News From the Other Side of the Parenting Fence (The beginning of sharing my family's journey with PANDAS)

It's been a long time since I've written here. 5 months in fact. A lot has been happening within those last five months, and life has been busy. But I realized lately that something is missing from my life- and it's my ability to write and process my life. Time, of course, has been a big issue - between seeing clients, running groups, working at a school, and parenting my own kids there just isn't time to pull out the computer. But also, I've struggled with how and if I should share my story because as a mom, it is no longer just my story - it is the story of my family and my children.

And yet, I keep finding myself composing blog posts in my head, and contemplating how to share my inner thoughts, because I know I can't be alone in the parenting struggle. What's more - my current parenting perspective has shifted so drastically that I want other teachers and professionals to hear what it is like on this side of the fence.

Welcome to the Other Side:
So welcome, over here, to the other side of the fence. The one where we avoid eye contact with other parents because we don't know what their child says about our child. The one where we dread going to pick up our child from school because the teacher's report will make or break the rest of our day. The one where we know those staring eyes see us and say, "If only you were a better parent."

How did I end up on this side of the fence? You'd never tell from my instagram pics of my smiling girls. If you are facebook friends with me, you may think my daughter's sassy sayings are what's brought us here, but it's far from it.

I'd say my family climbed over this fall, each day climbing down one rung. Of course, I'm familiar with what happens over here, because I've stood on top of the fence and talked down to the parents on this side for years. I've listened sympathetically, offered support, suggestions, and yet, really, had no idea what these parents were going through.

PANDAS
In the past year, both of our girls have been diagnosed with Pediatric Autoimmune Neuropsychotic Disorders Associated with Strep (PANDAS). Ironically, pandas are some of our family's favorite animals, but we're slowly coming to hate them.

This disease -when the strep bacteria crosses the blood brain barrier and the strep antibodies start attacking the basal ganglia of the brain - is horrid. There are no other words to describe how our children have been eaten up by the monster that is PANDAS. There are fits of rage, anger, OCD tendencies, tics, separation anxiety, heightened sensory sensitivity... the list goes on and on. Yet we are some of the lucky ones. Our pediatrician recognized it early in both girls, and got us started on our treatment quickly. Many other PANDAS stories cross over years and years of fighting for some professional to recognize the disease. It is still considered fairly controversial and unknown.

Not My Journey Alone
Although writing is what I use to process my thoughts and calm my own brain, I struggle to write about our journey with PANDAS. Because it's not just my journey to describe, but a journey my family is on together. I'm not sure what my girls will think when they read this years from now - if they'll appreciate looking back on this hard time, or if they'll feel guilty for the pain my husband and I feel (dear girls, please - you have nothing to feel guilty about - I'm not implying that you should), of if they'll be upset by the invasion of privacy when they did not have a say.

But I don't want to hide our journey, because it is a journey. Last year, when my husband had cancer, we didn't hide anything. We healed because we let people in, we allowed them to help us, and we were prayed for and loved by our community. When you have a disease with neuropsychotic in the name, there isn't a lot of sharing, praying, and casserole bringing. It's just not done.

But we should be able to share this. My girls have done nothing wrong in catching this disease, and as we fight to treat it we have nothing to hide. It's hard, and awful, and not easy to describe.

I'm not going to share the ins and outs of what happens in my house or how PANDAS manifests itself in my girls. I will share my own struggles, thoughts, and realizations as I move from being a parent of "sweet kids" to a parent of "those kids" in the eyes of others. I'll share the fight to advocate for my children's needs, the desperate need to be understood by some school official or doctor, and the defeated moments of feeling that this disease has eaten our family. And hopefully, I can share success too.

Are you here, too?
If you are here, on the other side of the fence, watching the other parents share their child's great report cards, and sports achievements, friends, artwork, and wonderful reports from school - I'm sending you a hug. The "right" side of the fence always seems to be competing. They are so proud of their kids over there. We're proud of our kids too. Really proud. Yet, it's not like we can drop reading levels or test scores. "Yeah, so even without Motrin to decrease the brain inflammation, my daughter self-regulated and was able to stay calm enough to sit on stage even though she didn't sing." I'm SO FREAKING PROUD OF HER.  "My rock star daughter didn't jump into the pool right away at the swim meet, but once those other swimmers were halfway down the pool she got in!! She didn't walk away! She FINISHED HER RACE!" I mean - totally pride. She's not a quitter. And today - she hugged me and went to school - no fighting, clinging, screaming or crying. WIN.
Not facebook worthy, but a win all the same.

I'm sharing this story because as a teacher, both in special education and general education, I had no idea what it was like to be on this side of the fence. I thought I did, but I didn't. Because people on this side of the fence don't talk about it, don't share it, and often get blamed. As though they are too lazy to climb over the fence and join the "good families" on the other side. Trust me friends, now I know, it's not laziness. My friends on this side of the fence in the corse, high grass - we are fighting for our lives.

End of Year Teacher Thoughts

Out of the corner of my eye I see the fifth grader look up from his work and study me for a moment. "Mrs. Lipstick, what are you thinking about?" he asks sincerely.

"Nothing," I mutter. "Finish your test." I can't tell him the truth.

What am I thinking about? 

I'm thinking about the fact that I've worked with these children for the last three years. That's three years of them interrupting my thoughts, keeping me up at night as they've found way into my consciousness while I watch TV, drive to work, or am play with my own children. Three years of carefully selecting reading books for them, studying their decoding skills, listening to them re-tell stories, and constantly contemplating how to move them to the next level. Push on, push on, push on.

I'm thinking that it's over now. End of year assessments are wrapping up and my chances to bring them up to grade level or help them pass their state testing are almost gone. We'll send them to middle school next year, trusting another set of educators to pick up where we've left off, loving them them and fighting for them like we have.

I'm thinking about how lost I feel. How deflated. How I wish I'd done more. Put more time into those guided reading lessons, chosen better books, or done more to increase their vocabulary. Written better IEP goals. Advocated more. Pushed harder. Been a better teacher.

I'm thinking that even though my school is set up so that no teacher should ever feel completely responsible for one student I still feel crushed. The grade level and all the teachers that support that grade level own the test scores. We come together every 6-8 weeks to analyze student progress and refigure groups to meet student needs. These students are not just my responsibility, yet not only do I feel responsible for them, I also feel as though I've let the team down. I'm not sure that any student I worked with this year will pass the state testing. Forget about the fact that I worked with them because they were already below grade level. 

I'm thinking about merit pay and school sanctions and how ridiculous all of those carrot/sticks are in education. No additional incentive would have made me work harder for these children. I only wanted to give them the gift of reading on grade level so they could go of to middle school confident in their abilities. No sanction or poor performance review would have made me feel worse than I already do about the students' results. In fact, if I was given a poor review perhaps I could be angry at the system instead of at myself. 

I am thinking that I am not the only educator that feels this way. We got into this field to teach. You don't need to reward or threaten us to teach our students. We want them to succeed. Other teachers across the country are feeling the same way I am. What more could we have done?

I am thinking that I'll need a few days before I can focus on the successes we had, the small improvements, the increase in reading ability even if it will not be represented in the end of year scores. The fact that one of my students begs me for extra books and reads them practically overnight. Or that they want to stop while reading a book to analyze the characters and discuss the plot. Give me time and I'll appreciate those small victories.

I am thinking about next year and praying that these students will be OK. That the skills we worked on will carry with them to middle school and they will continue to grow in their abilities until they are working on grade level (or even above?) That their learning disabilities will not get in their way of doing whatever they want to accomplish in life.

I am thinking about the love I have for teaching and the frustrations I feel on a daily basis. I am wondering how to balance the two, and whether or not that balance is even possible. I am thinking about my role in these children's education, and the education field as a whole. 

I am thinking it is June, and hot, and that perhaps things will look better on the other side of summer vacation. 

What we can learn from camera angles and instant replay

Over the weekend I caught a moment of the Yankees vs Red Sox game when the game was paused so the umpires could use instant replay to challenge whether or not a ball was foul or a home run. In order to fill the air time on TV while the powers that be determined the right call, the announcers replayed the hit over and over again from different camera angles. The first image I caught showed that the ball clearly fell to the left of the foul pole, making it a home run. I didn't understand how it could possible be called foul. Why was this even a question? I made rude comments about the umpires needing glasses. And then they showed the hit from another camera angle, one that made it look like the ball was clearly foul. I stopped babbling and just stared. How can one actual occurrence look so different depending on where you were in the stadium? After watching the first video angle I knew what I saw. I was 100% confident. Yet no more than 10 seconds later I saw it from another perspective that made me be completely unsure of where the ball fell.

How different events can look from alternate perspectives always amazes me. It's unnerving when you think about it for too long. How can you ever be completely sure that you've seen what you think you've seen?

I see this play out in special education almost every day. Except there is not any video replay to help us go back and analyze what we saw and view it from different perspectives. We need to rely on our colleagues to help us examine a situation from every angle. That's not easy. In order to be open to even realizing there are different perspectives out there we need to be able to acknowledge that our own perspective may not show us the full picture. This requires more than a bit of humility and a lot of trust for our colleagues.

If the decisions we make for kids come from a belief that we have the only right answer and everyone else is confused, lazy, or just plain wrong, we can miss out on seeing the full picture of the child. And that doesn't impact just one run on a scoreboard, but often can change a child's whole life.

I think about my reaction to the first video replay. Before I had the whole picture I was loud in my confidence. It seemed easy to say ridiculous things about the umpires and be critical of their call. Yet it did not take long for me to eat my words when I saw the other camera angle. How often in our lives do we talk critically about others but never get to see the other angle and we walk away before we fully understand the whole picture?

I struggle with two sides of this problem. I can see a situation from my own perspective and make judgmental statements about those involved. Yet I also can be quieted from others' loud convictions. Even when I see a perspective on a student that differs from the popular opinion I can struggle to share my view when others at the table are loud and confident in their views. I catch myself thinking that other people must be right if they are so loud about their beliefs and I keep quiet. Or worse, I decide that although I think my perspective is valuable, challenging the norm is too much work at the moment and again I stay quiet. In both instances, when I am loud and sure and when I stay quiet, kids lose. It's something I am working on daily.

Kids are complex. There is no way as a teacher to see every side of them. What we see in our classrooms is not the full picture. Our particular backgrounds and training lead us to draw one conclusion about a child's needs that could be very different than someone else's. When we act with open minds and listen to all perspectives at the table we can create extremely powerful teams for the child involved. But if we shut others down and assume our way is the only right way we limit the potential plans we create for our students. This can be devastating for kids - the ones who don't learn to read because the "right" way we are teaching them isn't working. Or the kids who end up in the office day after day because we are not looking at the student's behavior from another angle.

Special education often pushes us to make a decision about how to serve kids and then to stick by it. We come to a formal meeting and write plans on legally binding paperwork. We try to get everyone to agree that this is the right plan. Of course we could always come back together to change the plan, but that often involves another meeting and more paperwork. And sometimes that means admitting things were not as black and white as we want them to be.

We are so busy that sometimes it feels like we do not have the luxury to sit down and fully examine a situation. Yet when this happens we slip into making snap decisions and forgetting to see all sides and gather all of the pieces.

The Students Needs vs My Needs

Last week I did one of the hardest things I've done as a teacher. I suggested that one of my favorite guided reading groups work with another teacher.

It killed me to do it. (If I said that phrase in the reading group one of the girls would immediately note my use of figurative language. I love this group.)

It especially hurt because just the day before one of the girls in the group snuck into my office at dismissal and told me how lucky she was and I worked together in reading.

I've been working with this group for two years now. Members have left and some have joined, but from April of last year until now we have been a set group. One of them came into the country last year. If we didn't switch her reading group I would be the only teacher who gave her guided reading instruction in the United States.

One of them in particular has made phenomenal progress. I am so proud of him. I thought about him all summer and determined that this year my main goal is to get him to grade level. I was sure we could do it. At our first quarter conference I told his mom about my plan and promised that I was going to do everything I could to get him to grade level.

After giving the mid-year reading assessment and analyzing his results I realized he is making some of the same mistakes he made a year ago. These errors aren't holding him back enough to impact his overall score on the test, but reading is not about one overall passing score. It is about putting all of those skills together. He needs all of those skills. The whole group does.

Everyone in the group is doing well and is making progress. Not at grade level, but moving towards it. If you look at just the score it looks like they are doing fine. But I want more for them than fine.  If I really want them to kick it into gear and get to grade level before middle school it is time for something drastic. I thought a lot about that promise I made to one mother, and I thought about the group's frustration over test prep and how much I want them to be able to sit confidentially for the end of the year testing. They need something different.

On paper, every one of them has an excuse for not performing on grade level, so it would be easy to look at their progress and say, "Oh, OK, no worries here. From kids with their backgrounds this is the progress we'd expect." But I know they can do it. I one hundred percent believe we can bring them to grade level.

I've written about how my school does reading groups here, and how effective it is. When we sit down to make groups the entire grade sits down together with the English as a Second Language teacher, the special education teacher, the reading specialist, the advanced academics teacher, and sometimes even the technology specialist. We look at the entire grade level's reading abilities and create groups from there. Groups are set, we go out and teach, and then come back together 6-8 weeks later to discuss their progress and make new groups if their needs have changed or if they need something different.

I think it is time for this group to get something different. Just a new perspective, new energy, a new approach. While they are working with another teacher I plan to keep tabs on them and see if their comprehension skills change. If so, then I hope to look at what their teacher is doing and learn what I can do to improve my teaching for the future.

There is a lot of doubt in this decision. That tiny voice inside my head asking, What if they don't connect with another teacher? What if the other teacher doesn't push them as hard as I have, or does not believe they can do it as much as I do? There is a lot of trust I have to put in my co-workers in order to even broach the subject.
I worried that the words to suggest the change would not even exit my mouth. If I am honest with myself I feel a sense of ownership over this group. They are mine. They've been mine for two years. I've been proud of how well they've done, which makes it even harder to suggest that they work with another teacher. But it is not about me. It is not about my teaching skills, my ego, pride, or the bright spot in my day. It is about the kids.

It's Not About Us (Even when it feels like it is)

On Friday I sat beside one of my kinder friends in a whole school assembly. This wasn't an ideal situation because my friend doesn't do well with changes in routine, large crowds or loud noises, which is exactly what a whole school assembly is. So I sat beside him on the floor of the gym, armed with his sticker chart to give frequent reinforcement for his good behavior.

It was going well. In fact, so well that I let myself have a moment where I thought, "wow, this is going really well, I'm so proud of how far my friend has come," which of course is the wrong thought to have. Ever. 

Immediately as those thoughts entered my mind my friend decided to lay down across the gym floor. We were sitting right up front so he just pushed some head start preschoolers out of the way and spread out. 

"Sit up" I hissed. 

"I'm bored of sitting," he whispered back.

"You can sit up or go stand against the wall," I whispered firmly (or as firmly as one can whisper)

"No." he said.

It's not about us

Let me remind you that we are in front of the ENTIRE SCHOOL. The principals are up in front talking and I am standing up in front of everyone whispering to a kindergartner. I'm sure my face was bright red. All I could think was, "I can't believe this is happening. Everyone in this gym is going to think I am a terrible teacher who can't handle kids. No one will ever listen to my recommendations on working with challenging behaviors again." 

I stopped thinking about the kid and just thought about myself. How I, the adult, needed to save face. How I wasn't going to let some five year old hurt my reputation in the school.

In twelve years of teaching I have learned one thing for sure- the minute we stop thinking about the child and start thinking about ourselves is the minute we stop being productive teachers.

Of course the kid didn't comply. His classroom teacher came over, whispered something in his ear, and he stood up and walked to the side of the gym. I followed, red faced, feeling like a failure. 

His teacher looked at me and explained, "I did exactly what you told me to do. I told him I had a job for him to do. Making up jobs was your idea."  Oh. Yeah. Offering jobs. I did recommend that. That does work for this kiddo. And yet I'd been so aware of my own embarrassment that I'd forgotten any strategies I had to work with this kid. I'd stopped making it about him and started making it about myself. Making it about myself only made the situation worse, almost like a self-fulfilling prophecy. 

I am still MORTIFIED by having the little episode play out in front of the whole school, but I am an adult and can get past embarrassment. It happens. It was an excellent reminder to me that being worried what others think of me only limits my effectiveness as a teacher. 

To Teach or not to Teach?

Since about April I've been struggling with the question of whether or not to keep teaching. Around spring break I came to this realization that I wasn't sure what I was doing anymore.

In the past I loved my job. I was proud to say I was a teacher, and would scoff at people who talked to me condescendingly about my "cute" job. I was in this for kids, and what's more, I was exceptionally happy doing it. Everyday on the way home I'd think about my day and send a silent prayer to God thanking Him for blessing me with a job I loved. I felt lucky to be in this career, lucky to work with the children I worked with, and lucky to be able to help teach children to read. I was proud.

I'm not sure what changed. Going back over old blog posts from this year I can slowly watch the transformation. The year started with some "I love my job" posts, but towards the end they were few and far between. It's been the slow death of a dream.

What changed?

Is it me? In April I realized it's been TEN years. I've spent ten years perfecting my craft. I like to think that I'm good at this job. I am extremely dedicated to being good at this job. I read books, take classes, reflect, blog, analyze, research, and put in long hours to do the best I can at this job. In ten years I've learned so much. I'm a much better teacher than I was ending my first year teaching ten years ago.

And yet, I have the same job that anyone right out of college could have. Although I've personally made huge gains professionally none of those really matter. I hold the same job 22 year olds are qualified for. We have the same voice, are treated the same professionally, and are considered the same in the eyes of the school district. For that matter, we're treated the same in the eyes of society. Or maybe not. Maybe the 22 year old is given more respect because there is still time for her to get out. This isn't her career yet- it's just a stopping place.

The realization that despite the work I've done I haven't actually gone anywhere was humbling and shocking. What am I doing? I wondered. Why work so hard? Why be so dedicated? Before I was a mother it wasn't even a question. Hours and hours after school was worth it. But now? I love working hard, but I realize that hard work- and I'm talking about the hours late into the night, the hours on the weekend, the checking and responding to emails while my daughter plays- seems pointless. Now I'm taking away from family time but where am I going? I'm treading water, and exhausting myself doing so, for what? To continue to hold a job I could have been hired for at 22, and could keep until I was 65.

This took me to job search engines, hoping, perhaps that I'd find jobs that my ten years would justify. I didn't even want to apply for these jobs, I just wanted to know that somewhere out there my ten years of experience meant something.

What I found was that there seem to be few jobs out there that want a former teacher. If jobs do want someone with teaching experience they seem to want a 20 something- at least 3 years of classroom experience. If I apply for those jobs I'll be competing against 20 somethings who will work for less. Twenty somethings without families.

Has my ten year dedication and love for my job backed me into a corner? Is this the meaning of teacher burn out?

Or is it the job?
In ten years of teaching I've seen the profession change. When I started teaching I was a first grade classroom teacher. The same curriculum, same lessons and activities we used in first grade then are not being used in kindergarten. The kids haven't changed, so why has our expectations for them changed?

I've spent ten years doing research, analyzing kids, reading books, being coached, and truly trying to understand child development and how children learn so I can apply it in the classroom. And for awhile we were asked to be professionals and apply our knowledge to our teaching. But that too seems to have changed. What we know is best for kids- what we know about how kids learn, how to teach, how to analyze children's mistakes to use as teaching points, anything that made the job a place for an intelligent professional seems to no longer be respected or wanted. I loved the job when it asked me to watch children learn to read as a scientist- analyzing and making decisions to produce a better reader. That no longer seems to be what we're asked to do. And I don't know if I want to be a part of that anymore.

Where do I go next?
Last year I decided I was not going to finish my doctorate program because I couldn't have a family, teach full time, and get my doctorate- and I wasn't ready to be out of the classroom. Now that I'm ready to go full time for my doctorate my GREs are expired. Am I going to spend the summer studying? (I'm trying, I really am.)

I want to love my job again.  But I also want the profession to be different. I don't want to wake up at 50 feeling absolutely stuck in a job that doesn't respect me despite the years of work I've put into it. Why is our profession like this? What has happened to teaching? When is the pendulum swinging back?

Introverts in the Classroom

One of my most vivid school memories is my fourth grade teacher standing in the hallway, yelling at me to speak loudly enough for her to hear me in the hallway. All those other fourth grade eyes on me as I mustered up the confidence to make my voice loud. Kids giggled and the teacher tried to play it off as a joke. As everyone laughed I was speechless, slowly deciding that I had nothing to share that was worth this. My voice had no reason to be that loud.

I don't have good memories of school. Some, I suppose, here and there. I don't necessarily have bad memories, but I can't say that school was something I liked. I worked hard because that was what you were suppose to do, but most of my memories are angst-filled days being terrified I'd be called on, or wouldn't be smart enough, or would say something wrong. And even if I knew an answer the minute I was called on the answer would slip through my fingers just beyond my grasp. I find this true even today when I'm in certain stressful situations. In college I'd tell professors that I'd rather accept a B than be forced to participate in whole group discussions- even in seminar-based classes.

A colleague just shared an article with me about Susan Cain's book, Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can't Stop Talking. The brief summary of the book hit home, and while it brought back the flood of fourth grade memories, it also explained where my angst came from. Introverts often stop learning when they feel threatened by a classroom environment built around extroverts. 

The article also points out the difference between introverts and shy children. Shy children are likely to watch kids play, wanting to engage but being scared to do so, while introverts are perfectly happy to play by themselves.

With half of our population being classified as introverts it is hard to think that we've designed classrooms specifically for extroverts, but we really have. Things are changing- teaching methods that allow for students to reflect, turn and talk to one another, and to process information in small groups or in different ways help meet the needs of all students. But we still have a ways to go. 

How often are we forcing square pegs into round holes and calling it an education? 

First Year Letters

My first year of teaching, which doesn't feel like it was a full ten years ago, was a whirl wind. I wasn't in a good place school-wise, my family and one of my close friends had a lot going on. I lived in a teeny-tiny studio apartment in a not so great neighborhood by myself, with almost no friends in the area. I woke up every morning, looking myself in the mirror and telling myself that this job was actually better than law school.  When I look back at that year I find myself thinking about those memories- the constant fight to not doubt myself, the tricks I used to avoid the school's administration who was constantly nit-picking new teachers, the moments of trying not to burst into tears in front of the class because the kids were amazing and I was convinced they deserved a better teacher than I was.

I left that school and found my way to The Think-Tank where I learned that I wasn't the horrid teacher I'd been led to believe I was, that a supportive and forward thinking administration can create a brilliant school, and that teaching was in fact the right place for me over law school. (Looking back on the at first year it still amazes me that I came back to the profession).

After meeting one of my former students last week I found myself sifting through the scrap book I'd made from that year. I'd kept a few of their letters to me and put them in a book along with pictures from the year. Looking through it what strikes me the most is how much their writing changed and developed over the year. The letters from September are far different than the end of year letters. After all these years it turns out that I did teach them something that year after all.

Reading the letters also reminds me that it was a wonderful year despite everything else going on. We had an incredible class community where kids felt safe to learn. I'd forgotten about that.

Why do we have a test? Why do teachers teach?

"I enjoy being in our class. I enjoy you"

"PS. Keep up the good work"

I'm sorry we are having a winter break. I'm going to miss you.

Now that I teach students who aren't able to write these letters it's nice to take a moment to go back and remember a time when I worked with students who did drop random notes of thank you. Now I get thank yous in different forms- big smiles, spontaneous hugs, "I DID IT!" shouted at the top of a student's lungs, simply listening to a child read independently. It's different, but still good.

This year has bee difficult. I hope that ten years from now I can look back at the pictures and moments of the year and realize that it wasn't just about all the chaos and stress, but that flowers were growing among the weeds.

Judge, Judge, Judge

In the midst of my horrid bad day yesterday I realized that I needed help. I knew I was doing something wrong. Whenever something isn't going quite right in the classroom I feel like it's time to step back and look at what I'm doing. Usually it's me that's making it worse. Identifying what I'm not doing or am doing that isn't working tends to lead to better behavior.

I realized that I needed advice on managing behavior. I needed to be able to step back and see what I was missing. My first thought was to research the answer in a book or in a peer-reviewed article. My next thought was to ask someone from the district to come in and observe. Finally I realized that I could just ask one of my amazing colleagues. I sat at my email for a bit, wondering if that is really what I wanted to do. What would she think? Did I really want to make myself that vulnerable?

Why is it so hard to ask for help as a teacher?

I think that teachers can be our own hardest critics. We have a horrible habit of getting smug with one another and saying, "Well, he wouldn't do that in MY classroom", or, "Can you believe she let him get away with that?"

Then we gossip behind each other's backs:
"Well, maybe her kids would learn it if she had a backbone."
"No wonder her kids can't do x, y, z... Have you seen how she talks to them?"
"She's so strict her kids are afraid to pee in the bathroom."

We are horrid to one another.

I like to think of myself as a life-long learner. I like to think of myself as someone who has the growth mindset- someone who is always willing to try and fail at new things. But when it comes to asking for help from colleagues even I get a bit defensive.

Why is it so much easier to read a book on managing behavior than it is to ask a colleague? Somehow asking a colleague feels like admitting that you are actually a bad teacher. That when someone comes along and sorts "good teachers" and "bad teachers" you are going to be put into the bad box and left there.

Perhaps some of this comes from the fact that the media and the general public is always ready to pounce and to tell us that we're bad. As teachers we lash out at each other- well, teachers like HER may be bad, but I'm not. It's our easiest defense against the teacher-war that's going on.

What's worse is that before I asked for help I had to stop and remind myself that this is my first year teaching students with these disabilities. I'm not suppose to know everything. It's OK to still have a learning curve. At least, it should be OK.

My colleague had great ideas and suggestions. They were simple, obvious, and exactly what I needed to hear. I realized I knew the answers, but when you're in the trenches and frustrated you tend to get desperate. You forget what you know is right and go with anything you can cling to.

The afternoon was immediately better. A quick email to a colleague, a quick reply, and I was reminded of strategies I needed. It was a life savor.

Yet I was still ashamed to see her after school. As though I'd suddenly put myself in the "bad teaching" box and I would never climb out of it.

As teachers we have to stop tearing one another apart. We have to be able to collaborate, analyze and brainstorm without fear of judgement. Yet we're somehow so deep in this judgmental culture that it soaks through the entire profession.

Teaching Nightmare

I had a horrible nightmare last night.

I dreamed that my 18 month old daughter was a student in my class. And, just like everyone else in my class she was expected to be able to identify Virginia and Washington, DC on a map of America. So, I was sitting with her at the table where I do all my direct instruction. I had a map out and I was doing discrete trials over and over and over again until she was able to identify Virginia. Of course, being 18 months old, this was difficult for her. And ridiculous. In the dream she and I were both getting really frustrated. "Why can't she just point to the middle of the map on the east coast?" I wondered as she once again blindly smacked the map in the middle.

I woke up in a sweat. What was I doing? Why would I have a dream about torturing my daughter that way? She is 18 months old. Yes, when she is 5, 6, and 7 I will expect her to find VA on a map (well, I'll leave that up to her teacher because frankly, I don't see myself caring so much.)

Perhaps the dream came because I am simultaneously reading Mindset by Carol Dweck and How Children Succeed by Paul Tough (author of Whatever it Takes). In fact, right before I fell asleep I ordered my husband to take How Children Succeed out of my hands because otherwise I worried I'd read all night. Both books talk about the importance of how to fail and the development of non-cognitive skills- delayed gratification, putting in effort, the ability to set a plan and follow through, and the ability to persist through a difficult task.

On Friday I was chatting with one of my coworkers who is also a parent of a child with intellectual disabilities. "Why doesn't anyone ask me what I want my daughter to learn to be successful in life?" she asked. "I want her to be independent, able to care for herself, advocate for herself, and navigate shopping. I don't care if she can identify George Washington."

The thing is- I can teach the kids in my class to recognize Virginia on a map. I could probably teach my daughter too. The teaching part isn't hard when we do things that we know work for teaching kids with intellectual disabilities. It's the WHY. Unless I pair recognizing Virginia with these non-cognitive skills, unless I build up the ability for them to transfer the skill of recognizing Virginia in my classroom to recognizing Virginia on a map if they need to find their way home- the activity is useless. Yet I am being paid to teach them to recognize Virginia on a map. Your tax dollars are asking me to teach this information so that they can be tested on it later. Nowhere in my job description does it mention teaching non-cognitive skills- the very skills my students will desperately need to survive and be successfully independent.

So how do we bridge both skills? Making sure my students can do these rote skills while also giving them opportunities to develop delayed gratification, problem solving, and executive planning?

My dream left me with a sinking pit in my stomach, calling into question my pride on how my students are learning these repetitive state standards. I'm missing an important part of their education and it's time to start re-examining how I teach. (Sadly I'm not saying throw out the state standards- trust me, I will continue those facts- but I need to build in more problem solving and opportunities to learn and practice these non-cognitive skills)

Don't look down

I can't say that I feel that I am being successful as a working mother, but lately I've been feeling like I've created a delicate balance that seems to be working. Or maybe it just felt like it was working on Monday. Doing crazy type-A chores like putting together all my clothes for the week on Sunday night and making all my lunches on Sunday night seem to help. I know the exact amount of time I need to get my lesson plans together so that the minute Little Lipstick's head hits the crib mattress for her nap I am frantically working, praying that she will sleep for a full hour and a half so that I can get it done. The poor souls who try to interrupt me at this point are usually met with total frustration or are ignored. It's not pretty, but it works.
At school I mentally schedule every minute- I have two minutes to send everything to print, two minutes to make copies, three to get together the materials. Forget making friends or having pleasant conversations- get the work done and get out- seems to be what it's about.

Delicate balance, but some days it seems to work. I just can't look down and think about exactly how high up on the tight rope I am. If I wobble or second guess my balance at all it all comes crashing down.

Little L woke up with a fever yesterday- which of course means frantic sub plans, emails to everyone involved at school, trying to make it all work out. As the day went on she got sicker and sicker. By the time we got to the doctor's office at 5 she had a ridiculously high fever. We were there for hours as they ran tests.

The careful balance I'd figured out for this week came crashing down. All those details I'd spent so long working on needed to be written into sub plans, emailed out, canceled, changed, rearranged. All I want to do is think about poor Little L and all I can do is frantically type plans and emails.

How do people do this? I wasn't giving my baby what she needed because I was focused on school. And I wasn't giving school what I needed because I was focused on my baby. Disappointing everyone I work with, my family, and myself.

I've always been overly committed to teaching. Even when I just volunteered in classrooms when I was in high school and college I always went above and beyond for the kids. It's a huge strength, and a huge flaw. I have trouble identifying when to draw the line and step back from the work.

Now that I have my own little one I desperately need to find a way to keep school in it's school box so that Little L will always come first. With the demands of the classroom, the needs of the students, and the desire to give my students the absolute best- my difficulty in letting things go- all creates a horrible storm where school is always in my mind even when I'm with Little L.
Last night I was holding her burning hot body at the doctors' office, talking and singing to her, all the while mentally making sub plans. and I hate myself for it. Moms, how do you all do this?

I love my job. When the tight rope dance works works, I appreciate that I can be a working mom. But when it doesn't? Is it OK to fail as both a teacher and a parent?

At 11 o'clock last night I was staring at my computer trying to decide if I needed to cancel my extremely important meeting for this morning. Every bone in my body told me to go to work and hold the meeting- it feels so wrong to cancel on work. But thank goodness I put Little L first- it was a rough night and she needs me here today.

How do I find the balance? How do I make it OK with myself to put school aside and focus on my family?

Oh, Lovely Mud!

Of course the day after writing a post titled "Giddy Job Love" is bound to be a reminder of everything that is NOT giddy or love. It's Murphy's Law. I mean, no teacher can write a post like that and then have a day of flowers and sunshine. It's just not possible.

My Friday started with a fire drill. A fire drill in the wet, soggy, almost grass-less field. And since it was Friday I was wearing my fun, red, canvas Friday shoes. Does anyone know what happens to fun, red, canvas Friday shoes when you wear them to stand in mud for ten minutes? The canvas fills with mud and water, sucking it up from the field as though it's trying to independently dry it up. This of course makes the canvas shrink and cling to one's skin.

In the words of Mrs. Wishy Washy's crazy farm animals, "OH lovely mud!"

So perhaps my Friday wasn't really so awful, it was just that teaching all day with wet, cold feet is bound to make anyone grouchy. Perhaps I need to keep my rain boots in school for this exact reason, although I don't think I'd really be permitted to change shoes specifically for a fire drill. The fire marshal might frown on that, although I'd like him to try to keep his patience all day with wet, cold feet?

Monday will be better. Monday I plan on having dry feet. I will be patient and thoughtful and forward thinking. I will use appropriate teacher language. I will reinforce good behavior and redirect unproductive behavior. I will not put my head on my desk and wonder what caused me to write about giddy job love.

*I should add that the one bright side of my Friday was finding the note the sub left me that said, "good plans." In ten years of teaching I have never, ever had a sub tell me I have good plans. The hours I've put into writing subplans- detailing every part of my class' day for ten years- and nothing. It's funny how two words could make me so illogically pleased. And of course after getting such praise my first thought is, "Oh yeah, next time I'll make them even better." It's amazing how inspirational a bit of praise can be.

It's about the kids

All weekend I've been a crazy nervous wreck about this upcoming week. It was my daughter's first birthday and even among the first birthday excitement I couldn't get myself to stop thinking about school. Yet as I worried and chewed on my finger nails and contemplated whether or not I was going to survive the year I realized something-

I was doing it again-

I was making it about ME and not about the kids.

Whenever I found myself getting truly nervous I realized I was thinking about myself. Does the principal respect me as a teacher? Last week when I said "x" and meant "y" and maybe he actually heard "I hate kids" ? Am I going to lose control of my class and the whole school will think I'm a terrible teacher? Will everything think I am lazy because I have to run out the doors to go pick up my daughter? Will the principal decide from watching me teach in a five minute block that I shouldn't ever be a teacher? Will I remember to turn in my emergency care cards in alphabetical order? Will I say the wrong thing to a parent and have the parent hate me from day one? Will I remember to smile at my coworkers or will my stress get the best of me and everyone will hate me? What if I make a mistake and no one will immediately judge me?

Ridiculous, I know, but I can't stop. The 'what ifs' and the trying to see how other people interpret my actions can eat me alive. Especially in a new place where everyone is trying to prove themselves.

Then, in the midst of all that 'what if' stress this weekend I found myself thinking about the kids I met last Thursday. Their smiles, their parents' smiles, their little faces, the fun we're going to have, and how I need to adapt and change the room for them. And in those thoughts- the thoughts about how I will actually do my job- I find myself calming down. My heart stops racing and I stop biting my nails and grinding my teeth. I start smiling at the thought of them coming into our room tomorrow. I find myself getting excited as I anticipate what we'll need to put in place to make everyone successful.

It's about the kids.

It's not about me and how others see me. It's not about whether or not the principal trusts me or thinks I'm a good teacher. It's not about whether or not I'll make mistakes. I will make mistakes. We all do. I will say things that can be interpreted two ways. I will feel self conscious and awkward. But none of that is important.

What's important are the five little friends who will enter my room tomorrow. The five families who are praying that their child will have a good year with a teacher who loves him/her. The five sets of eyes wondering what their year at their new school will be like.

It's about them.

I can't wait.

The start of a Professional Learning Community

I feel I have an apology to make to my former coworkers. I certainly never helped us go towards a Professional Learning Community* model. I was a part of the gossip resistance, the groaning, the moaning, the occasional (or not so occasional) eye rolling. I'm not proud of it. My previous notions of a PLC were that it would take away our creativity in the classroom, force us to have unnatural and unfocused conversations, and would treat us like technicians instead of professionals. I did not keep these opinions to myself.

To be fair to myself I'd heard friends at other schools share horrifying experiences of such events, and I'd experienced a bad PLC community at the first school I worked in. So I wasn't completely pulling things out of my rear end. But I could have given it more of a chance than I did when it came to the Think-Tank.

So, yeah, I'm really sorry.

Today at the new school we sat together from 9 until after 3 discussing the ins and outs of a Professional Learning Community. That's a long time to sit in one room with a group of people you've just met. Yet it went by relatively quickly and I don't necessarily know how you'd build a PLC without putting that time in up front. Now that I understand the thought behind the process, the why behind the how, I realize how wrong I was with every one of my assumptions.

The idea behind a PLC isn't to create a top down structure that makes sure every teacher is teaching the same thing in every classroom in the exact same manner every day. The idea is to create a team of people who are capable of coming together as professionals, identifying goals, analyzing data, looking for creative solutions, trying new techniques, sharing their thoughts, ideas, successes and failures together under the overarching umbrella goal of ensuring that all children learn.

It is doing daily action research in the classroom. It is a constant dialogue of how we can improve. It is collaborating openly and honestly outside of classroom walls. It is being willing to share great ideas, successes, and struggles with colleagues.

I'm not exactly sure what we'd been running from because that's exactly how every educator I know wants to teach.

I'm going to try to chronicle my own PLC journey as I continue to understand it and watch it go from a theory into practice. It will be my thoughts and my interpretation of what's been presented, so please don't read this as the true PLC method.


*If you're not familiar with PLCs you can learn more here or just substitute the phrase "really collaborative team" whenever I use PLC.

Why hello guilt.

All things considered Friday was a great day in my classroom- most of the kids are making awesome progress. Things are clicking and I'm excited to watch them soak in knowledge. Of course, no day can be exceptionally perfect and one of my little friends was having a rather difficult go of it. She only had two rough incidents but they took it all out of me.I went home exhausted and overwhelmed.


It wasn't until today that I realized so much of my exhaustion is from my new priorities of being a working mom. If Friday afternoon's incidents had happened last year I would have spent Friday after school laughing about it, calling parents, making a list of everything I needed to do, reflecting and developing a plan for Monday. This year, as a mom, all I could think of was "Day care is closing early today- I somehow have to get out of here as soon as possible."


Being torn between the two worlds is physically painful. I knew the situation needed more of my time. I love those kids to death and I want to do my job the way I know it should be done. I want to re-read books on bevavior, I want to examine what happened, write about it, look for ways I could handle it better, and reflect, reflect, reflect. I need to do that to be able to come in ready for Monday. Yet all I wanted to do was get to my daughter, not upset my daycare provider by being late, and get my daughter on the floor because oh my goodness she is going to crawl any day now. I ran out of school and sure enough showed up at day care to see only my daughter. The other parents had been on time. The guilt I felt while my beautiful baby gave me her huge "Thanks for coming mommy!" smile killed me. Yet even as I sat with her Friday afternoon, cuddling and encouraging her new skills all I could think about was my kids at school and the irruption that had occured.I feel like I can never just be anymore. Guilt is seems to sneak around after me, mocking my desire to do any one thing really well.

But even if I was a stay at home mom I'm sure the guilt would still haunt me- guilt for not doing laundry or cleaning the dishes on time- guilt for missing my job. Is being a mom just one large guilt study abroad? Forget guilt trip- this is an intensive, long-term experience. And of course sitting in church today I could think of nothing but my baby at home and my babies at school- which one should I focus on when I should really be listening to the sermon? Forget feeling guilty about zoning out in church- now I feel guilty for not day dreaming about the right things.

The thing is, most of the time I love my job and I love being a mom, and really, I love doing both things. It kills me to have to drop her off at daycare when she's in a great mood knowing that by the time I see her in the afternoon she'll be tired and fussy. I am missing the best times of her day and that is too painful to even think about. But I know she is in good hands and I love getting to work with my students. I think I just have to swallow the fact that right now guilt is a reality, welcome it into my life and then tell it that while it can visit it needs to be a good house guest and clean up after itself and stay in the guest room so that it does not take over my life.

coach me!

I was completely stuck with one of my kids. I felt like I was doing EVERYTHING I knew how to do to help this kiddo write. No matter what I did I just could't get him to say a word slowly and correctly record the sounds he heard. He'd say the word slowly, isolate the sound and then write "Q" and go on to the next word. He can spell high frequency words out loud but when it comes to writing them on paper he'll write "Q" and move on. I pulled out every trick I knew and I still couldn't get him to independently hear and record sounds in words. He can write a great story but I need to be with him at every step of the way prompting him to stay on task, say the word, listen to the sound, and write the letter he heard. Or so I thought. I finally requested to be coached. I LOVE that my school has literacy coaches we can go to when we are stuck. When I first started teaching I found it intimidating- I mistook coaching for judging. Now as an experienced teacher I feel like I begging to be coached. "Please, come watch me! I know something isn't working and I need help figuring out what it is." Last year I video taped myself once to try to figure out what I was doing wrong but it wasn't the same as getting feedback from someone observing you. They can pick up on elements of the lesson you may not have noticed, or can point out missed opportunities you may never have thought of. Once you get over the "they'll learn I'm a bad teacher and judge me" coaching is really an amazing opportunity. (But it took me years to get over that feeling...) The literacy coach came in to observe and wrote down everything I was saying. Turns out I was saying a lot. I knew that- I was frustrated with how much support I was giving him but I don't think I realized it was four legal size pages worth. She suggested that I stand back and change my prompts from entire sentences to phrases, and then eventually from phrases to a single word and from a single word to a look. Basically I need to stop micromanaging his writing and start letting him take ownership of the writing while still reminding him that I am there and keeping him on task. So today I took a deep breath and dived into a writing conference with him where I would not talk everytime I wanted to. I even kept a tally on my notes page of how many times I prompted him just to remind myself to STOP TALKING. And miracles of miracles- he could do it without me. Sometimes a look was all he needed from me and then he'd say the word slowly and write it down. He hadn't been working before because I had been doing the work for him. And my micro-managing him was just encouraging him to be passive and wait for me to tell him what to do next. He wasn't ready for me to walk away and leave him to be completely independent (that quickly can disolve into drawing on the table) but he is ready for me to change my prompts. It was so simple yet so powerful. I just needed to back off. I am so thankful that I had the opportunity to be coached and that the coach was so insightful. And I'll go ahead and pat myself on the back- I'm glad I've gotten past the point of being worried about being judged and I feel comfortable asking for coaching. It's freeing and I love the results.

why we teach

Every year before fifth grade graduation I get together old pictures of my former first graders who are now getting ready to graduate from fifth grade. There is something both amusing and humbling about bringing a too-cool-for-school fifth grade boy a stack of pictures from when he was in first grade. Remember when I worried over his reading progress and his inability to sit on the carpet for more than five minutes?  Now he's a star reader and an excellent citizen.  I want to whisper to them all, I remember when you couldn't read, couldn't tie your shoe, and had no problem picking your nose in public. Good job with the growing up thing!  Of course, I write them each a letter and I try to make it a bit more elequent than that. I want them to know that I'm proud of them, and that they are important enough that teachers still think of them years later. They should know that they are loved and worthy of others paying attention to them in a way that encourages them to live up to that worthiness.

 I grew up in a small town and my mother was always coming back from the grocery store to inform me that she'd run into some former teacher I'd had who'd asked about me. In her next breath she'd tell me about the gossip she'd learned about one of my former peers who was finally out of rehab. It was a helpful message- people care about you enough to still think about you, but by the way, good thing you're making them proud because it would be a shame for the whole town to realize you've turned to drugs...
My kids don't live in a small town so I sometimes feel like we have to recreate that community in our school.

This year when I dropped off my letters and pictures in one class I mentioned to the teacher and the student that I remembered the student's first day of school when he didn't speak any English. The teacher smiled and said, "You know he wrote a story about that." I said I would love to see it while inwardly panicking. Please don't let me have had some terrible teacher moment that day that so traumatized the boy he needed to write about it years later...

It was nothing of the sort.  I had to try not to tear up while I read his amazingly well-written piece about his experience starting at a new school where he didn't speak the language. With a tone and author's voice beyond most fifth graders he takes the reader into his nervous thoughts that first morning when he was wondering how he would survive. In a mixture of English and well-placed Spanish words he describes his thoughts throughout the rest of the day, his fear at each new subject and his relief when he made it through each one before he began to panic about the next step. He writes about being saved by a basket of Spanish libros he could read, the relief of being able to write in Spanish, and how he appreciated having a peer translator in math to help him explain his thinking when he knew the right answer.

I'd love to print the story here for you but it's not my story to tell. It's so well crafted that I hope he'll submit it to some journals that publish student work. If he wants it on-line he'll share it himself. You'll have to take my word for it on how he perfectly describes the experience of an ESOL student's first day.

I made a copy of the story for myself. I want to be able to re-read it when I'm thinking of how to integrate students into the classroom, how to make the room welcoming, and more importantly, how small moments in a day can stay with a child forever. How little things we do, things we don't even think about because we're so busy trying to stay on top of paperwork and meetings, are truly significant to each child. So significant that the child will remember them years later. Our small actions, good or bad, can stay with our students forever. In kindergarten and first grade it's easy to think that they are so little that they'll recover from a bad day in school, or that they'll be flexible and simply jump into the routines easily. Realizing that five years later they will no longer be small children but fifth grade authors who are capable of looking back and articulating their experiences clearly is important. We're not just teaching children, we're teaching future adults who just happen to be children right now.*

To be honest I do not have much memory from his first day. I'm sure I was told about 20 minutes before the school day started that I was getting a new student, and it probably was not until I met him that I learned he did not speak English. This is common at our school and we usually expect that new students transferring in will be English-language learners. My class that year was an interesting bunch that kept me on my toes and I'm thankful that something went well enough that day that this little boy felt like he could survive the year. I'm more thankful and in awe that 5 years later he shared his story with me, a story that will stay with me forever, reminding me of the future adult inside each five year old while giving me insight into what it is like to start school when you do not speak the language.




*This is what my husband keeps reminding me of when I think of baby names. Whenever I propose something fabulous like Bunny he simply replies that we're not naming a baby, we're naming an adult who will happen to use the name as a baby. Then he makes me say the name like I'm answering the phone as president of a company. "Hello, Bunny Lipstick speaking" doesn't instill much confidence...

watch where you sit...

This week I spent the majority of my time testing my kinders, pulling each child into the hallway for 2-3 minutes to conduct one of the 11 tasks included in our end of year assessments. I don't think of the experience as overly stressful for the kids (for me, on the other hand, who has to read the stupid story about a cat over and over again, well, that's another story). For the kids I try to keep it upbeat, high fives the whole time, moving quickly through each task so they don't even know they are being tested.

I called one little girl into the hallway to do a task she'd done quite well on in the beginning of the year. She came out smiling, and completed the task correctly although she looked distracted and distant the entire time. I wondered what was wrong but was so into testing I went ahead and called the next kiddo.

My next testing subject sat down in his chair and immediately gave me a look of confusion mixed with fear. He began squirming in his seat, looking extremely uncomfortable. He has trouble staying focused and I thought he was just trying to avoid the task. Halfway through the test (which he wasn't doing well on) the aid came running out of the room. She yanked my testing victim out of the seat to reveal a puddle. A puddle that did not belong to the current tester, but belonged to the friend before him. My poor friend had been sitting there in someone else's pee trying desperately to concentrate on the task at hand, trying not to complain to me that he was sitting in something wet.

And the poor pee-er? Her life is topsy turvy with drama day in and day out. We never know (and neither does she) if and when her father will be deported, if and when the family will move into another neighbor's house, which parent will be responsible for the children that night, or where she will sleep. The stress in her life is far greater than a simple 8 question task. Did she not know she needed to use the bathroom?  Was she scared to ask? Do these kids secretly know how important these little tasks are despite how much we try to make it seem like they are fun and exciting?  Scared to ask to go to the bathroom and scared to tell me they are sitting in something wet...  what have I done to these kids?

relationship building

Due to frustrating internet problems at home and blogging accessed blocked at school it's been quite awhile since I've had a chance to write and have it actually upload from the computer to the internet.  We'll see if tonight is any different...  

All year I've been struggling with my relationships with one of my kiddos. He's a great kid- but one of the few kids in my teaching career that I feel like I just haven't connected with.  In the beginning of the year I was so caught up with PJ that this little one didn't get what he needed.  When I did work with him I didn't take enough time to develop a relationship- I immediately focused on setting limits. Which of course all children need, but it's hard to motivate someone to accept your limits when they don't really care about you one way or another. I didn't give him a reason to listen to me other than he'd be in trouble if he didn't. And he was always in trouble anyway, so why was I any different?

I usually pride myself on the relationships I build with children. Typically I feel like it doesn't take me long before I've found a bond with each individual child and that bond drives the rest of our working relationship. It's March and I still haven't formed a bond with this little one.  We've had our moments when we've clicked- he's been on and I've been on and the work he's produced has been great. But it never carries over to our next session. I come in the next day ready to pick up where we left off and we might as well be strangers. 

The other day at recess he found half a broken jump rope on the playground and he tried to organize kids to jump rope with him.  Since this is a huge difference from playing in the dirt by himself I came over to help. I turned one side of the rope while he turned the other and we let kids take turns jumping in the middle. He and I literally had to be a team to get that broken rope under the jumper's feet (and if you've ever turned the rope for uncoordinated kindergartners you'll know that is no easy task).  Suddenly we weren't teacher/student anymore but true partners. The next day in class he returned to his normal behaviors of avoiding me, but on the way to recess he asked if we could jump rope again. Finding that the broken jump rope was gone he spent the rest of recess trying to pick the lock on the equipment shed to get another rope. Clearly he enjoyed his jump rope experience.

A few days later I managed to secure a jump rope from the gym equipment, swearing on my life that I would take care of it and not let any kindergarten students drag it through the mud/lose it/strangle one another with it/etc. Out at recess my friend and I ended up with a long line of kindergartners taking turns to jump rope while we turned. And my friend is actually a really good turner. Because he's such a caring kid he let other kids take turns turning, but frankly, none of them lived up to his talent. At the end of recess he gave me a high five. And not the half-hearted-I'm-only-high-fiving-you-because-I-have to. And honest to goodness, I'm-excited-high-five. The next day in the classroom he was just a bit more open to working with me. It wasn't a huge change- just subtle body language that seemed to show acceptance instead of dread.

I plan to keep providing the jump rope for him at recess when I can make it out there. I hope it keeps up. I'm not expecting this to change everything, but I am willing to accept even the smallest step toward building our relationship. Every little step is an improvement we can keep building on. 

Whenever we want our jobs to be clear cut and business like we get reminded that they just can't be. I spent months in the beginning of the year trying to apply my own model and structure to this little one when I'd never taken the basic step of opening that initial relationship with him. Now, months later, I need to slowly build what I should have created in September. This has been such a good reminder of the importance of truly knowing our kids and taking the time to let them know we care. 

The power of silence

It's taken us awhile but we've finally begun to figure out how best to interact with PJ when he is upset. It hasn't been easy to determine- when PJ is upset he demonstrates all sorts of behaviors that make any teacher cringe with the mere fact that they are expected to somehow handle this. Everything changes, nothing is constant, and as an adult in the situation it's easy to begin to feel powerless.

As teachers when we feel powerless we begin all sorts of rituals to show we're in control.  It's not always clear who we're trying to prove this to- other teachers, the child, or ourselves, sometimes what we do isn't productive.  We yell, we set limits, we give choices, we say routine canned phrases like, "You're making these choices, not me." or (my personal fav I use all the time) "I'm sorry you feel that way." We may speak sweetly, we may speak firmly, we may ignore the behavior.

Yet with PJ we finally realized that what works the best when he is upset is the opposite of any of our instincts. We sit quietly, rub his back, and wait for him to come around.

We don't talk. We are silent.

Do you have any idea how hard that is to accomplish as teachers?  Every part of our body wants to teach him. We want to help him calm down, show him what he did was wrong, help him assess the situation or navigate his way through his emotions. But it doesn't matter what we say. No matter what words come out of our mouths, in whatever tone of voice we use, all PJ hears is Charlie Brown's mother. And not a nice, happy Charlie Brown mother. A pissed off, angry at the world, out to get PJ- version of Charlie Brown's mother. Every word out of our mouths stresses him out more.

I can offer PJ his favorite toy, I can ask him if he wants tons of chocolate, I can ask him if he wants to go to the movies. It doesn't matter- when he's upset all he'll say is "NO". Just hearing my voice, or anyone's voice, when he is upset keeps him cycling. Any adult authority, whether he knows you or not, will continue to trigger his emotions. He'll become more and more agitated and upset and eventually he will truly spiral out of control. 

Ignoring him does not work either. He's scared and unsure of his feelings and the more we ignore him the more upset he becomes. Instead we sit, slowly rubbing his back. No words. Just our presence. And after a bit if we offer our hand he'll take it, stand up, and allow us to re-enter the classroom. 

It's been such a difficult lesson to learn. It goes against every teacher instinct we have, especially if another adult is around. Between the silence and the waiting it just seems wrong. But it works. PJ needs to know we're there for him and our presence says that without words. Sometimes as teachers we have to learn when it's ok to have a few moments here and there where we're not actively teaching.