Bribing my son

Last week, my darling son was doing what 11 year old boys do...something reckless...when he fell and hurt himself. Fortunately, he didn't break his ankle or bones in his foot, but he has a pretty bad sprain. We've done what is necessary to help him heal, but I do know that my son is, well, an hypochondriac.

From toddlerhood, he has always overdramatized any of his hurts. I'd go to get him after school, and he'd be covered in bandaids. Any little scrape is a life or death situation. It's so hard to know when his pain is real or when he's embellishing. When he fractured his wrist last year, it took me weeks to convince him to begin using it again after the cast was removed and he was given the all-clear to resume activities. After he gets over a cold, it takes all the pushing and pulling possible to get him off the couch.

Because of the severity of the sprain, the doctor recommended crutches for a few days. I inwardly groaned. I knew our son would love his crutches and the attention they bring him. Today marks day five of the great sprain incident, and it's time for him to walk. At 7:25 this morning, we had our first argument over the crutches when I told him he could get his own breakfast. He started yelling, "I can't! I can't!" Then he went to the kitchen and made his own breakfast.

Knowing my son, I decided to bribe him, and I'm not proud about doing so. However, the promise of a movie he's been desperate to see has driven him to stretch, ice, and walk today. In fact, by the end of the day, he was walking without his crutches. He even decided to put both shoes on.

So Friday, I will sit in a darkened theatre, watching another kid's movie, but at least my son will be stronger and crutch-free. I don't like bribes, but they are sometimes a necessity in the life of a parent.

Riding dirt with my son

Living a quarter of a mile from a biking/walking trail affords us ample opportunities to be active. We are on the trail every day during summer, and at least 4-5 times per week the rest of the year. Today was one of those days where we biked part of the trail.

My son, Chip, has only ridden for five years, and yet, he is an incredibly adventurous rider; at least, I think so. Part of "our" trail has dirt paths, which Chip prefers to ride. I personally like riding the concrete, safe trails, but I hate to look like a chicken in front of my son, so I ride the dirt with him. He pushes me to challenge myself and my own riding abilities when we take those dirt trails.

We've seen some lovely flowers and unusual plants because we ride dirt, and we've had adventures in terms of crossing small parts of the creek or riding in mud because the foliage is so dense, the mud can't dry out. Sometimes we get separated, or Chip chooses a different path than I want to ride, but the nicest part of this trail is we can reconnect at some point.

I like to think of myself as independent, tough, formidable, so when I have 'girly' moments on the trail, it's tough. Today as we rode, I wasn't paying enough attention, and what I thought was a stick was, in fact, a snake. Not a dangerous snake, but a snake nonetheless. As it reared up when I got too close to it, I screamed a girly scream, "a snake! a snake!" knowing full well it wouldn't hurt me. Yuck, though. I don't particularly care for snakes, and when I see one on the trail, it's a bit freaky for me. Chip thought I was pulling his leg.

On our trail adventures, we've seen coyotes, herons, snakes, different types of birds, prairie dogs, and we've met all sorts of friendly people and their dogs. Although our trail adventures feel like we're away from the city and in the wilderness, the city isn't far; in fact, it surrounds us. The best part of our trail rides, other than time together, is the fact we can witness the beauty of nature, its changeability.

I like our adventures; I like the fact that I have to push myself to keep up with my son.

I like being married!

"Mawage. Mawage is wot bwings us togeder tooday. Mawage, that bwessed awangment, that dweam wifin a dweam… And wuv, tru wuv, will fowow you foweva… So tweasure your wuv. " One of my favorite lines from one of my favorite movies, The Princess Bride. I thought about this line frequently over the past week, as my husband and son were in the mountains at Boy Scout camp, while I, and Daisy dog, were home. The time apart gave me an opportunity to truly reflect on marriage, the blessed arrangement, the dream within a dream...

It's easy to forget to "tweasure your wuv" when there's so much to do each day, each week. With both of us working in demanding professions, we can forget to show the other love. And while we have one child, he still takes a great deal of time, which also causes us to forget to treasure our love. But separation, total separation, reminds us that we really do love one another and how blessed we truly are.

You know the line in Sleepless in Seattle, when Sam, who's speaking to the radio doctor says, "it was a million tiny little things that, when you added them all up, they meant we were supposed to be together... and I knew it. I knew it the very first time I touched her. It was like coming home... only to no home I'd ever known... I was just taking her hand to help her out of a car and I knew. It was like... magic"? I thought about that line the moment I met my husband. The day had been long, snowy, and cold, and the retreat we were supposed to have wasn't going well, and he came stomping into the meeting room, all six feet, six inches of him. My first thought was, "Oh great, I'm going to be here with this redneck for the weekend!!" And then we were introduced and shook hands. In that brief moment, it was like coming home. Throughout the weekend together--with plenty of others around--I felt like I had always known him; there was a comfort with him I had never found with any other guy I had met. When we participated in an Emmaus walk, I held his hands, which felt right, and looked into his eyes, and we knew...we knew we found the right one.

With my husband, The Handyman, it's those million little things that all add up...listening to him breathe at night, feeling the warmth of his body next to mine. Having the paper unwrapped and on the table before I eat breakfast. His obsession with doing our laundry. Sitting silently, companionably,  next to one another and not worrying what the other is thinking. Laughing at one another's jokes.

We have a history, and it's been quite a road. We've weathered some severe life storms and emerged stronger. Each of us is imperfect, but we love that about one another. Are there parts of our personalities that frustrate each other? Naturally; two people cannot live together with complete harmony. Can we compromise or overlook those frustrations? We do our very best.

I like holding his hand still. I like when he hugs and kisses me. I like being married. This past week confirmed for me that I really like being married. Fortunately, I'm with someone who likes being married to me. For us, it's is "twu wuv".

Raising a tween

Tween. What a dumb word. At least, I thought so until my son moved into the "tween" stage. We've been riding an hormonal roller coaster ever since.

At my age, it's hard to remember the feelings and thoughts I had as a 'tween.' Of course, when I was 11 and 12, the word hadn't been invented yet. As our world has evolved, it is seems logical to name this foyer into the teen years. It also seems logical to give parents of tweens free Valium to handle these rougher waters of parenting.

Today, for example, my son made mini-muffins for us. It was a sweet gesture, and the muffins were wonderful. However, when he wanted his father to eat one and his father wouldn't--because he was in the middle of something--our son got really upset and started yelling. Yesterday, I went into the basement, supposedly to exercise, to escape from my son's hormones. They were raging until he fell asleep on the couch.

I'm trying to help him find words to identify what's going on with him; I think he'll be a better communicator later in his life if he can identify and explain his thoughts and feelings. I have to be careful, however; sons are at such a confusing time with their mothers, especially at 11. They don't want to be babied or 'mama's boy,' but they need to know their mothers are there for them. They want to explore what it means to be a man with their fathers or other adult males, which often means they avoid their mothers. I feel like I'm walking a tightrope as I deal with my son.

I know he wants to be independent but is still dependent on me. I try to give him his space and be patient, but there are days where my patience wears thin. Like all his other stages, I know this stage will not last forever. It will last, though, until he's finished with high school, and right now, that seems like a long time away!

Me, Ogre, and the Speedway

A family member of a prominent racing family was injured today when a propane tank exploded. This family has done a great deal of good in our community within its 50+ years of existence, not only with jobs and charities, but with great races and building a sense of community. In fact, looking at video footage of the raceway, I couldn't help remember my time there as a "groupie."

My brother and a group of his friends decided to go to the speedway one Friday night because anyone who wanted to pay the entry fee could race a car. I didn't have anything to do, and I had a vicious crush on one of his friends, so I tagged along. Within minutes, I was smitten, both with the guy and with 1/4 mile racing as a whole. I loved the sound of the engines as they revved at the tree. I loved the smell of burning rubber as cars revved their engines and locked their brakes. I especially loved the sound of a muffer-less car flying down the track. It was exciting!

The current speedway is the updated, modernized version of the place where I once hung out. Then, it was a simple track with several lanes, a snack shack next to the staging lanes, and the ability to stand near the start to simply see, hear, and experience the thrill of the race. When it rained, the entire track became a river, making it hard to run to our cars. The pits were filled with guys in my age group and their fathers, stinking of cigarettes, oil, and sweat, a smell I grew to appreciate.

I had friends who raced, so it was exciting to stand in the staging lanes with them before their races, watching their other buddies head down the track. Occasionally, someone would let me ride along as they raced, which was always fun. We'd often walk the pits, looking for someone a friend of mine knew, or visiting with other gearheads as they readied themselves for the next race. Once, we were so far into the pits and my friend's race was due, we crowded into some guy's race car and headed up to the staging lanes. I sat, straddling the transmission.

Because I went so often, I knew the guy at the gate, who'd wave me through without paying my 5.00. I'm sure it's more than five bucks now, but then, five bucks was a lot of money, especially when I worked in a restaurant. My shift seemed to take forever on Fridays, and I often ate dinner in the car as I hurried to the speedway. Once racing was over, it was time to eat. Pizza Hut or Village Inn were our preferred choices. It was usually me and five or more guys at a table (my mother was scandalized), and if it was pizza, they'd wait for me to take what I wanted before they dove in, often polishing off a couple of pizzas in a matter of minutes while downing pitchers of pop faster than the server could bring them. Naturally, being young men, there was a great deal of belching that took place, each guy trying to outbelch the others.

After a few years, we all went our separate ways, grew up, moved elsewhere. But sometimes, when I sit in my backyard and can hear the engines revving and smell the rubber burning, I send a silent thank you to Gomer, Ogre, Mike, and Chris for taking me under their wings and making my Friday nights filled with fun and laughter.

Summer Peace

The dappled leaves overhand the shards of brownish-green grass while the sun refuses to set without a fight. The chain link fence glistens with sunlight and water droplets while the click-click-click of the neighbor's sprinkler and the birdsongs serenade us in our backyard.

Overhead, the sky is cornflower blue, deepening and turning a silvery-gold, while mere wisps of clouds trail by. The air is heavy with woodsmoke from the fire my 11 year old started in our old, never used, chimenea. At my feet is our aging Daisy dog, traumatized but clean and fluffy from her bath today. I rest comfortably in the patio chair that was my grandmother's, feet up on an old metal table, breathing in the scene around me.

My son, newly shorn with a Mohawk--his preferred summer haircut--has a hatchet in hand and is whacking pieces of wood into shards with an energy that shows his age. His incessant chatter while breaking wood peppers the air as ash from the newspaper he just shoved into the chimenea showers on us. I'm not sure what he's saying; in fact, I'm not sure he's even talking to me. He's proud of his developing muscles and strength, and he's eager to show me what a man he's becoming.

My husband, the perpetual piddler, is trying to coerce our sprinkling system into working. He cannot sit still and relax; he's in constant motion. He too is talking to himself, and in this moment, his voice is part of the song of the evening. He can never simply sit and inhale a summer day or evening; instead, there's always another project to complete. But he smiles deeply and gives me information about our irrigation system I won't remember past the moment.

Ten months of a year, I spend behind the walls of a stone building, looking out windows, wishing for time outside (unless it's snowing or raining). Between the time my work is temporarily finished and the time to start dinner, a few mere hours of outside time are allotted to me. For me, summer is an out-of-doors time-from morning until dark, watching leaves ripple in the wind and bees, wasps, and other flying insects cavorting on air. Cotton dances on light, tickling breezes; birds swoop in and out, busily building nests or seeking food for their babies.

Peace descends.

Subject to the comments of others

This morning, my son informed me that he could no longer use our toothpaste because a kid on the bus told him his breath smelled bad. As a mom, my heart broke a bit more to hear that and to see my son make a decision based on another's comment.

I remember comments made to me as I was growing up: my hair and eyes were "too dark;" I was "fat and ugly;" I chewed "like a cow;" words disguised as swords eating away any self-confidence I tried to develop. I internalized these comments, not sharing them with others who might understand or who could provide comfort. Early teens are such an ugly time in most of our lives: ugly physically but also mentally. It seems like the insecurities we develop during that time shape who we become.

My son must hear disparaging remarks frequently because he makes them about himself at home. He is upset with his weight, but he makes poor choices about food and exercise. He criticizes his height, but there's nothing that can be done about it. And the worst: he talks about having no friends, but he's highly critical of each person who tries to be his friend. He seems to want the "perfect" friend, but he won't listen as I try to explain the necessity of accepting people for who they are.

It's funny though; the notion we can make rude and inappropriate comments about others with no consequences, or so we think. As Americans, we must be an unhappy group because of the ferocity we have when attacking others. What is the purpose of attacking other people for their imperfections? Why do we think we have the right to criticize others? Why do we think we have the "right" to attack others for their looks, thoughts, beliefs, and attributes?

The internet, for example, is riddled with such people. Sometimes I read the comments on an article with a sort of disgusted fascination regarding the cruelty of others. In fact, one of our family members was involved in an accident that critically injured her child, and the comments posted about her were horrific. People jumped to conclusions about her and the situation, saying vile, untrue comments. They didn't know her but they made comments, comments that are in cyberspace forever.

It seems like the playground bullies have found new avenues to make their hurtful comments: the internet. What's sad is how many bullies have bred children who do the same thing as they once did: destroy the confidence in others. As a parent, how can I help my son navigate the viciousness of others when it's all around him and in many forms? How can we as a society emphasize that vicious comments are not acceptable and won't be tolerated?

Or do we simply tolerate these comments and the people who make them?

Women's conversations

The other night I was on a massage table, listening to my massage therapist talk about her daughter's wedding when I realized something: I miss women's conversation.

Sure, I converse with women at my school, but it's usually about classes, curriculum, and students. When I think of women's conversations, I think of the stories we tell one another, the empathy we can show, and the laughter at shared situations.

I don't have women's conversations anymore, with my mom gone. I miss her stories, our talks, our times sharing. It's gone and I don't know where to find it. My life is surrounded by men, and our conversations aren't quite the same.

It's ironic that I've realized this loss within myself because I never thought of myself as a "woman's woman." I generally prefer the company of men because I find it less complicated, less stressful. But now, two and half years after my mom's passing, I find myself lonely and a bit desperate to have women's conversations.

We talked about so much; I never truly realized how much talking we did. There was always something to say, to share. I miss her advice about problems in my life. I miss her sympathy. I miss talking to her about my husband and son. I miss her stories of growing up, her complaints about my dad, and her silliness and laughter.

I don't know how to fill the gap her death has left in my life.

It would be different if I had female friends, but I don't. I don't quite understand female relationships or the intricacies of said relationships. At least I understood my mom, for the most part, and what she expected of me. I don't understand what women want of one another or why it's so difficult to understand them.

And I don't even know if it's possible at my age to find female friendship and conversation. I just know how much I miss it.

End of another year

Today ended my 20th year of teaching. It's funny how some years are so bad, I cannot wait for the end of the year. I can hardly clean up my classroom, get my signatures, and leave tread marks in the parking lot on my way out.

This year was a good year, which makes its end bittersweet. Granted, I had a really rough class, and it was a relief to finish with them on Tuesday. I had to learn new curriculum and new assessments, but upon reflection, I enjoyed doing so. And I had to be compared repeatedly to our department 'guru' aka "Mr. Kurtz," but I lived. What really made it a good year, though, were my students, especially my AP Literature students.

Looking forward to each day our class met compensated for the more difficult classes. I was lucky to have a group innately curious and yet sponge-like. They absorbed-at least most-of what I taught them. They worked harder than I expected, and we had more laughs than I thought we would. I enjoyed the days we met and came home tired but jazzed from our discussions.

What makes a great school year, truly, are great students and colleagues as well as some supportive administrators. I was lucky to find a great partner for next year as well as a lunch buddy. I was able to laugh with more colleagues, joking more, and essentially enjoying our time together. I feel as though I smiled more this year. I was supported, mostly, by administrators when I needed it. As I walked to my car this morning, I was a bit sad to leave.

But as with all good things, this too, this year, has ended. I have time now to relax and ready myself for next year, a year I hope will be as enjoyable.

Hard Call to Make

One of the benefits of teaching the same students over a period of time is the chance to know them well, but with that knowledge comes responsibility, especially if there's a change in them. This has recently happened to me, and I had to make a difficult decision.

Bobby, a senior, has been with me for two years. He's sweet, kind and compassionate, intelligent, and fun. He's a good listener, attentive to others and a hard worker. At least that's been true until this semester. Bobby also has a friend, Travis, who's intelligent, lazy, irresponsible, mean, and essentially the antithesis of Bobby. I've long suspected Travis's involvement with drugs, and I hoped that Bobby would avoid them and Travis's negative influence.

Unfortunately, Bobby has changed this semester from his happy-go-lucky self into a stranger. He's distant, inattentive, and lazy. He's lost a great deal of weight and generally looks bad. I talked with him a few weeks ago, to see if I could find out if everything was okay, and he gave me the usual speech teens give interfering adults: "I'm fine, just tired. I'm working too much. I'm stressed out." I repeatedly hear these words from my students, and I know they're only telling me part of their story. I thought, however, Bobby would be different; I don't know why.

This past Friday, I was told by others that Bobby and Travis are into drugs, and I was upset. Travis, sure. His parents make excuses for him and call him in "sick" frequently when he doesn't want to go to school. Bobby was truly upsetting. The hardest part, sometimes, of being a teacher is knowing information about students and deciding what to do with it.

I carried this information with me on our short weekend trip, through Mother's Day, to bed, and throughout Monday morning. I finally decided that I couldn't let this information slide; I needed to let Bobby's parents know. Naturally, I'm a coward, so I emailed first, but I ended up talking on the phone to his mom. My heart broke as she cried, telling me she's had her suspicions too. We talked awhile, and I referred her to Bobby's counselor.

What motivated my decision was my own son. I hope he'll have a teacher some day who sees him as more than a seat in the classroom, who cares about his well-being. I hope he will have a teacher who will make a hard call to us if she or he suspects something is going on with our son. Although my students are not 'my' children, they are entrusted to me by their parents, to look after them, to care for them, and yes, to make hard calls when I suspect something is not right with them. I take this trust, this responsibility seriously.

While I haven't seen Bobby as yet this week, I hope he will some day reflect on this time and understand that my intentions are good. I want what's best for him, as any parent and/or teacher wants for their kids. I want Bobby to go to college, be successful, and have a great career and life. Mostly though, I hope I'm wrong about the changes I've seen in him this semester.

It was a hard call to make, but I hope the end results are positive.

Why Teach?

Today I asked my junior class to do something they haven't done in a long time...write without a prompt. They stared at me, not quite understanding what they were being asked to do. I had few requests: write a full page in ten minutes. Write on any subject. Change subjects if necessary. I grade only for completion. Why ask them to do this?

They don't know how to think creatively or create something all their own. Instead, our system has routinely given them prompts and strict expectations for their writing. It's no wonder I've been frustrated this year, but I think I've now found something we might enjoy.

Challenging my students is a joy. Watching as their faces light up when they discover something makes all the frustrations disappear, at least for a short time. Working with them, showing them different ways of anwering questions or encouraging them to think for themselves is, partly, why I went into teaching.

I've read a number of "I quit" articles recently about teachers who are frustrated with the profession, the national and state requirements, laws that force an incomplete evaluation system on teachers, and accountability through standardized testing and merit pay, all of which are reasons for them to leave. It's that time of year; we're tired, the students are tired. We've come through nearly all of our testing season reasonably intact. We are headed toward the end of the school year.

It's easy to focus on the negatives: rude, entitled students, obnoxious parents, incompetent administrators, inconsiderate colleagues, and the mounds of work left to do. However, what about the positives? My positives for the year include: students who have improved their writing, thinking, and speaking; students who have made me laugh; students who look forward to walking through my classroom door; colleagues who challenge me and provide necessary feedback; a couple supportive administrators; and students who come back to tell me thanks.

When I began teaching, I wanted to save all students, inspire them, motivate them, show them their paths. I was young--24--and I knew I could make a difference in the lives of teenagers. Amazingly, despite all the negatives that have happened over the years, I retain some of those same feelings. My job is to inspire, motivate, correct, and help teens find their life paths. While I know I cannot save all my students from their errors, I try to help as many as I can.

I admire those teachers who leave the profession because they've had it. It's understandable. I, too, am tired of reading negative remarks about how lazy teachers are or how we "have it easy." I am tired of feeling marginalized because I've chosen to teach. Our country's lack of value of education is deeply concerning. But I aso look forward to each day I spend with many of my students. They inspire and motivate me. They help me find a better path to reach more students.

And that is why I continue to teach.

Beautiful soul

My son has a beautiful, kind heart and soul. Of course, he tries to mask it with boy toughness, poor personal hygiene, and the occasional bad attitude. But, deep inside, he has a beautiful soul.

Natually, as his mother I should believe in his kindness, his sweetness, his inner beauty. It's when I see him play with the little kids down the street, work with the little kids at karate, or look around at all the lovingly made art in my room and house, that affirms the beauty of my child. I think, "I've created him!" but really, I haven't, not completely. He has an innate kindness that allowed him, when my mother was in the hospital after surgery and not looking like herself, to crawl on her bed and cuddle her. Next to my bed is the Lego birthday cake he made me years ago. Above my head hangs the wood carving he made me for Christmas this past year.

Our world doesn't accept sweetly sensitive boys, which is a shame. We ridicule them, call them terrible names, and tell them to "man up." What will happen to my son as he grows older? Will he hide his true self behind a mask of toughness? So what if he isn't "athletic" or knows football stats? Why must we identify boys by the sports they play rather than the person they are?

Our boys are so much more than we allow them to be. We tell them not to cry when they're sad, to act like pigs with girls, and define their self-worth by the number of points they can score in a game. We expect them to go into "manly" fields like construction or engineering, and we laugh at them when they want to be teachers or nurses, traditionally "women's work." We expect our boys to be tough, rough and tumble, rather than gentle, and we mock signs of gentleness by ridiculing their sexuality. We make them fear being "gay" and force them to deny their sexuality. Should they accept their sexuality, and it doesn't fit with our idea of "normal," we mock them and shame them for what is biological. We instill a fear of homosexual men into our boys as perverts and child molesters, and our boys grow into men who need to prove their masculinity.

My kind, beautiful son is headed into the hormone-driven confusing era of middle school, where some of his best traits will be mocked. I hope we have given him the internal strength to withstand what is headed his way, but I worry. Teenaged boys kill themselves at greater rates than teenaged girls, and this concerns me as well. Teenaged boys are more likely to commit violent crimes as well, especially in an effort to prove their self-worth.

In the end, I hope he emerges a taller, stronger version of the person he is now.

#Victim of sexual abuse?

My mother worried about me as a child, falling prey to sexual deviants, especially her stepfather, our family deviant. He'd spent her adolescence spying on her and trying to touch her, and she knew he would eventually try those same actions on me, so I was carefully watched until I was old enough to understand to keep him away from me.

However, I was recently on the massage table, and we were discussing my issues with weight. The massage therapist suggested that my need to hide myself comes from sexual abuse. But I wasn't ever sexually abused by a family member, at least to my knowledge.

But the more I considered her words, the more I thought about my experiences between ages 11-18. At 11, I already was in the throes of puberty, including budding breasts. I spent a great deal of time fending boys' hands off my breasts, butt, and crotch. Some of those grabs hurt physically, but I never considered them sexually abusive. Progressing through adolescence, the grabs were frequent, humiliating, and painful. I didn't know what to do or how to defend myself. Regardless, until I was 18, there were boys trying to get into my pants or my bra off, and many who wouldn't date me because wouldn't have sex with them.

So the question becomes: was that sexual abuse? I know today we would consider that type of touching to be sexual harassment, but does it constitute sexual abuse? As most young women have, I have had to defend my breasts, crotch, and butt from plenty of hands. Was is it that makes guys think they can treat women this way? Would their mothers or grandmothers be proud of them? Do they wonder today about their effects on all those girls they harassed in junior high and high school? I'd love to find a few of them to see how they'd respond if their daughters are touched sexually.

I know that I developed a "don't mess with me" attitude, as a former boyfriend once pointed out. That attitude helped me let guys know not to touch me without invitation. Yet, can my weight be explained because adolescent boys touched me sexually? I know I hated having breasts so young, and I'm still not a fan of them. I know I'm much more invisible as a fat woman than if I were thinner. People discount my intelligence and abilities as a fat woman; I'm not taken seriously by coworkers. The assumption most make when they see me is that I'm lazy and unworthy. Am I so used to this attitude that I'm afraid to make changes within myself?

Am I a victime of sexual abuse?

Two-Faced Woman

I had an horrific nightmare last night. One so bad, it woke me up and stayed with me all day.

I dreamt of a woman with two faces. The forward face was Evil Incarnate; gaping mouth, bright eyes, red face; it snarled and hissed. The backward face was peaceful and loving, wearing a white wimple and a black veil, like a nun. I wanted only to deal with the nun face, not the evil one, but I could only catch flashes of the nun-face.

We-me and the two-faced woman-were at my school. It was a dark and snowy day, and I didn't have adequate shoes. I kept slipping in the slush, nearly falling. The evil face laughed and mocked me while the peaceful face smiled beatifically and encouraged me. Others were around, trying to get into the school, but only I seemed to see the two-faced woman.

This has plagued me all day. Am I the two-faced woman? In some ways, yes. There are so many politics raging right nowin my building, and I find myself too close to the middle of them. I don't know who to trust or what to say, so I keep pushing myself farther into this mess. I have taken a dislike to a teacher, even though I don't know her well, because I think she's a bit of trouble.

So is she the two-faced woman? She's quickly ingratiated herself within our staff, and yet I don't know her well enough to trust her. It takes awhile before I let my guard down, and with her, I don't think it's possible. She's nice enough to my face, and I to hers, but I simply wonder.

Of course, I spent nearly an hour after school yesterday talking with a colleague. Is she the two-faced woman? I've known her awhile, and although our friendship has drifted, uncared for and unattended, we still exchange pleasantries when we see one another. I've considered all day that she could be two-faced, but I don't think it's in her.

I woke with a tremendous guilt over me, which has really made me think it's me. I have a tendency to talk out of both sides of my mouth, a terrible fault I've tried to rectify over the years. I'm also tired and disillusioned, which seems to make my verbal diarrhea worse. I wish I knew who the two-faced woman was, but I have reflected on this: either way, I need to shut my mouth and do what I'm paid to do: teach.

#Advice for the# new teacher

As we head toward the end of the school year and new teachers begin looking for teaching jobs, I'd like to offer some advice for those beginning their careers.

Find a mentor teacher who is willing to work with you, especially in high school. High school teachers are a territorial group, but there are always those who remember how difficult the first year(s) was and are willing to mentor new teacher. More importantly, listen to their advice. I know you have come from theory classes and student teaching, and you are probably filled with many good ideas. However, listen carefully to veterann teachers as well. You don't have to do as they say, but they often have encountered many of the same problems you will. Veteran teachers often feel frustrated that their experience isn't valued by new teachers, so simply listen to their advice. It many not be pertinent immediately, but you might eventually need it.

Understand that you are going to have to coach or sponsor something. It's part of the job. Moreover, you will chaperone dances. Bring a date but don't be unprofessional. It's a great way to see students in a different element and to make connections with other faculty. They also can see you out of the classroom, which helps them see you as a real person. You might even enjoy the extracurricular activities. There is an expectation in high school that teachers will attend plays and athletic events. These are enjoyable and it provides conversation for the following week.

Teaching is a time-consuming profession; understand and accept it. You will take home papers to grade. You will work weekends. Students will have to write and work problems, and as an effective teacher, you will have to grade them. Yes, grading can be a drag as well as cut into fun activities, but hey, I've brought grading to family functions. Families learn to understand and adjust. Plan lessons thoroughly, but know that they won't always go as planned. Don't be discouraged. It happens to everyone. On occasion, you will forget to plan; it happens. Have a couple of lesson plans in reserve for those days. Sometimes, those unplanned days are the best!

One area that causes me tremendous concern is teacher-student relationships. Students are children, even at 18. As a teacher, it is your responsibility to be the adult, regardless of your age. Students are not your friends or your lovers. Teachers have a professional responsibility to help students grow and learn, and it sometimes means they need to act as counselors and/or parents. But really, those who "friend"students and "hang out" with them need to grow up. They need to find friends their own age.

It's unprofessional to talk about your drinking, drug habits, or personal problems, within reason. There's no problem in informing students of something in your life that's affecting you, like death of a parent or sickness. However, befriending them and telling them all the sordid details of you life is wrong. These are children, even at 18.

Teachers also do not really have full First Amendment rights. Read your contract. There are often morality clauses in teacher contracts. Be familiar with what yours says. While discussing controversial subjects in class-within reason and control-is necessary for student growth, infusing each conversation with your own views is wrong. Give students both sides of the issue and allow them to make up their own  minds. Converting them to your religion, vegetarianism, or other ideologies is simply wrong. It's not your job.

Know that not all students, parents, or faculty will like you, and quite frankly, that's not important. What is important is that you do the best job you can possibly do for your students. There will be controversy. There will be problems. But when students are successful, or you reach that one student no one has been able to reach, you are good teacher.

What a day!

What a tough day today! Teaching is a hard enough job, but there are other factors that make it worse.

I spent today proctoring our state assessment test, a tedious task. Watching freshmen squirm, sniff, wipe noses, sharpen pencils, and bubble does not make for an exciting three hours. We are not allowed to read, grade, or do anything other than walk around and stare at the kids. Before the day was over, I'd already walked two miles.

And then...

It felt like my day erupted. One frustration after another piled up, and I was ready to hurt someone. Between parents excusing their children from attending class due to weather, to students "not knowing" if an assignment was due, to absenteeism, and finally, watching politics take their toll, I was ready to quit.

And then...

A student I had last year stopped by for a surprise visit today. It was wonderful to see him and talk with him. While his visit didn't necessarily appease my frustration, he reminded me why I teach. I absolutely love visits from former students, and seeing one who dropped out was especially delightful. As awful as I perceived my day to be, knowing I've impacted an individual reminds me that I have to back each day; I have work to do.

I am a lucky person; I have mostly great students, current and former. I have been blessed throughout my twenty years, and I'm glad I go back tomorrow.

Conference Time

Conferences. The idea makes me shiver. I've been blamed for a child's failure; I've been insulted; I've been threatened that a parent will "have my job." I never know what to expect, so I've begun expecting the worst and hoping for the best. As we recently had conferences, I found them to be the best.

What's frustrating about conferences, for the most part, is the fact that those parents I need to see rarely show up. Their child has a D or an F, and although I've already sent emails about their child's lack of progess, it would be nice to have a personal discussion. Instead, the parents who show are those whose children are doing well in class. They generally have the same question: how can they support me at home? I appreciate those parents, and their care and concern reflect in their child's success.

In fact, nearly all parents I visited with this past week are parents whose children are doing well in my class. It was nice to visit and laugh with parents. One of my best conferences involved a student who, last semester, was failing most of the semester. He earned a D for the class, which upset him. This semester, however, he has a really solid B, nearly an A. I am proud of him, and I thoroughly enjoyed telling his parents about his tremendous improvement. His mom was so happy, she was giddy. I like those conferences.

Some parents are simply funny. One family and I had a wonderful conversation, not only about the progress their son has made, but about our celebrity "boyfriends and girlfriends." We were laughing so loud and so hard, I nearly had tears. I always enjoy visiting with this family because they are funny and delightful.

As cheesy as this sounds, I enjoy telling parents how much their children mean to me and how wonderful their children are. Last year, I had a conference with a father and son, and I had suggested the son join an Advanced Placement class. He decided to join mine, which surprised me as I teach Literature, and his dad wasn't sure he would do well. Not only has this young man risen to the challenge of an AP class, he's doing quite well in it. I thanked his father for allowing him to take the risk, and I told him how proud of his son I am. As this was his father's last conference (this student is a senior and a youngest child), I felt comfortable telling him that he has raised a wonderful young man, which he has.

Last year, another of my students decided to challenge herself with my Advanced English class, and while I wasn't sure it was the right fit for her, I believe strongly in encouraging students to challenge themselves. It's been a good year with her. She grows in confidence, which allows her to grow in ability. I feel a bit like a cheerleader, pushing her to continue to feel good about herself, which then reflects in her work. She's doing well in the class, her writing has improved tremendously, she's read novels and plays she wouldn't have read ordinarily, and she feels better about herself. Her mom is also a teacher, so we often have lovely conversations. As this was her last conference, it was nice to be thanked for working with her daughter. I am proud of this young woman for her accomplishments.

As rough and frustrating as teaching can be, I treasure these small gifts: students and parents who appreciate the work I do in terms of challenging their children, loving their children, and pushing their children toward better futures. Students are the reason I teach, and by holding onto these moments, even the darkest and most difficult times are better because I know I've made a difference.

What the doctor said to me...

I decided recently to visit a dermatologist; it's not that I'm worried about skin cancer  yet, but I want to be proactive and make sure my fair Irish skin is okay. I have moles and cysts, and I thought it was time to have them examined. I did some research on dermatologists and settled on one group near my home. However, after my first appointment, I'm less than enthused with the doctor I saw.

He asked me why I decided to see a dermatologist after years of having moles and skin bumps, and as I have pondered his questions, I find them somewhat offensive. Why not? I have a right to decide when I will see a doctor about a particular issue. I then made a mistake when I asked about the cysts problem. I have cysts in different places, and I'm a bit worried as to their cause. His response? Lose some weight.

Weight is an extremely sensitive subject for me. I have struggled with my weight throughout my life, and I find it frustrating to have people lecture me about it. Granted, I've obsessed over his comment for the past few days, but then, who is he to lecture me? I met him for less than ten minutes, and he had already formed an impression of me based on what he saw.

What he doesn't know, nor will he ever know, is how much I struggle to lose weight. I spent nearly four years on WeightWatchers, and regardless of what they say, I don't think it works for me. I walk five times or more a week, except for now that I've torn my fascia. I watch what I eat. I've cut out nearly all sweets and have limited my exposure to processed food. I cook well-balanced meals. I only drink water and have eliminated all sugary beverages from my life. I don't drink alcohol; I don't do drugs; I don't smoke. Based on this evidence, I should be thinner but am not. Why?

My doctors have run blood tests to see if something else is wrong, but they've only determined I need more vitamin D and a small thyroid pill each day. Beyond that, I'm pretty healthy. Yet this dermatologist does not know any of this, nor do I believe he was interested in finding this out. I regularly speak with my medical doctors about my health and weight, and it's not as though I don't know I'm overweight. And while I have fair Irish skin, my mother was Italian, and nearly all my cousins--and my mother--struggled with their weight their entire lives. Is my weight genetic? No idea. What does this dermatologist know about me except that I'm a fat woman sitting before him who has cysts?

And the rest of my skin issues? Age. That's it. It would be nice if medical professionals actually learned about their patients before linking their weight with their health issues. He wasn't interested in knowing about the cyst on my foot (how is that weight related?) nor about the cysts that are developing in my breasts (which may be genetic). Will I see him again? No. I don't need that kind of stress in my life.

Just because I'm fat doesn't mean I'm oblivious to my weight nor does it mean I sit on my couch and eat junk food all day. And it doesn't mean I'm not worried about my health.

Sleeping and eating anxieties

My eyes open wide and I look at the clock. Not possible! 3:30 in the morning. I get up, stretch, get back in bed, and...wide awake.

I go through an entire day, frantically trying to exhaust myself so I can sleep, and then I get into bed and can't sleep. I'm anxious about sleep. In fact, as someone who has had sleeping troubles nearly all my life, I find my greatest anxieties are about my ability to fall asleep and stay asleep.

Again, wide eyes, look at the clock...4:00 am. What the hell? Wide awake and four am. I lay in the comfort and warmth of my bed, hoping to drift back into a dreamless sleep, hoping for just another hour, but to no avail. Wide awake.

It seems there is much to consider in the predawn hours. Most of my worries are about my job. I'm frustrated with the student body president who missed four days of school and hasn't enquired about our class. I'm upset with the parents and students who think it's okay to miss English once a week for "appointments." I mean, it's not like we do much or they need to pass the class to graduate. Plus, the ACT is coming, and my students are far from ready for it. And part of my evaluation depends on their ACT scores.

I'm worried about my AP students who aren't reading or attending class. Again, it's as if nothing happens if they aren't in the room. It's also registration time; will I have enough students to fill seats in my AP classes? I'm worried about my IB position; am I doing a good enough job to warrant a second year, or will my position be handed to someone else?

And then I'm hungry each morning; I could eat at 3:30 or 4 am; is it stress that's causing my hunger or am I really hungry? Stress causes me to eat, which I can ill-afford, and then I'm stressed because I gain weight.

Am I perimenopausal? I wish I knew. Without my mom here, I don't know what to expect. I ask the ladies I work with, but we're all about the same age and no one is quite sure what's going on. I don't think I'm ready for menopause yet, but I know being ready and experiencing don't necessarily align.

I'm a natural worrier, as evidenced by my past couple of nights, and I can't seemingly stop it. But I'm so tired, and I can't wait to go to bed. I just hope I can calm my worries and fall asleep.

Hurting the feelings of another

I try hard to be considerate of others's feelings when I work with them. Whether they are my students or my colleagues, or even my family, I try hard not to make insensitive comments. Today was different. In a conversation with a colleague, one for whom I have a great deal of respect, I made a rude and insensitive comment.

Several years ago when we hired this colleague, I felt the interview process was unfair. I thought we were there to hire the best candidate, and ultimately I know we did hire the best teacher for the position, but at the time, it felt like she was already selected and the interview proces was strictly a formality. Moreover, I was written up a few days later because my behavior was perceived as "unprofessional," even though the accusation against me were not true. I have refused to participate in further interviews because of that experience.

However, we were talking today because our department is about to lose three teachers, and rumor has it a middle school teacher has been promised a job at our school. Contractually, that's illegal. Realistically, it could be true. I let it slip that it felt like when she was hired. I should have stopped myself but didn't.

I question my motives. Why tell her that, after all these years? Why dredge up the past? What do I gain from hurting her feelings? She's worked hard to be an important and significant member of our department, and I really like working with her. In fact, she is one of two teachers who I'd like to partner with. I feel terrible, and I know what must be done; I need to face her and apologize tomorrow.

 Hurting another's feelings is usually motivated by a desire to inflict pain. As I reflect on my mouth, which often gets me into trouble, and my motivation, I have no desire to hurt my colleague. I wish I could understand why I said what I said.

Number crunching

Today is one of the bad days in education. Why? Because today we found out that we have to redo our SMART goals and reflections to fit a new format. For many people who do SMART goals and reflections, this may seem like a ridiculous issue. However, for teachers, especially high school teachers, it's cumbersome and time consuming, focusing less on actually teaching and more on crunching numbers. Students become "product" rather than the people they are.

I like students, and I like teaching. I like reflecting on the day, week, month, and year. I like focusing on my students, trying to decide what each needs from me. I like planning lesson, and sometimes, I even like grading. Data, in the form of numbers, doesn't help me much as I am easily confused by the mathematics that goes into data collection.

What frustrates me the most is this: I want to provide my students with a challenging, enriching education, and I work hard to accomplish this goal. I want my students to leave my room more capable and confident than when they arrived. I spend a great deal of time working with my students, including evenings and weekends. And yet, it feels like I'm not doing enough. I have to spend hours in front of a computer, recording those who are high, middle, and low achieving students, and then justifying all interventions I used to help them succeed. If they aren't succeeding I need to spend even more time justifying why they aren't succeeding. While I agree that a teacher has a significant impact on the success of a student, other factors, including parents, home environment, and peers, also contribute to whether or not a student is successful.

Days like today are a drag. They drain me. After spending hours trying to complete what was asked of me, I gave up in frustration. Draining days force me to question whether or not I'm in the right profession. Many will say, well quit. But it's never that easy. I don't like to give up, and I don't like to hurt my students. And I don't want to be homeless. I need the money. But I also need my students.

I guess I'll head back tomorrow and do my best for the day, putting off what confuses and frustrates me. Not the best solution, but the only one I have right now.

Memories box

When I began teaching in 1992, I had a student I could identify with; she was new to the state of Texas, new to the school, and she felt like an outsider. Coming from Colorado to Texas, I understood how she felt. At the end of the year, she handed me a tightly folded letter, in which she detailed how she was considering suicide before I reached out to her. It was a beautiful letter, full of hope for her future, and thanks for me.

I still have that letter because, on occasion and when life is tough, I pull it out and read it. After 20 years, however, I have received cards, notes, and drawings from some of the students I've worked with, and I keep them all in my memories box. They remind me about why I teach. I don't teach because I love administering tests or even grading essays. I teach because of teenagers. I teach because they need to know they are loved and accepted for who they are, even if their hormones have made them a bit nutty.

There are many of us who have our memories: pictures, programs, signed jerseys. Our mementos remind of our purpose: to work with children and teens. To know, once, we were important in the life of a young person. My memories box is an ordinary box kept next to my desk. On occasion, I like to open it to remind myself of my purpose. My classroom has decorations from previous students, including pictures. I look at them and think how lucky I've been to have worked with some amazing people.

Another way for me to preserve memories is to keep a journal that students can sign. I don't buy yearbooks as they are too cumbersome and too expensive, but journals work well. Any student who wishes to write in it may do so. No one is penalized if they don't write in it, and I ask students who would like to tell me how much they hate me to write me a letter rather than write in my book. I keep those hate letters too, simply because I need reminders that there are students whom I did not reach. Students who left my classroom without learning much.

When working in a high stress profession such as education, I've found it important to save those mementos from former students. I have reminders of those whom I've reached or not, those who touched my life, and a small body of evidence to leave my son someday, so he knows what I actually did in my life.

Maybe it's pure vanity to keep a memories box. But in my world, it's more about preservation of sanity and a reminder of why I do what I do.

Nightmares

One of the most difficult aspects of being a teacher is the regular nightmares. To wit: I'm currently on vacation, and yet I can't stop dreaming about school, mostly about what can go wrong.

I'm sure, in most professions, people have nightmares about their jobs, but mine seem to be based on my deepest fears and greatest insecurities. During the summer, I dream about not being able to manage a classroom so students walk out or it's utter chaos. During the school year, I dream about administration or certain students who vex me. Of course, I still have the classroom management nightmares, I mean, it's a pervasive fear. But this morning, I dreamt of a parent...

No parent, in particular. An amalgam of different parents with whom I've dealt over the years. The parents who scream and insult. The parents who are so angry, their voices shake. The parents who leave hate-filled voicemails or who write vicious emails. My nightmare dealt with that parent.

I don't understand what drives parents to be so vicious toward teachers. I know our profession has good and bad teachers in it. What profession doesn't? I know there are teachers who are easy to work with and teachers who are not. I know we bring our anger and frustration with our child, our own parenting, and our own emotional baggage regarding education and teachers to each meeting. But what I've never understood is why all of that has to come toward an individual teacher.

I've been threatened, insulted, screamed at, accused of lying, and had my words twisted. At this point in my career, I don't want to work with parents anymore. Before Back to School Night, my stomach is in knots. I've experienced disrespectful parents and parents who want to fight me at that time. One year, the parents were so badly behaved, other parents had to ask them to be quiet. Another time, a parent wanted to argue with me about the use of MLA and why I was wrong about its use. One parent, who was also a teacher, wanted to challenge our curriculum in front of a room filled with parents.

Then there are conferences. I'm physically sick days before the event because I don't know what I'll face that night. Will I be bullied? Insulted? I had a parent one time sit down and tell me how I was her son's favorite teacher. I was surprised and told her so. I figured the student hated me. She said, "Oh, you thought I was serious? He really hates you." What can be said after that? During our last conferences, I had a student with some serious anger issues, and regardless of what I said, she had rude and disrespectful responses. Her family marched up to an administrator and demanded a meeting or a new teacher. She was given a new teacher. Not that it mattered in the end, because her issues had nothing to do with me.

As a parent, I know how difficult it is to work with a teacher whose philosophy runs counter to one's own. My son's teacher last year was like that. She gave a great deal of homework, none of which was ever graded. I thoroughly disagreed with that philosophy, and yet, I felt it was in our best interest to support the teacher. I didn't insult her, scream at her, or trash-talk her to my son. I want my son to know that even if he disagrees with someone, he needs to be respectful.

Most teachers I know didn't go into the profession to get rich or to torture children. Most teachers are doing the very best for their students, which is made more difficult by changing standards, administrators, and difficult parents and students. I simply wish parents and students would understand that teachers are in their profession to help, not hurt them.

As for me, I also hope my nightmares stay nightmares and not become true experiences.

#New Year#Fresh Start

I know how cliched this sounds...new year, new start! New year, new you! But there is something about January 1 that keeps me forever hopeful about the upcoming year.

When I was a child, my mother would begin to quietly put away a few decorations the day after Christmas. Our "big" take down day was January 1...she wanted to begin the new year with a clean house, which often meant moving a few pieces of furniture around, or putting pictures in different spots. As I grew older and moved out of the house, she would often have everything down and put away by December 27th because she hated the clutter. I always felt sad when I saw all our Christmas paraphenalia disappear, but ironically, I am now the one who can't wait for all the Christmas decorations to be safely in their boxes again.

I don't have the same love for Christmas that I once had. It's lost its magic for me. In fact, I often feel like I'm simply going through the motions as we move through the holiday season. I enjoy our decorations...snow people, holy family, sentimental ornaments, but it seems like such a hassle to put them out and then put them away...within a six week period. While Christmas would feel odd without the decor, I find it a relief when it's all cleaned up.

Adhering to the January 1 rule, though, seems to be in my blood. It's how I was raised, and it's often difficult to break one's training. My husband would rather leave up the decor through Epiphany, but most years, I'm back in school by that weekend and consumed with all that is school. January 1 allows us a chance to enjoy our cleaned up home for a couple of days before I report back to school.

Today was no different; our New Years' day was spent sorting, boxing, wrapping, storing, and cleaning. I'm incredibly relieved! My house is clean and reorganized. I can breathe for the rest of the week; I might even attempt relaxing! I don't have to live in clutter and pine needles anymore. I feel clean; ready for a new year. My husband is a terrific sport, pitching in and doing the heavy lifting or cleaning the places I cannot reach. I'm sure he'd rather spend his day doing something else, but for me, well, that's what the first day of the new year is about...cleaning the cobwebs from the previous year.

And ultimately, isn't that what the first two weeks of January are about? Isn't that why we make resolutions? We want to be better people, live better, exercise more, be happy. Granted, we often break our resolutions before the end of the month, but we take the initiative, we resolve, we reorganize, we are new...at least for a short time.

My living room has a fresh start. I have a fresh start. And we have a fresh new year.