Follow the Yellow Brick Road

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

Like radish seedlings

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

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

Gap post

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

Therapeutic dusting

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

A model speaker

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

Silver lining

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

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

Now at 0%

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

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

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

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

On the right track

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

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

Lion still in town

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

Happy day

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

Tradition revisited

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

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

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

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

Ah, youthful optimism

How do your passions impact the world? 

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

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

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

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

Soft and squishy

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

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

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

Just a small slice, please

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

Fact or fiction?

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

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

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

Sunday story time

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

Long run

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

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

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

Surpassing expectations, part 2

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

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

...chase each other around chairs.

...abuse the glue gun privilege.

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

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

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

...shout over each other.

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

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

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

Surpassing expectations

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

This year, I have witnessed eighth graders:

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

            ...write for pie.

Sssshhhh, listen.

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

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

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

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