On the Outside Looking In

Today Mrs. Dahl’s classroom was part Magic Tree House and part Keebler Elves.  Every tenth school day, Zero the Hero, a rapscallion of a superhero bear, drops off zero-shaped goodies for the Little Darlings to help them learn base ten concepts.  Today he outdid himself with hot-off-the-skillet pancakes.  And yes, I cooked them right in the classroom.  Am I supposed to?  I don’t know. I just do and will deal with the fallout later (yes, I know.  I am a terrible role model).  The superintendent was aware of my little restaurant.  He was standing in the cafeteria when I asked our cook for a skillet.  “What do you need that for?” he interrogated.  “Pancakes!”  I cheerily replied.  A look something akin to meeting your daughter’s tattooed and pierced boyfriend for the first time took over his face.  “You’re not going to….”  his voice trailed off into the forest of Oh, Never Mind.  He did not finish his sentence because I think he decided he really did not want to know the answer.  Don’t ask/Don’t tell is maybe not a bad way to run a school.

I was in the middle of serving some pretty awful, lilly-livered “zero’s” (blame the Teflon.  I need my cast iron), when the teacher next door popped her pretty, blond head in to retrieve one of my students for some reading time.  My gaze found him at the table and I nearly refused her.  He sat there so patiently, lime green plastic fork in his little hand, just waiting for an albino pancake to grace his green paper plate.  He was on the verge of tears.  “My pancakes…” was all his soft little voice could choke out.  “When you come back you will have some,” I assured him.  I would have harvested the wheat and ground it into flour myself in order to spare those puppy eyes rimmed with tears.

Later as I was cleaning up, I opened the main door to my classroom and was surprised to hit a large, hard object.  I managed to shove it out of the way with the door, reached around in order to discover my obstacle, and my hand found one of the ancient wooden chairs we keep in the hallway (ancient as in, our high school science teacher remembers sitting in them in the first grade.  We don’t get rid of anything around here).  How in the world did that get there?? 

My fellow teacher filled me in later.  My little guy had asked if he could use the bathroom.  Yes, of course, dear.  He didn’t return and he didn’t return.  Concerned, she left her class in order to go on a search and rescue (something primary teachers spend much of our day doing).  When she stepped into the hall, she was touched by what she saw.  That little guy had dragged a chair to the door of my classroom and was standing on it, trying to see what was going on inside.  He couldn’t be with us physically at that moment, but he just had to see what he was missing.  The mental image of that is funny, endearing, and heavy with meaning for a quasi-hippie, such as myself.

There is a caption at the top of this page that describes why I named my blog The Humboldt Diaries.  It bears mentioning here.  I am an idealist, yes.  I am pathetically optimistic… guilty!  I border on Pollyanna Syndrome.  My hope/dream/goal is to educate as many children as possible with the required mandates, but that is my starting point.  Beyond all of that I long for them to fall in love with the act and process of learning. 

Kids hate school.  Why is this?  We all know why.  It is because school cannot compete with play.  The question then becomes, why do kids love/need play?  They are hardwired for it, obviously, but the deeper answer is it touches the parts of the brain that couple discovery with enjoyment.  Are kids learning while they play?  Of course!  But they do not view play-learning with the same learning of school.  This is correctable, I feel.  I really do.  Oh, I realize that classroom learning will never be quite as longed for as recess time, I am so over that insecurity, but I think it could be closer than it is now in general.  Way, way closer.

So why isn’t it, Mrs. Dahl? (you may be asking here.  Or maybe you're not and so don't care.  I'm going to tell you anyhow...).  There are several reasons:

OK, here’s my take on it.  Doing research for grad school, I discovered that our current education system is based on the factory model of the industrial era.  Think about it; we assembly-line kids into groups according to skill (grades), we have breaks (recess and lunch), we have a supervisor (the principal), and we have managers (teachers), etc.  This brainy idea came from trying to launch the U.S. into the world market as a superpower.  If the masses were headed to the factories anyway, why not “train” them to be comfortable in that environment while they are young?  Yeah, that is a GREAT idea.  Let’s make them hate their adult lives while they are still children.

We are still stuck in that model and it stinks.  Kids hate it.  Teachers, while comfortable with it, realize that kids hate it and know it should be addressed.  But it is so entrenched in society that it seems to be here for the duration.  I hope not.  I think it is time for a major education overhaul.   

Back to The Peeper.  When I visualize that small child on tiptoe, straining to see what he was missing, this is the image I long for my students to develop.  I want them hungry to learn for the rest of their lives.  Learning new things about our world and about life can be an intoxicating drug.  If you do not feel that way, then your factory manager didn’t do a great job of selling their product to you.  I want to change that, here in my little universe in the middle of nowhere.  I think I can – at least to a very small degree. 

Where did I get my own drive to learn?  I blame my dad.  Ronald E. Miller (I always thought it was endearing that he included his middle initial in his signature.  Who does that?)  Dad wanted to know about everything.  He was educated, yes.  And he was an educator.  My dad was the principal of my elementary school in St. Louis.  Yeah, it stunk.  Every time a kid got a detention, they sought me out on the playground, like I was vice-principal or something,  and demanded to know what was the big idea?  Good grief…

But he truly loved the journey of discovery and educated himself on many topics.  At the time, I did not appreciate his penchant.  In fact, it was a little embarrassing at times.  Do you know what my father liked to do on family vacations?  Take factory tours.  Yes, that’s right.  The Miller family would join school and club groups to see how things like, Corn Flakes were made.  Real fascinating, daddy-O.   My friends are lying on the beach, flirting with cute boys, and I am riding around a golf cart train watching bored employees watch boring machines.  Love it.

And when computers became available to the peasant class?  My dad was positively apoplectic.  He bought one of the first available monstrosities that took up half a room and had the computing powers of a toaster.  But he was in geek heaven.  He took classes and then regaled we poor captive audience members over supper with programming lingo and the fabulous potential for such a machine.  Yawn.  That’s great dad.  Pass the potatoes.

But somewhere along the line, I too got turned on to the joy of learning simply for the sake of gaining knowledge.  For all my teenage complaining and angst over having such a weird father, it stuck.  I am happiest when reading up on a topic that interests me, or hearing a bit of trivia that is a little mind blowing.  I like science and anything nature-related.  I like cooking.  I like fiber arts.  I like manipulating words to form sentences (obviously… I can never seem to bring these posts in for a landing).  I like politics.  I like murder mysteries.  I like history.  I like the broad topic of education.  I like lots of things and I like learning more about them.  You should see the stack of books on my nightstand.  I could build a paper igloo with them.  It goes without saying that I never have enough time to read as I would like to.  I hope I never do.  To suddenly find that kind of time would mean I am out of things to do.  Ick…

I hope the same for my students.  Never stop running after knowledge, my Darlings.  That’s biblical, you know.  King Solomon said that very thing to his son in the book of Proverbs.  He advised his son to treat Knowledge like a lover.  Woo her, cherish her, pursue her and she will always treat you well.

I hope I never forget the mental image of that little guy straining to peek in, longing to join us.  It is a much more palatable image than my students chomping at the bit to get away from this place.  To he and all the first graders that will pass through my door I say, “Join us!!  Come in, be at peace, and let’s learn about this amazing world we live in.  Feed your soul with the topics that interest you, and I will try to make the rest at least bearable, maybe even enjoyable.  Let it change you and guide you into a confident, polished, intelligent adult who can be anything and do anything you set their mind to.  I will do all I can to help you get started on your journey.  Let's begin with really bad pancakes...”

Thanks, Dad….

24

Eleven p.m… This is about the same time I wrote last night.  Last night was an eon ago.  I was exhausted.  I was discouraged.  I was at an utter loss as how to create an insular haven of peaceful learning in my first grade classroom.  The Magic Tree House had lost some of its enchanted qualities.  It had become more like a knotty pine than a mighty oak full of mystical adventures.  I was utterly disheartened.

But not down for the count…

As both a teacher and a mother, my philosophy has always been to enable children to solve their own problems.  Sure, I could intervene and make their life (and mine) a bit easier.  But the next time they are faced with a dilemma, I will be looked to for salvation once again.  That cycle is endless.  Instead, my favorite phrase has become over the years, “How can YOU solve it?” 

I took my own medicine last night. 

OK, Mrs. Dahl.  You had a bad day.  So what?  How can you solve it?  How can you create an environment of student self-control and motivated learning?  C’mon, brain!  Fire up and start puking some workable ideas. 

It came in meekly and lay quietly in the corner of my cortex.  Its soft breath whispered to my weary soul…

“Win their hearts…”

Hence, the predawn baking session and planned afternoon party.  I had just placed the fresh-from-the-oven cupcakes on the cooling rack and had pulled the popper from the cupboard when I noticed the quizzical look on Mr. Dahl’s face.  In answer to his unspoken question I answered, “If I cannot win the heart of a child with popcorn, then nothing in this world makes sense anymore.”  He smiled and shook his head.  He knows me so well…

I was nervous about the day.  I’ll make no bones about that.  I always have oatmeal for breakfast (except on Saturday).  I had a dozen plates spinning in the air this morning.  I cooked my oatmeal as usual and clicked a couple of items off my to-do list.  I threw a load of darks into the washer, then sat at the island to eat my breakfast.  I took a couple of bites with my mind still riding the Teacups at Disney World.  I was into my third bite before it registered that my oatmeal was wholly unsatisfying.  I stared at my bowl.  What was it missing?  I stirred the milk a little hoping answers would float to the surface.  Oh yeah.  I looked up at the stove.  I had forgotten the oatmeal.  Wow, this was a really bad omen for the rest of the day.

Arriving at school I was off my game.  I could feel it.  I was the kid who had just fallen off their bike, the teenager who had just had his first car accident, the heartbroken young woman who was afraid to date again.  I had lost my edge.  What if they had so much fun yesterday creating mayhem that they decide to double the fun today?  Be positive, Mrs. Dahl!  Don’t think that way!  I wrote the following message on a class chalkboard, “It is going to be a good day!”  I wanted my students to be bombarded with positivity from the moment they entered my domain.  I wanted to be the one to set the tone.

Smile, Vonda… Fake joy… You can do this…

Fat rain drops were hitting the sole window in my classroom as the first students trickled in.  I greeted each one with the cheeriest good morning I could muster. Backpacks were hung in the stairwell/coatroom, notes from home delivered, and the infantile makings of a regular routine were making their appearances.  I exhaled, but just a little.

I was busy at my desk when I became aware of a small body on the other.  I looked up and saw one of yesterday’s players standing there shyly – an odd look on her face.  She stood there silently, smiling sweetly.  After a moment, she raised her hands, clutching a bunch of scarlet flowers.  “For you,” she said softly.  I melted.  Apology accepted and transgressions washed away.  I covered the distance between us in a step and gathered her tiny frame into my arms.  “They are beautiful,” I said fervently.  “Did you pick them from someone’s flower garden?”  “No, from a plant at home.”  Ahhh.  “Did you ask your mom or dad?”  I asked then wished I hadn’t.  “No.  But they never look.”  Nothing says, “I’m sorry” like contraband flowers, I guess.

I was just congratulating myself on the fresh, UP mood I felt permeating the atmosphere when the first little squall hit.  Mayday!  Then another.  And finally a third, and I knew my carefully constructed ship was sinking fast.  I stepped into the hallway and spotted the custodian.  “Will you watch my class for just a moment?”  I pleaded.  I took the stairs two at a time and literally ran into my principal (I must have been light-headed from lack of oatmeal).

He followed me to The Dungeon and quickly sized the situation.  What is it about a male presence that commands attention?  Doggonit, that bugs me.  He spoke briefly, but clearly and had the full attention of all children.  Then he sat (God bless him for that) and observed while I began my reading block.  A calm descended and lingered. 

He quietly got up near the end of “Henry and the Buccaneer Bunnies” and noiselessly slipped out.  I could not believe how easily the next hour went by.  Then into math and still peace prevailed.  We sailed through lunch and reading intervention time.  I stood in the hall and watched in joyous wonderment as they walked slowly and quietly to music.  Who were these angelic cherubs??   And just like that it was time for our celebration.  Par-TAY!!

I set out our feast and popped in Alvin and the Chipmunks.  The kids were perfect -- and hungry!  When it was over and nearly time to board the buses to go home, I sat them on the very rug I had commanded them to just a day before and opened the floor for discussion.  Which day had they like better, yesterday or today?  You already know the answer.  We were ALL smiling as they raced to the buses.

What had changed?  I have pondered that all evening.  I thought about it as we meandered around the plant nursery looking for colorful fall shrubbery.  My mind flitted to it occasionally during our steak dinner at the Peacock Alley.  And I tried to sort it out later as we inhaled a pint of Ben and Jerry’s Coffee Heathbar Crunch ice cream and watched Papillon with Steve McQueen and Dustin Hoffman. 

Here’s what I think:

I think I allowed myself to accept responsibility for a day of chaos.  In doing that, I placed the ball squarely back into my court.  The question then becomes, if it is my issue, how can I fix it?  Secondly, I reached out to the right people.  Wise counsel is essential to gaining some perspective back.  Third, I practiced a little flexibility in the schedule in order to proactively get my students’ attention.  I chose to focus on the broader picture vs. losing a full day of hammering away at instruction.  I was teaching alright, but I was also trying to build some bridges of trust that might come in good stead down the road. 

Having said all of that, I understand fully that Monday may be an entirely different beast.  I am mentally preparing myself for that.  I am hoping for marginal improvement.  That’s it.  Nothing earth shattering, just BETTER.  AND, I am hoping that God hurries up with that extra patience I have been asking for (“… like Monday or Tuesday would be awesome timing, God…”)

It is amazing the difference twenty-four hours can make, one day despondent and the next hopeful. 

Last night my husband of twenty-nine years took me out for dinner.  Our lone child at home yet, my precious Rosie, spent the night with her volleyball team, so it was just he and I.  I left school as quickly as I could extricate myself and turned my face eagerly to a night of relaxing and unwinding.  I needed it.  And he needed me to find my happy place again.

We decided to head to the plant nursery to stroll around and look for something to add to our yard.  As I wandered around in sublime enjoyment, reading tags and trying to visualize things in my own yard, a man strode in purposefully with a dolly and began loading potted shrubs.  He spoke with authority and I soon surmised him to be the owner. 

He quickly addressed us, “Were we being helped yet?”  He disappeared and sent an employee scuttling to us straight-away.  As we asked questions and discussed price, he wandered in and out of our orbit several times.  When we had made our choices and while John paid for our purchases, I found him once again with a hose near the main building busily watering the numerous plants and flowers that graced the stunning landscaping.  He pulled me into conversation easily and began to point out various flowering perennials and their needs.  “Aren’t they gorgeous?!” he would gush over each one.  “Here’s how I keep them looking so good…” I learned more about gardening in that ten-minute conversation than I had in years.  This man loved what he did and it showed in every word and movement. 

I had seen a faded newspaper clipping framed on the wall near the cashier’s station.  It showed a much younger version of this same man standing in a field of perennials that were growing like row crops.  I didn’t read the entire article, but I caught the date; 1960-something.  This man had been doing the same thing for decades and yet he appeared to love it as much as ever.  He had built a thriving, iconic business over many years.  Maybe it is because he is a very smart business man and maybe because he caught his niche market at just the right time.  I am sure all of that is true and that a good many things came together to bring about his success.  But I think it is more than that.  I think when you have passion for something, it is infectious to those around you, and on some level, it makes your own soul happy.

I want to be that kind of teacher.  I have nightmares of going stale as an educator.  Somebody please fire me if that day ever comes.  I cannot imagine hating what I do daily, or worse yet, feeling dead to it and simply ceasing to care. 

So here’s where you can help me, my Readers.  Please pray for me and my precious, priceless darlings often.  We need to walk out the door on the last day of school having learned the required, mandated things for first grade, yes indeed.  But we also need to learn some vital life skills.   

And I need wisdom.  I also need patience, a soft and gentle spirit, and I will need an Olympic swimming pool sized amount of perspective.  Feel free to shower me with great advice.  My students and I will get through this school year “by hook or by crook” as my Grandma Miller used to say (I was never quite sure what that meant, but it seems to flow here…).  I want to do more than survive.  I want so much more than that. 

Minutes before the last bell of the day rang, one of my girl students wrapped impossibly thin arms around my waist.  I smiled and gave her a quick squeeze.  She dropped those petite appendages and leaned against me, then sighed deeply.  “I’m happy,” she said dreamily.

THAT is what I want.  I want happy children.   

Dear Lord, make it so…

Where is Mary Poppins When You Need Her??

I should by all rights put this off for a day or two.  I should get through tomorrow, go out for dinner with my husband to celebrate our anniversary (it was two months ago), sleep in and then have pancakes like always on a Saturday.  I should give my mind and body a chance to decompress and uncoil.  I should, but I won’t.  I had a day that kicked me in the teeth hard and I want to record it before the anesthesia of time and rest dull my recollective powers and make this day seem better than it was.  I am sure this post will be full of mistakes and typos.  I apologize in advance and will fix them later.  I am too tired to edit tonight.

The really challenging part of sharing this with you, the Reader, is that I cannot really tell you about it.  There are ethical and privacy issues to consider and observe.  It is virgin territory, this phenomenon of publishing words for the world to see within hours or even moments of writing them.  If I were recalling this day years down the road when I am no longer teaching or at least teaching these particular children, then I would have much more freedom to share details while shadowing identities.  But my reality is working in a small school in a small town and it does not take much detective work for the locals to figure out who I am speaking of.  I must be careful.  I want to be careful.  I would be mortified if my selfish need to write caused anguish or embarrassment to anyone.

To that end, I will cast out a few sketchy details and focus rather, on my own processing of those events.  This will be my therapy.  I guess I do not care if you find it interesting enough to read through to the end or not.  Devour the entire meal, or nibble and run.  I do not care. 

This late summer day began beautifully.  The Weather Man promised sunshine and warmth – and delivered.  I was prepared to the teeth for teaching (there are a few side benefits to waiting for Hannah to be finished with volleyball practice to leave school).  I was down a pound on my nemesis, the Scale of Hatred and Horror, and I found my car keys right away.  All green lights and rainbow signs that the day would be filled with overflowing joy.

Dead wrong.

My children have been tired all week.  I mean, fighting-to-stay-awake tired.  These first full weeks of school are a trial to tiny bodies and untrained school scholars.  They want to be outside running and whoopin’ and hollarin.’  Well frankly, so do I.  To that end, I try to keep my finger lightly on their endurance pulse and will often stop learning to do jumping jacks, or dance to the “Chicken Count” song (“…chicken eight and chicken nine… Let’s all shake our chicken-hind.  Bawk-bawk-bawk-ed-bawk-bawk –bawk-bawk-bawk…).  Yeah, I know.  Those are some brainy lyrics, but it does get the blood flowing to their brains again (…chicken seven and chicken eight… let’s all go on a chicken date…)

I guess the signs were all there.  The steam has been building in the canner for days.  The trifecta of circumstances was converging.  I should have KNOWN it was inevitable. 

I denied a simple request… that’s all.  An uncomplicated “no” flipped a switch in the Magic Tree House like I have never witnessed before.  I didn’t see it coming and it smacked me in the face with such ferocity that it knocked the wind out of me momentarily.  Again, I apologize for being vague, but adhering to rules of professional conduct is demanded here.  I will summarize those minutes this way; it involved calling in other adults and left my first graders gaping in horror. 

It did not end there.

The morning incident was the gateway drug that snowballed a cataclysmic series of aftershocks, each one disruptive and draining for all of us.  It was not a good day.  In fact, it was a terrible day.  In the short time I have been teaching, I have experienced nothing like it.  In fact, I sat down on my hard wooden chair at my really cool old wooden desk after lunch, and inexplicable felt a sudden urge to cry.  I am not a crier.  I am not saying I NEVER cry.  I am saying that I rarely cry.  I am really quite unhappy with myself when I do blubber.  It feels like emotional weakness to me.  I detest emotional weakness.  Dang it, suck it up, Mrs. Dahl!  You’ve got children all hopped up on applesauce and recess coming in the door in mere minutes.  You can’t afford the luxury of pity right now.  Get it together!

The afternoon wore on endlessly and painfully.  More drama.  More chaos.  More of the scenarios every teacher dreads.  Alexander and I were both having a “terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day (Judy Viorst, 1972).

See, here’s the thing.  I am a strong personality.  I am used to people doing as I ask.  I rarely feel inferior or subordinate to those in my orbit.  It’s not that I chafe at authority (I don’t), or cannot take orders (I can), but I have zero problem stepping up to the plate and being the one in charge.  If there is a void of leadership, I will fill it.  It is a pet peeve to step into a church kitchen before a potluck and find fifteen people milling about aimlessly, stealing baby dills and chatting in small groups.  You have nothing to do?  Here, let me help you with that dilemma…

So to stand on the periphery of a tiny class on a big prairie and feel absolutely overwhelmed, frustrated, and helpless is a bit disquieting for this quasi-hippie teacher, to say the least.  Something is very wrong here.  No real learning occurred.  I was far to busy aiming my six-inch fire hose at brush fires and a few all-out wildfires all day.  About one-thirty p.m., I was wiped out, and I still had two hours to go!

The day did not get any better as it wore on.  I went into survival mode and made a few pathetic stabs at education, but had waved the flag of surrender hours before.  At 2:45 it was time to get in a few moments of Social Studies and I looked at the clock on the wall as if trying to communicate with it telepathically.  “Ok, kids…” I heard my own tired voice say.  “Get out your Social Studies books…”  Oh, hang it.  What’s the point?

(Instead), “Children, let’s gather on the reading rug…”

I looked into their tiny faces all miraculously looking back at me at the same time (a rarity).  “We have had a hard day,” I began.  A few hesitant nods here and there.  I knew that we needed to discuss our day… a debriefing of sorts.  I had seen the looks of shock and confusion earlier.  We needed to talk about that.  And we did.  We talked about how we felt inside at the time, we talked about how one person’s behavior affects everyone.  We talked about being considerate of other’s feelings.  We talked about the disruption to learning that occurs at such a time.  We talked about safety and the things that Mrs. Dahl has to do in order to keep everyone safe at such a time.  We talked about lots of six-year-old stuff.  They needed to hear it all and I needed to gather my fragmented, ragtag bunch of first graders back into a cohesive unit.

I concluded with, “Today was a bad day.  But tomorrow is going to be a good day.”  More head nodding, this time vigorously.  “I will do my best to make it a good day.  Will you help me?”  I went around the circle and asked each one individually, “Will you do your part to make it a good day?”  Each answered in the affirmative, although one or two hesitated to commit themselves to such a daunting task.  I promised them I would think of ways to make it a special, good, meaningful day and that at the end of our “good” day we would compare the two days and see which one we like best.  They agreed to my plan.

And so, Mrs. Dahl was up with the sun, (I could not stay awake long enough to finish this last night), baking cupcakes (chocolate) and popping corn and deciding which DVD they would like best.  We all need to deflate today.  Oh, we will chug away at the consonant sounds “f” and “h” and work on base 10 facts, but we will also focus on learning to coexist peacefully.  Cuz you know what, guys?  If I can win their little hearts the second week into school and make them want to follow me anywhere academically, socially, and emotionally, it might just make a difference in their lives.

I heard a terrible statistic during one of my summer courses.  Prisons can make predictions about how much space they will need in the future based on third grade reading scores.  If this is true, then my job has moved from important to critical.  It can no longer be an eigh-to-five vocation, it must become a passion for educators everywhere.

I will welcome my students in a few brief moments.  I am praying and hoping for a glorious day.  Feel free to say a prayer or two on our behalf.  I’ll let you know how the day goes. 

I have full hope that I will be writing with a smile on my face…

"Here She Comes...."

Two weeks ago my principal handed me my class roster.  My column was suspiciously short.  Five kids? Are you KIDDING me??  That’s like home schooling your own children.  Talk about a great teacher/student ratio!  I know, I KNOW.  My teacher friends with classes big enough to earn their own zip codes are laughing their pancreas out right now.  I have it beyond good.  I get it.  It doesn’t get any better than this.  

Knowing things could change at a moment’s notice (check out my post from Diary of a First Year Teacher:  The Best Laid Plans), I prepared for twice that many as I made copies and filled folders.  I was careful to not let too many desks and extra chairs go out my door to other needy classrooms and laid things out so that they would be readily accessible at a moment’s notice on the first day of school.  Hey, maybe you CAN teach an old dog new tricks.  Just maybe I am learning a thing or two about this teaching gig.  Maybe.

The days leading up to the first day of school are always filled with what we educators affectionately call “teacher in-service.” You can title it that OR, “Are you crazy??!  I should be in my classroom preparing for the first day of school and an army of kids who are coming off a summer break.  I should not be sitting in a meeting having more papers shoved into my face and minutia down my throat!!”  Either title works effectively, however the first one fits more easily onto the tab of a file folder.

The day before school, we had a morning-only meeting in the high school history room, which frankly, badly needs a first grade teacher to do some decorating in it.  We flew through roughly 378 agenda items, had enough hand-outs to paper the Taj Mahal, and were given approximately 1.6 seconds to ask questions at the end of every new piece of information.  Did I mention I have been given the dubious honor of mentoring a new teacher?  Yeah, I know.  It’s stinkin’ hilarious.  So I look over at my charge, a fresh-out-of-college angel of a thing, and her face is a study of blank horror.  She turned glazed eyes to meet my stare.  “Are you overwhelmed?” I asked rhetorically.  She nodded wordlessly.  “I’ll talk you off the ledge later.  Just absorb as best you can for now, and we’ll go through each hand-out together later.”  Another nod.  I doubt she actually heard me.  I think the medical term is “catatonic.”

But those minor annoyances were washed away by the fact that for every man and woman in attendance, there was a table piled with enough carbs to put a diabetic into a coma.  We prairie folks sure do know how to eat.

After the meeting, I scurried down to my dungeon to make a vain stab at shoving my last minute mess behind doors and under tables for the afternoon Meet and Greet that had been scheduled (whose brainy idea was THAT?)  While taping the obligatory scalloped border around my math board, a fellow teacher popped her head in the door and announced, “The triplets are here.”  I’m sorry, WHAT???

Now there had been talk and rumor of our gaining a set of triplets for some time (say it with me, “small town – no secrets”).  But no registration had been forthcoming, so I didn’t know what to think about that.  The town Oracles did not seem to know either, exactly what age or grade these mysterious triplets would be in.  For a small school, talk of triplets is a very big deal.  It had never been actualized in our fair school before (to my knowledge).  This little bit of history-in-the-making was downright exciting.

When the word “triplets” tumbled out of my coworkers mouth, the Kindergarten teacher stepped out of her room and joined the conversation.  Without a word, she walked straight to me and wrapped her arms around me in a giggling embrace.  Like the last two Miss America contestants standing, we waited to hear which one of us would be crowned the reigning queen, and which one would be first runner-up, ”…in the event that she is unable to fulfill her obligations…”

I laid down my roll of masking tape, tried to fluff my mop of disobedient, chaotic hair into a semblance of order, and headed up the stairs to meet these precious children.  I was met with the sight of three little bodies opening and closing the high school lockers all up and down the hall.  A man I could only assume to be the father was standing nearby.  I shoved my hand into his and introduced myself, then addressed each child and asked for names and gave them mine.  After a moment of small talk, I asked the all-important question, “And what grade will they be in this year?”  “First grade,” he responded without hesitation.  They had, indeed, been to Kindergarten already.  I stooped a little so that last year’s winner could pin the tiara to my over sprayed, perfectly coiffed head.  Mascara was running down my face, along with the happy tears of a new Miss America title.  Roses were placed in my toned arms.  I am the winner.  I am Miss America.

“Wanna’ go down to our classroom and look around?”  I asked invitingly.  Three little heads nodded in unison.  I lead the way with the hand of one or the other tucked into my own, and dad followed obediently.  As three shy beings looked around and hesitantly touched the artifacts of their new environment, dad warned quietly, “They’re a handful!”  I took this information in then smiled warmly.  “I myself am mother to four children.  It will be fine,” I assured him and meant it.  He looked at me without comment for a moment, measuring my competence it seemed, then nodded as if satisfied.

We have put the first two days of school to bed.  They are over and we have all survived to the weekend.  I am tired.  I won’t try to put best face on that.  I have only eight students (stop laughing!!), but four children of my own wore me out at times.  What makes me think double that number won’t do the same?  Of course I am tired.  Plus being Miss America has its own responsibilities.  C’mon, people… give me a break!

I have begun referring to them in my head and in my note taking as the “trips.”  It just might stick, at least until something more profound presents itself.  And that leads me to the best advice I could have been handed by an outside observer.  As my principal was filling me in on them later, he casually added, “… and don’t forget, Vonda, that they are individuals, not the same person.”  It jarred me a little, that offhand gem.  I had already begun to lump them into one generic ball in my thinking.  It helps that they are not identical, merely similar in looks.  But even so, I needed to hear that they should treated as the priceless separate individuals that they are.  Thanks, Mr. Principal.  You earned your pay today.

I anticipate an amazing, unique, funny, sometimes frustrating year.  Today, only the second day into the year, proffered a few moments of such foreshadowing.  The honeymoon ended rather abruptly.  But I AM a seasoned mother and I do have a small bit of experience and expertise where children are concerned.  I think we will ultimately be OK.

As for the rest of my bunch?  Equally enchanting, delightful, dramatic, funny, and wonderful! But then again, as my 26-year-old son reminded me, “What would it take, Mom, for you to NOT think a child was enchanting, delightful, dramatic, funny, and wonderful?”  Hmmmmm.  The boy knows me well. 

So as I launch into this, my third group of first graders, I welcome whatever this year will bring.  The good days will be intoxicatingly satisfying and the hard days will be lessons in improving my teaching and my character. 

I posted this prayer on my Facebook page the morning of the first day of school.

“Lord, help me to give my precious students the same first day wonder and joy that I experienced on my first day of first grade. May today be the first step on a journey of a lifelong love of learning. May this day become a golden memory that they tuck away and cherish forever. I need patience, love, and a sprinkling of magic Pixie dust. Amen."

Amen, indeed…

How I Spent My Summer OR What Summer? OR Grad School: What Was I Thinking?!?

I just walked out of my classroom on the last day of school.  I just jammed my laptop and a few personal items into my bag and l just got into the van that replaced the van that hit the cow.  I just collapsed on the sofa and thought with exhaustion, “I am READY for a break.”  I just did all of that yesterday or last week or a few weeks ago.  There is no possible way it was three months ago.  It is not possible.  It CANNOT be possible.  While I wasn't looking, summer ended.

I never got that break I needed/wanted/waited for.  And now my beautiful, endless summer is over.  I am feverishly putting my classroom back together and working on lesson plans.  I just stepped away from that.  Now it is time to do it all again.

June was nice.  I reveled in sleeping past six, puttering in my flowerbeds, and drinking my morning coffee on the porch.  I got to spend precious time in Colorado with my parents and siblings.  The change of pace was welcome and restorative. A friend laughingly told me that her daughter reported seeing me walk to my mailbox in my pajamas as she drove by on Highway 14.  Guilty. 

My first summer graduate level course was of the online variety.  Not my favorite venue, but it is required for my degree (Early Elementary Ed.) and was not offered any other way.  I foolishly thought it would not be a time-intensive course.  Boy, was I wrong!  As I printed off the syllabus and other reams of handouts, I began to sweat both literally and figuratively.  Are you KIDDING me?  I immediately sent a distress call to my instructor, who graciously agreed to meet with me in her office and try to talk me off the ledge.  It helped marginally.

As I waded through that course, I began course numbers two and three, for a whopping six credit hours.  These were the old-school variety that actually required getting together in a classroom and being taught stuff in-person.  These classes were taught in tandem and occupied three weeks of my precious summer.  I could feel the sand running into the bottom of the hourglass at a speedy clip.  I also had out-of-town guests coming for a couple of days, and knew my sons would point their cars for home at the end of July.  The days were running together like melted crayons on a hot stove. 

Why, oh why are 24-hour days only 24-hours long?  I could have used about six more hours per day.  On a night before a big presentation was due, I was clipping along with studying long after the family retired for the night.  Man, I was getting stuff done!  I made a pot of coffee deep into the night and kept going.  I knew it was late.  My eyes were heavy and so was the stillness of the night.  I hadn’t once looked at the clock.  Next thing I knew I heard birds singing through the open window.  “Well, that can’t be good,” I thought idly.  Shortly thereafter, a shaft of light pierced the darkness.  What??  I looked at the clock on my laptop.  Five-thirty???  Holy cow, it was time to get up!  Wait… I AM up.  It’s time to get dressed.  I had to leave the house at six-thirty in order to make it to class on time.  I slurped coffee on my way out the door and made it in time, but I must have looked the tired mess that I was.  I am too old for this.

That is how my summer went.  Busy, exhausting days followed by short nights of sleep.  Sort of like the school year, only hotter.

Then July 20^th hit, and my world took a shuddering breath of reflection and reality.  It was a Friday.  Inexplicably, I was home that day when I should have been in class.  We had transportation issues at the Dahl ranch on that day.  More drivers than vehicles create a bit of short supply and competition for four wheels and a motor.  Mr. Dahl needed the van on that Friday.  I needed it too, but his need outweighed mine, plus I lost at both rock, paper, scissors, AND arm wrestling, so the chariot was his for the day. 

I called my instructor.  She is an angelic being who fully understood my plight and urged me to stay put for the day.  I hung up the phone with a sigh of relief and began to look forward to an unexpected day at home to sleep in a bit, clean house for my weekend guests, and get ahead in my coursework.  Yes, this was definitely working in my favor. 

I never even heard the garage door open the next morning as hubby left, so deep was my sleep and complete my exhaustion.  I stumbled out of bed about 7:30 that morning.  I badly needed a cup of strong coffee.  I fumbled with the beans and grinder and somewhere in that process, I turned on my favorite morning news show.  While I waited for my liquid salvation to brew, I took a seat at the island and listened with half-awake ears. 

I became aware that a terrible tragedy had occurred in the night.  Apparently a madman had attended the premier of the latest Batman movie at midnight.  With cold precision he had lobbed tear gas into the crowded theater and then had picked of running moviegoers with multiple firearms.  By the time the rampage had been halted, he had killed twelve innocent people and injured another fifty-eight.  It was the worst mass shooting in United States history.  He then surrendered to police quietly and the grim task of identifying victims and shuttling off the injured to area hospitals began.

The news broke onto the national scene about four in the morning.  As I listened and watched the incomprehensible images flash across my kitchen TV, my heart sank like a stone.  How?  Why?  Who could possibly do such a thing?  Those poor people…. 

The coffee maker beeped its announcement of being finished with its chore and I headed towards its promised renewal.  As I reached for a mug from the cupboard, my brain suddenly fired its first synapse.  Aurora?  Why did that seem familiar?  My indigo Fiesta Ware mug was half-filled now.  Aurora…  Who did I know in Aurora?   Aurora… AURORA!!!  My eyes flew open and my brain burst to life, giving my heart a jolt.  My face drained of blood.  How could I have been so stupid?  Aurora, of course, is home to my son's dental school.  He had just finished up his first year and was supposed to head home for a couple of weeks until his second year of studies began. 

My hands were weak now and I tried to carefully set the mug on the counter next to the coffee maker.  I somehow KNEW that he had stayed an extra day in order to attend the premier the night before.  Ryan had gone to that movie.  Without having been told, I just knew it. 

Fumbling through my always-messy purse, I frantically searched for my cell phone.  “I have to get ahold of him!,” I shouted to my purse.  Finding the missing phone, I quickly typed a short text and sent it post-haste.  I waited a few minutes.  Nothing.  OK, I will call.  I dialed the number and realized I was holding my breath.  I forced myself to exhale.  The female voice of his voicemail spouted sterile instructions into my ear.  When she finally shut up, I said something short and to the point like, “I need to know that you are OK.  Please call me!”

There was nothing to do but wait.  There would be no one at his apartment at this hour.  His cell phone was my only link to him.  I tried to choke down some oatmeal, but I had lost my appetite.  Twenty minutes passed and my phone sat silent and mocking.  “When I find out he’s alive, I am going to kill him,” I thought remorselessly. 

I have always believed that a parent somehow knows when tragedy involves their child.  There is a heaviness of spirit, or a “knowing” or SOMETHING that prepares you to receive bad news.  I did not sense that on this day.  I somehow felt that my boy was alright, wherever he was.  But I needed to hear his voice, regardless.  I mean, what if??  “Call, Ryan!” I willed my phone to ring.

After a very long hour, a sheepish text came through.  He was on his way home.  He filled me in on the information I needed to hear.  He had indeed attended the midnight show, but had providentially been in a different theater.  His friend had purchased tickets for them a few minutes from the bloodbath.  He was fine and was on the road.  My relief as I responded with my own short text left me a bit weak.  “Thank God” was about all I had strength for.  

Stupid kid.  Precious, priceless, adored child.  I should slap him when he walks through the door.  I can’t wait to hug the stuffing out of him.  Every parent of grown children is tracking perfectly with me here.  The range and gamut of emotions is dizzying.  Anger and gushy love share the same bed in such a moment.

As he stood in my kitchen a few hours later, watching the images on TV for the first time, he took in silently the horror surrounding his familiar territory.  The crime scene is a mere two miles from campus.  He had been in that very theater the week before.  “I’m pretty sure I’ve seen that guy on campus,” he finally said quietly.  The medical students and dental students share buildings and occasionally, some classes. 

More mother angst washed over me.  In the weeks since that fateful night, we have learned that the suspect, James Holmes, is a very troubled young man.  He was in the care of a campus psychiatrist, who felt he was enough of a threat to others to warn the campus threat assessment team of him. 

What if he had taken out his depraved revenge on campus, instead of in that theater?  What if he had chosen a day and time when he was in close proximity to my son?  What if he had used his knowledge of explosives to involve multiple buildings?  What if I were standing by a hospitable bed at this moment instead of staring at the beautiful face of my unshaven son?  What if?......

That’s the thing about having a part of you go walking around outside your body.  A parent cannot anticipate tragedy.  You say goodbye and watch them walk out your door with the naïve cockiness of youth and immortality that they possess, and you have to trust that they will be fine.  To believe otherwise is to invite insanity to ride around on your shoulders like a toddler at the fair.  There are too many potential dangers out there to dwell on.  Scriptures speak of guardian angels.  I fully believe in them.  I have to or I would never get a wink of sleep.

And so…

 I sit here at the end of a very long day of preparing my classroom for a new crop of rambunctious first graders.  I am tired and a little stressed.  A perfect storm of busy weekend activities will prevent me from spending that much-needed time putting the finishing touches on first day preparations.  But this is where life experience serves me well.  I will be ready enough for that first morning of school and life will march forward, whether I have completed my to-do list or not.  The important stuff will bubble to the top of the priority list and the rest can wait for a weekend down the road.

My own children are ready to fly away from my nest for another season of schooling.  Cody was only home for a week and has been gone already for what seems an eternity.  Ryan leaves in thirty-six hours and Trevor will chug back to Grand Forks next weekend.  My pantry and refrigerator are empty.  My heart is full.  I am so incredibly blessed.  I hardly know how to acknowledge my gratitude to my Creator.  My “Things To Be Thankful For” list is long; my family is my breath and life itself.  I adore each one.  I just got the results of a battery of tests back and I am healthy as a hog.  At an advanced age I am enjoying the thrills and challenges of a new career.  Perhaps the best perspective I can offer is, I am old enough to appreciate things as they stand, wrinkles and all. 

This prairie teacher stepped into her classroom last week after a month’s absence and flipped on the lights in a stuffy, cluttered first grade room.  There were piles of unsorted and unorganized plunder on every available surface.  Holy cow, I had a lot to do!  But as I stood staring at the disaster of my own making, I felt a smile creep across my face.  Then I got the giggles.  It feels pretty darn amazing to love what you do.  Not just to like it, or really like it, but to deep down LOVE your chosen profession. 

I can’t wait to welcome my new students.  I look forward to greeting my coworkers.  I have some exciting challenges facing me this school year.  I feel more experienced as a teacher and more confident in my role as educator.  I eagerly await the joys of watching sweet children gain knowledge and understanding.  I think teaching is the best job on the face of the planet. 

I think it’s gonna’ be a good year….