DC stroll
One table full, birthday stories, candles agleam
Chocolate cake, glazed and crowned with cream

If I Could, I Would

If I could harness the power of the wizarding world today, I would apparate. Phone calls to my siblings are simply not enough. 

My brother and I connect as he sits in his car, live-parked and waiting for his wife. His backseat is packed with hand-me-down planters with little trees and shrubs for his Brooklyn patio. "You know how much I love plants?" he asks sincerely. Yes, I do know. We exchange stories from 1969 in Austin, the year he was born but before I was, that are only vivid to us both because we have the same parents who told them. We make plans for the summer fun and count the days, then send hugs to our children and spouses, which we both know are not nearly as nice as the real thing.

My sister is across the Atlantic, and the cooing I hear is coming from a rosy-cheeked niece I have yet to meet in person. Then her oldest and my youngest monopolize the phone to describe their toys and schools. Finally, we steal some minutes for travel plans before her middle daughter who is showing off perfect enunciation of, "Hi, Leah!" This little one and I are bonded by birth order, so her personal greeting is a gift. When we are together, we make matching snack plates for our kids and sometimes finish conversations. For now, we can only mark our calendars, plan, and count the days.

If I could apparate or reach into my supply of floo powder, I certainly would today. 

Ode to a Standardized Test

You require my students to arrive on time, 

clear their testing area,

turn in their devices,

and remain silent during directions.
Such sweet silence.

You provide scratch paper, 

with a firm suggestion to use it,

even if is is not required, 

and a sharpened pencil.

In other words, use both--

please remember the outline

or suffer the guilt.
Guilt for growth,
some might say.

Not that it means anything to you,

but I will remember the peppermints.
Children whisper thanks 

to the generous lady

like orphans 

in an old-school asylum,

hungry for a sweet.

You are so generous with your time,

and for that we are grateful,

especially for the students

who will take all day, in fact,

with their lunch tray beside

their laptop,

either because they are crafting

the most intricate of essays

in response to your 

titillating prompts

or they are left wordless in the face 

of this challenge.

E.g. 

Most schools offer a variety of activities, 

classes, and clubs. Identify one 

of these that students enjoy 

and explain why they enjoy it. 

Include specific details 

and examples in your response.

Oh, the three-prong thesis statements

our students will write,

thanks to your grand invitation.

Then the body paragraphs

with examples

from real-life, we hope,

that are both vivid and specific.

(Transitional words and phrases

are big point-earners, we hear.)

Finally, the conclusion paragraph that 

rephrases that thesis 

and a summary

of the main points, of course,

before the call to action.

Oh! That conclusion that answers,

So what?

That last question,

they report back,

is always a tough one.

The Neighborhood Run

Running is a good way to fight off the chill of cool March afternoons. I love having the excuse to jump out of my workin' boots and tie up my runnin' shoes. It's track season, and I play a minor role as "half time, assistant coach", and that's just enough for me. Both days this week, we hit the trail. I ran up front on Day 1 remembered that there are kids on the team who don't warm up--they're always going to sprint at red-hot speed. Today, I took to the middle, and then hung back to find the walkers, some who were doubting their decision to join a team that requires "so much running". Because, who knew, right?

One of those walkers might be surprised, but he's not giving up. He seemed depleted; it's his first year on the team. Turns out, he heard that this first week was grueling, but he was going to keep on'. "Next week will be better." Since it was just him, we jogged together and I made conversation to distract him from the slog. I told him how I started running--from scratch and now I never want to give it up. Some of my best long distances have been with a friend, and we've covered a LOT of territory, not just in mileage but in words. 

Before long, the course was complete, and it didn't take anyone down, although the wind threatened to at times. No coats necessary, though, at track practice.

Lead the Way

Anyone who doubted the agency of middle school students needed to witness today's 17-minute walkout at 10 AM.

Without one adult at the helm, hundreds of students funneled through crowded halls and out on to our sports field to form a large circle, a perfectly round circle of at least six kids deep. In the center, a group of student leaders raised their fists and led a chant, "What do we want? Gun control! When do we want it? Now!"

With just their joint gesture, they invoked a moment of silence. Everyone fell to their knees in unison. Not long after, one gifted orator took the megaphone and with barely a glance at her index cards, she called out our government for not doing their part to end gun violence. Teachers stood on the bleachers to get a better view. We chose to walk out because we, too, believe in the cause. But these were their seventeen minutes, and they owned every second.

All of this is to say, I wish they didn't have to.

Be Brave

I climbed through a thicket of angst last night before I fell asleep last night. It was the email I had opened-- a friendly request to collect Slice of Life blog links to share with our department. This message did not have thorns, it was sent with the intention of building spirit. It was an olive branch, leafy and fruited. But I leaned back into my own woody tangle of brush and dwelled on my reticence to expose my writing.

My students write, and we have a tradition of posting. It is not they who write, but we who write. If I ask them to write personal narratives, I try it too. Literary essays? Sure, I'll write one of my own. I challenge them to write slices of life, and I here I am since 2010, writing slices of life. We don't criticize, we connect. We don't sneer, we support. I've been aware of their vulnerability, and when I detect stress, I give them options: Share with a smaller group. Share with me. Just share. "Your voice matters," I've said. Then, when I'm invited to share my writing with my peers, I retreat.

Let's unpack that," my group of kindred writing spirits might press. I was shy as a child. I am shy now. My mother was an English teacher, and that's a lot of pressure. I spoke up with some embarrassingly wrong answers somewhere along the way. Cringe. My monthly writing group, my trusted audience, have bonded over SOLSC annual challenge. What a source of pleasure it's been over the years, but I'll admit, that for some of those years, I've taken breaks from Two Writing Teachers. I've chosen to share my posts with my group of four, and that was all. This year, I'm back and several of my colleagues are in. Hence, the angst.

"It's not what you write. It's that you write," Such words of wisdom sent by text this morning cut the brambles back substantially. Not long after, I made my confession to another friend in hopes that we may hold back the links together. And her response?

Be brave.

She's right. Writing exposes. It leaves us feeling vulnerable, whether it is the complexity of ideas or use of who vs. whom. Our past experiences may shape our confidence, but the present moment carries a special responsibility. I would never turn away a writer, no matter his or her skills, who arrived on my shores, and I will expect the same in return.

Gone is the thicket--it's time to let the leaves and the fruit grow in its place. Write and be brave. Then sleep well.

Good Morning, Lunches

I am a maker of sandwiches and a filler of thermoses. Before my family is up, I work in the kitchen alone. I begin at the coffee maker, which is when I realize that I am not, in fact, alone. My sweet dog, Alice, is there to watch my every move. While coffee grounds transform themselves into a magical concoction to make every morning palatable, I pull out the bread, the peanut butter, the cream cheese, and/or the jelly. I boil the water on the stove for the macaroni that my youngest considers a treat, which I indulge approximately two times a week. I am so grateful for our fruit bowl that my husband fills on Sunday. It has clementines, apples, and always bananas. I open the box of granola bars like the gift they are, a dessert but also wholesome, or so I’ve always thought. I hide the zip-locked bags of sandwiches, thermoses, fruit, and snacks behind the butcher block, also nestled between two pitchers full of wooden spoons. I love my dear Alice, but I prefer to protect these treasures for the eaters of bag lunches, whom I am walking up the stairs to wake.

Busy vs. Beauty - It's a Tie

How is it possible that after this weekend

of grading and planning, 

of reading and running, 

of commenting and connecting, 

that I feel as if I lost ten hours 

instead of just one?

How is it possible that in this preterm spring

the sun sets in a brilliant display

behind wintery bare branches

in broad strokes of violet and pink

as if to say, "Flowers, you will soon 

arrive to follow my lead."

It is entirely possible. I know.

Hatching Memories

I was coaching my seven-year-old to crack an egg this morning without catching the shell when I told him the story of my aunts. They were each in their early twenties when one complained that the other was a terrible cook, made clear by the crunchy scrambled eggs she served.

Both aunts were my heroes. So cool, they taught my cousins and I to jump from bed to bed while singing, "Jenny, Jenny, I've got your number--867-5309!" These memories were made in Old Chatham at a house set up on a hill. From the back deck, we looked out on a giant pie-shaped swath of land bordered by forest. Every day, deer would wander out of the woods to nibble on grass, and my grandmother announced their arrival. My cousins and I gathered round to see.

It was at this house, I told my egg-scrambling son, that Papa (my Dad) woke everyone up one early morning with an urgent message. "Get up! There's a bear outside! You've all got to see this!" The house was full of cousins on twin beds, trundles, and pull-out couches. We rubbed our eyes and followed him to the window with more an air of compliance than curiosity. My cousin Jenica said, "Uncle Jim, that's a dog." A dog, indeed. Even if it was a chubby, wide-nosed, black-haired, scruffy Newfie, it was a dog just the same. We laughed at my Dad and went back to bed.

"Do you know how many sisters Papa had?" I asked as put the bread in the toaster. He shook his head. "Four. Do you know many brothers? Three. And he was the oldest. What would it be like to grow up with seven siblings?"

We pictured the other children in our little house, sleeping in cubbies under counters and on ottomans in the family room. "I could fit at least two more in my bed," he pledged.

It wasn't often that the house in New York was full of so many people, but the days are impossible to forget. My cousins and I hiked to see an impressive view of the Hudson Valley from a rock cliff, led by an uncle. We rode horses together, even though I had no idea what it meant to cantor or trot, thanks to an aunt. We swam in the pool and listened to them talk about what it was like to be in college and why hot rollers are better than a curling iron. We ate crunchy eggs.

"I always wished I had loads of brothers and sisters when I was growing up," I told my youngest. "One of my favorite movies was Cheaper By the Dozen because I loved the scenes when the oldest kids were leading the youngest." I pointed to the eggs on the counter. "How many are in a dozen?" I asked.

"Twelve!" he said.

"Can you just imagine?" I asked with a lovely row of stair-step boys from twenty all the way down to seven forming in a thought bubble above my head.  Lord knows, I had enough years to make that family, but...

"Ping," went the toaster and breakfast was served.

Welcome Home

One pedaled in on his bike. Two walked home after a parent teacher conference. One pulled up after rowing practice. One picked up dough and cheese on his way home. He assembled amoeba-shaped pizzas to slide into a very hot oven. We all sat round the table to sample every crispy-chewy-spicy-hot concoction on this happy Friday. Five under one roof and there were more than enough slices to go around.

The Other SOL

Think about how daily life, from reading to playing games to communicating with others, has changed over the past hundred years because of technology.  Using specific details and examples, explain how these advancements in technology have changed daily life.

It's Writing SOL prep time, and kiddos spent the day unpacking this prompt. Torturous, right? To be honest, the accessibility of the topic (yay, no research required), the reliability of the 5-paragraph essay (nice, a graphic organizer), and a thesis statement (fun, a sentence frame), all combined to make a light-hearted lesson. No one fell into a stupor staring at a blank page. There were zero desperate pleas to Google just one more article to find the perfect quote. In fact, I don't think anyone left to go to the bathroom.

We started brainstorming. What are the ways technology has changed daily life? Ideas abounded because, hello, this world is absolutely saturated with technology. I heard some standards: communication, transportation, access to information, etc. They went further to list safety and security, distractibility of kids (don't forget adults, I added), the way we fight wars, addiction to games, the way we read, how activists spread their messages, the pressure to multi-task (...sorry, I'm back. Just checking my email and entering a few grades). Nice job pushing the prompt, I thought.

"Who grades these essays? I mean, if you do it, won't you be too biased?" one asked. (In favor or against? Just kidding, they're all my favorites.) I explained that essays will be scored by readers who work for the Virginia Department of Education.

"That must the most boring job on earth," another said. There's some truth there, but jeepers. This world is changing fast, and based on their ideas, they're paying attention to the good and the bad developments around them. Frankly, any reader will be lucky to read their work.

Okay. Maybe I would be a little biased. Also, did I mention we're in the middle of an optimism unit?

P.S. If I were writing my own essay, I'd surely include the amount of time I devote, almost daily, to sticking my entire top half into a cavernous, hot, malfunctioning copy machine to yank out jammed handouts. It's a good thing the VDOE doesn't care if the writer's glass is half full or half empty. 

Where Are My Roots of Optimism

My roots of optimism, these days, come from my students. Sure, some grumbled at this year's oratorical contest prompt. But after a few doses of daily cheer and some awesome video examples, the vast majority have brought a hopeful spirit, a can-do attitude, an openness to the ideas that spring from their every day. "What does the Slice of Life challenge have to do with your speeches?" I've asked them more than once. How will we draw in our audience? Let's paint a picture, let's build trust, let's make a connection. And the worry that I'll have to read the same speech 100 times? Nope, the topics are as varied as they are. Here are just ten examples:

Their roots of optimism are from...

1. The belief that everything happens for a reason
2. The name my parents gave me
3. Women who have stood up for themselves
4. The menu at Taco Bell
5. Realism
6. The colors of a revolution
7. Optimistic nihilism and the drumline
8. My childhood books, my complacent cat, and my mom and dad
9. One small single-handed dinghy
10. Water

P.S. I 💗 teaching English.

Lights Out

We did not lose power when wind threatened to blow our house down last Friday. The howling alone might have sent more safety-conscious folk to take cover in our bomb shelter of a basement, but I embraced the energy of the storm and powered through work as if time was running out. I graded, posted, cooked, and cleaned like the wind.

Tonight, it is raining. I can hear a steady drip, drip, drip, drip like a metronome setting the tempo of a rather downbeat song. Yet it is tonight, this drab, late winter night that we lost have lost power. No drama, just very, very dark.

I was out when it happened, and my middle was holding down the fort when he sent word, my husband also out at a separate event. Still, I did not return to chaos. The energy outside matched the energy indoors. Candles lit my path from the kitchen to the upstairs. The living room glowed with a spinning German carousel fueled by heat that I didn’t have the heart to put away after the holidays. I’m so glad I didn’t. My youngest was already snuggled in pjs, holding a flashlight with his chin to see his book. Now I get to write by the warmth of a single flame.

I don’t know yet why we lost power this night and not the other, but as the drip, drip, drip sets a hypnotic rhythm, I’ll take the universe’s cue, blow out the candles, and head to bed.

My Supper Tale

Seaweed salad. We went out for sushi tonight, and it was the first dish I ordered. There is something medicinal about this green, salty delight that I crave.

Perhaps it's because I was a mermaid for many years, spending hours exploring the waters of spring-fed Island Pond. Diving down, I'd flip toward depths that were too far from the sun to be warmed. Reaching my arms as far as they could go, I'd touch the pond floor on a dare. No one liked to touch the muck, but as a mermaid I knew I could, so I did. My fingers brushed over mossy rocks and decaying wood. I made my way to a sunken boat and I was rattled by the spirit of the man who left it behind, but I grabbed a rusted oarlock as proof of my discovery anyway. Before I resurfaced, I'd host a tea party for the other mermaids with wild hair and bubbly smiles.

We never ate seaweed. No, it wasn't on the menu in this freshwater haven, not even for mermaids. It is now that I order the seaweed, a magic mixture of minerals, when a long day on two feet reminds me of home.

Let's Get Real

Folding laundry is much more fun with a good show to watch, and my latest choice has been the Netflix version of Anne of Green Gables. The first few episodes have brought me back to when my bosom friend Valentina, a true kindred spirit, and I talked endlessly of Anne (with an E) Shirley and her spunky ways. Years ago, we got lost in the pages of L.M. Montgomery's books, and later the VHS taped series, when we imagined living in idyllic Avonlea. One might be surprised to know that we were in high school and still wearing flowers in our hair to harness Cordelia's magic. Anne's adventures--confronting bullies at school, preparing for an oratorical contest, crushing on Gilbert against advice--offered a simpler approach to the drama we experienced as teenage girls. It was comforting to know it was natural to fall into the depths of despair, but even better to know we could face it together like Anne and Diana.

This remake, though, wouldn't have calmed our angst as it offers much deeper insight into Anne's plight before joining Matthew and Marilla. As an adult, I'm intrigued by this interpretation that presumes Anne was exposed to serious and unsavory things that appear in frightful flashbacks. It's no wonder that in so many years in the asylums and foster care, she would suffer abuse along the way. At sixteen, I didn't suspect that Anne's nervous talking and fantastical imagination was her way of coping, but it absolutely makes sense. 

Whether this a "perversion of Anne's story" as some complain or a necessary step in our quest to understand the human condition, I'll keep watching before I decide where I stand. Meanwhile, those baskets of laundry appear a lot less daunting. 

Fly Away Home

At the back door, leash in hand, my dog's eyes asked, "You're taking me out there?" Violent winds shook the house so much that we hadn't been outside in hours. But dogs require walks--I signed that metaphorical contract when I adopted her.

I hereby promise to take my dog outside twice or more daily to address biological needs, physical fitness, and emotional health. I swear I will pause periodically to allow for the sniffing of things, including tufts of grass, cracks of sidewalks, and fire hydrants, for the therapeutic aspects of worldly aromas. I ensure that she will run until her ears flop in the breeze. I will provide periodic meetings with other dogs for the exchange of brief, secret messages that I may never hear. In good times and bad, in sickness and health, I will walk my dog (or guarantee a substitute when I can not).

On we marched into the storm amid downed tree branches and darkened homes without power. She broke in to a trot, mouth opened wide to gulp cold air. After a long smelling session at a rosemary bush on the corner, we crossed a bridge over a highway. The gust was strong that we might have been lifted off the ground. I imagined us in flight, no control of our direction, my coat billowing like a sail and her feathery fur whipping to and fro. However, I would not let go. We might be blown one block over or two hours over the Atlantic, but I made my vows.

Thankfully, she made her intentions clear and locked her legs before turning back toward home. We took a shortcut, a quicker route to a warm spot on the couch. 

Bound by law and by love. 

Play to Learn

I complained to a friend the other day that the Bey Blades my son plays with are too violent. I mean, the name alone conjures an image of a dark alley crime scene involving sharp weapons in back pockets. Yet, when she pressed for more details, I realized that they're essentially tops. They're not quite the quaint twirling objects that children have been playing with for centuries, but close. Bey Blades gain impressive speeds when they're released from a rip chord and dropped into an arena, usually two at a time in a fierce competition.

The first few moments begin with a graceful dance, the tops circle one another several times before one appears to grow agitated and knocks the other. The other strikes back. The outcome of their battle may cause one to burst, requiring reassembly, or just to retreat into a corner pocket. Either way, the victor earns a point and the tournament continues.

This morning, I cast my aversion aside to play along with my second grader and saw the toys in a new light: a vocabulary lesson. 

"The tip and spin plate on that one makes it impenetrable," he declared. Counting points, he claimed, "You won that round because I wavered." Later he explained, "The ones with stamina aren't good in attack, but once they're in the arena, they don't want to give it up."

"I'm going to change the pants on mine," he announced.

"That sounds like personification. You're giving your Bey human qualities." He laughed out loud just as I remembered my original reservations. Did the children playing at Homer's feet in 8th century BC pit their clay toys against one another?! Maybe they did. And maybe they learned some robust vocabulary along the way.

Not Even a Leap Year

Is February always so short? Somehow March 1st arrived a couple of days earlier than I expected. Yes, I have a calendar, although one might say I've been "in the zone" when it comes to getting stuff done, and my list of action items has been long. But apparently not long enough. Because last night at the eleventh hour, I realized it would be selfish to keep the joys of the SOLSC to myself. Not only should I open it up to my students, I declared, but to the entire school!

No problem. I dug into the archives, set up a fresh calendar, built a Google Classroom, and emailed a couple of announcements. "Spread the word!" I called out to English teachers--or those who had a minute to check email before classes started on the first of March.  By 8:15 AM, a few kids had already signed up. Before I finished the introduction to my first class, one of my kids had posted subversively from inside his desk. 

"I really want that slice of pie," he said in reference to the reward I'll bake for top slicers. 

"What are you doing on your iPad while I'm talking, young man?" I wish I had asked assertively. "Writing, you say? Okay, good." Ignore me all you want, children. Just keep writing.

As for the success of my experiment, there's no telling what will happen. A school-wide writing challenge? Will enough students write? Will too many? Can I maintain a community that is both creative and civil? For middle schoolers?! Two more days of February would not have been nearly enough to calm my uncertainty. Nevertheless, we have 31 days of March. Let's see how it goes.

School Day Sight-Seeing

It's not uncommon that our school is short on subs. On such days, we receive a morning email with some absurd predicament. "We have 17 teachers out and 6 subs in the building. Please let the office know if you can cover Mods 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, and/or 8."

I replied early this morning with a donation of one of my planning periods. Before I knew it, I received an emergency call to cover one more class. Both were World Languages, French and Spanish, and I felt as if I were observing another culture. 

The first lesson brought me back to my own classroom experience where learning began with a textbook page and a loose-leaf sheet of paper. The kids, some of whom were my own, were down with the routine. Directions were on the board and they rolled with occasional questions to their neighbors. Next, I took a Spanish class that was mainly 7th graders, a bonus because some will surely be in my class next year. And again, the self-sufficiency of these kids with rote exercises was a sight to behold. 

All of this is to say my planning periods and beyond are spent developing dynamic lessons. Bells and whistles. Three ring circuses. Then I watch my students in action in these classes and I wonder, should I take a trip to textbook land? Truth is, I probably won't, but I still enjoyed the view.

Triumphs and Fails

This is a structure I've borrowed from a parenting podcast that I often listen to, "Mom and Dad are Fighting." The original contributors began every episode with an anecdote that fell into either category. Dan Kois typically shared a triumph. Alison Benedikt, not Dan's wife by the way, had a more self-deprecating approach and shared a lot of fails in her time.

Triumphs of the Day

I...

• conferred with each reader in my ATSS group this morning.
• made it to a morning meeting and class on time, prepared for both.
• returned papers to every student today with comments and suggestions.
• challenged students to vary their word choice and gave them time to do so.
• distributed prizes to a school-wide writing contest and interviewed each winner about his/her inspiration.
• met with a librarian about tomorrow's lesson and organized book choices for the unit theme.
• selected six finalists to move on in this year's oratorical contest and posted the news online.
• emailed parents about an upcoming unit and a writing opportunity.
• ran three miles with my dog and gave her a quick play break at the dog park in between.
• made vegetarian dinner for my boys, read stories to the youngest.
• put laundry away (full disclosure: my husband finished and folded it all last night, godblesshim).
• made a Google survey for my team about an upcoming event before I opened Teacher Town.

Fails of the Day

I...

• pushed my snooze button about six times.
• worshiped my cup of coffee like I would God, which I understand is a sin.
• finished planning my remediation lesson about 45 seconds before the kids walked in the door.
• didn't make time to eat breakfast or lunch, so I shoved a granola bar in my mouth between my two classes to keep from passing out.
• realized I forgot to grade that one students' essay while I was passing out papers because I shoved it to the bottom of the stack because it needed so much work, but he was the kid who needed the revision tips the most and had to wait ten minutes while other students asked me one hundred questions before I could get his marked up paper back. Plus, I don't even think that's the first time that's happened over the years, just not with the same kid.
• didn't actually put all of the folded laundry away--just the layers that were almost falling out of the basket.
• threw stuff in the recycling bin without rinsing it.
• let my youngest watch two shows instead of one on Netflix while I made dinner.
• failed to select just one moment of my day, but relied on a list format to unpack the whole day even if it might as well be a brainstorm.

Oddly enough, this list of triumphs alongside the fails makes me feel better about my shortcomings because, damn, life is imperfect. And damn, life is busy. Just getting by should be triumph enough for anyone, people.

Role Call: "Here."

The laundry isn't done, and I still have about ten papers to grade by tomorrow. However, I will count this slice as my success for the day. Tomorrow, I'll probably be running to keep up with the meetings and teaching. It's guaranteed, though, that I'll be keeping my eyes open for a fresher slice than this one, for which I am simply filling white space on the screen with my words.

Won't You Be My Neighbor?

Picture a lovely afternoon after the elementary school bus dropped the children off. Parents and children headed home for snack and then met outside shortly after for a game of tag, scooter rides 'round the block, and a game of catch. After my middle son returned with his walk with the dog, I set up camp on the door step with a small stack of papers to grade. Our obedient girl lay down by my feet, and my pen stood poised to mark up the essays. Then there came a tremendous "Smash!" and we all stopped in our tracks.

Our neighbor across the speech has a rocket arm, and her pitch sent her baseball right through the rear window of my car. Ouch. We all stood frozen for a moment as the shock of the moment sank in. I placed my papers down. I passed the leash to my son. Neighbor and I met in the middle to say, "Oh no." and ask, "What now?"

The glass was shattered and most of the window was scattered along the sidewalk and street below it. There was a gaping hole where black shards pointed dangerously along the perimeter. While one party called the body shop to make a morning appointment, the other took out the shop vac to suck up all the treacherous matter. Plus, so many apologies. 

"Don't worry, how will we learn if we don't make mistakes?" I asked the seventh grade softball pitcher. 

And more apologies.

"It's really okay," my husband assured her parents. "In fact, take this bottle of wine. You'll want to unwind after this."

Then a discovery.

"Leah, why do you have all 100 Airhead candy bars in the secret compartment of your trunk?"

The best neighbors are the ones with whom we can be ourselves. It was a lovely afternoon in the neighborhood. 

Trouble Creeps In

Meals with the Ortinos were magical in what felt like a perfect world. Until that night that Matteo and Tommaso got up from the table to get dessert. Bongo-bongo, a tower of cream-puffs, ice cream, and chocolate sauce was being stored in a fridge of their basement apartment. There was a commotion, panicked shouts. I didn’t need to understand their Italian words to know they found trouble. After several others jumped from the table and ran toward the clamor, Valentina and I stood, stunned. She translated, her face frozen in fear, “Intruders. Burglars are in the house.”

Laura, their mother, ran inside to call the police, leaving the two of us to wonder in a flash, Were we safe? Were the men armed? No questions would be answered until the chase came to a close and the brothers could report the details.

They had heard voices when they entered the kitchen and acted immediately. Matteo did the sensible thing: he called for help. Tommaso was fearless--some said reckless--as he ran to the upstairs floors to find office and bedroom drawers looted and jewelry boxes emptied. And one enemy dodged him in the hall, escaping down the back stairway to flee down the olive tree-dotted hill to the winding road where an accomplice waited in a running car and sped off. Valentina wept at the violation, and we were such kindred spirits at that time, I wept too.

Whether it was two or three in the house, professionals or rookies, it was never clear. Nonetheless, the invasion altered the perfect world indefinitely. And bongo-bongo will never taste the same.

Hyperbole: Exaggeration for Effect

I scare easily, as anyone who has startled me in one of my deep in thought moments knows, and I decided ages ago that I wouldn't see any more scary movies. Still, I found myself watching Get Out, a new film billed as both comedy and horror about a young black man at risk when he visits the family home of his white girlfriend. The initial moments of implicit bias, micro-agressions, are both ridiculous and chilling--a compulsory mention of Obama, an insincere compliment for Jesse Owens, a hand on the arm to admire natural strength, then "How do you feel now that Black is in fashion?"

The hostilities grow in scope, enough to make the movie a bloodbath by its conclusion. Chris is the only sympathetic character in the mix, so my grip on the armrest didn't relax until the credits rolled and I knew his future. Still, the fright I felt during the physical struggles didn't compare to the long term discomfort I feel about Chris's psychological turmoil. There may have been resolution to the former conflict--as for the latter? We all know that's a plot that continues to unfold every day.

...and what, one might ask, is scarier than that?

Four for One Special

Only one of us had a scheduled activity, but three of us plus the dog jumped into the car.  We dropped  my middle son at Phoenix to continue his work on bicycle mechanics and took advantage of a part of town that has something for everyone on a perfect spring day like this one.

Our gear: running shoes, leash, and scooter. The little one led the way on his four wheels; my furry friend and I followed at a decent pace. We spotted what looked like puppy paradise, a dog park with countless playmates and swimming privileges. Continuing round our loop, my six-year-old almost lost momentum until I asked him to teach me his favorite song. One line at a time, our singing acted like wind in our sails right to the playground where we climbed and chatted with new friends until the bike shift was over. 

One quick stop landed us smoothies and a water bowl in front of every business we passed. Something for everyone, and what a bargain indeed.

"Like the Sound of Roaches Scurrying"

The famous Mrs. Miller could belt out a tune, but it wasn't pretty. The songs were catchy--her voice wasn't. Yet, her shrill, off-key covers in the 1960s earned her a two-year following. I saw the play Mrs. Miller Does Her Thing tonight, and I'm fairly certain I wouldn't have been one of the many thousands who bought her records, but her story, on the other hand, is material I could spend time with. What was it like to be Mrs. Elva Miller with values so contrary to the generation that held the spotlight on her? How much control did she have over her public image? If she was savvy enough to be in on the joke, why didn't she realize her accountant was bleeding her dry? Was she a fake or a feminist? It is these and other questions that I will ponder after a good night's sleep. Her songs, however, will not find their place on my Spotify playlist.

Ice Maker, Not Ice Breaker

I felt obliged to attend the ice cream social. Good news: My son decided to register for the new high school next year, and this event was our chance to get a closer look at the student body all at once. However, he had no interest in the ice cream social. I understood where he was coming from--those situations can be awkward. But I'm the mom, and...

He was right. It was awkward--the standing around, the ice cream he didn't want to eat, my six-year-old pulling on my arm, my coat, my sweater. Plus, I know too many people. The Assistant Principal and I taught together my first year in the county. A bunch of current students were in my English class last year, and a bunch of rising 9th graders are in my class now. I chatted; he didn't. 

There was that moment when I wanted to push. "Go get a puzzle piece," I insisted when their informal group activity began. That is, until I saw in his eyes that he was not budging on this one. Thirty seconds later, we bailed. 

"I know you didn't like that," I said, "But I'm glad we went. Everyone looks happy with the place."

"Mmm," he acknowledged.

Then he got first pick on the dinner we picked up on the way home, and I looked ahead to a time he could go back to this new school without me.

Other Duties As Assigned

One new development in our SOL test administration leaves English teachers out of the mix when it comes to proctoring the writing test. This year, we are not permitted to monitor our own students for fear that we might coach them too much. When I first heard, I thought it was fine news. Invigilating is hard work. Reading the directions feels so phony. All the standing and pacing, ugh. Then the collecting and sorting. The pressure to protect the bin at all costs.

Instead, I was a hall monitor. 

I set a desk by the stairs and brought some papers to correct. I was given a bright red sign with a long post I was prepared to hold as students passed through the halls between classes and say, "Sssshhhh," like a pro. But before any of the fun stuff happened, I was summoned by one of the proctors. 

"Leah," he whispered from down the hall, "I need some help." It was in my own room with my own students that half of the laptops were failing to log students in with their test tickets. Not only were hands popping up everywhere, the volume in the room was not a standardized testing environment at all. Nope, it sounded like the bus had left for the amusement park and these kids were ready to par-tay. 

I smiled at them, turned the lights down, and walked toward my phone saying, "Ssssshhh," all the way. The noise level dropped as I made a call to reset some tests. I smiled again and said, "Sssshhhh," and spoke to the benefits of a calm room before students are asked to take a test. Such advice didn't feel like unfair coaching to me. Then again, should I have even been there at all?

It took resetting, rebooting, and reassigning machines for about 35 minutes before students were given the green light to begin. To maintain quiet all that time took a few reminders, but they settled in before long. Then I left for my 3-hour hall duty where, in my opinion, I had to shush the wrong students.

Teacher with a Capital T

When a teacher of nearly eighteen years has to approach her colleagues to ask, "What's your secret to getting these kids to work?" it's time to mix things up, especially when the colleagues reply, "No secrets. I'm at a loss, too."

Shouldn't it be that golden time of the year when kids know the routine as they strive to meet high expectations? Nope. Maybe it's that years of SOLs have left them giddy at the mention of a test that only assesses minimum expectations. It might also be a touch of 8th grade apathy--"High school's gonna be intense. Let's relax while we can." Or frankly, it could be that I've smiled at them too much. "What a nice teacher. She likes our jokes and stories. What's the harm in telling a few more? This essay can wait."

Well, those days are over. (Okay, temporarily suspended until further notice.)

The name cards came out this afternoon and the seating chart fell into neat rows that faced the front. You want to sit on the couch? Not without doing your work from the day before. Earbuds? Same answer. Are you telling stories again, Tim? Not without writing it down first, young man.

Sure, it was a drag not to smile as much, but each and every student got time from me today. One by one, I spoke to individuals about concrete examples that bring ideas to life, "making the magic happen" with sensory details, and assorted errors that are best taught to the ones who make them. 

All I need to say about the Teaching that went down: Nancie would be proud. 

Cancel the Uber

My mom flew back into town today, and because the timing of her return was just between after-school pickup and dinner time, I texted an offer this morning to pick up at the airport.

"What inspired you to offer a ride? Did Dad call you?" she asked after climbing into the car. Aw, she suspected I needed prompting to extend my hand, but it wasn't that at all. 

She's been traveling a lot this winter, both to be with my grandmother up north or my dad down south. I haven't been orphaned, mind you. We've fit in some mother-daughter time, mostly long phone calls when I'm walking the dog. But this morning, I realized it had been about two weeks since my mom and I were face to face. This means that I had gone almost fourteen days without my one-member fan club who treats me like I should be Gwyneth Paltrow's next feature on Goop and doesn't mind talking endlessly about my children. A lot is going on, too. My 95-year-old grandmother has cancer. My sister is pregnant and moving with her family to Germany in the summer. We all love each other a lot. Loss and distance are in our near future, so now is not the time to take our proximity for granted.

Plus, I think she hates cabs. Why wouldn't I give her a lift?

Gallery Walk

My family and I headed out for my choice of birthday fun on the National Mall yesterday.  We were h almost to the National Gallery, not that my six-year-old was aware of our plan. Yet he exclaimed, "That building is a work of art!" as we walked past the Museum of the American Indian Museum. He's right--the facade looks like sand art crafted by the wind with ripples and ridges one might see in the Arizona desert.

Next, we let the beauty of sculpture and painting wash over us in the East Building. It's been a long time since I've put paint on canvas, so I was totally enamored with the power abstract artists wielded with either broad strokes of color or gray-scale,  a-symmetry or perfect balance, chunky textures or simple lines.

Our last stop was an iMax movie at the Natural History Museum, a change of pace, or so I thought at first. Of course, I was proven wrong. We watched footage that displayed beauty in all corners of the country, including the Redwood Forest, Arches, and Glacier Bay that boasted blasts of color, bold shapes, and complex textures.

As a result of this one outing, I set some new life goals: see the world, create more, and appreciate the works of art that are already here, just waiting to be noticed.

Morning Constitutional

Most of my days feels rushed. I set up a series of lessons that includes timed segments to meet set objectives. Particularly pre-Writing SOL, I'm checking boxes on a pre-defined list with an inflexible due date. Despite the stress you may detect in those words, I think we're okay. Not great, but I do get this knowing look from the students that the clock is ticking. More so for students who have to work for their scores, which is interesting. Suddenly, my advice on how to crack the code of this standardized test is pertinent information. This is in my regular English classes, and for my reluctant English students, I'll take their eye contact and pencil to the paper any time anyhow.

Meanwhile, I'm in my fourth rotation of ATSS, an intervention period with fewer than ten students each round. They're my kiddos, so they know me from class, and one of my goals is to coach them on how to show their classmates up when they get back to the larger class. You know the kids--they think, maybe I know the answer, but if I say the wrong thing I'll look dumb, so I'm better off saying nothing at all. Unless they're already sure of the skill or content from the morning session. Are they showing more likelihood of passing the SOL test? Super. More important than that--they're experiencing what it's like to get things right. 

And the best part of this program is that it's the most laid back of any lesson I teach all day. We are couch and beanbagchair lounging with clipboards. Crisscross apple sauce on the rug with an occasional white board. There is some rubbing of eyes at 7:50 in the morning, but there is a "let's ease ourselves into this school day" feeling that I can handle when the rest of my day will pick up the pace. We pass the snacks around. We read some Langston Hughes, some news, or even watch a Pixar short now and then. All of it, mind you is fuel for later. And I'm happy as can be to help at the filling station.

Lucky Seven, Say Yes

The phone conference I had about a week ago couldn't have been better if I scripted it myself. I jotted everything the program director described on my loose-leaf paper, including details about project-based learning and the wide array of elective options. When we talked it over at home, it seemed like a perfect fit for my 9th grader. The list for benefits continued to lengthen, too, as we added smaller classes, "more staffing than they need," college credit for duel enrollment courses, less paperwork and more individualized instruction to our list of pros. I could go on, but the only conclusion we could draw was that this is a pretty cool opportunity in our very own public school system. 

We took a tour today because the next thing we needed was to get the overall "vibe" of the school. The common area is pretty nice. The professional grade equipment in every CTE class is impressive. The environment has this calm, chill feel that can't be beat when you're about to start a day of learning. Darn it, we forgot to check out the bathrooms. So now what? 

The director has since emailed a follow-up to ask if we had any more questions and a "we'd love to have him at our school" comment too. He'd be the seventh of 10 slots they've opened up for his rising 10th grade class.

"Give me a minute," he's asked. I'm proud of him for acknowledging that this is the biggest decision he has had to make in his 15 years of life. We can respect that because he's not wrong.

Now we wait a minute. But wow, wait time is hard when you think you already know the answer.

It Beats Rush Hour

There are times when my commute to or from work feels like a magical moment of my day. I walk to the end of my cul-de-sac to find a short, wooded path that curves round an old stone wall. Often, I step along that wall as a kind of short cut rather than descend the hill--it makes me feel young to walk the ledge. Even with my shoulder bag, I can grab onto the adjacent chain link fence to keep myself from falling. It's on this nature walk each morning or afternoon that I catch a glimpse of the morning sky or drench my shoes in the dewy grass (the main reason I wear galoshes). I've collected fallen leaves the size of elephant ears and greeted the first sign of daffodils. Today, I thought my snowy steps would crunch up and down, up and down, adding several minutes to my journey as a winter storm has been known to do. Instead, I found a surface as smooth as any ice rink. No blades were necessary, but the flat soles of my boots allowed me to glide one step at a time in both directions. I may as well have laced my skates up and taken long, confident strides the whole way across.

One Minute Before Bedtime

After sledding trips to two different hills, snow angels on the trampoline, backyard wrestling and snowball fight with the dog, and an elaborate snow dance on the front yard for a lengthy FaceTime session with his Miami cousin (yes, on the beach), we were sure bedtime would be a simple affair. Who has energy after 8 o'clock on a day like today? But the motor on this kid runs until the very end. Story time ran long--not unusual due to many comments about The Magic School Bus and their trip through Arnold's digestive and circulatory systems. I finally left him snuggled in his bed and slipped downstairs to take care of my own business. A few emails, switched laundry, and a How was your day, really-conversation later, then I headed upstairs. Peeling down my blankets for my own peaceful slumber...surprise! A head full of sweaty, golden ringlets made me gasp out loud. Thankfully, he snored on. But I could imagine him sneaking between the covers, listening to our every move downstairs, smiling devilishly while he awaited his moment to pounce. Now, even from sound sleep, he manages to mix things up until the last second of the day. Good night, spunky one. Thanks for keeping us on our toes.

The Kids Are Alright

We live in such uncertain times that we can't even trust our own microwaves. This news from KellyAnne Conway is only further proof our government-issued iPads are the clearest cut example of surveillance that ever was. Teachers, administrators, and parents alike have long grown leery of easy as pie access to online cameras, Google records, location tracking. What information can't the iPads provide about their users? The days of personal freedoms are over. The hearts and minds of our America's youth are officially owned by the state. Sniff.

Dry your tears because the next generation has built up the perfect defense. Kids decided they don't give a $&@# about their iPads and it's $@&ing brilliant. Forgive me for misreading what I thought were the symptoms of entitled children who had little reason to think on their own because somebody would surely send them a "Remind" on their way into class. Turns out they were launching a brilliant campaign against the man all along. 

"What? Teachers expect to move the curriculum along by posting assignments on Google Classroom? Ha, they don't own us," scoffs an 8th grader who just turned his notifications off. 

"She wants me to review terms on Quizlet? Right--like I'm going to trust her definitions over mine. How ironic is that?" asks the kid as she runs her finger over a cracked screen.

Middle schoolers are fed up with being stalked by so many learning opportunities. One straight-A student reports, "I mean, they're everywhere. I can't go to bed without my teacher reminding me that reading will improve my Lexile score. Guess what I can do without an alarm going off in my backpack? I can get into bed. And read. Like I've been doing since I was six."

What's their latest resistance tactic? 

"My battery's dead."

"We had homework?

"I forgot to charge it last night."

"You posted it where?"

"My software won't update." 

"Will you tell me what my missing assignments are?"

"All thirty cords that were purchased in January for checkout in the library are missing."

Smirk. Big Brother's got nothing on them.

Print Edition

We cancelled the newspaper about a year ago. It had been stacking up on the table week after week, and frankly, some of the writers were getting on our nerves. Oh yeah, the pre-election coverage was starting to look more like reality television than news. No ideas as to how long that was going to last. We took a hiatus from the madness, pushing our subscription aside for a temporary experiment.

Since then, we've kept up enough through online news, but our list of irritations about current events via social media was growing larger than the stack of papers we stored on the kitchen table. I reconnected with the Washington Post last week, and this was our reunion weekend. You'd think the paper was an all-day buffet and we were starved; we gravitated to the table before during and after meals to sift through sections to snack and dig in for heartier fare. We didn't keep it to ourselves either--news is meant to be shared, so we read passages aloud when words and ideas were remarkable.

Ironically, there wasn't much good news this weekend. Perhaps there won't be much good news for a while. But it was the sharing and reading, the freedom we felt to open up to any old page we wanted. To read the words of women and men whose sole purpose is to spread the word. That in and of itself feels like good news enough for the time being.

Our Hour

Isn't this weekend just a race to accomplish as much as is usually possible with one fewer hour to work with? It makes total sense in theory, but I wilted in the face of competition this time around. I put my toes on the starting line, but by the time I broke into a sprint, I made a split second decision to hang out on the couch instead. And here it is nearly 11, which is actually 12, and I only have one and a half loads of laundry done, the bags I set out for Goodwill are not full yet, and I almost forgot to slice before midnight. To that, I say whatever. Because the rest of the family joined me in my lounging, all five and the pup, leaning back with our feet up. There've been times I've said, "I want that hour back." This was not one of those times.

Story Time Shines

Between a meeting and my first class, I sped to my first grader's school for a big surprise. I approached his classroom with care, and was pleased to see his teacher pop her head out the door.

"We're almost ready!" she said. I hung up my coat on the lunch cart and leaned my umbrella against the little lockers as I waited for my invitation to come in. She was back in flash, and I made my entrance.

"Surprise! Look who's here as today's Mystery Reader--Bragan's mom!" And Bragan's big smile was the primary reason I was there. Oh my, that kid sure can beam. It's as if sun shines in his core, sending rays out to all in his orbit. He took his place closest to the reading chair, so I got to feel that warmth.

The assignment was easy: Bring in a bunch of books. Chat with the kiddos a little about how much we love reading. Let Bragan choose a few books that he'd like me to share with the class. Read! Now, this is a lesson I can handle any day. Today's titles included Skippy Jon Jones in Mummy Trouble, Library Lion, and A Beasty Story. 

We read, we made connections, we made predictions, and we laughed. In between, I took a moment to introduce foreshadowing--I mean, the kid remembered a hint on the opening page--it was a teachable moment. Bragan, because he's familiar with these family favorites, finished some of my sentences. Fans in the front row. Everyone should be so lucky. Then I got a big hug and a thank you before I made my exit. 

Back to my classes of eighth graders, they were also gathering to talk about a story. It was Socratic Seminar day, all about the power dynamics of Animal Farm. They read favorite quotes, made connections. No one mentioned foreshadowing, but they did point out some strong evidence of irony and propaganda techniques. When I heard what they had to say, I had a front row seat and as I closed up the day, it was me that beamed.

The Dog Knows

I swear the corners of Allie's mouth were upturned today when I ran home for a quick visit at lunch. It wasn't enough time to take a decent walk, but I ate my yogurt while we played a swift game of fetch. Today, she pranced across the yard in typical form, but then she stopped mid-stride and stuck her nose into the air. Breeze ruffled the feathery fur on her ears and she blinked in the sunshine before she turned back to me. One more run--as if checking a box on her to-do list--before she settled into a small patch of grass and let the golden sun warm her golden back. 

Who doesn't love to walk outside to greet the spring? It's one of those seasons that puts living creatures of all kinds in a good mood. The days are precious when we know the heat of summer is sure to push most back indoors for a shot of cold air. Or worse, snow will fall, and our laundry baskets will overflow with a mix of short sleeves and fleece. Allie has the right ideas: face the sun, be still, and soak it in.

A Day Without a Decent Slice

I've got to make this quick. Bed is calling my name, and I've deleted four potential slice of life so far. There was something about today that gave me plenty of ideas, but they have been as slippery as spaghetti over a pot of boiling water on a wooden spoon. Which slices have been sent to permanent exile with a command + x? The token red scarf that I threw on at the last minute, the lesson plan that required my constant presence, the strike my brain went on after school since my body did not, and my husband's spirit for cooking and cleaning much more than I was willing or able to do. Thanks, honey. No I mean it. Thank you for making it so that our household does not fall apart when I don't feel like holding it together.

Getting Things Done

For two days in a row, my role as mother has taken precedence over teacher. Yesterday, I secured afternoon coverage to take my middle son to a doctor's appointment. It was mid-day and the blue sky sparkled in a way that I don't often get to see it. There wasn't any traffic because most people were in the thick of their work day. Even though it was our first visit, we arrived on time and made it back with almost an hour to walk the dog before my youngest made it off his afternoon bus.

Today, it was the orthodontist--again for my middle. We usually schedule these trips for after-school hours for him, but it was an excuse for me to leave a little after contract. I zipped across the field with quick instructions for the teen to take out the dog before I headed over to the elementary school with ten minutes to spare before dismissal. That's right. I strolled in minutes before the other moms, through the back door that only those "in the know" use. Then, after a drive-by to pick up the one with braces for a swift update on his wires, we went through the grocery store checkout line with ingredients for dinner...for two nights. And coffee. Won't run out before the weekend. Nope.

And it is this post that makes me wonder, but not for the first time, why in the world getting simple errands done for my family feels like a biblical miracle. I've got a mid-life itch, but I don't need a new job. I just need to go home more often.

Story Time

Do you remember that part in Animal Farm after Napoleon takes control, but life on the farm is not going as planned? The windmill--his chance at greatness--has fallen apart. Neighboring farms are starting to doubt his control over the situation. And the hens, oh those nasty hens, are yammering on about wanting control over what happens to their eggs. So what does Napoleon do? He points to Snowball or rather, "decreed that there should be a full investigation into Snowball's activities." The animals are confused because they still carry a positive image of him for his bravery and sacrifice. "They all remembered, or thought they remembered...how he had rallied and encouraged them at every turn." Accusation after accusation, repetition ad nauseum, even sweet-hearted Boxer finally breaks down and says, "If Napoleon says it, it must be right."

What follows is one of the farm's darkest days, surely darker than when even Farmer Jones was in charge. In an impulsive tantrum, Napoleon unleashes his dogs on the hens and other enemies of the state. Then he bans the joyous verses of "Beasts of England" and they are all left with is a much simpler anthem, led by the sheep and their incessant bleating: "Four Legs Good, Two Legs Bad."

Reading this chapter aloud to my kids today in class, one turns to me as the bell rings and says, "Whoa, this is getting intense." Boy, is he right about that.

Spring Breaker

My son took off on a southern road trip on Friday. He has sent some photos from the road--there were sunny skies in Atlanta and cloudy ones in Alabama. The most recent shot read, "Welcome to Florida" with palm trees along the perimeter. I understand the pull toward freedom and warm weather for his time off, but I'm relieved he's keeping in touch. Because there's a part of me that wants to call to say, "Hey listen, it occurs to me that I may have forgotten to warn you about [insert common risk faced in young adulthood] over the last nineteen+ years." But I've resisted the temptation to cram life lessons into the minutes he's driving further and further away from his childhood home. He's on his own to find places to sleep and eat, to fill the time with conversations and relaxation, and to embark on adventures that make him the incredible person he is and will become in the future. We'll be here when he returns, and I bet he'll have some great stories to tell.

No Coffee Strong Enough

Grading essays is hard. Planning lessons is my jam. Fortunately, these duties merge when I'm about five essay into my stack, and I have fresh plans for what I can teach my students as soon as I've made it to the bottom of the stack. However, that might take a while.

I woke up this morning to my familiar six-year-old eye-to-eye inquiry (just before the sun as brightened the sky), "Is this a school day?" 

"No, it's Saturday, so we have the day to ourselves," I lie from a slumber because when I take home a bag of essays over the weekend, I know my those hours off are not my own. 

With the simple comfort of some nice pens, I drink a couple cups of coffee and make myself an avocado toast. I oversee Bey-blade battles as I evaluate thesis statements that could be pruned. I plan a dog walk as I notice a need for commas after prepositional phrases. Four prominent footsteps tell me that both the dad and teenager are ready for breakfast, but I'm only on essay six. Jeez, it's going to be a long couple of days. 

The bad news is that I'm as tired on a Saturday night as after any school day. The good news is that I already know what to say to my kiddos when they're in front of me again, "Hey, great work on your first literary essay. I have only a couple tips to make this draft incredible." However, when I consider the unfortunate truth that my thoughtful comments won't mean as much to them as they do to me...let's just say that I'll want that weekend back. Forget the coffee, I should have poured myself a glass of Pinot instead.

Book Over Blog

A book is beating my blog today. I'm a new addition to a long-established book club that meets tonight, and I have a deep, but I suspect, unwarranted, desire to be prepared for our discussion. Our first title was Hillbilly Elegy, a book I'd already read when I was invited, so no pressure. This time, we're set to read The Body in the Library by Agathie Christie. These days, I feel like writing books like hers off as unprogressive, white accounts of life. As my oldest would say, "Pretty bougie." Yet it was chosen by a member who was raised in Morocco. "These books taught me lessons about white culture for a long time," she said. In the age of #WeNeedDiverseBooks, I appreciated her point of view.

I'm only a quarter finished at noon Still, I march forward with my earbuds in all afternoon after parent-teacher conferences. I have seven hours before we meet, and I'm listening to the audiobook at 1.5 speed. A bit fast, but when multi-tasking involves my dog on one end of the leash and my iPhone with an audiobook on the other, I can make a lot of progress for both parties involved. With a clear goal in sight, I won't fit in a good Slice of Life post, but I will know the answer to this mystery, by god. Of that, I can be absolutely sure.

Running with the Crowd

My day started before the sun came up. I joined a new running group that's perfect for me: go about a 6-mile loop before anyone else in the family has even pressed the snooze button, including the dog. I raced to the meet-up spot to realize that only one or two start there. "Huh, small crew," I thought, but that was before we encountered two or three others every half mile until three became twelve. It was a good route too--a couple hills, a cut on and off the trail, a little bridge--and the company was great.

Because I'll never forget the time I braved the darkest morning on my own and found myself being followed by a slow-moving sedan. Just behind me this car lurked house after house for long enough that I was sure I would be scooped up and hauled to some abandoned bunker. I had barely a plan of escape when I heard a sudden crack of a gun shot. It stopped me in my tracks, and my heart almost burst from the shock. Until I realized it was no gunshot. Just the slap of a newspaper as its driver threw it out his open window. It was the paper boy. Still, I came out of that event with a simple resolution to stick with the buddy system. Looks like this promise will be easy enough to keep.

No Pain, No Gain

I have a hangnail on one thumb and a blister on the other. That blister, now broken and dried, is due to some yard clean up on quite a spring-like Saturday. It smarts, but I favor the bags full of leaves and yard debris over a soft hand that hasn't held a rake in months. This hangnail feels sore when I type, yet here I am pounding out my first entry for the March challenge. That's right, readers, the next 30 days may cause a sprained wrist or a twisted elbow. Heck, I might even risk a stress fracture on the right hemisphere of my brain by the end of the month. But none of that can stop me. Slice of Life 2017: Building character, one word at a time. Boom.

Tales from Kindergarten

When it comes to school, my youngest son has just begun. And this little guy tells tales that illustrate his day like no other. It helps that he is often accompanied by his friend, Rocket, who has an equally interesting perspective on the world.

Bragan asked me today, "Are you an avid reader?" Why yes, of course. I love to read, and I do it as often as I can. He assured me that he and Rocket are too. "Rocket has hundreds of books, mom." And dogs, he added. Rocket has one hundred dogs. Some are Golden Retrievers and some are labs. The rest are pitbull mixes. That last part was old news about Rocket, the alien from outer space, a longtime family friend who visits regularly.

"We should write a book," Bragan announced. "We can write it about training dogs. Rocket can help us and I'll draw the pictures."

He then showed us he can draw a ship at sea with loads of windows and passengers. Sharks and jellyfish swam in the deep. This was shortly before he told me about a musical instrument that has become extinct. It's called a jagslack and it's louder and more menacing than a shrieking eel, but according to Bragan, it was an instrument made for parades. They stopped making them in 1994, no 1991, and Rocket has the last one. 

Later, I asked, "What was the best part of school today?"After bedtime, bath, and stories, I was ready for proper closure to the day when he announced, "That I didn't get in trouble today. Because yesterday, I spent one hour in the first grade class." According to Bragan, he was hiding his face in his shirt--I can only imagine what else. 

"What did you do there?"

"I sat there and watched...Then I used the force." 

"To do what?"

"To turn tables around and see what they were doing. Rocket was there, too. We went to the second grade and third grade and fourth grade. But I didn't see Aminata because she's in the fifth grade."

I remembered the structure he was building with his magnet set before bath time.  It was multidimensional, defying gravity, and it housed super heroes within its walls to protect them from "the serpentine monsters". 

"Will they be saved or defeated?" I asked.

"They'll be saved by Rocket," he assured me.

I can only hope so. But if he doesn't, I promise to do my best.

Breaking News

Eighth grade teachers have iPads.

I'm a skeptic and a worrier when it comes to this grand technology rollout, but who doesn't like to open a box of something shiny and new that they can call their very own? My colleagues filed into my room to find gifts labeled with their names, but the shine wore off quickly when we realized that the setup process would be rough around the edges.

"I'm a pencil and paper kind of gal. Better yet, where's my chisel?" one math teacher asked. Even though her upload icon was spinning and spinning with no end in sight, she waited patiently. I can't say the same for the rest of the group. When the setup didn't go their way, they jumped ship in favor of getting something else done. It was my room, so I stayed.

Change takes time. It requires flexibility and motivation to learn. Time is absolutely the #1 thing we need most with or without the iPads. If I'm flexible, if I'm motivated, will I be rewarded by this tool built for efficiency? Does this mean I'll stand less at the copier? Spend fewer hours managing papers? I guess I'll enter grades in realtime with this handheld device. Students will be entirely informed of their own grades and performance. They'll actually read the comments I leave for them on assignments. This is not to mention the many fun things we'll be able to do. Right?....Right?!

Wish It Were Sunday

Monday, Monday. It wouldn't bother so much if I didn't always feel like the entire week hinged on its success. Do I have a fridge full of groceries? Are my kids' backpacks in order? Have I checked the snack calendar, Parentvue grades, and the Friday newsletter? Even a little behind on one or more of those items this morning, looks like we pulled off a successful start to the week. We won't be outed this time for relaxing on a work-free weekend without even a nod to the washing machine. Another week started with a tank full of steam instead of high-test fuel. Nothing new. As long as I can just close my eyes for a little bit here...I'll be off and running again.

Deja Vu

Last spring, I worked alongside other parent volunteers to pack up a trailer of goods for States, the last regatta of my son's senior year after four years of rowing. I was sad to see the end of this era, both for him and me. But today, we hiked the trail along the Occoquan today to see him row once again. It seems that college couldn't keep him away from the early-cold morning workouts, shouting coxswains, and unisuits. And boy, are we glad. Because without an excuse to be outside, we might not have hiked through thick forest for a view of a sparkling river. The wind would surely have kept us inside for mundane tasks like laundry and grocery shopping. Memories of pushing our youngest up and down the treacherous dirt path brought us relief to see the same boy running up ahead, now five. Our middle son was definitely less put upon this time, too. Maybe because he wonders if he might row sometime soon. Plus, we saw our college kiddo gliding by in perfect accord with his team. It is moments like these, I'd be happy to revisit again and again.

Degrees of Separation

A teacher in our school system died just a couple of days of ago. Every once in a sad while, I've received email messages with "Sad News" in the subject line, but this time I received three in one hour. The truth is that I have never met the woman who passed away, but I'd heard her name countless times. She was the wife of my sons' elementary school principal, and because of the husband and wife's experience in the county, just about everyone I've met in Arlington has worked with one or the other in some capacity. They'd beat Kevin Bacon in two turns if they ever had the chance. 

Here are some, but not all, of the connections: She met her husband at the school where I teach. Her husband was an English teacher, like me. He taught at the middle school where I once taught and worked, and many of my former colleagues knew him then, and later taught their two sons. Next, he was an AP at the high school my oldest son attended, under the principal that hired me for my first teaching job. For many years, she has been a Special Education where my mother worked--one of my friends' son has spent many hours this year in her classroom. 

I regularly remark on the small town qualities of where we live, but this family brings it up a notch. There are so many who are mourning the loss of her now. Students, parents, colleagues, friends, and family must feel the weight of her good life as they say their good-byes. As an outsider looking in, her departure reminds me that we are all in this together, whether we can map that web or not. Sad news sinks in when we have a connection, but even when we don't, our hearts might open wide just the same.

It's Not Over Yet

Months are a human construct by which I refuse to be controlled. I set out on a writing challenge--turns out I didn't make it close to the 31-day goal--but why must I put down my pen just because the 31st of March has come and gone? And I have only 4 minutes to prove my words sincere. So that's it for today's slice. I'm inclined to post some extra days to make up for the time I lost to hectic schedules and preoccupied thoughts. I have it in me to write more, so I will. That is all.

I Love My Golden Retriever

I think I can buy a bumper sticker with that shout out to the universe. It seems like eons ago that I was not even a dog person. I didn't care much for others' furry companions and I probably glazed over whenever anyone told me their own dog story (unless it involved a pet psychic or dangling a hot dog out of a car to attract a pet on the run, of course). The glaze is now what I see in others' eyes when I try to tell my own tales. I know, it's ridiculous to compare my puppy trials to the twin boys you just brought home from the hospital. I also realize that it's not entertaining to hear about her antics at the dog park. Have I mentioned how popular she is? And that she's a great friend to others?

And it's not just my own that warms my heart. Last week, my son laughed it at me when I sat up in my seat when a taxi driver he mentioned he had two dogs. Instead of checking Instagram for photos of my nieces these days, I scroll to find photos my cousin's golden wearing funny hats and posing as captain of the ship. On our way home from an evening walk, it occurred to me that I know more of the dogs that live on neighboring streets than the homeowners inside. I have officially crossed to the other side.

So indulge me for a moment. Allie's fur is so soft and feathery. Her ears perk up when she hears something special and her brown eyes look into mine when I call her name. When we practice running together, she stays by my side and turns her head toward me every few beats for assurance that she's doing the right thing, which she is. She greets each member of the family by leaning in to our legs in a way that says, pet me and give me hugs because I missed you while you were gone. There are some stories of her dark side, I can't deny it. She might look like an angel, but she has a criminal side to her that she might not even outgrow--one that involves stealing dish towels off the table and the time she got swallowed the last piece of pizza in one bit. But it's no fun to love perfection, and love her, I do.

You Can Take It With You

In an exercise that asks students to imagine themselves in Anne Frank's shoes today, I asked them to make a packing list if they learned they would go have to go into hiding. This question, in contrast to the dark facts of the Holocaust that we discussed yesterday, brought a lightness and sense of relief to the group. No, I can't imagine myself or anyone I know enduring the immense suffering that occurred, but yes, I can identify which of my material belongings would bring me comfort in a time of trouble.

I loved hearing the range of ideas that ranged from entertainment to sentimental tokens, plus some attempt at self-defense and industry. I listened to their lists and offered comparative notes about Anne's choices. Many wanted to bring their pets. Anne's parents refused her cat, causing in some initial sting when Peter walked in with his own. Cell phones are too traceable by the government, not unlike the risk Anne's roommate, Mr. Pfeffer, took when writing to his beloved fiancé waiting for him outside the Annex. My heart was warmed to hear of kids who would bring as many books and writing paper as they could fit in their bags. Musical instruments, programming materials, but also mementos and photos to rind them of their lives left behind. Beef jerky, oddly enough, was on at least two lists, and chocolate, perhaps for its healing properties after contact with dementors, or whatever soul-sucking force they might encounter.

Fortunately, my students will live lives of freedom, free to enter and exit their own homes as they please. These survival bags will never be packed, thank god. Still, their imaginations reveal what they value. I wonder how these lists may change by the time we finish this profound unit. In a way, I hope they don't.

Can we do this again sometime?

Our weekly trip to the library hasn't worked out because one of my reading buddies just fell asleep in the car on the way. So while the older brother headed into our local getaway, a respite from the hustle and bustle, no charge for admission, I'm with my napper in the parking lot. The windows are open and between sunshine and some shade of pink blossomed branches, we're in a nice spot. At first, I thought I'd reach into my bag fornanfew papers to grade. I was momentarily tempted to reply to a couple emails. But chirping birds and a light breeze, I've become content with my momentary freedom. How nice to exercise my freedom to write.

My weekly schedules have varied over the years. After school hours have long included treking to the riverside or ice rink, soccer field or tennis court. Each stop has offered its own set of advantages and challenges. It's been a long time since an afternoon snooze has worked itself in, though. This is an activity I could get used to.

Duty Calls

Feeling energized and alert after a real holiday, I gave myself a pat on the back as I sauntered into school with several minutes to spare. My mental list was growing of tasks I could accomplish before students arrived. I'd catch up on copying, send a couple of emails, or maybe I'd disinfect my desks in the spirit of Project Recovery. Too bad it had slipped my mind that this was my week to stand guard at the foot of the stairs to prevent scalliwags from dodging the rules and hitting their lockers before the bell rang it's approval. Too bad my luxurious 20 minutes would be spent watching innocent students wait patiently for the gates to open. Yet at the same time, it's quite good that chose this morning to arrive in on time. Fingers crossed that I can keep this energy a few morning more. even better if I can carry it to next week when I'll have another chance at uninterrupted work at my desk once again.

Sticky Note Reminder

Please be assured that we began the day in full-force Easter mode. I opened my eyes to big news that the bunny had already delivered the goods! Then despite grey skies, we enjoyed a celebratory service with bright story-telling, shiny music, and pastel eggs that bloomed like tulips. (For posterity's sake, in response to the homily my middle son said, "Wow.") And the rest of the day has been quiet. Our planned visit with our oldest was cut short due to a glitch in his ride back to school, but we fit in a walk with the dog. Where is the rest of clan? They have steered clear for fear of catching what we had. Are we still contagious? Probably not at this point, but we didn't insist. Now we are grateful.

On this night before we return to school, it is a holiday, but we're already winding down (delicious dinner, cooked on an open fire, no place mat in sight), and this peaceful evening is everything I need for true renewal. My sincere love for family--parents, siblings, in-laws, cousins--is part of my identity. However, Rob and I hereby pledge to remember this moment and no longer accept invitations to travel, socialize, eat, drink, and be merry, on any night that precedes a six o'clock alarm, or um, earlier. 

Is there a setting that allows me to send this post to me at key points of the year? If so, please let me know. I will surely need a reminder.

In Summary

I made a decision to leave the laptop and tablet at home when we packed for our Miami trip last week. Travel light: Advice from many a seasoned tourist that I took to heart this time. My phone would keep me sufficiently connected, and it did to a point, but alas, I did not use it to capture glimpses of my days away.  Here's my attempt to do so now:

1. Birthday beach-side dinner with people I love
2. Good-luck-kissing a sea cucumber and miles of walking the length of Key Biscayne
3. Gelato scoops with peaks as tall as a mountain--strawberry and coconut
4. Crying in the middle of the night--shoot, it's the stomach bug--but not my kiddo (yet)
5. Windy day on the beach to make sand castles, read, laugh with my sons, basically all of the things I dream of doing when I am not on vacation.
6. Road-trip to get more people that I love all together in one place--cousins and smiles bring me unending joy.
7. Crying in the middle of the night--this time, the bug got my sister, so I took the baby--I remembered the joys and pains of rocking an unsettled little one. My tiny niece and me, we bonded.
8. Last night in Paradise, we were determined to enjoy it. Outdoor patio dinner, toy store, and gelato mountain tops. 
9. Last night, cont'd, and this time the bug got my kiddo. What a trooper, but...who...is...next?
10. Home when the bug got me. Thank God for my own bed.

The stomach virus threatened to ruin the trip, but I can't ignore that spring break provided much fun in the sun. We wore flip-flops, hunted Easter eggs, ate delicious food, and celebrated time with some of my favorite people. I finished a book, too, that I will remember forever. My suitcase was lighter without the weight of extra devices, but my heart was full every day of this trip. 

Give Me a Break

I knew I was tired at the beginning of the week, but jeez. Daylight savings + lots to do = total resistance to my own alarm clock. Two days in a row I've overslept, and neither time was it at all convenient. And by that, I mean that I had SOL testing first thing that first morning. Tardiness is not appreciated on days like these. So what did I do when my eyes opened on my sunlit bedroom at 7:10 AM? I jumped from the bed and made quick stops in my bathroom and closet before I ran across the field straight to my classroom. Sure, I probably looked a little disheveled, but I doubt that anyone is paying attention anyway. I feel certain my absence would have garnered more attention than my mascara-free eyes.

The second time it happened, I phoned it in. A lady needs to shower, after all. And coffee. A lady needs coffee. Thankfully, there was not a single meeting, STAR party, or test session that was dependent on my presence. I took a civilized shower and made my children proper lunches in their Thermoses. I walked, no running involved, to the front door of my classroom.

Tomorrow is a new day. After two days of some extra sleep, I do hope to make it out the door on time. Either way, I know for sure that this vacation could not come fast enough, no alarm clock required.

Anne

My team and I spent time planning out our "Profiles of Courage" unit that we'll begin after spring break. It centers around Diary of a Young Girl, a text I've taught for the past couple of years, but in order to avoid shifting to cruise control on familiar lessons, I'm listening to an audio version of the work. This Definitive Version is narrated by Selma Blair with the gravelly voice of an honest adolescent, and I'm already hooked by Anne's tone that shows her catty, lonesome, confident, spunky self. She is a sister, a daughter, a student, and a friend. Familiar entries of her birthday party, ping-pong, or the flirty boys she expertly alludes by swerving her bicycle make her as real as any girl or boy in my class this year. And that is just what makes this piece one of the most powerful of the year.

Brown Bagging It

I've been a mother for almost 19 years, which means I've been making school lunches for quite a while now. In an attempt to correct the wrongs of my own parents, I thought I was a cool mom for buying soft bread and for spreading peanut butter and jelly all the way to the edges instead of the disproportioned lumps my dad would plant in odd corners that would make chewing my own sandwiches impossible without a steady stream of chocolate milk, not that I ever had such a treat. The thought of those dry moments of desperation at the lunch table--Michelle sat across from me with Wonder Bread clouds on which crisp lettuce and seasoned cold cuts would rest. Victoria was by my side, but not on my side, placing  Doritos in her own sandwich, not that her Fluffernutter needed any enhancements. My family thought zip-loc bags an extravagance, so a bruised, mealy apple was my dessert. So when I've thrown packaged granola bars and fruit snacks in the bag, I assumed I was giving my kids a lunch status that I knew I would never achieve. It turns out that I've only been doling out the 21st century version of the frugal hippy. My three boys have lived with bagged lunch shame for years, and I didn't even know it. God knows how many crusts and unopened snacks have made their way to a trash heap. My husband have offered wads of cash and a match occasionally to make our point, but...

This is all to say that I'm trying now, made possible by my recent Thermos purchase. Two of three boys still get packed lunches, but I haven't bagged a sandwich on days. I happily warm Mac and cheese, pesto pasta, and tomato soup in the morning. Most days, they eat it--nice bonus! Lucky kids these days. What's next? A nice cheese and charcuterie board? Croque Monsieur? Kids. Funny part is, they need to eat every single day. I guess it's good news that they have good taste.

Flip Flop Friday

My to-do list is long today for both household chores and work ducks that I need to get in a row. The next four days are booked with meetings, invigilating, and teaching, not to mention the house ducklings that need to keep quacking. But first thing on Friday, we'll be headed to sunny Florida. Sisters and cousins will reunite, and so will my toes with the sunshine and sand. Knowing this, I can muster the strength "to-do" this.

Brain Games

For Writing SOL season, I've been slowing down instead of speeding up. There's always a level of intensity when it comes to standardized testing, but I've been mindful of keeping a balance of practice and fun. Yay for play in a plan for a Grammar Olympics unit that actually worked. I set up conditioning/exercise stations that got students practicing skills AND checking in with me for one-on-one talks about spelling rules and pronoun-antecedent agreement. I, for one, had loads of fun with these training sessions. Who doesn't love to see a spark ignite when explaining why it's not always acceptable to drop the silent e for suffixes that begin with a vowel? The ultimate closure to the unit was a day comprised of multiple events, a competition for fabulous prizes, that required students to work together on grammatical accuracy. I observed both admirable team work and deplorable rivalry, but in the end, there were more smiles than frowns...and the joy I feel when a student finally understand semi-colons is irreplaceable. I let the games begin. My gut tells me I shouldn't ever let them end.

The Gang's All Here

We call it Wacky Wednesday in an attempt to paint the day in a brighter light for the little one. Since kindergarten began, he has made it clear that he does NOT like extended day. "It's too long," he claims, even though his cumulative time at school on Wednesdays is actually shorter than most days he spent at day care One time, I brought Swedish fish. Another time, we headed straight to the library for a holiday event. But the Wacky Wednesday routine we've settled on is to put the puppy in the car to greet him after his "very long day". This time, not only was Allie sitting proudly in his booster seat, but his big brother from college was in the driver seat and the middle one was there ready with a snack.

All three boys and their dog, I had them all to myself this afternoon. We stopped at the dog park--people are funny and dogs are funny, but put them together, now that's entertainment. Next, we taste-tested frozen yogurt that wasn't so different from a bottle of sunscreen, but who's complaining? We threw in some errands, too, and somehow I didn't feel like I was racing a clock to get everything done. This Wacky Wednesday wasn't just good for the littlest brother, but it sure seemed to work for us all.

Holiday Lights

When I walk across the field from my school to my home in the evening, as I did tonight, I leave behind the fluorescent light of a public building that is sometimes stingy with its love. I enter a brief darkness that is both comforting and scary. First, I enjoy the solitude that this stretch of unilluminated grass brings. It is a peaceful moment that highlights the value of soil underfoot and stars overhead. Then I have a healthy fear of the potential for wildlife. Okay, in suburban DC, how bad can that me? Unless one is as skittish about a raccoon, an opossum, or even as a rat as I am (because rodents of any size, with their beady little eyes, rattle my nerves). Still, this small boost of adrenalin prevents me from lingering in the middle ground where I am neither at work or at home. One step closer, and I see a string of lights draped across our back porch. The back door is open--thank you, 70-degree weather--and our kitchen glows even warmer. Inside is dinner, sleeping child, studying child, and a husband making finishing touches on the dishes. Let the celebration of home begin.

Floppy Ears and Fresh Air

My pup is growing up. It wasn't so long ago that she was a little sausage, a butterball, a dumpling. Now her legs stretch long and she can run at a gallop. Last time I posted, I was lamenting my own sketchy running pace, and it's a fact that getting a dog only interfered with any progress I had made since then. But now that my girl seems akin to a gazelle, we are picking up our speed. Warm weather means I can drop my snow boots in favor of sneakers. She and I can trot on down the trail, side by side, and the exercise clears both of our minds and makes both of our hearts beat. It's only once in a while that she sees a squirrel. Squirrels are pretty exciting and very distracting, by the way. And she'd rather us not run the whole time because there is a lot of fascinating stuff to sniff in the grass. Good news: A puppy's idea of a jog is a great match for mine these days. She is just my speed.