Last Call

Yesterday was the last day of classes in the upper school. There are still final exams, the prom, and graduation to be celebrated, but classes have ended. All week there has been excitement in the halls and it bursts out on Friday. We have Honors Convocation, which is an awards ceremony that features broad smiles (and dressed up teenagers). It's a nice way to start the end of the year.

I always enjoy the last week, and not just because summer vacation beckons. For me, the last week is a reminder to stop and appreciate the progress and accomplishment of the year. One of the best things about teaching is that as my students change I can truly see the accomplishments ---- the improved analytical skills; the better-written paragraph; a greater level of interest; a little more self-awareness.

The last week features all of that and some winding down. We linger over conversations, aware that though many of us will be back in September, it will be in different combinations. So there is something bittersweet in it all. This year's 2nd period will not be the same as next year's and in the last week, I take some time to appreciate what I've enjoyed about the year.

From the moment a student walks in the door of our school, whether in the 9th grade or the 1st, it's understood that one day they will leave. My job is to do part of the work to make that happen; so that when they walk out our door they are ready to succeed elsewhere. It's an interesting job in that way, because the projects are evolving all the time.

And I guess that's the challenge and joy of teaching. The work is always in flux; always in progress. Like the students themselves, things change. The lesson that was perfect last year doesn't go well this year. The best-laid plans are discarded because the students have far more questions about the Vietnam War (or whatever topic) than I expect. The Democratic primary doesn't end when I think that it will. A fellow teacher (who also writes about teaching) has pointed out that it's an art and a science. I couldn't agree more and I would add that the art and the science are incredibly demanding, often in unpredicatble ways.

So I am always glad for the break. I think that it's necessary. All of us need some rest and relaxation; a chance to refresh our energy for the exciting and enjoyable challenges (both predictable and unpredictable) that September will inevitably bring.

Field Trip

The 2nd grade is taking a field trip to the shore today and JT is terribly excited. Last night, we reviewed the things he needed to pack. And by review, I mean he recited the list several times. Several. Then we set out the bag, ready for the morning adventure. He needed to be at school by 8 am sharp and though we are always at school before 8 am sharp, he drilled that into my head as well. Clearly, I am the weak link in the system.
By agreement last night, I was to awaken him at 6:50 this morning; we would leave for school at 7:20 (it's a 15 minute drive.....but we'd leave nothing to chance). He woke himself up at 6:45 and immediately commenced to panic. We need to leave in 5 minutes! Hurry, hurry, hurry! But I reminded him that the departure time was 7:20, so we were still in fine shape. I was reminded of my childhood years, best summed up by my father repeatedly encouraging me to "hustle."

JT is a rather experienced outdoorsman, so from his waterproof sunshade hat to his Keen sandals, his canteen and his quick-dry shorts, he is all set.
Update: much joy upon return from the trip. He has lots of shells and he found $1 on the bus. The picture doesn't quite show it well, but the sandals are wet and sandy. And so is the boy.

Life?

Currently occupying first place in the race to be my favorite food.

If...Then

After a perfect spring weekend, Tuesday brought some heat and humidity. When JT came to find me after school he had a hot, sweaty head. As far as the boy is concerned, that can only mean one thing: if it's hot, then he'll be playing in the backyard sprinkler. So he completed his homework with great speed, pulled on his tie-dye swimsuit, and hit the lawn for a nice romp in the cold water.
Sometimes old-fashioned fun is the best kind of fun.

Split Personality

When the kittens look like this, I love them unconditionally.
But when I awaken at 3 am because of a full-scale attack on my feet, unconditional love quickly becomes survival of the fittest. First, I play dead and lie still. The attack stops ---- briefly ----- and then resumes, either because they do not care that I am dead or because they are not fooled. Either way, my toes are at risk. 10 minutes later I realize that playing dead in your own bed is not conducive to actually sleeping in your own bed. So I quickly re-arrange my feet, in hopes the cats will be deterred. Ha. The attack continues. I lie there wondering where I last saw the spray bottle (cats hate being sprayed in the face with water and it's our fail safe method for staying safe). Then I remember that the water bottle is up in the playroom, keeping the gladiators safe. No relief is in sight. Now I've been awake for 20 minutes, so I take a trip to the bathroom. I return to find both cats curled up in the warm spot I recently occupied. I stand there, now next to my bed, instead of in it, and suggest that I am the boss of them.

They stretch and yawn as if to say, "WHATEVER." So I gently climb back into bed, trying not disturb the sleeping cats. And as I fall back asleep, certain facts must be faced: they are actually the boss of me.

Carnival

One of the best things about having an 8 year old boy is that he can still find magic in simple things. One of those magical things is springtime carnivals here in my corner of New Jersey. It's become a tradition for JT and I to attend the local carnivals. We go on a school night (which feels hedonistic) and with a plan to eat junk for our supper (carnivals rarely feature fresh fruit and veggies). Our first carnival of the year was a few weeks ago; we arrived just after 6 pm and there was a hint of possible rain in the air. But JT just pulled up his hood and, as we set off across the grass he caught my hand and said, "let's do this thing, Mama." It's easier to find happiness when there's a little boy holding your hand.

We walked through the tiny carnival to check out our options. I'm not a fan of the scary upside down rides at local events like these, but that's okay with JT, who can find plenty of fun on the Indiana Jones jungle gym, the big slide, and the Ferris wheel.
He tried everything with a broad smile on his face. I typically stand by the side and watch as JT takes on the challenge; my pleasure comes from his excitement. But when the time comes to ride the Ferris wheel, that's some fun that we share.
For me, the Ferris wheel is the most magical part of a carnival. The lights shine brightly in the dusk. I love the feel of the ride as it comes around and I have a brief view of the entire carnival for just a moment before I slip downward, only to swing back up and around to see it all again. I love that the Ferris wheel is our special thing; I like that JT sees one and looks to me to share it with him. It brings me happy satisfaction to have those sorts of traditions in our life together.
We had your standard carnival supper ---- cheese fries and funnel cake. JT balanced it out with some cotton candy for dessert. The arrival of the carnival season is a sure sign that summer is just around the corner. And when you are an 8 year old boy (not to mention his very tired mama), that's a very happy thought.

UniTaylor

JT likes to wear hoody sweatshirts. Once that hood goes up; it stays up even if the climate doesn't demand it. So it was that I found him the other afternoon, all hooded up and intently playing a game on the computer.

He's UniTaylor, though I do not believe he harbors any anarchist tendencies.

New York City

I've had reason to be in New York City the last two days and I've had a wonderful time, exploring the city's historical immigrant neighborhoods with some students and a fellow teacher. I like the city because of its fascinating history, beautiful architecture, cultural offerings and its sometimes glorious beauty.

But New York City has a dark and dirty side, which this picture made on the subway platform yesterday morning pretty well sums up for me.

You see this sort of display all over the place in NYC and it reminds me that it's terribly hard for large cities to actually be communities where people take care of one another and their common spaces. I'll no doubt have more to say on this, but for now it seems this picture pretty well sums it up.

The Golden Rule

I read a great deal. I read books; I read magazines; and I read a lot of different things online. As a matter of course, I read things that I like; things that challenge my brain. If I don't like it; if I'm not challenged, I don't read it. It's a simple formula, but not one that other people follow. I know this for a lot of reasons, most notably the discussions that I sometimes read on a blog called dooce.

Dooce is wildly popular and in the 4 years since I've been reading her, she's gotten a good deal of what, for lack of a better description, I would call hate mail. I know this because she occasionally blogs about it. And those postings are some of my favorites because I get to see just how f#@*ed up my fellow internet citizens are. It's not like dooce is mandatory reading, right? You can go to her website and read her stuff. Or not. It's your call. So if you don't like her, why read? In my world, I don't read things by people whose views or ideas I don't enjoy. But to not like her, to continue to read her stuff, and then to write and tell her how much you don't like her.....well, that's some seriously weird cognitive dissonance some people seem to actively cultivate.

It's made me wonder about who reads what I write. I assume that the people who read what I write are people who either know me and like me or don't know me but like what I write. I further assume that it's a small community of people who send me happy thoughts when they read my drivel. I never assume that anyone at my blog wishes me ill, because, naively, I guess, I just don't operate that way.

I'm not sure where these thoughts are headed. But I have learned (and am still learning) that the only person I can control is myself. And I try very, very hard to be the sort of person who leaves the world a little better than when she found it. Not a lot better (though that would be nice, wouldn't it?). But a little better. Certainly no worse. It's all I can really do. And I guess that it's my moral code: treat others as you would wish to be treated.

I know that everyone is not like that. But here in my incredibly tiny corner of the internet, that's my humble goal. I hope that I'm not alone in this goal. In fact, I don't think that I am alone. If you're here to share in the joy and sorrow (and occasional humor) of my tiny little life, thank you. Because this blog has been a really, really good thing for me in the last two years, and a huge part of that has been the kindness of friends and strangers that has flowed my way because of this place. But if you're here to be mean-spirited and unkind in thought or comment, may I politely ask that you take your ill will elsewhere? You're not helpful.

Carry on.

Knowledge

It must be said of me that I don't respond well when my hand is forced. Some choices in my life of late have been foisted upon me. And while many of my friends and family, the people whom I love and whom I know love me back, keep telling me that these changes are okay, that they may even be for the best, I just don't know this to be true.

And this feeling in my heart leads me straight to a stream of personal doubt. And we're not talking some tiny little droplets of doubt; we're talking a cascade. There are so many overwhelming doubts that I come to doubt everything that I think I know; everything that I think I believe; and everything that I think I want.

And then I come into the living room and see his face. In his green hoodie; practicing what he calls his "thoughtful look" and I know this one very important thing: I love him so much that sometimes it feels as if he holds my heart in his hands. And he is so lovely and so wonderful that even after eight years I can hardly believe the incredible luck that makes him mine to love. But he is. He's my boy and I am his mama. At least I know that.