As August comes to a close and the school year zooms towards me, I find myself once again awake during the wee hours of the morning. Why can’t I sleep? Sleep eludes me because my brain is much to busy. There are too many things to contemplate: lesson plans, seat arrangements, kids clothes to buy, new tattoo ideas, money and where, oh where, did the summer go? I will soon be greeting my new students, in a new classroom, in a new grade. (I am not feeling stressed, I am not feeling stressed.) As I greet this new batch of youngster and get to know them, the first topic of conversations typical begins with, “What did you do this summer?” So to calm and focus my mind I will give my report on what I did this summer.
I worked three days a week tutoring students in math and reading. I enjoyed the opportunity to work one on one with kids and focus on their needs. It’s a nice change and helpful perspective to experience after working with 20-24 students the rest of the year. Also, I’m a teacher, therefore I need the extra income. I spent many hours each of those three days a week planning tutoring lessons. The other extra hours I found myself at school I used to move into a new classroom and become familiar with Class II. I’ll be teaching second grade for the first time this year and there is a lot to learn.
I spent MANY nights this summer having “School Dreams.” These are common for teachers to experience. However, my dreams started in June. In my dreams I’d often show up for work and it was the first day of school. School had started earlier than I expected and my classroom wasn’t ready. Other nights they’d rearrange the building plans, change my room on me and I couldn’t find it. One dream had me cramming a bedroom into a corner of my classroom, like a college dormitory, where I was expected to live throughout the school year. I then also had to fit my normal classroom full of books, desks and shelves into the same space. They moved the offices into busy hallway spaces and I trashed their cubicles out of anger. Changing grades and classrooms has been a large part of my dreams. My dreams rarely strayed to the norm where I frequently spend time yelling at three particular in-laws.
I went to some fun concerts this summer. I saw Michael Franti with my sisters. Concrete Blonde and Carlos Cornia with Mike and his siblings. Kings of Leon with a whole bunch of family, including my teenagers. I enjoyed each of these concerts and wish I had more money to go to more concerts. We were supposed to see U2 twice, but Bono got hurt and they rescheduled. Live music was a highlight o my summer.
I made a deal with my 13 year old daughter. I love to embarrass her. I tease, but I’m also very frank and ask lots of questions. I tease that I’m the “after school special” mom. Sex, drugs, rock and roll, no topic do I avoid. I want to be honest and talk about the pros and cons of temptations and choices she’ll have to make. Then I want her to make smart, hopefully logical decisions. Finally one day as she was brushing me off with her, “Okay, okay, I know, I know. Mom please stop talking.”
I said this to her, “I’ll bargain with you. You can annoy me with your ‘Please, please,’ begging and your ‘ It’s not fair’ pouting, and I can embarrass you all I want.” She gets to be annoying, I get to be embarrassing. Mostly it’s worked.
I went to my 20 Year High School Reunion. I’m one of those people who gets excited for these things. I like people and facebook has made it even more exciting to see people you talk to often. Of course, instead of losing 50 lbs. like most people do for these types of things, I gained 50 lbs., but that’s life. I still loved seeing people. Especially people who hadn’t been there 10 years ago. I had the best time talking to a guy who remembered me better than I remembered him, but he was the most fun to talk to. A good friend and on again off again boyfriend throughout high school had seemed to drop off the face of the earth, then suddenly he was there to see again. I had a blast and wished I had more time to talk to more people. Unfortunately, I didn’t want to make my ride stay up too late. It made me think 10 years is way too long. More people remembered me than I thought would. I’ve changed a lot, it was fun to see people’s reactions.
After my high school reunion we had a family reunion of sorts. It didn’t go very well, and unfortunately, how poorly it ended up was not a surprise to me. It was tiring, took a lot of avoiding, watching what I said and trying to buffer people. It was survival mode week for my family. Feelings were hurt, offenses were taken, but I really don’t know how it could be avoided. There are many perspectives and I don’t know how they’re ever going to coincide. Looking back I think my wish is that more people would have stood up for themselves and each other. I just worried about the consequence of how my actions would effect others. It was complicated and remains so.
I didn’t write any books this summer. I’m a little disappointed. I just didn’t seem to have time. I didn’t blog much either. Again the time seem to slip away. One of my favorite and most powerful experiences of the summer was a writing opportunity with my sisters. I am so proud, overwhelmed, and grateful for the experience. It was truly and important event in my life. We wrote a five part series telling our individual experiences with my dad’s cancer and death. I think it was excellent writing and unique in the view from five different perspectives. If you haven’t read it check out early blog post here @http://meremayjohn.blogspot.com/ or my sister’s blog http://www.theinquisitivemom.blogspot.com/. I’ve been amazed at people’s reactions and it was a great bonding moment before the later storm of the family reunion.
Well, now that I’ve gotten a lot off my chest, maybe I can go to sleep. If I could just stop imagining and designing the two tattoo ideas I have in my head. I sketched a little bit. Also, my family (hubby) will not be thrilled that I’m obsessing over these sudden creative urges that I can seem to stop planning.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Monday, June 21, 2010
Mom's Side: The Final Voice
I cannot express what an incredible experience writing my story and reading my sibling's narratives has been. Today my mom shares her perspective. Here is the final voice from my family's encounter with cancer and the loss of my father.
To read my children’s comments on their father’s death has been a very painful experience for me, yet I know at the time all this was happening I probably could have changed nothing. I cannot explain to anyone how devastating a cancer diagnosis one January day so many years ago was for me. I was forty years old and my oldest child had just gone to college, years of working to make a marriage the best it could be had finally reach the point of having a little time for ourselves and seeing our children begin to progress to delightful self sufficient individuals. In within a few moments my whole world changed forever. The fear and anger I felt that day are something I will always remember. I remember calling my friend on the phone and just bursting into tears. I cried off and on for the following three years. How could this be happening to my husband and our family?
From the beginning of his diagnosis we had always felt my husband’s illness would be terminal, having a sense of this does not make it any easier to realize it is true. It is a path which changes over time and as it becomes more prominent it is harder and harder to have a normal life. My heart aches as my children write about not being able to talk to me as their father’s illness progresses. Towards the end of his life my life was in complete disarray for many months before. I was not only watching my husband become extremely ill day by day, I was also dealing with the knowledge my father was very ill and I could not be with him, because of Lyn’s illness. I was so torn between the two most important men in my life each one so very ill and I couldn’t leave one to be with the other.
By September of 1993, my husband’s illness had progressed to the point where he had tumors on his brain stem and in his lungs. He had tried chemo the April before, but the results we had hoped for did not continue. The doctors were quite frank and told us not to expect anything beyond the first of the year. After dealing with an illness for such a long time, I was torn emotionally; there was a part of me wishing my sweet husband could be out of his pain and this nightmare could be over and the other part of me who wanted to cling to him as long as I could.
One morning eleven days before Lyn died we received a 5:00 a phone call telling us my father was dying and to come quickly. Sitting with my father for his last few hours was probably the most therapeutic experience my husband could have had. When my father died it was as though he realized it was okay to let go, that the world around him would survive and he could move on.
I can’t even recall the next eleven days very well. We attended my father’s funeral, relatives on my side of the family came from Utah and my very social husband was not even well enough to socialize during the evenings or at the family gathering after the funeral. All of the sudden his life seemed to be drifting away. As the days progressed, his breathing became more labored and he needed a breathing machine for oxygen and he could hardly function. More and more he used his narcotics to control his pain and he was growing weaker every day. We spent many hours just holding one another and talking of little or nothing, but enjoying quiet moments together.
On the day he died we started at the doctor’s office to have his lung checked and ended up at the hospital so they could help him breathe, our few months turned into a few hours. When I called Meredith we both expected him to make it for at least a couple of days from our discussions with the doctor. I never thought it would be a couple hours later I’d be calling her to tell her that her father had died.
Close friends came to see Lyn for the last time, by the time they arrived he was unconscious, the wife sat down next to his bed and held his hand, she was holding his hand when he drew his last breath. I rarely admit how sad I was not to be the person close to him during his final moments or how hard it was to have to call my children and tell them their father had died or to greet my two youngest who were bringing dinner with the knowledge their father had just died.
When I returned home there was a group of people waiting to offer comfort and help, yet my greatest wish was to be alone, to cry and grieve for my losses of the last two weeks. Unfortunately life doesn’t allow this process and it was a few months before I could face my personal pain and loss.
I often tell people how much I miss my husband and my children wish they could share their life moments with him, but I will always be grateful for the sweet experiences we shared during his illness and the precious life lessons learned.
To read my children’s comments on their father’s death has been a very painful experience for me, yet I know at the time all this was happening I probably could have changed nothing. I cannot explain to anyone how devastating a cancer diagnosis one January day so many years ago was for me. I was forty years old and my oldest child had just gone to college, years of working to make a marriage the best it could be had finally reach the point of having a little time for ourselves and seeing our children begin to progress to delightful self sufficient individuals. In within a few moments my whole world changed forever. The fear and anger I felt that day are something I will always remember. I remember calling my friend on the phone and just bursting into tears. I cried off and on for the following three years. How could this be happening to my husband and our family?
From the beginning of his diagnosis we had always felt my husband’s illness would be terminal, having a sense of this does not make it any easier to realize it is true. It is a path which changes over time and as it becomes more prominent it is harder and harder to have a normal life. My heart aches as my children write about not being able to talk to me as their father’s illness progresses. Towards the end of his life my life was in complete disarray for many months before. I was not only watching my husband become extremely ill day by day, I was also dealing with the knowledge my father was very ill and I could not be with him, because of Lyn’s illness. I was so torn between the two most important men in my life each one so very ill and I couldn’t leave one to be with the other.
By September of 1993, my husband’s illness had progressed to the point where he had tumors on his brain stem and in his lungs. He had tried chemo the April before, but the results we had hoped for did not continue. The doctors were quite frank and told us not to expect anything beyond the first of the year. After dealing with an illness for such a long time, I was torn emotionally; there was a part of me wishing my sweet husband could be out of his pain and this nightmare could be over and the other part of me who wanted to cling to him as long as I could.
One morning eleven days before Lyn died we received a 5:00 a phone call telling us my father was dying and to come quickly. Sitting with my father for his last few hours was probably the most therapeutic experience my husband could have had. When my father died it was as though he realized it was okay to let go, that the world around him would survive and he could move on.
I can’t even recall the next eleven days very well. We attended my father’s funeral, relatives on my side of the family came from Utah and my very social husband was not even well enough to socialize during the evenings or at the family gathering after the funeral. All of the sudden his life seemed to be drifting away. As the days progressed, his breathing became more labored and he needed a breathing machine for oxygen and he could hardly function. More and more he used his narcotics to control his pain and he was growing weaker every day. We spent many hours just holding one another and talking of little or nothing, but enjoying quiet moments together.
On the day he died we started at the doctor’s office to have his lung checked and ended up at the hospital so they could help him breathe, our few months turned into a few hours. When I called Meredith we both expected him to make it for at least a couple of days from our discussions with the doctor. I never thought it would be a couple hours later I’d be calling her to tell her that her father had died.
Close friends came to see Lyn for the last time, by the time they arrived he was unconscious, the wife sat down next to his bed and held his hand, she was holding his hand when he drew his last breath. I rarely admit how sad I was not to be the person close to him during his final moments or how hard it was to have to call my children and tell them their father had died or to greet my two youngest who were bringing dinner with the knowledge their father had just died.
When I returned home there was a group of people waiting to offer comfort and help, yet my greatest wish was to be alone, to cry and grieve for my losses of the last two weeks. Unfortunately life doesn’t allow this process and it was a few months before I could face my personal pain and loss.
I often tell people how much I miss my husband and my children wish they could share their life moments with him, but I will always be grateful for the sweet experiences we shared during his illness and the precious life lessons learned.
Friday, June 18, 2010
Mindy's Story
When I think of my father, the strongest memories I have are of the way he smelled of Old Spice and the outdoors, the dark mustache he always wore, the warmth of his generous smile, and the deep, soothing timbre of his voice. I once had a substitute teacher in high school who distinctly reminded me of my father. I felt a dual reaction to this realization. A part of me wanted to sit and stare at him forever, soak in the familiarity of him. Another part wanted to curl up in a corner alone and cry because I realized the sharp memory of my father's face was fading and would continue to dull over time.
I was ten years old when my father started experiencing mysterious pain in his legs. Looking back, I am not certain which is worse: watching someone endure pain without answers or knowing for certain that they have a rare form of cancer. His diagnoses came somewhere around my eleventh birthday and it seems that I should be able to recollect the exact moment my parents broke the news. When it comes to my father's illness, however, my memory seems to be broken in some way, shattered into disconnected fragments.
The way I remember things, dad endured multiple surgeries over the four years he was ill, as well as chemotherapy and radiation. In some ways, cancer treatment became a regular part of our lives, bringing with it both despair and moments of hope. When I think of those days, I can distinctly hear Dad in the bathroom, retching violently, clearly in agonizing pain. I recall watching him grow pale and frail, confused as I witnessed someone I saw as so spiritually and intellectually strong become so physically weak. I often try to replace memories of him lying on the floor or curled up on the futon in pain with healthy, vibrant images of my father.
As I've discussed Dad's illness with my family over the years, it's become clear to me that everyone expected dad's death but me. My parents never made empty promises to us. They walked a fine line between helping us to understand the reality of dad's illness without unnecessarily burdening us. I cannot imagine how difficult this must have been for them. To this day, I hate those moments in films when a parent promises their child they'll never leave because I know this is a promise they simply can not keep.
My father was sick for four years, with frightening news of new tumors, difficult treatments, and times of recovery. His illness became my reality and, while I did not want him to suffer, I was not prepared for his death. I lived from day to day and did not want to imagine life without him. What others recognized as signs of a terminal illness, I must have internalized as another difficult part of the cycle with hope of recovery again. My father suffered a great deal, but we had wonderful, cherished times together as well. I recall watching Dad lose every bit of hair on his body, down to his eyelashes. But then hair started to grow anew, returning to his head soft as a newborn baby's. Hopeful in it's own way.
I, frankly, don't remember a sudden turn in Dad's death, meetings with Hospice, or recognizing that he was letting go. This gap in my memory disturbs me, but I feel helpless in recovering it. Perhaps reality simply became too much to internalize, so I protected myself. This Pollyanna strategy worked in its own way over the next few years, as I tried to comfort myself with platitudes of faith, reassure others that everything was okay, and take on other's happiness as my responsibility, whether they asked me to or not. It eventually failed me in college, when the weight of my feelings became too great of a burden and I struggled through debilitating depression.
I, frankly, don't remember a sudden turn in Dad's death, meetings with Hospice, or recognizing that he was letting go. This gap in my memory disturbs me, but I feel helpless in recovering it. Perhaps reality simply became too much to internalize, so I protected myself. This Pollyanna strategy worked in its own way over the next few years, as I tried to comfort myself with platitudes of faith, reassure others that everything was okay, and take on other's happiness as my responsibility, whether they asked me to or not. It eventually failed me in college, when the weight of my feelings became too great of a burden and I struggled through debilitating depression.
I carried guilt over the day of Dad's death for years. I was 14 and hanging out at home when my mom called from a routine check up to tell me that they'd found new tumors on Dad's lungs. To my shock and dismay, they checked him into the hospital and gave him only the weekend to live. Devastated and overwhelmed, I asked my mom if I should tell my sister, McKinzie, this news or wait to let Mom and Dad explain things to her. Mom, in her kind way, relieved me of that burden and told me I could wait.
McKinzie came home from work and I told her Dad was in the hospital, but nothing else. We didn't rush to the hospital, but actually stopped to grab Taco Bell for lunch on our way. When we arrived laughing at some silliness, Dad was gone. I felt for years that I'd robbed McKinzie, my fellow traveler of those years, of the small bit of preparation she deserved for that moment. Years later, I revealed this regret to her and felt both shocked and relieved to hear that his death did not come as a surprise for her. I, alone, seemed woefully unprepared for Dad's death.
McKinzie came home from work and I told her Dad was in the hospital, but nothing else. We didn't rush to the hospital, but actually stopped to grab Taco Bell for lunch on our way. When we arrived laughing at some silliness, Dad was gone. I felt for years that I'd robbed McKinzie, my fellow traveler of those years, of the small bit of preparation she deserved for that moment. Years later, I revealed this regret to her and felt both shocked and relieved to hear that his death did not come as a surprise for her. I, alone, seemed woefully unprepared for Dad's death.
While I wish I could have spoken to my father one last time before he died, I am grateful that I saw his body on that hospital bed. It may sound odd, but I understood in that moment that our spirits and bodies are separate. I kissed his cheek, but knew that his spirit was no longer there. This knowledge confirmed what I believed about life after death, as have sacred, quiet moments when I've known he is not permanently gone. As I've struggled with grief, longed to know him as an adult, and wrestled with the loss of him, this knowledge has sustained me.
Thursday, June 17, 2010
McKinzie's Story
Dad dying was like a dark grey gloom that never seemed to end rather than a flash lightning that comes and goes quickly. It started mid eighth grade where I thought my biggest concern would be how I’d do on the girls basketball team unfolding into the fall of my junior year when I wished the only thing I had to worry about were my grades in geometry. Life became a bipolar cycle of treatments, surgery, fear, stress, loneliness, disappointment, happiness, relief, and back to treatments. Though the cancer never left, life became an effort to make the most of the times when Dad wasn’t home sick in bed, not working, unable to sit and build his planes, or join us for things like dinner. I hated all these treatments and surgeries and the ups and downs that it created.
His chemo best illustrates what made his cancer treatments and surgeries so hard. I don’t remember exactly where his cancer was at this time (I think either his stomach or lungs) but this treatment created six of the most miserable months of his illness. It involved one week of intensive chemo, administered in the hospital. This meant Mom had to yo-yo between us kids at home and Dad in the hospital. It meant short visits with Dad that week and missing my parents at home. This was followed by two weeks of recovering from the chemo treatment at home. During this time Dad would progress from being gravely ill, susceptible to any bug/virus, and not really accessible, to slowly getting better. The next week he would finally be able to work, eat dinner with us, do “normal” things. Then it would start all over again. For six months we functioned on this four week cycle. This general cycle, however, permeated throughout his illness, manifesting when he would have a surgery, or whatever the doctors recommended in an attempt to fight the cancer.
While I hated these treatments, I knew that each one gave us more time, extending Dad’s life a little longer and making his death something that would happen later rather than sooner. Each time he got “better” I had more time to sit and talk, learn how to drive, laugh with him, and watch him build his planes. That was true until the two weeks following the death of Grandpa Beckstead. In the weeks following his death something changed in Dad’s health from “relatively good” to “horribly bad” .
Grandpa had been fighting his own battle against cancer for about 2 years. We new that by the beginning of October Grandpa didn’t have long to live. On Thursday Oct. 11 our family got a call that Grandpa was dying. Merilee and I chose to go with my parents to Tacoma to join other family members to be with my Grandpa as he died. At this point Grandpa said very little but we new he could hear us as we talked to him and each other. It was not long after we arrived that he passed away. While there was a feeling of sadness there was also a sense of peace, comfort, and relief in his death.
In the days following Grandpa’s death and funeral it seemed that Dad turned a switch, not to off, but to dim. Where Dad seemed to be doing o.k. he began to struggle. Walking, talking, and breathing became difficult. A distinct wheeziness to his breathing developed and the doctors starting telling us we had till Christmas. This changed to a month, and then to weeks. The gravity of the situation really sank in for me when Mom meat with the hospice worker to set up home care.
The details of the day Dad died and the events following alternate between being fuzzy and crystal clear. I know that Thursday I went to school, probably went to work, and finally home where Mom called (or I called her) and was told to pick up fast food before Mindy and I headed into the hospital. I don’t remember feeling rushed to get there as Mindy and I swung by Taco Bell and then to the hospital. We were a bit jovial as we headed into Dad’s hospital room where I remember knowing instantly that something was wrong. Mom was there with family friends, the Rollins, who had stopped into see Dad. In the time it took us to get there, Dad had died. He went from dying sometime, to months, weeks, days, to hours. In that instant the thing I was able to focus on was my mom’s reassurance that my Dad’s death had been very similar to my Grandfathers. My Dad’s death carried that sense of peace, comfort and relief.
Prior to Dad’s funeral we had a brief viewing. I went in to look because others had encouraged me to do so. I only stayed briefly. For me that was not my dad, and I wanted to remember him not necessarily in perfect health but as a living person. As his funeral progressed kind words were shared, beautiful music sung, and giggles resulted. The giggles came from Mindy and I as we suddenly felt a consistent vibrating pew below us and noticed Mike (my brother-in-law) attempt to still Meredith’s bouncing knee. I remember thinking that Dad would have chuckled too.
Cancer is devastating, causing grief, sadness, and immense stress. In my experience it also brings out the best in people. I am grateful for those who supported, prayed and helped out my family and myself. My family was blessed by the gentleman from church who knew a couple of pizza’s would help relieve the stress of feeding two hungry kids at home. He did not do this just once but many times. The elderly friend of Dad’s who popped over to do yard work without a word of his presence. The big sister away at college who sent thoughtful letters of encouragement and love to a sad younger sister. They were looked forward to and appreciated. The friends and family who took the time to plan and come to my surprise 17th birthday party in the few days following Dad’s death. While I remember the sadness of those times, I remember those that eased the daily stresses and helped bring some joy to myself and my family more.
His chemo best illustrates what made his cancer treatments and surgeries so hard. I don’t remember exactly where his cancer was at this time (I think either his stomach or lungs) but this treatment created six of the most miserable months of his illness. It involved one week of intensive chemo, administered in the hospital. This meant Mom had to yo-yo between us kids at home and Dad in the hospital. It meant short visits with Dad that week and missing my parents at home. This was followed by two weeks of recovering from the chemo treatment at home. During this time Dad would progress from being gravely ill, susceptible to any bug/virus, and not really accessible, to slowly getting better. The next week he would finally be able to work, eat dinner with us, do “normal” things. Then it would start all over again. For six months we functioned on this four week cycle. This general cycle, however, permeated throughout his illness, manifesting when he would have a surgery, or whatever the doctors recommended in an attempt to fight the cancer.
While I hated these treatments, I knew that each one gave us more time, extending Dad’s life a little longer and making his death something that would happen later rather than sooner. Each time he got “better” I had more time to sit and talk, learn how to drive, laugh with him, and watch him build his planes. That was true until the two weeks following the death of Grandpa Beckstead. In the weeks following his death something changed in Dad’s health from “relatively good” to “horribly bad” .
Grandpa had been fighting his own battle against cancer for about 2 years. We new that by the beginning of October Grandpa didn’t have long to live. On Thursday Oct. 11 our family got a call that Grandpa was dying. Merilee and I chose to go with my parents to Tacoma to join other family members to be with my Grandpa as he died. At this point Grandpa said very little but we new he could hear us as we talked to him and each other. It was not long after we arrived that he passed away. While there was a feeling of sadness there was also a sense of peace, comfort, and relief in his death.
In the days following Grandpa’s death and funeral it seemed that Dad turned a switch, not to off, but to dim. Where Dad seemed to be doing o.k. he began to struggle. Walking, talking, and breathing became difficult. A distinct wheeziness to his breathing developed and the doctors starting telling us we had till Christmas. This changed to a month, and then to weeks. The gravity of the situation really sank in for me when Mom meat with the hospice worker to set up home care.
The details of the day Dad died and the events following alternate between being fuzzy and crystal clear. I know that Thursday I went to school, probably went to work, and finally home where Mom called (or I called her) and was told to pick up fast food before Mindy and I headed into the hospital. I don’t remember feeling rushed to get there as Mindy and I swung by Taco Bell and then to the hospital. We were a bit jovial as we headed into Dad’s hospital room where I remember knowing instantly that something was wrong. Mom was there with family friends, the Rollins, who had stopped into see Dad. In the time it took us to get there, Dad had died. He went from dying sometime, to months, weeks, days, to hours. In that instant the thing I was able to focus on was my mom’s reassurance that my Dad’s death had been very similar to my Grandfathers. My Dad’s death carried that sense of peace, comfort and relief.
Prior to Dad’s funeral we had a brief viewing. I went in to look because others had encouraged me to do so. I only stayed briefly. For me that was not my dad, and I wanted to remember him not necessarily in perfect health but as a living person. As his funeral progressed kind words were shared, beautiful music sung, and giggles resulted. The giggles came from Mindy and I as we suddenly felt a consistent vibrating pew below us and noticed Mike (my brother-in-law) attempt to still Meredith’s bouncing knee. I remember thinking that Dad would have chuckled too.
Cancer is devastating, causing grief, sadness, and immense stress. In my experience it also brings out the best in people. I am grateful for those who supported, prayed and helped out my family and myself. My family was blessed by the gentleman from church who knew a couple of pizza’s would help relieve the stress of feeding two hungry kids at home. He did not do this just once but many times. The elderly friend of Dad’s who popped over to do yard work without a word of his presence. The big sister away at college who sent thoughtful letters of encouragement and love to a sad younger sister. They were looked forward to and appreciated. The friends and family who took the time to plan and come to my surprise 17th birthday party in the few days following Dad’s death. While I remember the sadness of those times, I remember those that eased the daily stresses and helped bring some joy to myself and my family more.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Merilee's Story
Here is my sister Merilee's story. I am the oldest and she comes next out of four May girls.
I cried. It was nothing new. If I had to count, I’d probably done it nearly a thousand times in the last three years. But this time, it felt different; I knew that tides had changed and it was now “the beginning of the end.”
It had already been about three years since Dad was diagnosed with a soft tissue sarcoma cancer. He had undergone radiation, 2 surgeries, and chemotherapy. I shouldn’t have been surprised by the call from my mother saying they’d found more tumors. But I was; I was surprised and devastated, and I told her my premonition.
She denied it of course, as did my Dad. It wasn’t the beginning of the end as I claimed, it was just some tumors they found in his lungs. Just like the other tumors they’d found over the last few years. We’d have plenty of time left to enjoy our father.
Perhaps they thought I was just being dramatic, as I suppose I was sometimes during my teenage years. But as I sat in my one bedroom apartment, alone, I felt the emptiness close in around me. I was nineteen, I lived alone and feared that everyone I loved would eventually leave me. I wrote of emptiness, loneliness and despair in my journal, because I had no one I could talk to about my heartache except myself. My sister and childhood friend had moved to Utah and married by this time; it was difficult to explain the agony of watching our Dad die when she was so far away. My boyfriend had left on a mission and shouldn’t be bothered with trivial things like death. My roommate had moved out, probably because I was depressed and consumed by the fear of losing my father. No doubt I was an effective mood dampener. Who wants to deal with death when life and love await? I hadn’t yet developed a relationship with my two younger sisters to confide and call upon them for comfort and strength. In fact, my parents frequently asked me to spend time with them, help them take their mind off the stress at home. And I felt it would be a burden to talk to my mother or father; they had enough to deal with without having to deal with me. It was my job to make everyone happy, not depressed with my problems – even if they were very much the same as everyone else’s. I didn’t believe I would ever feel more alone than I did then.
On March 25th, 1993, they operated on Dad to remove the tumors in his lungs. It was then everyone learned what I already knew; it was the beginning of the end. And while it would usually feel good to be right; it felt awful and I was without the skills or life experience to truly grasp the pain of death. I didn’t fear what lied ahead for my dad on the other side, I didn’t even fear that I may never see him again. I simply ached inside, knowing I would never be ready to let go.
When they operated, they found tumors along the lining of his heart that they were unable to remove at that time. They would wait, and do it later. He spent nearly a month in the hospital following that surgery; and I visited at least once every day. What else could I have possibly done? I was consumed by the fear of his death, of not being there for him, not being ready, and not understanding how I would survive.
He called me crying one day from the hospital, afraid and unable to reach my mom. The middle class certainly didn’t have cell phones back then and she wasn’t at home. I dropped everything I was doing to rush to the hospital. I would have done anything to stop the pain, but I was helpless.
They never got do perform the surgery to remove the remaining tumors. Dad died six months later, almost a month after his 47th birthday. For all the effort I had put into being there for him when he was in the hospital for a month, I missed him the day that he died. I missed him by mere moments. My mother had called shortly before my shift began and called every hour thereafter with an update. He was progressively getting worse. Every time I insisted that I would leave work right then and be there, I was assured he would be there when I left. Five minutes before the office closed, Mom called. He had just died.
It wasn’t supposed to happen so fast, although the reality was he’d been sick for nearly four years. He only went for a doctor’s appointment. He was supposed to be home when I got off work. But he was dead. He was gone; and I knew instantly that it would be too long before I would ever see him again. I crumbled into pieces that thereafter took me years to put back together. Years before I would ever even learn to talk to my own family about the pain that I felt when he left.
I cried. It was nothing new. If I had to count, I’d probably done it nearly a thousand times in the last three years. But this time, it felt different; I knew that tides had changed and it was now “the beginning of the end.”
It had already been about three years since Dad was diagnosed with a soft tissue sarcoma cancer. He had undergone radiation, 2 surgeries, and chemotherapy. I shouldn’t have been surprised by the call from my mother saying they’d found more tumors. But I was; I was surprised and devastated, and I told her my premonition.
She denied it of course, as did my Dad. It wasn’t the beginning of the end as I claimed, it was just some tumors they found in his lungs. Just like the other tumors they’d found over the last few years. We’d have plenty of time left to enjoy our father.
Perhaps they thought I was just being dramatic, as I suppose I was sometimes during my teenage years. But as I sat in my one bedroom apartment, alone, I felt the emptiness close in around me. I was nineteen, I lived alone and feared that everyone I loved would eventually leave me. I wrote of emptiness, loneliness and despair in my journal, because I had no one I could talk to about my heartache except myself. My sister and childhood friend had moved to Utah and married by this time; it was difficult to explain the agony of watching our Dad die when she was so far away. My boyfriend had left on a mission and shouldn’t be bothered with trivial things like death. My roommate had moved out, probably because I was depressed and consumed by the fear of losing my father. No doubt I was an effective mood dampener. Who wants to deal with death when life and love await? I hadn’t yet developed a relationship with my two younger sisters to confide and call upon them for comfort and strength. In fact, my parents frequently asked me to spend time with them, help them take their mind off the stress at home. And I felt it would be a burden to talk to my mother or father; they had enough to deal with without having to deal with me. It was my job to make everyone happy, not depressed with my problems – even if they were very much the same as everyone else’s. I didn’t believe I would ever feel more alone than I did then.
On March 25th, 1993, they operated on Dad to remove the tumors in his lungs. It was then everyone learned what I already knew; it was the beginning of the end. And while it would usually feel good to be right; it felt awful and I was without the skills or life experience to truly grasp the pain of death. I didn’t fear what lied ahead for my dad on the other side, I didn’t even fear that I may never see him again. I simply ached inside, knowing I would never be ready to let go.
When they operated, they found tumors along the lining of his heart that they were unable to remove at that time. They would wait, and do it later. He spent nearly a month in the hospital following that surgery; and I visited at least once every day. What else could I have possibly done? I was consumed by the fear of his death, of not being there for him, not being ready, and not understanding how I would survive.
He called me crying one day from the hospital, afraid and unable to reach my mom. The middle class certainly didn’t have cell phones back then and she wasn’t at home. I dropped everything I was doing to rush to the hospital. I would have done anything to stop the pain, but I was helpless.
They never got do perform the surgery to remove the remaining tumors. Dad died six months later, almost a month after his 47th birthday. For all the effort I had put into being there for him when he was in the hospital for a month, I missed him the day that he died. I missed him by mere moments. My mother had called shortly before my shift began and called every hour thereafter with an update. He was progressively getting worse. Every time I insisted that I would leave work right then and be there, I was assured he would be there when I left. Five minutes before the office closed, Mom called. He had just died.
It wasn’t supposed to happen so fast, although the reality was he’d been sick for nearly four years. He only went for a doctor’s appointment. He was supposed to be home when I got off work. But he was dead. He was gone; and I knew instantly that it would be too long before I would ever see him again. I crumbled into pieces that thereafter took me years to put back together. Years before I would ever even learn to talk to my own family about the pain that I felt when he left.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Our Ride: Loss From Five Perspectives
I have often been fascinated by the different perspectives dad’s cancer and death had on each of my family members. Periodically I’ve pondered a collaborative book called “The Cancer Roller Coaster: A Different Ride for Each Passenger,” or “My Side of the Story: One Family’s Perspective on Cancer and Death.” Except for dad we are a family of females. Led by mom we are strong, independent, opinionated, and emotional women. We have five very different, uniquely individual, and deeply personal experiences to share. Thanks to my sister, Mindy, we have all written about our point of view and agreed to share them. She asked us each to write for her blog and has agreed to let me post them on my blog too.
My Ride: A View From My Seat
I’ve always felt like the odd man out in this event. Dad was diagnosed with cancer my freshman year at college. I was gleefully enjoying and majorly screwing up being independent for the first time. My family was in Washington State while I was miles away in Utah. I don’t remember any build up or warning to the phone call from my parents telling me dad had cancer. I thought it was just a routine call until they started explaining that a tumor had been found and that surgery and chemo were options. I remember feeling shocked, numb and alone. Throughout dad’s illness, I felt like I never knew what was going on. A friend from home passed me on campus and asked me if my dad was going to lose his leg. I had no idea what she was talking about. I hadn’t heard anything of the sort. I rushed to my apartment and called home. It was a small possibility my mom assured me. They hadn’t told me because it was so unlikely. I was devastated and always worried that I was missing information. I felt fearful and alone.
It was difficult to go home that summer. In a normal situation it would be tricky to return home after being on your own. There are too many observers, too many expectations, too many people. I wanted to go home and be with my family. I wanted to know what was going on and to be helpful. However, I wasn’t prepared for the awkwardness. I felt a little resentment from my siblings. I sensed they thought it wasn’t fair that I had missed out on watching dad get sick or that I’d “gotten” to be away during much of the hard work. Also, my family had been in crisis mode. They’d had to adjust, sacrifice and help out. I hadn’t been there. I couldn’t be there. This meant new roles had been taken on. Even though technically I was the oldest, I hadn’t been around to fulfill my responsibilities. The next oldest sister, Merilee, had taken on much responsibility and my role. I got home and felt like I’d lost my place in the family.
I eventually returned to college, got married and went home for vacations and visits only. I dreaded the phone ringing those years. I always worried what a phone call would bring. My memory is that in the fall of 1993 we got news that dad would probably be around through the holidays, but not much longer. We planned a big Thanksgiving reunion with dad’s family after we got the news. On October 11,1993 I received a phone call from my mother telling me that her father, Grandpa Beckstead, had passed away. She told me that he had been at home and that everyone had got to be there as he died fairly peacefully. I have to admit I was jealous. Being a bit selfish I was a little comforted when my mom told me grandpa had mistakenly called people by my name at times in the end. I know that sounds awful, but once again I felt so alone. Since, I was a poor college student and my parents were paying medical bills, I didn’t fly home to attend my grandfather’s funeral.
It was mid afternoon and between classes when my mom called me ten days later. My dad was at the hospital and the doctors said he only had days to live. I needed to arrange a flight home so I could say goodbye. Shocked, I got off the phone, called the airlines and booked a flight home first thing in the morning. I had a late afternoon class to attend, but I couldn’t do it. My husband decided to take me to a movie to distract me. We picked the comedy, “So I Married an Axe Murder.” It was the perfect distraction.
After the movie we drove to my in-laws for dinner. As we walked in the door my mother-in-law told me my mom had called and to call her back. Relaxed from the movie and thinking she was double checking my flight information, I quickly returned her call. Her news was not what I’d expected. While I had been enjoying the movie my dad had died. First, I felt guilty for going to the movie. Second, I was mad. He’d died! Why the hell did he do that? I was coming tomorrow. He couldn’t have waited one more day? I wept. I cried until my nose ran and my head hurt. My husband held me, then made arranged for both of us to fly to Washington.
I was surprised, and I’m ashamed to admit it, a tiny bit pleased, to discover, dad had robbed us all. He died before anyone, but mom could be at the hospital. It’s awful to admit, but I’m just being honest, for once in this experience I wasn’t alone.
I remember the viewing before dad’s funeral and everyone telling me I had to go see him that one last time. Many people told me if I didn’t see him I’d miss out on an important part of saying goodbye. I hated the viewing. That wasn’t my dad there in the coffin. It was a body. My sister kissed his forehead. I thought I should try that. It was cold and just reminded me he was gone. Don’t let anyone tell you how to mourn. I say the viewing is awful, but some people find it helpful. Listen to yourself.
I gave the eulogy at dad’s funeral. Mom asked me to. I said yes only if everyone helped me write it. I was so nervous I bounced my right knee uncontrollably the whole time I waited to do my part. At one point my husband reached over and tried to still me with his hand.
“You’re shaking the whole bench.” He whispered.
I shoved his hand away saying, “So.” and bounced until I had to speak.
I’ve often described cancer as a roller coaster. It’s bad, then better, then the tumor is not shrinking or spreading, but not growing. It’s years, then months, then weeks, then days. It’s devastating, then hopeful, then unpredictable. You scream, you smile, you wave your arms excitedly, you get dizzy and sometimes you almost throw up. There’s little of the fun of a carnival ride with cancer, but there’s the ups, downs, tight turns, jerky stops and relief when it’s over. The relief doesn’t come right away, but time, family and sharing like this are my best medicine.
My Ride: A View From My Seat
I’ve always felt like the odd man out in this event. Dad was diagnosed with cancer my freshman year at college. I was gleefully enjoying and majorly screwing up being independent for the first time. My family was in Washington State while I was miles away in Utah. I don’t remember any build up or warning to the phone call from my parents telling me dad had cancer. I thought it was just a routine call until they started explaining that a tumor had been found and that surgery and chemo were options. I remember feeling shocked, numb and alone. Throughout dad’s illness, I felt like I never knew what was going on. A friend from home passed me on campus and asked me if my dad was going to lose his leg. I had no idea what she was talking about. I hadn’t heard anything of the sort. I rushed to my apartment and called home. It was a small possibility my mom assured me. They hadn’t told me because it was so unlikely. I was devastated and always worried that I was missing information. I felt fearful and alone.
It was difficult to go home that summer. In a normal situation it would be tricky to return home after being on your own. There are too many observers, too many expectations, too many people. I wanted to go home and be with my family. I wanted to know what was going on and to be helpful. However, I wasn’t prepared for the awkwardness. I felt a little resentment from my siblings. I sensed they thought it wasn’t fair that I had missed out on watching dad get sick or that I’d “gotten” to be away during much of the hard work. Also, my family had been in crisis mode. They’d had to adjust, sacrifice and help out. I hadn’t been there. I couldn’t be there. This meant new roles had been taken on. Even though technically I was the oldest, I hadn’t been around to fulfill my responsibilities. The next oldest sister, Merilee, had taken on much responsibility and my role. I got home and felt like I’d lost my place in the family.
I eventually returned to college, got married and went home for vacations and visits only. I dreaded the phone ringing those years. I always worried what a phone call would bring. My memory is that in the fall of 1993 we got news that dad would probably be around through the holidays, but not much longer. We planned a big Thanksgiving reunion with dad’s family after we got the news. On October 11,1993 I received a phone call from my mother telling me that her father, Grandpa Beckstead, had passed away. She told me that he had been at home and that everyone had got to be there as he died fairly peacefully. I have to admit I was jealous. Being a bit selfish I was a little comforted when my mom told me grandpa had mistakenly called people by my name at times in the end. I know that sounds awful, but once again I felt so alone. Since, I was a poor college student and my parents were paying medical bills, I didn’t fly home to attend my grandfather’s funeral.
It was mid afternoon and between classes when my mom called me ten days later. My dad was at the hospital and the doctors said he only had days to live. I needed to arrange a flight home so I could say goodbye. Shocked, I got off the phone, called the airlines and booked a flight home first thing in the morning. I had a late afternoon class to attend, but I couldn’t do it. My husband decided to take me to a movie to distract me. We picked the comedy, “So I Married an Axe Murder.” It was the perfect distraction.
After the movie we drove to my in-laws for dinner. As we walked in the door my mother-in-law told me my mom had called and to call her back. Relaxed from the movie and thinking she was double checking my flight information, I quickly returned her call. Her news was not what I’d expected. While I had been enjoying the movie my dad had died. First, I felt guilty for going to the movie. Second, I was mad. He’d died! Why the hell did he do that? I was coming tomorrow. He couldn’t have waited one more day? I wept. I cried until my nose ran and my head hurt. My husband held me, then made arranged for both of us to fly to Washington.
I was surprised, and I’m ashamed to admit it, a tiny bit pleased, to discover, dad had robbed us all. He died before anyone, but mom could be at the hospital. It’s awful to admit, but I’m just being honest, for once in this experience I wasn’t alone.
I remember the viewing before dad’s funeral and everyone telling me I had to go see him that one last time. Many people told me if I didn’t see him I’d miss out on an important part of saying goodbye. I hated the viewing. That wasn’t my dad there in the coffin. It was a body. My sister kissed his forehead. I thought I should try that. It was cold and just reminded me he was gone. Don’t let anyone tell you how to mourn. I say the viewing is awful, but some people find it helpful. Listen to yourself.
I gave the eulogy at dad’s funeral. Mom asked me to. I said yes only if everyone helped me write it. I was so nervous I bounced my right knee uncontrollably the whole time I waited to do my part. At one point my husband reached over and tried to still me with his hand.
“You’re shaking the whole bench.” He whispered.
I shoved his hand away saying, “So.” and bounced until I had to speak.
I’ve often described cancer as a roller coaster. It’s bad, then better, then the tumor is not shrinking or spreading, but not growing. It’s years, then months, then weeks, then days. It’s devastating, then hopeful, then unpredictable. You scream, you smile, you wave your arms excitedly, you get dizzy and sometimes you almost throw up. There’s little of the fun of a carnival ride with cancer, but there’s the ups, downs, tight turns, jerky stops and relief when it’s over. The relief doesn’t come right away, but time, family and sharing like this are my best medicine.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
What Every 2nd Grader Needs to Know About 3rd Grade
I recently asked my class to list the ten most important things someone coming into third grade next year needs to know. There were a wide variety of answers. Some I expected: know your multiplication facts, read lots, you get new teachers. There were also quite a few that surprised me.
Here are a few of my favorite lists:
1. It’s hard.
2. You get desks.
3. It feels like it’s longer.
4. You get two PE’s a week.
5. You don’t get any field trips.
6. You do get fun days like Greece and Egypt Day.
7. It’s fun.
8. You get good friends.
9. You go to a new science room
10. You go to a new music room.
1. It’s really fun.
2. You should like sports.
3. Don’t complain
4. Want to earn tallies.
5. Return stuff.
6. Love to read.
7. Be competitive.
8. You have extra long music programs.
9. Learn to write carefully.
10. Like action.
1. Know your long division.
2. Know how to spell THE
3. Know how to read with a partner.
4. Know how to keep your face neat during art.
5. Multiplication
6. What 5+15= is
7. How to control being a tattle tale.
8. How to read for about an hour without messing around.
9. Fractions
10. How to keep your desk clean.
1. Listen!
2. Learn
3. Be happy
4. Don’t do the opposite of what the teacher says
5. Be quiet
6. Don’t play in class
7. Follow the class rules
8. Don’t keep secrets from your friends
9. Don’t act like a crazy hobo
10. Follow these instructions
1. It’s harder
2. You need to be smart
3. You will learn about different places
4. It’s funner
5. You need to know your times
6. You read harder books
7. You do famous people
8. Your desks move around a lot
9. Homework is harder
10. You have to work harder.
1. Be friendly
2. Don’t make Mrs. J mad
3. Be ready for lots of homework
4. Get costumes early for Egypt and Greece Day
5. Always return your library books
6. Always put your name on your paper
7. Accidents happen
8. Kickball will take over your life
9. Eat a lot
10. Drink a lot
Now you should be prepared for third grade. I guess it’s a lot harder. Also, beware of making your sports loving teacher angry, as you learn your times tables and read harder books. Good luck!
Here are a few of my favorite lists:
1. It’s hard.
2. You get desks.
3. It feels like it’s longer.
4. You get two PE’s a week.
5. You don’t get any field trips.
6. You do get fun days like Greece and Egypt Day.
7. It’s fun.
8. You get good friends.
9. You go to a new science room
10. You go to a new music room.
1. It’s really fun.
2. You should like sports.
3. Don’t complain
4. Want to earn tallies.
5. Return stuff.
6. Love to read.
7. Be competitive.
8. You have extra long music programs.
9. Learn to write carefully.
10. Like action.
1. Know your long division.
2. Know how to spell THE
3. Know how to read with a partner.
4. Know how to keep your face neat during art.
5. Multiplication
6. What 5+15= is
7. How to control being a tattle tale.
8. How to read for about an hour without messing around.
9. Fractions
10. How to keep your desk clean.
1. Listen!
2. Learn
3. Be happy
4. Don’t do the opposite of what the teacher says
5. Be quiet
6. Don’t play in class
7. Follow the class rules
8. Don’t keep secrets from your friends
9. Don’t act like a crazy hobo
10. Follow these instructions
1. It’s harder
2. You need to be smart
3. You will learn about different places
4. It’s funner
5. You need to know your times
6. You read harder books
7. You do famous people
8. Your desks move around a lot
9. Homework is harder
10. You have to work harder.
1. Be friendly
2. Don’t make Mrs. J mad
3. Be ready for lots of homework
4. Get costumes early for Egypt and Greece Day
5. Always return your library books
6. Always put your name on your paper
7. Accidents happen
8. Kickball will take over your life
9. Eat a lot
10. Drink a lot
Now you should be prepared for third grade. I guess it’s a lot harder. Also, beware of making your sports loving teacher angry, as you learn your times tables and read harder books. Good luck!
Friday, May 21, 2010
Revealing the Secret of the Art of Teaching
Trying to see the world from the perspective of someone else is something I try to teach my children and my students. It is also something that I enjoy doing as a teacher and a mother, often with humorous results. I love watching my toddler discover new things like the meaning of red lights and green lights.
“The light is green, we can go mom. Like Go Dog Go.”
A simple concept that I follow automatically daily, but it's suddenly exciting as I watch him make connections.
I asked my students to finish common ideas about teaching, education and learning. Exactly what do they think it means to be a teacher? Why is learning important? Is education important? Here are the results that I found the most enjoyable:
To teach is to... have fun.
I like a teacher who gives you...no homework.
The moment you stop learning, you...start thinking.
I am always ready to learn, but...not ready for homework.
You cannot teach a... teacher.
Anyone who stops learning is...going to have a hard time later on.
The moment you stop learning, you...are free.
I am always ready to learn, but... I get sleepy.
The art of teaching is...getting stressed.
I am always ready to learn, but... I don’t like learning.
The moment you stop learning, you...throw a party at your house or mine.
The art of teaching is...hard.
You cannot teach a...dork.
The moment you stop learning, you...become a hobo.
The art of teaching is... getting the questions asked.
I am always ready to learn, but...learning is for kids.
You cannot teach a...math class if you don’t know math.
A good teacher is like a... manager.
I am always ready to learn, but...not really.
A teacher is one who...has had lots of school.
A good teacher is like a... mom always helping.
I am always ready to learn, but...I’m not always ready to fight.
To teach is to... have fun.
The teacher who is indeed wise does not...give wrong answers.
The best teachers teach from...scratch.
A teacher is one who... loves school.
The teacher who is indeed wise does not...yell.
The object of education is to prepare the young to...complain.
And finally my absolute favorite:
The secret of teaching...the teacher’s lounge.
“The light is green, we can go mom. Like Go Dog Go.”
A simple concept that I follow automatically daily, but it's suddenly exciting as I watch him make connections.
I asked my students to finish common ideas about teaching, education and learning. Exactly what do they think it means to be a teacher? Why is learning important? Is education important? Here are the results that I found the most enjoyable:
To teach is to... have fun.
I like a teacher who gives you...no homework.
The moment you stop learning, you...start thinking.
I am always ready to learn, but...not ready for homework.
You cannot teach a... teacher.
Anyone who stops learning is...going to have a hard time later on.
The moment you stop learning, you...are free.
I am always ready to learn, but... I get sleepy.
The art of teaching is...getting stressed.
I am always ready to learn, but... I don’t like learning.
The moment you stop learning, you...throw a party at your house or mine.
The art of teaching is...hard.
You cannot teach a...dork.
The moment you stop learning, you...become a hobo.
The art of teaching is... getting the questions asked.
I am always ready to learn, but...learning is for kids.
You cannot teach a...math class if you don’t know math.
A good teacher is like a... manager.
I am always ready to learn, but...not really.
A teacher is one who...has had lots of school.
A good teacher is like a... mom always helping.
I am always ready to learn, but...I’m not always ready to fight.
To teach is to... have fun.
The teacher who is indeed wise does not...give wrong answers.
The best teachers teach from...scratch.
A teacher is one who... loves school.
The teacher who is indeed wise does not...yell.
The object of education is to prepare the young to...complain.
And finally my absolute favorite:
The secret of teaching...the teacher’s lounge.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
Mom a Three Letter Word
The word “mom” is such a simple word. Just three little letters. The same forwards or backwards. When spoken it can seem an endearment one moment and a swear word the next. A tiny word that when shouted in public draws crowds and guarantees heads will turn. A simple word that can create joy and dread in the hearts of women.
“Mom,” sweetly uttered by toddlers, said in tones of awe by children, and gasped with disbelieving embarrassment by teenagers.
Mom, I’m thankful to be one, but sometimes dream of a moment to myself. Mom, a different creature completely from dad. Mom, a word that looks so simple, but is deceivingly complicated.
“Mom,” sweetly uttered by toddlers, said in tones of awe by children, and gasped with disbelieving embarrassment by teenagers.
Mom, I’m thankful to be one, but sometimes dream of a moment to myself. Mom, a different creature completely from dad. Mom, a word that looks so simple, but is deceivingly complicated.
What Standardized Tests Really Measure
Standardized testing can be a useful tool in education. Unfortunately, too much emphasis is put on testing and they are over used. A standardized test can show a piece of the puzzle when it comes to a child’s education and learning, but rarely the whole picture. Due to their misuse I view them as a necessary evil of teaching. When I’m preparing my students I tell them that these tests are for gathering information. Standardized tests help parents, teachers and schools see where kids have strengths or weaknesses. They can also show me patterns where I can improve as a teacher. Tests help the school plan. Tests are tools for gathering information, that’s how I explain it to my third graders.
However, if I were to be frank, standardized testing is the biggest, time consuming, pain in the butt. Testing is supposed to gather information about reading, writing and math, but it is just as likely to gather completely different information. Sometimes testing provides information about fine motor skills; how well can an eight or nine year old fill in a small bubble with a pencil? Other times attention span, following directions, or just remembering not to skip pages is tested. Occasionally standardized testing informs me that a student freezes when being timed. Standardized testing is just plain stressful for teachers and students.
The stress begins with filling out the front cover. At our school third grade is their first experience with standardized tests. The chaos begins with the box labeled “Sex.” Let the giggling begin. Next, comes a very long discussion about race. I explain that each of the categories has to do with where the majority of their ancestors came from. I also tell them that they should go home and discuss with their parents which bubble they should fill in. Then, almost every hand in the class goes up as every child shares their ancestry. Many want to know which bubble to fill in if they’re French, German and Irish or some other European combination. Some ask what to do if their grandpa came from Australia or Canada? When it gets this complicated and it shouldn’t be, I tell them once again, “Go ask your parents.”
The real fun commences when the actual testing begins. Part of what makes a test standardized is that they are given the same way, with the same directions. Every time we start a new test I must read a scripted set of directions. These directions only change for one of the tests. There are eight different tests. Written into the directions, twice, is: “Are there any questions?” Meaning does the test taker understand how to take the test. Remember I teach third graders. Third graders who have never taken standardized tests before. It seems to me that when they hear, “Are there any questions?” my students think they have to ask a question. It is these questions, each time I give the same directions, that make me want to laugh and cry this week. Let me share a few examples.
The test our school administers is called ERB. The name of the test has been a huge concern to my class. A few times when I have asked if there are any questions their queries have been:
“My mom said she used to take the SAT’s, why do we take the ERB’s?”
“My cousin takes a test called The Stanford, why is it different than our test?”
It is of course normal for third graders to be curious about these things, but frustrating that they are asking these questions during the directions for the test. Also, I explained last week that ERB was the brand of test. Just like there are different brands of ice cream: Dreyers, Breyers, Ben and Jerry’s, there are different companies who create tests. Our school chooses to use the ERB’s.
During the second, “Are there any questions now?” pause in the directions a hand waved wildly in the front. “Mrs. Johnson, if we are supposed to be taking the ERB’s, why does it say ERB on the bottom of the page and CTP 4 on the top of the page?”
It’s only the first day and luckily I still have patience. I calmly explain that ERB is the brand, like Ben and Jerry’s, CTP 4 is the flavor, like vanilla. This seems to satisfy all curiosity and concern.
Some other questions that were asked when I gave directions throughout the testing process were:
“Are you sure I’m white?”
“What makes a #2 pencil different?”
“Do I HAVE TO read the page with the examples?”
“Why does it list Asian, Asian American and Pacific Islander together?”
“The note said to get plenty of sleep this week. If I got seven hours of sleep last night do you think I got enough sleep?”
“Do you think this pencil is sharp enough?”
“What should I do if I accidentally drop my pencil and it rolls away?”
“Why are there two test booklets?”
“Why are there two math sections?”
“Who decides how much time we get for each test?”
“Has anyone ever gotten every question right on this test?”
“Will there be any history sections?”
“If we all fail a test will you lose your job?”
“Is this a fill in the bubble test again?”
The first page of each test tells the student how much time is allowed and how many questions. However, on seven out of the eight test one student asked, “How many pages will there be on this test?”
So, what exactly do standardized tests measure? From my experience they mostly measure a teacher’s patience.
However, if I were to be frank, standardized testing is the biggest, time consuming, pain in the butt. Testing is supposed to gather information about reading, writing and math, but it is just as likely to gather completely different information. Sometimes testing provides information about fine motor skills; how well can an eight or nine year old fill in a small bubble with a pencil? Other times attention span, following directions, or just remembering not to skip pages is tested. Occasionally standardized testing informs me that a student freezes when being timed. Standardized testing is just plain stressful for teachers and students.
The stress begins with filling out the front cover. At our school third grade is their first experience with standardized tests. The chaos begins with the box labeled “Sex.” Let the giggling begin. Next, comes a very long discussion about race. I explain that each of the categories has to do with where the majority of their ancestors came from. I also tell them that they should go home and discuss with their parents which bubble they should fill in. Then, almost every hand in the class goes up as every child shares their ancestry. Many want to know which bubble to fill in if they’re French, German and Irish or some other European combination. Some ask what to do if their grandpa came from Australia or Canada? When it gets this complicated and it shouldn’t be, I tell them once again, “Go ask your parents.”
The real fun commences when the actual testing begins. Part of what makes a test standardized is that they are given the same way, with the same directions. Every time we start a new test I must read a scripted set of directions. These directions only change for one of the tests. There are eight different tests. Written into the directions, twice, is: “Are there any questions?” Meaning does the test taker understand how to take the test. Remember I teach third graders. Third graders who have never taken standardized tests before. It seems to me that when they hear, “Are there any questions?” my students think they have to ask a question. It is these questions, each time I give the same directions, that make me want to laugh and cry this week. Let me share a few examples.
The test our school administers is called ERB. The name of the test has been a huge concern to my class. A few times when I have asked if there are any questions their queries have been:
“My mom said she used to take the SAT’s, why do we take the ERB’s?”
“My cousin takes a test called The Stanford, why is it different than our test?”
It is of course normal for third graders to be curious about these things, but frustrating that they are asking these questions during the directions for the test. Also, I explained last week that ERB was the brand of test. Just like there are different brands of ice cream: Dreyers, Breyers, Ben and Jerry’s, there are different companies who create tests. Our school chooses to use the ERB’s.
During the second, “Are there any questions now?” pause in the directions a hand waved wildly in the front. “Mrs. Johnson, if we are supposed to be taking the ERB’s, why does it say ERB on the bottom of the page and CTP 4 on the top of the page?”
It’s only the first day and luckily I still have patience. I calmly explain that ERB is the brand, like Ben and Jerry’s, CTP 4 is the flavor, like vanilla. This seems to satisfy all curiosity and concern.
Some other questions that were asked when I gave directions throughout the testing process were:
“Are you sure I’m white?”
“What makes a #2 pencil different?”
“Do I HAVE TO read the page with the examples?”
“Why does it list Asian, Asian American and Pacific Islander together?”
“The note said to get plenty of sleep this week. If I got seven hours of sleep last night do you think I got enough sleep?”
“Do you think this pencil is sharp enough?”
“What should I do if I accidentally drop my pencil and it rolls away?”
“Why are there two test booklets?”
“Why are there two math sections?”
“Who decides how much time we get for each test?”
“Has anyone ever gotten every question right on this test?”
“Will there be any history sections?”
“If we all fail a test will you lose your job?”
“Is this a fill in the bubble test again?”
The first page of each test tells the student how much time is allowed and how many questions. However, on seven out of the eight test one student asked, “How many pages will there be on this test?”
So, what exactly do standardized tests measure? From my experience they mostly measure a teacher’s patience.
Friday, April 30, 2010
Just Me and My Toddler
I started my day demanding to know who had angered the Gods because once again I woke up to snow. SNOW! It is April 30th! My mother quickly comment on my facebook page that I was to blame because I have been a neglectful daughter. Sadly it is true. I have some good excuses though, teaching (work) and motherhood. A week of snow when it is supposed to be spring has meant high strung, cooped up students and too much indoor recess. Spring fever turned upside down by sudden freezing storms equals chaos. Throw in a middle school daughter who “has to” have a new outfit for the dance tonight, moody 15 and 2 year old boys (so many years separate them yet their temper tantrums sounds look so much alike) and I’m exhausted at the end of each day. That’s just how this week seems to be. It’s always something, isn’t it?
That’s why it’s so nice to be sitting here locked in my toddler's room. I'm happily typing,while he's dancing and bouncing on his bed as he enjoys some tunes. I’ve been trying to check out this sight for a while, but I’ve just caught glances before. I’m glad we’ve hidden away and taken a closer look. It’s called “Munchkin Radio.” http://www.munchkinradio.com/ Moms with little kids take a look, I think you’ll like it.
That’s why it’s so nice to be sitting here locked in my toddler's room. I'm happily typing,while he's dancing and bouncing on his bed as he enjoys some tunes. I’ve been trying to check out this sight for a while, but I’ve just caught glances before. I’m glad we’ve hidden away and taken a closer look. It’s called “Munchkin Radio.” http://www.munchkinradio.com/ Moms with little kids take a look, I think you’ll like it.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
More About Books (I Am a Teacher)
Recently I wrote about how to help kids become readers and the research I had been doing. I asked for help and a few people responded. Thanks for your help. As I mentioned I need to know about good books without having to read them all myself. One place I go to get ideas and advice is Peter from Flashlight Worthy and his book club books. We met on Twitter. So, if you're looking for book ideas yourself check him out.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Why I Can't Sleep: The Discussions In My Head
I'm very wise in the middle of the night. Between the hours of midnight and 4 am I seem to think a lot, too much in fact. I lay awake having conversations and pondering life when I should be sleeping. I write whole advice columns and self help novels. I tell my daughter all the things I want her to know, the parents of my students all the things I need them to hear and my husband exactly how I'm feeling.
Tonight as I lay my head down to sleep I started a conversation with my daughter. She's 12 years old. She's a great kid, I lucked out. She hates that I want to have so many discussions. They embarrass her. I'm rather frank. I know she thinks I'm crazy and only takes in maybe half of what I say, but I figure half is better than not saying anything. So, I start conversations in the middle of the night in hopes that I can streamline all my deep thoughts for her. Things like sex, love, marriage, and God. I've changed my opinion in those areas as she's grown up and I want her to understand my thinking. I also want her to understand my train of thought and why I've changed, but know it will come down to her choices and that's what is most important, she has choices. I won't be mad, eventually (let's be truthful, I'll have emotions), if she makes thoughtful choices.
Truthfully, the older I get the luckier I realize I am. I also realize what an odd duck I was and how right my parents were. Also, that by them being honest and talking to me, even though I didn't always follow what they said, I didn't always just rebel, I thought and often made choices. I didn't just run on instinct. I think the most frustrating thing for my mom about this statement must be that because of this I'm about as far away from the religion that I was raised in as she ever imagined I'd be. That's what's scary about being a parent, knowing yourself.
The older I get the more I think I change and the more I want to make life easier for my kids. If they'd only listen! So, whether they like it or not I trap them in the car where they can't escape and talk about things they wish I wouldn't bring up. I ask them questions they don't neccessarily want to answer, because as embarrassing as it is and as honest as my parents were I still think I have things to say that could make life easier for them.
Tonight as I lay my head down to sleep I started a conversation with my daughter. She's 12 years old. She's a great kid, I lucked out. She hates that I want to have so many discussions. They embarrass her. I'm rather frank. I know she thinks I'm crazy and only takes in maybe half of what I say, but I figure half is better than not saying anything. So, I start conversations in the middle of the night in hopes that I can streamline all my deep thoughts for her. Things like sex, love, marriage, and God. I've changed my opinion in those areas as she's grown up and I want her to understand my thinking. I also want her to understand my train of thought and why I've changed, but know it will come down to her choices and that's what is most important, she has choices. I won't be mad, eventually (let's be truthful, I'll have emotions), if she makes thoughtful choices.
Truthfully, the older I get the luckier I realize I am. I also realize what an odd duck I was and how right my parents were. Also, that by them being honest and talking to me, even though I didn't always follow what they said, I didn't always just rebel, I thought and often made choices. I didn't just run on instinct. I think the most frustrating thing for my mom about this statement must be that because of this I'm about as far away from the religion that I was raised in as she ever imagined I'd be. That's what's scary about being a parent, knowing yourself.
The older I get the more I think I change and the more I want to make life easier for my kids. If they'd only listen! So, whether they like it or not I trap them in the car where they can't escape and talk about things they wish I wouldn't bring up. I ask them questions they don't neccessarily want to answer, because as embarrassing as it is and as honest as my parents were I still think I have things to say that could make life easier for them.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
How to Create a Reader? (Help Needed)
As a third grade teacher one of the things I constantly ask myself is: How do I get kids to love reading? Why are some people “readers,” and some not. I have always been a reader. I love books. One of my favorite escapes is when I go away for a “girls” weekend and can read uninterrupted. Reading is a treat for me and it is difficult for me to see how it couldn’t be for everyone else. Fortunately, I’ve never had a learning disability or any other disadvantage interfere with my opportunities to read. I’m passionate about reading and want to pass that joy on to my students and children.
Since an important part of my job description is to teach reading, it is a topic I research often. Last summer I read The Reading Zone: How to Help Kids Become Skilled, Passionate, Habitual, Critical Readers by Nancie Atwell. Her goal as a reading teacher is to help her students, “...become smarter, happier, more just, and more compassionate people because of the worlds they experience within those hundreds of thousands of black lines of print.” (pg. 12)
I feel the same way about reading. The things I liked from her book were: kids need time to read and they should be reading books they choose. A large selection of books should be available to students. Teachers should give book talks to recommend good books. Teachers need to read and be knowledgeable about many books so they can make recommendations to their students. Kids should be taught strategies to find a book at their reading level. Comprehension happens when kids are reading books at their reading level.
I agree kids should be reading books they choose, but I think they still need to be assigned a few books. There needs to be a balance. I think reading a book on their level with the teacher is also very important. I have been trying to create this balance in my classroom.
While I am an avid reader, it is impossible to read everything out there. Also, I’m a little selfish, I don’t want to only read kid and young adult books. I enjoy them a lot, but every once in a while I need more adult topics. This is where I need some help. I’m interested in knowing what books you read when you were in elementary school and more specifically, third grade. What were the books you loved? Why did you love them? Was there a series that got you “hooked” on reading when you were young?
Comment on this blog post with your answers. I’ll use your ideas to narrow down what I should be reading. Or, I might use your comments to recommend books. Thanks for your help, it’s much appreciated. My goal, like Nancie Atwell is, “for every child to become a skilled, passionate, habitual, critical reader- as novelist Robertson Davies put it, to learn how to make reading “a personal art.” (pg. 12)
*Atwell, Nancie. The Reading Zone: How to Help Kids Become Skilled, Passionate, Habitual, Critical Readers. New York: Scholastic Inc, 2007
Since an important part of my job description is to teach reading, it is a topic I research often. Last summer I read The Reading Zone: How to Help Kids Become Skilled, Passionate, Habitual, Critical Readers by Nancie Atwell. Her goal as a reading teacher is to help her students, “...become smarter, happier, more just, and more compassionate people because of the worlds they experience within those hundreds of thousands of black lines of print.” (pg. 12)
I feel the same way about reading. The things I liked from her book were: kids need time to read and they should be reading books they choose. A large selection of books should be available to students. Teachers should give book talks to recommend good books. Teachers need to read and be knowledgeable about many books so they can make recommendations to their students. Kids should be taught strategies to find a book at their reading level. Comprehension happens when kids are reading books at their reading level.
I agree kids should be reading books they choose, but I think they still need to be assigned a few books. There needs to be a balance. I think reading a book on their level with the teacher is also very important. I have been trying to create this balance in my classroom.
While I am an avid reader, it is impossible to read everything out there. Also, I’m a little selfish, I don’t want to only read kid and young adult books. I enjoy them a lot, but every once in a while I need more adult topics. This is where I need some help. I’m interested in knowing what books you read when you were in elementary school and more specifically, third grade. What were the books you loved? Why did you love them? Was there a series that got you “hooked” on reading when you were young?
Comment on this blog post with your answers. I’ll use your ideas to narrow down what I should be reading. Or, I might use your comments to recommend books. Thanks for your help, it’s much appreciated. My goal, like Nancie Atwell is, “for every child to become a skilled, passionate, habitual, critical reader- as novelist Robertson Davies put it, to learn how to make reading “a personal art.” (pg. 12)
*Atwell, Nancie. The Reading Zone: How to Help Kids Become Skilled, Passionate, Habitual, Critical Readers. New York: Scholastic Inc, 2007
Sunday, March 14, 2010
Similes, Third Graders Say How They Really Feel
(I wrote this two weeks ago, but went on vacation and never got it published. Better late than never.)
I asked my class to finish some similes. Their choices were:
Vacation is like ...
Reading is like...
_____is as sweet as ______
_____ is as helpful as _____
Writing is like...
_____is as embarrassing as _____
Some of their response were what I expected, some were funny and some were confusing. This was the best one:
My mom is as is as embarrassing as the chicken dance.
I know my teenagers would agree with that one.
Spring Break is next week so I wanted to see how they felt about vacation. Here are some of their responses:
Vacation is like jumping in gumballs.
Vacation is like moving.
Vacation is like summer forever.
Vacation is like moving somewhere new.
Vacation is like your favorite treat.
Vacation is like me land.
Sounds like they’re looking forward to the break as much as me.
There were some differing views about writing. The first one is my favorite:
Writing is like a trip to the underworld.
Writing is like going on vacation.
Writing is like eating pie.
Writing is like dying.
I’m just happy the one about the underworld incorporated our study of Greek Myths into his English practice.
The only simile about reading that didn’t read like a library poster was this one:
Reading is like never getting in trouble.
Hmm, does it keep them out of trouble or do they like to read about trouble instead of getting into it themselves?
Next are some “helpful” comparisons. Any thoughts on the first one? I was thinking if I put the word “witches” in somewhere it would make more sense to me.
Horses are as helpful as brooms.
Friends are as helpful as a parent.
Dad is as helpful as a friend.
Dads are as helpful as servants.
Dad is as helpful as a tractor.
Seems like I have many helpful dads in my class. I think most of those were meant as compliments.
Finally, one more embarrassing moment, who do you think wrote this one, a boy or a girl? I can tell just by looking at the hand writing who wrote it, I don’t even need to find they’re name. If I look closely I’d bet this paper doesn’t have a name on it. Nope, no name and the paper is written on with the big blank heading space at the bottom. (I’m shaking my head.)
Whoopie Cushions are as embarrassing as a real fart.
This student’s progress report comments read something like this:
...is an independent thinker.
...thinks outside the box and is full of ideas.
...is learning when humor is helpful to learning and when it is inappropriate.
...enjoys attention, whether negative or positive.
I have to admit I did laugh out loud when I read it and it’s not like anyone else’s simile.
Just another example of why I love teaching and a taste of my day.
I asked my class to finish some similes. Their choices were:
Vacation is like ...
Reading is like...
_____is as sweet as ______
_____ is as helpful as _____
Writing is like...
_____is as embarrassing as _____
Some of their response were what I expected, some were funny and some were confusing. This was the best one:
My mom is as is as embarrassing as the chicken dance.
I know my teenagers would agree with that one.
Spring Break is next week so I wanted to see how they felt about vacation. Here are some of their responses:
Vacation is like jumping in gumballs.
Vacation is like moving.
Vacation is like summer forever.
Vacation is like moving somewhere new.
Vacation is like your favorite treat.
Vacation is like me land.
Sounds like they’re looking forward to the break as much as me.
There were some differing views about writing. The first one is my favorite:
Writing is like a trip to the underworld.
Writing is like going on vacation.
Writing is like eating pie.
Writing is like dying.
I’m just happy the one about the underworld incorporated our study of Greek Myths into his English practice.
The only simile about reading that didn’t read like a library poster was this one:
Reading is like never getting in trouble.
Hmm, does it keep them out of trouble or do they like to read about trouble instead of getting into it themselves?
Next are some “helpful” comparisons. Any thoughts on the first one? I was thinking if I put the word “witches” in somewhere it would make more sense to me.
Horses are as helpful as brooms.
Friends are as helpful as a parent.
Dad is as helpful as a friend.
Dads are as helpful as servants.
Dad is as helpful as a tractor.
Seems like I have many helpful dads in my class. I think most of those were meant as compliments.
Finally, one more embarrassing moment, who do you think wrote this one, a boy or a girl? I can tell just by looking at the hand writing who wrote it, I don’t even need to find they’re name. If I look closely I’d bet this paper doesn’t have a name on it. Nope, no name and the paper is written on with the big blank heading space at the bottom. (I’m shaking my head.)
Whoopie Cushions are as embarrassing as a real fart.
This student’s progress report comments read something like this:
...is an independent thinker.
...thinks outside the box and is full of ideas.
...is learning when humor is helpful to learning and when it is inappropriate.
...enjoys attention, whether negative or positive.
I have to admit I did laugh out loud when I read it and it’s not like anyone else’s simile.
Just another example of why I love teaching and a taste of my day.
Friday, February 12, 2010
Parent/Teacher Pondering
Parent/ Teacher conferences were at the end of last month and like always they’ve caused me to ponder teaching and parenting. I just haven’t had anytime to sit down and write. First, I often describe Parent/Teacher conferences as the moment when all becomes clear. Every idiom, saying, or phrase ever quipped about the parent/child relationship is proved. As a teacher, meeting parents often leads to an “Ah ha!” silently being shouted in my head. Meeting with teachers as a parent I know I reveal a lot about my own children.
When I receive an e-mail at 9 pm, the night of conferences, from a parent asking, “What time am I scheduled for tomorrow?” And my reply is, “You were scheduled for 5 pm tonight.” The phrase “the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree” comes to mind. That’s the parent I needed to discuss time management issues with.
As I’m conferencing with one of my daughter’s teachers I catch myself bouncing my knee, resting elbows on knees and then leaning back. I’m unable to sit still for the ten minute meeting. I’m sure that teacher is thinking, “Like mother, like daughter.”
Sometimes during a conference a parent keeps interrupting me with questions I’m about to address. Occasionally one will be so distracted by the stain on their shirt that they keep asking me the same questions. This is when I know “it runs in the family.”
If we’re conferencing with one of my son’s teachers and my husband accidently corrects the teacher’s grammar, I sometimes catch a smirk or a nod. They’re probably pondering the phrase, “a chip off the old block.”
While on a teacher site I came across this quote:
“The problem with children is that you have to put up with their parents.” ~Charles DeLint
Having been on both sides of the conference table, dealing with problem parents and periodically being a problem parent, I know this is too often true. Luckily this doesn’t lessen the joy I get from my job or from being a proud, protective parent. It just makes me want to say something I’ve probably said a hundred times. I just wish I could make parent’s understand that I care about their kids. If I bring up a problem it’s because I want their child to have the best experience, be the best learner and do their best as much as they do. Issues and problems are roadblocks to a student’s learning and I want to figure out how to get rid of them or go around them. I often hear people say teachers just want kids to sit still and be quiet. I don’t want them to sit like zombies, silent and wiggle free. If a student was acting like that I’d be calling their parents concerned.
Like any profession, teaching has its share of bad apples, but most teachers I know feel the same as I do. We care about our students and what we want the most is for each of our students to succeed as a learner.
The other event that had me full of thoughts has to do with my toddler. Recently I was filling out forms for preschool next year. One of the questions asked me to describe my child’s strengths. I could do that, like most folks I like enjoy bragging about my kids. It’s the next question that started me thinking, what did I think were areas my child needed improvement in? Hmm. My toddler is the youngest by a LARGE gap. He is around big people all the time. Occasionally he gets too much attention, while at other moments he gets forgotten about. He can be somewhat demanding and a little bossy. Also, I felt the need to apologize ahead of time, because he is around so many adults and teenagers he might hear or know things he shouldn’t. He has great communication skills and so I worry that he’ll be the kid who tells about things or uses words the other kid’s parents don’t want them to know yet. Basically, his weaknesses are that he’s the youngest and sometimes I’m a lazy parent.
As I was rereading my comments I thought of this quote I read the other day:
“A parent who has never apologized to his children is a monster. If he's always apologizing, his children are monsters.”
~Mignon McLaughlin
Oops! My toddler’s not a monster, but I sure apologize for him a lot. I have been since I found out I was pregnant. I apologized to my teenagers when I informed them about their new sibling. I told them sorry, but Hewson will get things and do things you never got. He’s so much younger that he’ll have us to himself and we’ll get old and lazier. I felt it best to warn them.
I apologized to the babysitter. I was sorry was stubborn and demanding. At home he doesn’t have to share his toys often because his siblings are so much older. He watches too much t.v. because his parents are so tired when we get home.
I guess I’m just a preventative apologizer. He’s really a pretty normal kid. I just know my faults. Also, it’s like the babysitter says, “He’s just so darn cute.” Good thing, I think some days. So, my hope is that between his cuteness and my preventative apologizing he won’t turn out to be a monster.
When I receive an e-mail at 9 pm, the night of conferences, from a parent asking, “What time am I scheduled for tomorrow?” And my reply is, “You were scheduled for 5 pm tonight.” The phrase “the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree” comes to mind. That’s the parent I needed to discuss time management issues with.
As I’m conferencing with one of my daughter’s teachers I catch myself bouncing my knee, resting elbows on knees and then leaning back. I’m unable to sit still for the ten minute meeting. I’m sure that teacher is thinking, “Like mother, like daughter.”
Sometimes during a conference a parent keeps interrupting me with questions I’m about to address. Occasionally one will be so distracted by the stain on their shirt that they keep asking me the same questions. This is when I know “it runs in the family.”
If we’re conferencing with one of my son’s teachers and my husband accidently corrects the teacher’s grammar, I sometimes catch a smirk or a nod. They’re probably pondering the phrase, “a chip off the old block.”
While on a teacher site I came across this quote:
“The problem with children is that you have to put up with their parents.” ~Charles DeLint
Having been on both sides of the conference table, dealing with problem parents and periodically being a problem parent, I know this is too often true. Luckily this doesn’t lessen the joy I get from my job or from being a proud, protective parent. It just makes me want to say something I’ve probably said a hundred times. I just wish I could make parent’s understand that I care about their kids. If I bring up a problem it’s because I want their child to have the best experience, be the best learner and do their best as much as they do. Issues and problems are roadblocks to a student’s learning and I want to figure out how to get rid of them or go around them. I often hear people say teachers just want kids to sit still and be quiet. I don’t want them to sit like zombies, silent and wiggle free. If a student was acting like that I’d be calling their parents concerned.
Like any profession, teaching has its share of bad apples, but most teachers I know feel the same as I do. We care about our students and what we want the most is for each of our students to succeed as a learner.
The other event that had me full of thoughts has to do with my toddler. Recently I was filling out forms for preschool next year. One of the questions asked me to describe my child’s strengths. I could do that, like most folks I like enjoy bragging about my kids. It’s the next question that started me thinking, what did I think were areas my child needed improvement in? Hmm. My toddler is the youngest by a LARGE gap. He is around big people all the time. Occasionally he gets too much attention, while at other moments he gets forgotten about. He can be somewhat demanding and a little bossy. Also, I felt the need to apologize ahead of time, because he is around so many adults and teenagers he might hear or know things he shouldn’t. He has great communication skills and so I worry that he’ll be the kid who tells about things or uses words the other kid’s parents don’t want them to know yet. Basically, his weaknesses are that he’s the youngest and sometimes I’m a lazy parent.
As I was rereading my comments I thought of this quote I read the other day:
“A parent who has never apologized to his children is a monster. If he's always apologizing, his children are monsters.”
~Mignon McLaughlin
Oops! My toddler’s not a monster, but I sure apologize for him a lot. I have been since I found out I was pregnant. I apologized to my teenagers when I informed them about their new sibling. I told them sorry, but Hewson will get things and do things you never got. He’s so much younger that he’ll have us to himself and we’ll get old and lazier. I felt it best to warn them.
I apologized to the babysitter. I was sorry was stubborn and demanding. At home he doesn’t have to share his toys often because his siblings are so much older. He watches too much t.v. because his parents are so tired when we get home.
I guess I’m just a preventative apologizer. He’s really a pretty normal kid. I just know my faults. Also, it’s like the babysitter says, “He’s just so darn cute.” Good thing, I think some days. So, my hope is that between his cuteness and my preventative apologizing he won’t turn out to be a monster.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Morals From the Third Grade
It's that time of year again. Once again I have asked my class to finish fables and share morals. I do this each year as we study Ancient Greece. Some years are more creative and interesting then others. This year the "Car" morals were overall the same, darn it. This is the third year I've published my results. I think the "Bee" fables are the best. Enjoy!
UNFINISHED FABLES
Read our conclusions and morals to these three unfinished fables.
One day, a computer said to a mouse pad, “You are nothing without me! I have all the circuits, all the software. I am the reason that you exist.”
“Ah,” said the mouse pad, “but….
...If you didn’t have me you would be broken.
Moral- Everybody is just as important.
...I’m not attached to you. I can be beautifully without your circuits and software.
Moral- Circuits and software don’t matter.
“...without me the user will not be able to access the software,” said the mousepad.
Moral- They can’t survive without each other.
...without me who could get to the sights? How could they turn you on? How could you read your GMail? See you need me to be great.
Moral- You need help to be great.
...without me you couldn’t move.
Moral- Don’t brag.
...if you did not have me you would not even be much, so we both need each other.
Moral- Nobody is better than any other person.
...without me there would be no point in using you. People wouldn’t be able to move the arrow. Without me you wouldn’t exist.
Moral- Don’t brag to others
Three bees were hovering around a flower one spring day when a woman walked by. The first bee flew away in fear. The second bee, believing that the woman did not notice him, decided to sit still and see what happened. The third bee…
…flew and sat on the top of a bench. The woman sat on the same bench and noticed the third bee. She swatted him and ran away in fright.
Moral- Always stay with people you know.
...was the youngest. He stayed there too. The second bee pushed him out of the way. “Stay back,” she said,”I’ll attack the human barbarian.” She tried, but died.
Moral-Never fight something dangerous.
...decided to hide and watch while the second bee got squished.
Moral-If something is dangerous hide or make a good choice and go on with your business.
…started buzzing around her head, annoying her and having a fun time. Then she pulled out a fly swatter and hit him.
Moral- Don’t annoy someone constantly just for fun.
…started dancing. Then the woman killed the dancing bee.
Moral- Never dance if you are a talking bee.
…was mad with the first and the second bee and stung the woman. He died right after.
Moral- Don’t take your anger out on someone else.
…started to break dance for the girl, but the girl saw him and killed him.
Moral-If you’re a bee, don’t break dance in front of a girl.
...went up to say, “Hi,” and the lady screamed and swatted at him. Luckily, she missed. The bee flew away.
Moral- Never talk to strangers.
...Stung the lady. The lady crushed the bee.
Moral- Do not sting people.
...stung the woman as hard as he could.
Moral-Never hurt
3. One day an auto mechanic was working on a car that had broken down. The mechanic was puzzled because he could not figure out what the problem was. He tried everything he knew, and still the car would not run. Finally, he threw up his arms in frustration, saying to the car, “How do I make you work again?” The car replied…
...give me back to my owner and I will work again.
Moral-Never talk to a car.
...come in and honk the horn five times. So he did and it worked. The car said to to back up. So he did and he ran into a tree.
Moral-Don’t listen to a car.
...If you give me oil then i’ll help you. So he gave it some oil...and the same thing happened again. The whole time the car was trying to trick him. so after the car drank that oil he drove away.
Moral-Don’t talk to a car.
...put the blue wire to the red in my roof. So he did and made it break even more.
Moral-Never listen to a talking car.
...give me some chocolate and then I will run. Well... ok, but you have to promise to run. “I will, I will, don’t worry.” So he gave the car chocolate, but the car was tricky, so he didn’t run and the mechanic was so mad!
Moral- Never give a talking car chocolate
...give me your wallet and your bank account and everything will be ok.
Moral-Never listen to a talking car.
...I am a stubborn car and I will only work if you feed me apples. The man didn’t have any apples. So, he got the very expensive ones. Then the car said, “Heh, no.”
Moral-Never give apples to a talking car.
...”I-I-I s-s-swallowed a-a-a h-h-hobo.” “That doesn’t make you work!!!” cried the man. The hobo jumped out, he was chewing on the engine.
Moral-Never trust a hobo
...you make me work by giving me love. The mechanic said, “What is love?” The car answered, “Love is appreciation.” Then the mechanic gave him love.
Moral-Love is important
And those are just a few example of how the mind of a third grader works.
UNFINISHED FABLES
Read our conclusions and morals to these three unfinished fables.
One day, a computer said to a mouse pad, “You are nothing without me! I have all the circuits, all the software. I am the reason that you exist.”
“Ah,” said the mouse pad, “but….
...If you didn’t have me you would be broken.
Moral- Everybody is just as important.
...I’m not attached to you. I can be beautifully without your circuits and software.
Moral- Circuits and software don’t matter.
“...without me the user will not be able to access the software,” said the mousepad.
Moral- They can’t survive without each other.
...without me who could get to the sights? How could they turn you on? How could you read your GMail? See you need me to be great.
Moral- You need help to be great.
...without me you couldn’t move.
Moral- Don’t brag.
...if you did not have me you would not even be much, so we both need each other.
Moral- Nobody is better than any other person.
...without me there would be no point in using you. People wouldn’t be able to move the arrow. Without me you wouldn’t exist.
Moral- Don’t brag to others
Three bees were hovering around a flower one spring day when a woman walked by. The first bee flew away in fear. The second bee, believing that the woman did not notice him, decided to sit still and see what happened. The third bee…
…flew and sat on the top of a bench. The woman sat on the same bench and noticed the third bee. She swatted him and ran away in fright.
Moral- Always stay with people you know.
...was the youngest. He stayed there too. The second bee pushed him out of the way. “Stay back,” she said,”I’ll attack the human barbarian.” She tried, but died.
Moral-Never fight something dangerous.
...decided to hide and watch while the second bee got squished.
Moral-If something is dangerous hide or make a good choice and go on with your business.
…started buzzing around her head, annoying her and having a fun time. Then she pulled out a fly swatter and hit him.
Moral- Don’t annoy someone constantly just for fun.
…started dancing. Then the woman killed the dancing bee.
Moral- Never dance if you are a talking bee.
…was mad with the first and the second bee and stung the woman. He died right after.
Moral- Don’t take your anger out on someone else.
…started to break dance for the girl, but the girl saw him and killed him.
Moral-If you’re a bee, don’t break dance in front of a girl.
...went up to say, “Hi,” and the lady screamed and swatted at him. Luckily, she missed. The bee flew away.
Moral- Never talk to strangers.
...Stung the lady. The lady crushed the bee.
Moral- Do not sting people.
...stung the woman as hard as he could.
Moral-Never hurt
3. One day an auto mechanic was working on a car that had broken down. The mechanic was puzzled because he could not figure out what the problem was. He tried everything he knew, and still the car would not run. Finally, he threw up his arms in frustration, saying to the car, “How do I make you work again?” The car replied…
...give me back to my owner and I will work again.
Moral-Never talk to a car.
...come in and honk the horn five times. So he did and it worked. The car said to to back up. So he did and he ran into a tree.
Moral-Don’t listen to a car.
...If you give me oil then i’ll help you. So he gave it some oil...and the same thing happened again. The whole time the car was trying to trick him. so after the car drank that oil he drove away.
Moral-Don’t talk to a car.
...put the blue wire to the red in my roof. So he did and made it break even more.
Moral-Never listen to a talking car.
...give me some chocolate and then I will run. Well... ok, but you have to promise to run. “I will, I will, don’t worry.” So he gave the car chocolate, but the car was tricky, so he didn’t run and the mechanic was so mad!
Moral- Never give a talking car chocolate
...give me your wallet and your bank account and everything will be ok.
Moral-Never listen to a talking car.
...I am a stubborn car and I will only work if you feed me apples. The man didn’t have any apples. So, he got the very expensive ones. Then the car said, “Heh, no.”
Moral-Never give apples to a talking car.
...”I-I-I s-s-swallowed a-a-a h-h-hobo.” “That doesn’t make you work!!!” cried the man. The hobo jumped out, he was chewing on the engine.
Moral-Never trust a hobo
...you make me work by giving me love. The mechanic said, “What is love?” The car answered, “Love is appreciation.” Then the mechanic gave him love.
Moral-Love is important
And those are just a few example of how the mind of a third grader works.
Saturday, January 16, 2010
Just Like Marie Curie
Every winter I teach a unit on researching and writing about Pioneers. Not the covered wagon, American west type of pioneers, but people who went before and prepared the way for others to follow. People who came up with something new or took part in the early development of something. Those type of pioneers.
Each year I have mixed emotions about the whole teaching process of this unit. In the beginning when I assign their pioneers, I’m excited. I’m fascinated by each of the people I’ve chosen and feel like I’m giving each student a gift. They don’t always agree with the “gift” part, but usually my excitement is contagious. Next, their assignment is just to read the various articles and books about their pioneer. I still like this part. Each morning someone approaches me with some tidbit they learned the night before. I encourage them to become experts on their pioneer. They’re the only one researching that person and it will be their job to teach the class at the end of the project. The next step isn’t my favorite, but it’s not the worst part either. This is the part where I lead them as a class through how to research. I demonstrate and we practice together using my hero, Jackie Robinson as an example. This always seems to go smoothly.
Then comes the part I dread, the part where they do their own research and write rough drafts. Twenty-four people need me at once. Research requires some independence. Independence and decision making are skills being taught and learned through out this unit. I recognize that. They’re third graders. It is just a very constant, tiring balancing act I perform. Keeping everyone on task, while helping and conferencing with each student, while answering questions. A huge variety of needs have to be met. It takes much patience and endurance.
There are the rushers, the ones who think they’re done in a day. They don’t use dates, they only use the information from time lines or the index. They’re facts are often random or insignificant. They only use the simplest resource they have to find information. When I ask them specifics or encourage them to find more information, they tell me that isn’t in the books or they can’t find it.
There are the distracted. Unfortunately research requires wise time management and some organization. These skills are part of our group practice with Jackie Robinson. I give them a variety of tools to help with organization: outlines, folders, pockets. I give reminders and dates for time management. I conference, edit and question throughout the process. However, talking to your neighbor, wandering around the room, staring into space, asking to go to the bathroom or get a drink and sharping your pencil for the tenth time in half an hour, doesn’t get much done.
There are the perfectionists. These students come in two groups. Those who write down every little detail, afraid to leave out any information. Or those who can’t decide what to write down. They don’t want to be wrong, so they don’t write down anything at all.
Finally, after much blood, sweat, tears and editing, their written report is done. We are all exhausted and relieved. I am also always amazed. My expectations are high on this assignment. They are required to practice and combine various skills for this project. It is truly a process and the end result is usually all that I expected and more. They do develop as writers and produce informative, interesting final products.
Yesterday, however, I had one of those positive moments midst the chaos. I remembered why this assignment is so important. I regained some of that joy I get from teaching and learning about the pioneers I’ve chosen to assign.
While helping a student decide what to include in her Marie Curie report I learned something new. I know many things about each of these people I assign to be researched. I need to know if my students are getting their facts straight. However, there’s always something new to discover.
Marie Curie was a strong woman. She is an example that I think every woman should read about, especially working women and girls discovering what they can become. Marie Curie did things that women of her time were told they couldn’t do. In Marie’s time women were supposed to be the weaker sex. Luckily, she didn’t believe that and she found other’s who didn’t believe that myth either.
In 1897 Marie Curie gave birth to her oldest daughter Irene. While excited, Marie was also overwhelmed. Besides being a new mother, she was expected to take care of her home. On top of those two things she still had school to complete. How could she do all these things at once?
I know many women who have asked themselves this question. The difference is that because of women like Marie Curie we have choices. Thinking about continuing her education was unheard of in her day. Getting an education, many didn’t even choose this path, was often just something to do until a woman got married. If she continued her education after marriage, she most certainly stopped after having a baby. However, Marie was smart and surrounded herself with people who thought her education was important. A creative solution was found to her problem. This solution, which is the new fact I learned today, was quite unique for the time.
Marie Curie’s father-in-law lost his wife a month after his granddaughter was born. Lonely and sad, Dr. Curie offered to move in with the couple and care for his granddaughter. This solution allowed Marie to continue her studies a little less stressfully.
Why do I find this fact so fascinating? Marie Curie did after all win two Nobel Prizes, one with her husband and one on her own. These facts seem much more important than a childcare issue. For me, it’s the facts about childcare issues, lessons learned from parents and role models, or the struggles that people survive that makes a pioneer. These are the things that often create a person who can lead the way and try new things. I loved discovering that Marie Curie was a pioneer in women’s rights, not just in science. Marie was a woman whose accomplishments were not only great discoveries in science, but also included not allowing poverty to prevent her from getting an education, being a working mother and raising strong daughters. Irene, along with her husband, earned a Nobel Prize of her own in 1935. Discovering that Marie Curie worried about work and motherhood is the most important thing I’ve learned about her. It makes me a little bit like her. It also reminds me of why I teach this long, difficult pioneer research unit. I teach it so that hopefully the student assigned Marie Curie each year learns from her example and dreams of being just like Marie Curie.
Each year I have mixed emotions about the whole teaching process of this unit. In the beginning when I assign their pioneers, I’m excited. I’m fascinated by each of the people I’ve chosen and feel like I’m giving each student a gift. They don’t always agree with the “gift” part, but usually my excitement is contagious. Next, their assignment is just to read the various articles and books about their pioneer. I still like this part. Each morning someone approaches me with some tidbit they learned the night before. I encourage them to become experts on their pioneer. They’re the only one researching that person and it will be their job to teach the class at the end of the project. The next step isn’t my favorite, but it’s not the worst part either. This is the part where I lead them as a class through how to research. I demonstrate and we practice together using my hero, Jackie Robinson as an example. This always seems to go smoothly.
Then comes the part I dread, the part where they do their own research and write rough drafts. Twenty-four people need me at once. Research requires some independence. Independence and decision making are skills being taught and learned through out this unit. I recognize that. They’re third graders. It is just a very constant, tiring balancing act I perform. Keeping everyone on task, while helping and conferencing with each student, while answering questions. A huge variety of needs have to be met. It takes much patience and endurance.
There are the rushers, the ones who think they’re done in a day. They don’t use dates, they only use the information from time lines or the index. They’re facts are often random or insignificant. They only use the simplest resource they have to find information. When I ask them specifics or encourage them to find more information, they tell me that isn’t in the books or they can’t find it.
There are the distracted. Unfortunately research requires wise time management and some organization. These skills are part of our group practice with Jackie Robinson. I give them a variety of tools to help with organization: outlines, folders, pockets. I give reminders and dates for time management. I conference, edit and question throughout the process. However, talking to your neighbor, wandering around the room, staring into space, asking to go to the bathroom or get a drink and sharping your pencil for the tenth time in half an hour, doesn’t get much done.
There are the perfectionists. These students come in two groups. Those who write down every little detail, afraid to leave out any information. Or those who can’t decide what to write down. They don’t want to be wrong, so they don’t write down anything at all.
Finally, after much blood, sweat, tears and editing, their written report is done. We are all exhausted and relieved. I am also always amazed. My expectations are high on this assignment. They are required to practice and combine various skills for this project. It is truly a process and the end result is usually all that I expected and more. They do develop as writers and produce informative, interesting final products.
Yesterday, however, I had one of those positive moments midst the chaos. I remembered why this assignment is so important. I regained some of that joy I get from teaching and learning about the pioneers I’ve chosen to assign.
While helping a student decide what to include in her Marie Curie report I learned something new. I know many things about each of these people I assign to be researched. I need to know if my students are getting their facts straight. However, there’s always something new to discover.
Marie Curie was a strong woman. She is an example that I think every woman should read about, especially working women and girls discovering what they can become. Marie Curie did things that women of her time were told they couldn’t do. In Marie’s time women were supposed to be the weaker sex. Luckily, she didn’t believe that and she found other’s who didn’t believe that myth either.
In 1897 Marie Curie gave birth to her oldest daughter Irene. While excited, Marie was also overwhelmed. Besides being a new mother, she was expected to take care of her home. On top of those two things she still had school to complete. How could she do all these things at once?
I know many women who have asked themselves this question. The difference is that because of women like Marie Curie we have choices. Thinking about continuing her education was unheard of in her day. Getting an education, many didn’t even choose this path, was often just something to do until a woman got married. If she continued her education after marriage, she most certainly stopped after having a baby. However, Marie was smart and surrounded herself with people who thought her education was important. A creative solution was found to her problem. This solution, which is the new fact I learned today, was quite unique for the time.
Marie Curie’s father-in-law lost his wife a month after his granddaughter was born. Lonely and sad, Dr. Curie offered to move in with the couple and care for his granddaughter. This solution allowed Marie to continue her studies a little less stressfully.
Why do I find this fact so fascinating? Marie Curie did after all win two Nobel Prizes, one with her husband and one on her own. These facts seem much more important than a childcare issue. For me, it’s the facts about childcare issues, lessons learned from parents and role models, or the struggles that people survive that makes a pioneer. These are the things that often create a person who can lead the way and try new things. I loved discovering that Marie Curie was a pioneer in women’s rights, not just in science. Marie was a woman whose accomplishments were not only great discoveries in science, but also included not allowing poverty to prevent her from getting an education, being a working mother and raising strong daughters. Irene, along with her husband, earned a Nobel Prize of her own in 1935. Discovering that Marie Curie worried about work and motherhood is the most important thing I’ve learned about her. It makes me a little bit like her. It also reminds me of why I teach this long, difficult pioneer research unit. I teach it so that hopefully the student assigned Marie Curie each year learns from her example and dreams of being just like Marie Curie.
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
What I Did at Faculty Meeting
I’ve often said teachers make the worst students. Get us in a meeting, seminar or workshop and we do all the things we complain that our students do. Today I was a prime example. Today I was a pretty good example of how my students are at about 2:30pm and 45 minutes to go until the end of the day. Faculty meeting started at 3:30 pm and went to 5:00 pm. My attention was gone before it even started. I was just too damn tired, my brain was done thinking and I was having a difficult time mustering any caring. So, this is what I did during faculty meeting.
What I did during faculty meeting January 13, 2010:
Whether Harold’s favorite crayon, or
a “one eyed, one horned people eater.”
A giant sing dinosaur,
one counting puppet, or
a teen idol’s socks,
I’m an entertaining color.
Wine to get you drunk,
Dimetapp to clear your head,
Juice to stain your lip,
I’m a satisfying color.
Lilacs scent the breeze,
Lavender blankets the field,
Irises sway in the wind,
Pansies paint a garden.
I’m a memorable color.
What I did during faculty meeting January 13, 2010:
Whether Harold’s favorite crayon, or
a “one eyed, one horned people eater.”
A giant sing dinosaur,
one counting puppet, or
a teen idol’s socks,
I’m an entertaining color.
Wine to get you drunk,
Dimetapp to clear your head,
Juice to stain your lip,
I’m a satisfying color.
Lilacs scent the breeze,
Lavender blankets the field,
Irises sway in the wind,
Pansies paint a garden.
I’m a memorable color.
Monday, January 11, 2010
Today's lesson: Color Poems
Once again trying to set an example as a writer as I teach writing. Today's writing lesson was Color Poems. Color is used to express and represent so many things: personalities, emotions, smells, sounds, tastes, holidays... The object was to express a color without coming right out and telling the reader the color. Here are my poems from today:
I smell of squishy, fresh mud and grainy sand storms.
My dust tickles noses and makes eyes itchy.
I am rough, scratchy bark and strong, smooth leather.
I tint many curls and eyelashes.
I am thick, creamy chocolate milk and a greasy hamburger.
I am the crunch of a nut or the tapping of a stick.
I flash suddenly and quickly to your cheeks,
telling people you are embarrassed.
I help celebrate the 4th of July
and many other holidays too.
I smell of rose petals and cherry chapstick.
I can taste like peppermints, spaghetti or watermelon.
I feel like a scratched knee or Santa’s velvety suit.
I sound like a heart beat or a siren.
Last year's attempt.
I can be as cold as snow or as warm as fur.
I enjoy the North Pole and grandpa’s scruffy face.
I’m an oval egg or a round golf ball.
I smell sweet like sugar
and I’m as soft as cotton.
This one is from two years ago.
I stain the knees of soccer and football players.
I color the leaves that shade you in the summer heat.
I command cars,
and many consider me lucky.
I smell of squishy, fresh mud and grainy sand storms.
My dust tickles noses and makes eyes itchy.
I am rough, scratchy bark and strong, smooth leather.
I tint many curls and eyelashes.
I am thick, creamy chocolate milk and a greasy hamburger.
I am the crunch of a nut or the tapping of a stick.
I flash suddenly and quickly to your cheeks,
telling people you are embarrassed.
I help celebrate the 4th of July
and many other holidays too.
I smell of rose petals and cherry chapstick.
I can taste like peppermints, spaghetti or watermelon.
I feel like a scratched knee or Santa’s velvety suit.
I sound like a heart beat or a siren.
Last year's attempt.
I can be as cold as snow or as warm as fur.
I enjoy the North Pole and grandpa’s scruffy face.
I’m an oval egg or a round golf ball.
I smell sweet like sugar
and I’m as soft as cotton.
This one is from two years ago.
I stain the knees of soccer and football players.
I color the leaves that shade you in the summer heat.
I command cars,
and many consider me lucky.
Friday, January 8, 2010
Life in Third Grade
I love teaching third grade. The kids aren’t too old, so they aren’t smart asses yet. They’re not too young, so no nose wiping or pant zipping necessary. Most are comfortable with the basics of reading, writing and math, so I can challenge them to think deeper and explain their ideas. They are the middle children of Lower/elementary school. No longer “babies,” but not as sure of themselves as fifth graders. They’re in the midst of their early school years, observing then beginning to discover themselves as learners. However, they are still kids and by Friday afternoon, no matter how much I love my class or teaching, I’m exhausted. Most jobs can do this. An experience from today explains why my job can be so tiring. It’s 10:00am, morning recess has just ended. My class is straggling in from the playground. They trickle into the room trying to eek out seconds more of play time. The last three enter the room loudly chatting. The one in the middle has something he desperately needs to tell me.
“Mrs. Johnson,” he says in a panic filled voice, “I lost something at recess.” I patiently respond with the question, “What did you lose?” Knowing that a third grader’s idea of an emergency and a teacher’s idea of an emergency is often very different.
“I lost part of my recorder.” Yesterday in Music every third grader was given a recorder for a five week unit. Many had taken theirs to recess so they could practice.
“What part did you lose?” I asked.
“My bracelet,” was his response.
With raised eyebrows I asked, “A bracelet?” In my head I was thinking, that’s not part of a recorder. He explained, “She gave us bracelets to wear so we can remember which hand goes on top.”
Now it was making sense and I had a decision to make. Do I let him go back to the playground and search? If I do he misses part of the directions. Also, I’m sure the music teacher has extra bracelets and she’ll give him another later during music. If I don’t let him search he’ll worry about it all day and be distracted. Hmm.
Just then a voice behind me says, “You lost your bracelet? I know where it’s at. I can show you.” Great, I think now two will miss directions. However, they shouldn’t be long since they know where they’re going. I make my decision.
“Okay, go look, but be quick.” They shake their heads yes and very seriously respond with, “We will.”
A few minutes later they return. “We couldn’t find it.” They tell me. I’m about to say that the music teacher probably has another bracelet when once again we are interrupted.
“Was your bracelet orange?” a boy asks, “ because I saw an orange one over by the slides.” The owner of the missing bracelet confirms that his bracelet was indeed orange.
“Go check by the slides.” I say.
At this point I’m a little frustrated with all the time we’re wasting, but decide to let him finish his search.
Again he returns empty handed. Since I let him look he’s less worried about his loss, because he knows he at least tried to find it. He shrugs his shoulders and shakes his head, no. He continues over to his cubby, taking off his coat and hanging it up. It is at this point I hear a surprised, “OH!”
This of course caused the whole class to turn their attention towards him. Sheepishly blushing a deep red he held up his arm saying, “I found it. It’s on my wrist.” And that is a moment in the life of third grade and why the teacher is worn out at the end of the day.
“Mrs. Johnson,” he says in a panic filled voice, “I lost something at recess.” I patiently respond with the question, “What did you lose?” Knowing that a third grader’s idea of an emergency and a teacher’s idea of an emergency is often very different.
“I lost part of my recorder.” Yesterday in Music every third grader was given a recorder for a five week unit. Many had taken theirs to recess so they could practice.
“What part did you lose?” I asked.
“My bracelet,” was his response.
With raised eyebrows I asked, “A bracelet?” In my head I was thinking, that’s not part of a recorder. He explained, “She gave us bracelets to wear so we can remember which hand goes on top.”
Now it was making sense and I had a decision to make. Do I let him go back to the playground and search? If I do he misses part of the directions. Also, I’m sure the music teacher has extra bracelets and she’ll give him another later during music. If I don’t let him search he’ll worry about it all day and be distracted. Hmm.
Just then a voice behind me says, “You lost your bracelet? I know where it’s at. I can show you.” Great, I think now two will miss directions. However, they shouldn’t be long since they know where they’re going. I make my decision.
“Okay, go look, but be quick.” They shake their heads yes and very seriously respond with, “We will.”
A few minutes later they return. “We couldn’t find it.” They tell me. I’m about to say that the music teacher probably has another bracelet when once again we are interrupted.
“Was your bracelet orange?” a boy asks, “ because I saw an orange one over by the slides.” The owner of the missing bracelet confirms that his bracelet was indeed orange.
“Go check by the slides.” I say.
At this point I’m a little frustrated with all the time we’re wasting, but decide to let him finish his search.
Again he returns empty handed. Since I let him look he’s less worried about his loss, because he knows he at least tried to find it. He shrugs his shoulders and shakes his head, no. He continues over to his cubby, taking off his coat and hanging it up. It is at this point I hear a surprised, “OH!”
This of course caused the whole class to turn their attention towards him. Sheepishly blushing a deep red he held up his arm saying, “I found it. It’s on my wrist.” And that is a moment in the life of third grade and why the teacher is worn out at the end of the day.
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