I’ve Searched For Balance, Today It Found Me

Today the fulcrum found perfect center.  I felt relaxed, able to tackle long-ignored projects, and RESTED.  How I have longed for the opportunity to get enough sleep!  Since the last day of school, I have been sleeping like a hound dog on an Arkansas porch.  My supply of adrenalin has carried me thus far, but I noticed the last couple of weeks of school that I felt tired the entire day.  I would awake exhausted and fight sleepiness all day.  I knew my body was breaking down and just hoped that I would make it till the final day of school without illness.  I fought a cold for a week or so, but Zycam,  prayer, and sheer grit got me through. 

 I have been amazingly busy since that final day, but today I claimed as my own.  And so, this morning I slept till seven, had a leisurely breakfast, and then did whatever I wanted.  I chose to clean bathrooms and do laundry.  Not very exciting or glamorous, but the point is, I had the freedom to CHOOSE.  For the first time in two years, my day was a blank slate.  I had the joyous privilege of scribbling in whatever I wanted.  It felt fabulous!  I puttered outside here and there, watered my freshly planted annuals, and just savored the feeling of relaxed activity.  The mundane never felt so good.

And then it hit me.  At the end of every school year, I get a three-month vacation.  Three months!!  How cool is THAT?!  I can look forward to this same glorious experience every summer.  I’M LOVIN’ IT.  Is teaching a great gig, or what??  Why don’t more people choose teaching, I wonder? 

But the crowning moment came about mid-afternoon.  I was talking on the phone with my mother, another woefully neglected area of my life, when my cell phone rang.  My husband’s number showed on the display screen and I handed the phone to my daughter to answer so that I could keep talking to mom uninterrupted.  I could hear John’s voice rise when Hannah told him I was busy with another call.  I put mom on hold and took the call.  He said Trevor had been injured.  Could I run him into the emergency room?  Of course!!  Trevor had been pounding on a beam in the barn they were renovating and a chunk of wood had split off and hit him square in the eye.  His eye was filling with blood and his vision was cloudy.  I hung up with mom, threw on a clean shirt and grabbed my purse. 

As I sat first in the walk-in clinic, and then the ER, I was reminded of what a privilege it was to have been available at that moment to care for my family.  My old convictions of putting children first rose to the forefront.  I AM first and foremost a mother.  My new career is a distant second to anything else in my life.  It felt GOOD to spend the ensuing three hours totally devoted to Trevor with no feelings of guilt for the break in study, and no distracted thoughts for what awaited me at home.  When the call came I was just getting ready to put screens in the windows.  Screens can wait.  No big deal.

When I look back at how intense the last two years have been, I marvel at how I was able to withstand my crazy schedule.  I really had to accept the feeling of not doing everything to my standards.  I had no balance.  My house never felt clean enough, my parenting never felt adequate enough, and my sleep levels were always ridiculously depleted.  But survive I did.  When my children tell me that school is hard or stressful, I can honestly say, “Yeah, I know.  But you CAN do it.  Follow my example.” 

Today felt good.  It felt better than good.  It was a rich reward after a long season of work and exhaustion.  I planned my day and didn’t sweat an interruption. 

Balance is back and it feels amazing.

New Teacher is Replaced By Experienced One

At 1:40 p.m. today, my last student ran out the door headed straight to a joyful summer of play, sleeping late, and NO SCHOOL.  They were expectant, ready, and happy to be free.  Boy, do I remember that feeling.  I experienced a wee bit of it today myself.  I gathered my things and headed out the door shortly after the kids did so that I could go into town and do some shopping with my son.  I left my classroom cluttered and in a partial state of being cleared for the summer.  I will return tomorrow to do more cleaning and fill out some paperwork for our faculty meeting on Monday morning.  Tonight I will not think about those chores.  Tonight I will savor the feeling of beginning the first real break I have had in two years.  Exactly two years ago this month, I began my course study and truthfully (no, I’m not exaggerating), I have not had a day’s break since then.  Weekends, evenings, and summers found me studying.  Even if I took an evening or a partial day to do something else, it was always THERE, never far from my thoughts, always hovering over my head.  I would feel guilty if I took a little “me” time and always knew that a leisurely afternoon or evening would only translate into extra work later.

I’m so thankful I waited until my youngest child was old enough to be fairly independent to start this venture, because frankly, poor Rosie was ignored quite frequently.  Thankfully she’s at that age where parents are mostly an embarrassment and pain in the neck.  I think on some level she was glad that my attention was diverted away from her for a season (and then again, maybe I’m just trying to salve my conscience).  Either way, with her busy schedule and my studying madness, we have not had much mother/daughter time.  I’m looking forward to that changing now. 

So here I am, ending my (half) year as I started it; penning my thoughts in this blog.  It has been therapeutic and great fun to write about my experiences.  I am still incredulous that anyone besides my immediate family and dearest friends have had any interest in reading these ramblings. 

Recently, the grandmother of one my students hugged me and thanked me tearfully for caring about and for her grandchild.  She faithfully keeps updated about the goings-on in our classroom and wanted to express her appreciation.  I was deeply moved and humbled that she had such confidence in my teaching and in me.  I guess it's nice that there is a format for the parents of my students to get a birds eye view of our classroom.

I would have liked to have had more time to write, but time for such things was precious and scarce at best.  I usually couldn’t find time until quite late at night, usually near the Cinderella hour of midnight.  So I hope you have graciously excused poor grammar and misspelled words.  They have been the casualty of an overwhelmed and exhausted first year teacher.  I am grateful for the loving, unofficial editors comprised of friends and relatives that have brought some of my errors to my attention.  I am sure there are many more that were missed.

And now I will take a few moments to highlight some of the more stand-out moments since my first day on the job.  Here goes:

Let’s start with the first day.  I was excited, thankful to have a teaching job, and ready to practice the wonderful teaching strategies that had mostly been theory until now.  But looking back, I was ill prepared for the overwhelming cacophony that would comprise that first day and the following weeks.  Not so much classroom management or behavioral issues (motherhood had groomed me for those), but more keeping track of the hectic schedule and trying to stay on top of the day and all that must be accomplished in the course of a day.  It took several weeks before I felt I had any sense of control over those things.  I’m still not there, but at least it felt better here at the end.

Of course, the March blizzard and subsequent overnight stay at school will always be etched in memory.  To take my place in that historic event with seasoned teachers who had never experienced it themselves was something of an honor (thankfully that “honor” only involved one night!). 

And then there are the individual students whose circumstances were each unique as I learned to know them and learned about them.  I shared their journey for a brief moment in time and was changed by their stories.  You met my student whose mother was killed in a car accident a year ago.  He has continued to work through his grief and is still trying to process how his world has changed forever.  I hope I’ve helped further him along, but I can’t be sure.  There is only so much a soul can do.

There is the student who lives with guardians because his reality is complicated.  There are the students who excel academically and those who struggle.  There are the dinosaur lovers and the horse freaks, and the super hero aficionados whose topic knowledge is expansive.

There are the students whose parents divorced during the school year.  Can you imagine trying to put on a brave face at school for your teacher and classmates while inside you are aching and confused?  All of this has been part of my first year.  You know what?  I can’t shut it off at the end of the day.  I bring those very real, tangible evidences of life evolving home with me, and along with my six and seven-year-old’s, I’ m just trying to make sense of it all.  One day I listened to the tearful admission of a child of divorce as he poured out his hurt.  I couldn’t stop the tears that coursed down my own face.  His heartache became my own.  He wanted answers.  I had none to give.  I could only listen and share his agony. 

There were funny moments too.  More than I could ever record in this limited space.  On Earth Day when we spread out and clean the highway ditches around town, one boy fervently hoped all morning that he would find a shark tooth during the ditch-sweep (but that would require a salt-water ocean…. oh, never mind…)  And then there are the proud moments that my sweeties insist on sharing with me.  One child came to me holding a tissue in his hand.  “Mrs. Dahl’” he said earnestly, “look!” he said shoving the tissue towards my face.  I looked down at the treasured item and saw the most enormous green booger I had ever seen.  Very impressive.  Thanks for sharing. 

As I reflect, I realize that my learning curve has been steep.  Student teaching certainly helps prepare for the classroom.  But truthfully, in many ways it falls short.  That is because a new teacher can’t be prepped for everything that will be unique to their first teaching experience.  There is just one way to adjust and that is to simply plow through it, sort of like driving through a steep mountain pass.  Don’t count on finding a spot for turning around.  Just keep going forward.  You may find you were forced to take the round about way, but at the very least, it will have been scenic.

So as I close this school year and this last day post, I leave a part of me with this group of students.  They are the woof and warp of this place in my journey.  Unchangeable and unforgettable.  Did I do everything right?  Absolutely not. I have lots of do-overs on my list.  I’m hoping and trusting that next fall I will have approached those faux pas with clear vision and a new plan. I want to be reflective and self-correcting continually.

My title intimates that I have “arrived.”  No, silly.  I don’t believe that for a moment.  Here’s my bottom line on that topic.   Teaching is waaaaay harder than it looks.  I will never arrive.  I will be learning how to teach for the rest of my career, however long or short that may be.  But neither am I the freshman newbie I was four months ago.  That ended my first day on the job.  The good news is, I am already excited for the fall.  I want to do it all over again.  That’s a good sign, right?

And just so you know, I will probably throw up a post or two during the summer as topics, time, and inspiration strike me.  So hang with me, or take the summer off, it’s your call.

Thank you for sharing my journey.  Thank you for being interested in the things that interest me.  And thanks for rooting for me.  I am changed forever.

The Last Week of School: What’s the Point?

You may or may not be aware of this well-kept secret.  From an educational standpoint, the last week of school is awash.  Nothing happening.  Stay-and-Play-Time.  If you think your Little Jonnie or Jane is getting massive doses of genius-producing instruction during the last week of the school year, then I’ve got a statue in New York Harbor that I’m hoping I can interest you in.  Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but it ain’t happenin’.

No, my friend, the last week of school seems to be used for a plethora of other reasons, equally as vital as the 3 R’s.  Once you hear what we teachers REALLY do with your children as we watch the countdown clock, you’ll agree that the last week is mighty important indeed.

For example:

The last week of school is vital to the Lost and Found box getting pawed through and emptied.  The items claimed don’t necessarily belong to the claimees, but at this point, who really cares?  Just get it outta here!

Another necessary reason for the last week of school is for the school cook to clean the freezers out (and the industrial-size refrigerators).  I love how the menu reads “cook’s choice.”  That’s code for it-might-be-a-wee-bit-outdated-but-if-you-get-a-touch-of-food-poisoning-it-doesn’t-really-matter-at-this-point-‘cause-I-won’t-see-you-till-fall-anyway.  (Just kidding, Pam.  Everything is as fresh and delicious as ever!  You are the BEST).

A third reason for school’s last week is on-the-job training for our students to hone their movie review skills.  If there’s a Disney or Pixar flick that is floating around out there, we are ON IT.  We are going to watch them all and spend school hours that are in short supply this last week to keep our loved ones from renting or purchasing any movie that might get a thumbs-down.  This morning during our Salad Celebration (we grew our own lettuce and devoured it before our trip to the zoo.  Zoo trips fall under  reason #7), the first grade watched the first half of Robots.  Fear not, we will try to finish it tomorrow, our last day of school.  We teachers cannot trust parents to get in acceptable amounts of movie viewing time for their children, so we take it upon ourselves to get the recommended daily dose of animated fare.  Just glad I can do my part.

Reason four:  When else can we get our double-dose recess time in other than this last week of school?  (Teacher thinks) OK, the movie didn’t QUITE fill the morning hours before lunch.  What to do, what to do…..  I KNOW!  “Children, let’s line up for recess.”  (Children respond) “AGAIN???   Awwwww, we want another movie!”

There are even MORE equally good reasons for the last week.  The last week of school is notoriously famous (at least in our school) for playing pranks on each other. The one that springs to my mind is when the senior graduating class was asked to step onto the front lawn for a yearbook picture.  The poor unsuspecting graduates were smiling like movie stars when the junior class (who had been waiting gleefully on the roof), poured buckets of water over the class of 2009.  The funniest part is, the yearbook photographer took her job seriously and kept snapping away throughout.  The slow motion pictures of that prank are hilarious. 

Reason #6:  If we didn’t have the last week of school, when would we possibly get in every awards ceremony, banquet, and potluck known to man?  Somewhere in the cosmos is an unwritten rule that they MUST be conducted during the last week of school.  Otherwise they don’t count (or something).  I don’t fully understand it all, I just know that the timing is crucial.  So the last week it is.

I’m not done.  There’s more.  The last week needs to be the crucible for class field trips.  Now I hasten to add that in our case (I refer to the Northern Prairie), we don’t shovel out from a snow bank until roughly the last week of school, so it only makes sense in our case (AND, there are only so many movies out there to view).  But I’m guessing that this rule is common to most school districts the world over. 

And finally, the top reason that the last week of school is vital to the educational process is…(are you ready?)  It’s the time when teachers get to have Jeans Day ALL WEEK.  For whatever reason, we teachers absolutely live for Jeans Day.  So it only makes sense that an entire week of wearing jeans daily somehow makes our entire professional lives worthwhile.

Well, there you have it.  I think I have incontrovertibly proved that the last week of school is not only important, the entire educational system actually hinges on it. 

I’m catching on to this teaching thing quite well, thank you.

 

End of Year Insanity

I have a recurring dream.  In it, I am swimming in chocolate pudding (against the tide), seven first graders are talking to me simultaneously, my principal keep throwing forms on top of me so that I find it difficult to stay above the surface, and during the entire dream sequence, I keep hearing over the loudspeaker that I am late for a meeting.  Then I wake in a cold sweat and…No, wait a minute. That’s impossible.  It couldn't have been a dream.  I haven't been dreaming lately.  I’m too exhausted.  I fall into a coma when my head hits the pillow and need a defibrillator and caffeine IV's to come out of it in the morning.  I’ve been setting my alarm for four a.m. just so that I can get everything done.  The last two weeks have been busy beyond belief.  Apparently, the whirlwind I’ve been living in since my first day on the job is a mere foretaste of the last month of school.

Everything seems to have escalated.  The grading, the push to finish curriculum, the before and after school meetings, the disruptions during the instructional day, the student illnesses, the before and after school meetings, the assessments, and the before and after school meetings (have I mentioned meetings?).  And almost daily, it seems, there are new forms magically appearing in my mailbox at school with ominous titles like, End of Year Classroom Inventory, and Requisition Form.  And of course, the obligatory report cards that need to be filled in and mailed out (and yes, this time they WILL be stapled to my forehead so that I don’t lose them again).

I was also drafted in the second round to be on the teacher’s negotiations team as recorder.  Now THAT was an experience.  Both sides were serious as heart attacks.  I tried to warn my fellow teachers that I was probably the wrong person to be sending into the war room.  I’m just happy to be getting paid.  After two decades of being a stay-at-home mom and then spending big dollars for tuition to get my education degree, I am THRILLED to actually have money flowing TOWARDS me.  Instead of playing hardball with the school board reps, I would probably do something foolish like forfeit any future raises out of gratitude for hiring me.  I was told, “Just write, Mrs. Dahl.  Leave the talking to us.”  I’m glad to report I did not ruin talks and the union did not have to throw bricks through my windows.

On top of it all, my principal reminded me that I was required to do a day of observation to satisfy my New Teacher Mentor program requirement.  Ughhh!  Another day to be gone! (I had just got back from my son’s college graduation in Illinois).  I now know why good teachers don’t take days off.  It has nothing to do with dedication to their profession.  It’s just too stinkin’ hard to prepare for a sub.

I will hasten to say that my observation day was amazing.  I asked my principal to find the best of the best for me to shadow and he really came through.  She was inspiring, encouraging, and competent.  It was a fabulous day and I couldn’t take notes fast enough.

But here I am, with only four days of school left.  WHAT???  How did that happen?  We’re just starting to get the hang of this first grade thing.  I know them, they know me, we have a comfortable routine…it somehow seems wrong that it’s over just when things are clicking.  I can’t believe we’re DONE. 

As I dog paddle furiously to keep my head above water, I have been bombarding myself with questions about my teaching performance.  The question that hangs over my head like a lumberjack’s Widow Maker is, “Am I an effective teacher?”  I posed that question to my principal.  On a yellow sticky note I jotted down three questions for him.  The first was the question just listed, the next was, “How can I know if I’m effective?” and the third was, “What adjustments do I need to make for the fall?” 

He thoughtfully considered my questions for a few moments before answering.  He’s a data guy, so of course assessments topped his list.  He also mentioned my self-assessment I had filled out at the beginning of the year.  Was I making progress in my listed weak areas? (I was actually student teaching when I filled it out.  What did I know???), and then he asked me to take the mood temperature of my classroom environment.  Are my students happy?  Do they seem to be enjoying school?  Does my gut instinct tell me they are learning? 

My reply was laughter.  Yeah, we’re having a ball.  But does it come at the expense of learning?  My teaching approach is very hands-on exploratory.  I think in many ways it’s an extension of my mothering style.  I could tell my own children how something worked, but I would rather just show them.  They learned about the plant life cycle in the garden, they learned about sex and childbirth by working with our livestock.  They watched ewes give birth to steamy, slimy lambs.  They leaned that just because a mother can bring life into this world doesn’t automatically mean she’ll be a great caretaker.  They watched us go to great lengths so save ill or dying animals and they learned that dying is just a natural part of living.  Life on a farm is such a beautiful living laboratory.  A microcosm of the world at large.  My sister-in-law was once amazed to hear my 6-year-old daughter describe the birthing process and use the term afterbirth. Hannah had been witness to many births.  Her mid-wifery skills were well honed early.

So as I wind down one school year and begin to plan for the next, I need to know.  Am I doing it right, or do I need a major policy shift in my approach?  True, I faced some very real academic challenges with this, my first bunch of students.  But could I have done more, or are they as far along as any other teacher could have gotten them?  I wish I had a definitive answer. 

I pressed my principal.  AM I an effective teacher?  His answer?  “Yes, you are an effective teacher, but you’re not as good as you WILL be.”  A careful, safe, diplomatic  answer.  I understand that I will make myself crazy if I expect too much from myself right now, because the fact remains, I AM a new teacher.  I don’t have the years of experience behind me to check myself against.  It’s all pretty subjective right now.  Maybe you, the reader, think I’m digging a little too deep into the intangible and should just heave a sigh of relief that summer vacation is here and call it a day on the 2010-11 school year. Maybe.  But that’s not how I roll.

Cause you see, I don’t want to merely be a good teacher.  I want to be a GREAT teacher.  I want positive results that will have a lifetime impact on the kids who troop through my door every fall.  I haven’t been putting in 70-hour weeks just so I can be average.  Average is not acceptable.  I want more than that.

With all of these self-reflections spinning around in my head for days, I read a message penned for me by one of my kids at home.  I was supposed to call a parent on a Sunday evening.  I’m learning that a call at home from a parent may or may not be a positive experience.  There’s always a bit of trepidation as you dial their number.  I should have dialed joyfully, for the conversation I was about to have was uplifting and encouraging beyond description.  She had a small bit of information to relay for the coming Monday, but then the conversation turned reflective.  “I want you to know, my son has had a great half-year with you,” she began.  “He has come far I really feel.“  A warm glow began to spread through me.  As proof of evidence she added, “He’s been collecting caterpillars like crazy to bring to school.  He even caught a moth and wanted to share it with the class.”  I smiled picturing my student with a jar shoved full of caterpillars.  “And that’s not all.”  Her words were rushing now.  “He looks at the newspaper at home everyday for familiar words.  And when we are out in public, he recognizes words you’ve introduced in the classroom.”  I couldn’t stop the grin on my face.  This student had improved in the four months we had been together, his assessments showed that clearly.  But to hear that he was engaged in learning OUTSIDE of the classroom filled me with such gratification, that I nearly turned cartwheels right there in my kitchen.

So as I begin my last week of my first wade into the pool of teaching, I still have questions that I will continue to ask of myself and of those that will give honest feedback, but I also know that I have had a least some successes.  Are they enough? 

That is a very good question.  The future will tell.

 

The Bend in the Road

Today my son walked across the stage and was handed a diploma.  My two oldest children are now college graduates.  Two kids, two diplomas, two millstones of loan debt, and two bright futures. 

My thoughts can’t help but wind backwards to his childhood.  He was born trouble.  I mean that in the most endearing way.  From the time he could move independently and speak, he was looking for mischief.  I’m a bit of a rapscallion myself, so he’s the kid I totally get.  My first clue that he was destined for shenanigans was at a wedding when he was just eight months old.  The minister shook my hand at the end of the ceremony, took one look at Ryan and declared, “This one’s trouble.” 

In his third year of life, his true personality began to unfold.  He decided in the spring of that year that he wanted to wear his winter boots every single day.  I thought when the weather turned warm he would give up his little quirky eccentricity.  Before I knew it, he was getting up on warm summer mornings and throwing on his favorite ensemble.  I have pictures of him at the lake in shorts and snow boots.  He was the original Napoleon Dynamite. 

The prophetic edict from the minister came to fruition in that same year.  He came to me one day with big brown eyes and blonde curls and innocently asked me to teach him to tie a knot in a string.   I should have seen red flags popping up all over the place.  Fool that I am, I granted his request. 

A couple days later I learned why he wanted to learn such an important skill.  It wasn't because he had aspirations of becoming a Boy Scout.  I was standing in the house with the window open when I heard my oldest son crash his tricycle in the driveway.  Then I heard the delighted laughter of a certain blonde three-year-old.  I ran outside and there lay poor Trevor in a weeping pile on the pavement, his trike upended nearby.  As I investigated the crime scene, I found a rope tied between the bumper of the car and the porch, and a grinning preschooler in winter boots and shorts.  My three-year-old had sabotaged his brother and was incredibly proud of himself.

I gave him a good scolding (and shook my head in disbelief). I had visions of him becoming McCauley Caulkin in The Good Son.  A couple of days later I walked into the bedroom Ryan shared with Trevor.  He was struggling with a full bucket of water.  “Mom, can you help me?”  Sure, Honey.  What are you doing?  “I want to put this on top of the door?”  And why???  With zero shame he matter-of-factly replied, “So when Trevor comes in he’ll get wet.”  He’s THREE!  Where is he getting this stuff and why does he think it’s funny?

That same year he developed a drinking problem.  In Vermont, where we lived at the time, you could redeem glass bottles for a dime.  Our local grocery store kept large boxes by the front doors for recyclable bottles and cans.  As I was paying for my purchases one day, I suddenly realized Ryan was missing, but quickly spotted him.  He was standing by the returns boxes with a beer bottle to his lips, draining the last drops from somebody’s returned bottle.  I thought my lecture about the evils of germs settled the issue, but a couple of weeks later he informed me that he liked beer.  “No you don’t!” I said dismissively.  “Yes I do.  I yike (like) beer!”  Lord, help me…..

I’d like to say he outgrew that little phase.  I’d LIKE to say that.  Can’t do it.  The truth is, he has been an adventure every single day of his life.  He never heard of a prank he didn't think was funny, and never met a dare he could resist.  I’m pretty sure his Guardian Angel detail has had a high turnover rate since the day he was born (Sir, I’d like to request a transfer. Someone calm and safe, like a paratrooper or bungee jumper.  Maybe even a Ninja.  Just please don’t make me spend another day with the Dahl kid.  My celestial nerves are shot!).

He finally hit the life-is-a-joke-wall when he pulled a college prank that landed him in county jail for a night.  Nobody was laughing THAT night. 

Let me be quick to add that he also has become a man of strength and character that makes me incredible proud and touches that spot deep in my heart that only a mother possesses.  My grandmother (his great-grandmother) lives in the same town as the college he attended.  Before he left for his freshman year of school, I merely asked him to occasionally pay her a visit.  She lived by herself, and was lonely I knew.  I really didn’t expect him to give it much effort.  There are, after all, friends to hang out with, good times to be had, and last but not least, a little studying thrown in once in a while.  What red-blooded 18-year-old male wants to spend a weekend afternoon discussing health issues with an elderly woman?  Turns out, Ryan did.  I’m not saying he necessarily enjoyed it, at least not at first.  But as his college years wore on, there developed a deep affection between the two of them that evolved into genuine friendship.  In conversation with me, he began to refer to her as, “My girl.”  When her health began to deteriorate he fretted to me about leaving her alone in her house.  Bottom line…. he cared.  He routinely chose to forsake the easy road for the more difficult one that required a little self-sacrifice.  Somewhere in those four years, he morphed from child to man.

So as he began to make post-graduation plans and started the rigorous process of applying to dental schools, I really didn’t worry about his future success at striking out on his own.  He had excelled in school, had pulled together a wide circle of lifetime friends, and had shown amazingly mature actions in how he looked after his great-grandmother.  He was ready to hit the road running.  I felt confidence in the direction he is heading.

But today, as the convocation ceremony began, a member of the board of trustees, who also had a child graduating, walked to the podium to pray the invocation.  The first words of his prayer were, “Lord, I’ve asked you this many times, and I’m going to ask it again.  Please take care of my little girl.”  Almost audibly, I heard the echo of the thousand parents sitting around me as I caught my breath.  My heartbeat sat suspended for a moment as the import of those simple words sank into my consciousness.  His little girl and my little boy and all the other graduates sitting in that enormous room, while technically considered grown adults, are still children.  Our sons and daughters.  Our little boys and girls. 

Every parent in that beautiful chapel could tell their own stories about funny incidents, and trips to the emergency room, and endearing moments seared into memory.  We love our children more than life itself.   Now we are getting ready to launch them into an Unknown that is exciting and frightening simultaneously.  Age and experience tell us that along with the joys of being independent and solely responsible for their choices, there WILL be disappointment, heartbreak, and struggle.  Sorrow will find them eventually.  Nobody escapes the hard stuff of life forever.  The currents of life will tumble them around in the tides and eddies of job, relationships, and finances.

We that gave them life know these things.  But we also know that those same difficult circumstances will also refine their character, and soften rough edges.  Our children will emerge from their trials and disappointments both stronger and softer at the same time. They will take their place in this world as responsible citizens, spouses, and parents.

“So Lord, I ask that you take care of my little boy.  That little irrepressible stinker that makes me laugh and lights a fire of joy in my heart.  Go with him as he begins a new chapter in life.  Protect him, yes, but also allow those things into his path that will make him a better man, and cause him to become a ‘mighty oak of righteousness.’  I entrust him into your care. You created him and you have a plan for his life.  Let him fulfill that plan however you see fit.”

Life would be easier if it was always a straight stretch with no surprises and we could anticipate every event.  But really, what fun would that be?  The bend in the road leaves us guessing and wondering what the future holds.  A much more intriguing way to live, if you ask me.

Thank you, Ryan, for making me proud.  Not so much for what you have accomplished, but more for who you have become. 

I know your heart and I know your dreams.  You want to succeed in life. 

I think you already have.

First Grade Says Goodbye

Today was the culmination of our foray into butterfly magic.  At 1:45 this afternoon, we watched them flutter fragile wings tentatively, then soar into a blue sky.  Our Day of Release percolated inside the Magic Tree House, then inexplicably began to spread to the rooms around us and the floors above us.  The celebratory mood was a spreading infection that would not be contained within our four walls.  Everyone wanted to share our moment, it seemed.

We began the day with the adoption process.  Yesterday we had begun to consider what we wanted to name our new adoptees.  I carefully recorded each name on the board, then a rogue game of tic-tac-toe erased most of them, so we started fresh this morning.  Only one name was rethought and changed.  The rest remembered and stayed with their original names.  Next we ceremoniously filled out adoption papers.  They read, “I________, agree to adopt a Painted Lady butterfly on this ______day of May, 2011.  I promise to release my adopted butterfly into the outdoors with care and cheer with all my might as he/she flutters to the sky.  I also agree to think fondly of my adopted butterfly whenever I see another butterfly anytime, anywhere.  The name of my adopted butterfly shall be ______________, now and forevermore.”  The space for an official signature was provided at the bottom.  Our carefully chosen names included Girlie, Optimus, Junior, Edgard, Painted Lady, Frisky, and Chicken-School-Door.

Our dilemma…

Eight adoption parents (including me), and eleven winged beauties, ready to fly the coop.  We needed more people willing to adopt.  My little angel – the only girl in the bunch – approached me with a thought when the scheduled school counselor came in for her semi-monthly visit.  “Mrs. Dahl, let’s let her adopt a butterfly.”  In her little mind, what we were about to ask was a high honor.  OF COURSE, she would say yes.  Who in their right mind would refuse to adopt a butterfly?  People the world over were lined up for such an amazing honor as that.  Little China Doll really likes the school counselor.  The counselor had been vetted by my first grade recruiter and has all the qualifications for good parenting in place.  She is nice and really pretty.  She’s in.

Our next adoption pick was the Future Business Leaders of America club.  They would collectively adopt one of our Painted Ladies and rumor had it that they were taking their responsibility of choosing an appropriate name quite seriously.  In short order, I had a fully completed adoption paper signed, sealed, and delivered. The voted upon name?  Anita Flutterby.  I was assured that the entire club would be present for the Big Release.

Our final adoption went to our favorite custodian.  She accepted the honor with all the delight and humility of a real parent.  Yes, OF COURSE she would adopt one of Our Precious.  The name she chose….Free Willy. 

Now prospective adopters were flooding in.  We had more qualified parents than we had butterflies.  Well, who cares?  Let’s keep the goodwill rolling.  The librarian chose Lady Joy and our Foster Grandmother, Esmerelda.

With parents found for all our Winged Wonders (and a few godparents thrown in for good measure), it was time to try to get some real school work done.  Not an easy task with the excitement of our afternoon celebration looming AND chocolate cake sitting on the shelf decorated with sprinkles and a picture of a Painted Lady.  But work we did, with one eye fixed on the clock. 

Finally it was time to line up for lunch, which meant recess after that, which meant, phonics after that, which meant reading group after that, which meant (HURRAY!), time to release our butterflies!!

Before we headed to the lunchroom, we donned white T-shirts with the words “Release Crew” stenciled on the back.  We had uniforms and now we were official. We found the Painted Lady crowns we had been wearing all week (and amazingly had not ruined yet), and we were we ready to hit the halls in style.  As I passed the custodian, she placed a tiny pink paper package in my hand that had a teeny handle on top.  Puzzled I asked her, “What’s this?”  In true Becky fashion she said seriously, “It’s a suitcase for Free Willy.”  Do you just love that?  Unbelievable.  I cannot tell you how much I love teaching in a small school.

Finally the appointed hour came.  I wondered if I might have to soothe some upset feelings or dry some tears.  After all, these were our babies.   We had raised them from just-hatched larvae and had marveled over them every day of their short lives.  We were quite attached.  But amazingly, no tears and no distress.  We had talked of nothing else for days.  They were ready.  Nature was calling, and as I had explained, they needed to be released so that they could lay eggs for more butterfly babies.    

When 1:45 arrived, a great deal of activity cloistered around our room.  I shooed my students towards the bathrooms for a quick break and was surprised to find the second grade at our door.  Their teacher grinned at me.  “We want to be there when you release your butterflies.”  Welcome aboard!  The more the merrier.  Kindergarten was moving towards the outer door as well.  Now we have a bona fide party!  Before we could get ourselves out the door, I see the face of a high schooler peeking in our lone window and the muffled words, “Are you coming?”  I laughed in delight. 

The elementary foster grandmother suddenly appeared.  She had signed adoption papers.  She would fulfill her obligations.  Looking around to make sure we were ready, and grabbing my camera I reached for the blue, netted habitat and made my way outside.  Wow!  Windy day.  At least it wasn’t snowing (don’t laugh, Southern Friends, we had a blizzard on Saturday).

As I emerged from the stairwell and stepped on the playground, I was greeted by a dozen high school kids, each wearing a colorful paper butterfly pinned to their shirt.  The Royal Wedding of William and Kate was no more auspicious than this simple rite.  We were excited, we were filled with hope, and we looked GREAT.

With the yearbook editor snapping away, we took some group photos of our last moments with Girlie, Optimus, Chicken-School-Door, and the rest of the gang.  Now it was time to do what we had come to do.  I unzipped the top of the enclosure and gave the cage a little shake.  Our Beauties were more reluctant than I had expected (sort of like a certain college-bound child of mine).  Another shake, then a reach into the habitat to shoo, and two tumbled out.  It looked as though they were going to fall straight to the ground, but at the last moment, remembered that they possessed the ability to fly and suddenly lifted on the wind and soared upward.  A great cry rose from the ranks as we cheered their success.  Chants of “fly, fly, FLY!” resounded off the walls of the building, and just like that, they were lost against a blue sky.  We cheered like we were witness to Orville and Wilbur Wright’s first flight.

We spent the rest of the afternoon partying and celebrating.  Butterfly cake with sprinkles (one OCD student wanted to know how MANY sprinkles I had used on the cake), and popcorn.  We watched Toy Story 3 and wore our butterfly crowns in remembrance of our Fragile Friends.

I spent the afternoon denying second servings of cake and pondering the value of how we were spending our time.  Sure, we had a GEAT time.  But what had they learned today?  This is the argument of scripted curriculum vs. intrinsic value that a teacher must carefully wade through.  The love of nature and beauty of God’s world are important to me and yes, I desire to pass that along to my students, just as I did with my own children.  Will these experiences help them become better students, citizens, and people in general?  The short answer is, I don’t know.  If you, the reader, have insight on this topic, I would love to hear it.  These are the issues I grapple with; how to best use my instructional time.  I only have a few precious hours each day with these kids.  I want every minute to count and be productive.  I have a responsibility to carefully consider how we spend our time and what I incorporate into the day, and what I discard.

My gut instinct tells me that moving away from texts and worksheets to revel in the intrinsic creates better, more focused students.  But the state tells me that there are non-negotiable standards and benchmarks that must be met each and every year.  The HOW of that is left to my discretion.  Really, teaching is not as easy as one might think.  It is fun adventure and serious business all at the same time.  Finding the perfect balance is challenging, at best.

Well, whatever the answer is, the last two weeks have been unforgettable.  The crowning glory for me came yesterday morning as a kindergarten student “wandered” in when she was supposed to be getting a drink in the hall (her excuse to visit the butterflies).  One of my first graders was instantly at her elbow to proudly facilitate the visit and be a tour guide.  As she shared her knowledge and obvious pride, I heard her say to her younger peer, “And next year when you’re a first grader, YOU’LL get to have butterflies!”  The smile on the face of the kindergartener was beautiful.

And just like that, my decision about whether or not to do this again was made for me. 

Butterflies are now a Magic Tree House tradition.

Intrinsic wins.

The CIA Is Looking For A Few Good First Graders

Have you seen the movie A Beautiful Mind?  The one where Russell Crowe portrays a brilliant Cold War era economics professor who is drafted by the CIA to break Soviet Union code.  It’s a very intriguing movie and I won’t give anymore away, because the twist will knock your socks off. 

I mention this movie because the first grade has been immersed in some subversive activity as well.  It’s all very hush-hush.  We are spies and operatives involved in top secret code breaking that is vital to the future of… well, of us.

A year ago when I was taking a Reading Methods course, the instructor placed a sheet of paper in front of me that was crisscrossed with indecipherable lines and squiggles.  She asked us to “read” it.  Really?  I stared at the darn thing until my eyeballs ached.  “Does it really say anything?”  I finally asked.  Very smugly, she assured us that it did indeed have written words on it.  Finally one of my more gifted classmates shouted exultantly, “I see it!”  See WHAT??  I could not discern a blessed thing.  But then again, (and this is hard to admit), I could never Magic Eye either.  I would stare at those goofy pictures until my corneas began to harden, and I just couldn’t decipher the hidden picture.  I can’t seem to look beyond the obvious and see the hidden. No kidding, it must have taken me 10 minutes to (kinda’) see words in that mess of lines and grids. 

The point of the whole ridiculous (and effective) exercise was to remind we future teachers just how difficult and frustrating learning to read can be for young children.  It just looks like strange lines and squiggles to emergent readers.  And yet, we brilliant educators get frustrated when they seem to struggle and tell them to “try harder.”  Worse yet, we make accusations and judgments about levels of ability, motivation, or even intelligence.  The problem with that approach is that trying usually isn’t the real issue.  The approach we SHOULD take is to give them strategies for breaking that indecipherable code.  A child should be armed with a variety of strategies in order to attack those mysterious and frustrating words.

I remember when I was very young, probably three or four, my father (an educator) found a “groundbreaking” system for teaching children to read that incorporated flash cards of sight words.  My father set about to teach his oldest child (me) to read before I had even started kindergarten, which just wasn’t an expectation back then.  Children weren’t pushed to begin reading until first grade.  Well, he had a moldable brain in his hands and, by gum, I would beat the odds and shine like the young Einstein I was.  And so, for what seemed an eternity each day, he would hold those hated flash cards in front of my face and expect me to read those indecipherable words fluently.  They might as well have been written in Mandarin Chinese.  I had no idea what they were supposed to say or mean.  The worst part was, after a few sessions, I began to sense his frustration with my slowness, and that only exaggerated my stupidity.  I WANTED to read for my dad, but just couldn’t.  The desire was there, but not the ability.  I could feel his dreams for the next Madame Currie being slowly snuffed out.  After a few weeks he stopped tormenting both of us.

In many cases, we practice the same ineffective teaching methods today.  We say READ and think that the command is akin to waving a magic wand.  It’s not.  We must find their learning style, and equip them with several different strategies, so that when they bump into an unfamiliar word, the first reaction is not stress or panic (which causes the mind to shut down), but rather methodological attack.  They must learn to break the code, like Russell Crowe and his covert drop-off box.

I recently handed my reading intervention group a take-home reader, each receiving a copy of the book in their own particular level of ability.  As a teacher, it is challenging to find text that is easy enough for the student to read that will instill confidence, while challenging enough to keep them moving forward.  I then asked them to find an alone spot and read independently.  I always ask them to read aloud quietly so that I may listen in and make sure they are actually reading.   I’m always a little suspect when they appear instantly at my elbow claiming they have finished their book.  Oh really?  How’s that speed reading course you’re taking coming along?

One of my students came back to my table within a few minutes and handed the book back to me proudly.  I looked at him dubiously.  “Are you really done?  You read all of it?”  “Yep” he shot back.  I wasn’t satisfied.  “So you’re telling me that you read every word in this book?,”  I pressed.  “Yep” he repeated confidently.  “And you understood it?”  I just couldn’t let it go.  He leaned close to my face, his eyes wide behind thick lenses.  In a conspiratorial voice he whispered, “I broke the code.”  It took me a moment to catch on to what he was saying.  Then as understanding dawned I broke into a grin.  Here was a child who had always found reading to be incredibly frustrating.  He didn’t like to read and did as little of it as possible.  What he was really telling me at that moment was that he no longer felt powerless to face hard words.  He would attack each one using whichever strategy fit the word, moment, or even his mood at the time.  And if one didn’t work, he would try another.  He had found a way to feel in control of his reading.  It no longer intimidated him.

I smiled all day over that little exchange.  Reading is such an important part of my life and has brought me so much pleasure and broadening of my world, that I want all kids to experience the same joy in it that I feel.  I learned to read with Dick and Jane readers.  It worked for me.  But I had plenty of classmates that were lost in a morass of confusion and embarrassment over their lack of reading ability. 

Even four months into my teaching career, I can see how formative these first experiences with reading are.  I see the students who fly through words like they’re cutting butter with a hot knife.  And then there are the students who struggle constantly.  Reading doesn’t come naturally and it isn’t fun for them.  They would rather not, thank you very much.

It is for these little ones that I so long to help them succeed.  Reading can change the course of a life!  And so I look at each student and think, “What will it take to get you motivated to become a code breaker?  How can I reach that place inside you that flips the switch of ‘want-to’?”  It’s a little overwhelming to understand the gravity of such an assignment.  Time will tell if I can be effective.

But for now, my little agents will keep cracking the code and keep improving little by little. 

Our future is safe in their hands.