I'll stay shotgun until the day we die

This leg of our vacation has is camped at my sister's house. That part isn't unusual-- they have more than enough room for us to stay, so when we come out we stay with them. What is different is they aren't here. This year they celebrated their 20th anniversary, so we made a plan for us to watch their boys while they went to Hawaii together. What we didn't know (and couldn't have known when we scheduled this trip last fall) was that our youngest sister would be here, too.

What this means is we 3 different approaches to daily living, however, which has taken some getting used to. Caroline has been here for a month or so, so she's mastered the boys routines. This is also her Stateside home, whereas we're in vacation mode. Among the 8 of us, I think we've pulled off what needs to happen as well as what we'd all like to do.

  

What has been an added bonus about Caroline being here with us is not everyone needs to go on every outing. On Friday, the oldest and youngest nephews came with us and explored Virginia City, an old mining town. Yesterday, all 3 nephews were tired and wanted a day chillaxin' at home, so they stayed behind while we went to Gardiner and then toured through the Paradise Valley area. As much as I would have loved to have my nephews along, it was also good to have a day with just the 4 of us. My babies are definitely not babies anymore, and I treasure every moment I have with the two of them-- I only have to look at how often my siblings and I are all together to know the future is wide open. We started taking a family vacation on the '5' anniversaries-- 5 year, 10, etc.-- figuring the kids are a part of our marriage. I hope we are able to continue having both of them (and their eventual families) meet up with us for future trips, but for now, I'm thrilled with any chance to have the 4 of us in a car, exploring together.

What I am reminded of when we travel is how in sync Dave and I are. We balance each other out nicely, and often it only takes a single conversation with him to make me feel better about the world. He and I went off to the store the other night, and then he saw the impending sunset and took me to a place where I could capture it. We got about 90 minutes together, and my outlook on life was so much... calmer, I guess, as a result. He is enjoying being my camera tech, and I am always happiest when he is driving me somewhere. In many ways I feel like I lucked into this life-- how did I get such wonderful kids and supportive husband? Some of it is work-- we have not taken anything for granted-- but it also has a level of good fortune to it. Regardless of how it came , I'll accept the gift and be very thankful for it.

still Grandma*

Thanksgiving 2010. Cape Cod. Before.

Life isn't fair: the sooner you get used to it the happier you'll be.

I've been known to say this a time or two, and it is sadly true. Our family has been living with this reality as my dear mother in law has been losing her ability to think and communicate. We can tie the beginnings of her losses to the fire that consumed their house back in 2006. Their house burned to the ground, with all their possessions inside, while she was away working. At that point, she was renting a room closer to her work, as the commute was over an hour each way-- which meant she had a few of her things, mostly clothes-- and while she was spared the panic of watching the house engulf, she found out in a shocking 'I-don't-believe-it-is-real' sort of way. They rebuilt, and all seemed normal, but looking back, that is where the problems started.

At first it was just word finding issues. Heck-- I have word finding issues, for Pete's sake. The issues were growing, though, and coloring her ability to communicate. She had talked to her doctor, who said she had aphasia, not dementia, which we had no choice but to accept. When she retired from proofreading, she told me she couldn't keep up with the young ones anymore, but she was 70... so yea, that seemed normal. It turns out she suspected then the issues were more significant than general aging-- although she did not tell us about her fears. I can't say as I blame her.

Dave's dad had to be hospitalized a few years ago, and that is when I started to realize it was really becoming an issue: she couldn't tell us why he needed to be admitted. Soon after that she got lost driving to Dave's sister's house, and had a harder time taking different routes to familiar places. Last summer we brought her with us to her sister's house on Cape Cod. Her parents built that house in 1955, and she'd been visiting there routinely ever since. At varying points on that trip, she did not know where she was or who her sister was. Regardless of her diagnosis, something was wrong.

Last week, things reached a crisis point. Dave's dad has done an incredible job caring for her, but her needs have superseded his ability to keep her safe. Sundowning has been a problem-- when we took her to meet both her sister's at the other sister's house this April, she'd forgotten that we'd gone already by the time we got her back home. She's been sleeping less and less, and she started leaving the house after dark. This once strong, independent, creative, and intelligent woman can no longer stay safe in her home; I think I mentioned that life is not always fair...

Last week she started living with Dave's sister, in preparation for being checked into a memory care unit. I know she did not want to go, but I do think she heard us when we explained we needed a safe place for her to live. His sister found the perfect place near her that has 2 cats to pet and gardens in which to get her hands dirty-- two of her favorite things. It's never easy to make these decisions, but it is easier knowing she's in a good place. One of our former babysitters works there, and she was incredibly helpful throughout the intake process. Neighbors helping neighbors, indeed.

While I am not glad they had to endure the fire, I am thankful they got to experience the outpouring of love and community support that came after the devastation: not everyone gets a chance to be present at their own wake, and in many ways, that's what the benefit supper was. In light of where her path is taking her, I am so glad she had the chance to be lifted up by that experience. I hope she knows that this move is an act of love.There are a lot of people who love her very much-- her siblings, her dear friends and neighbors who were instrumental in her being at home as long as she was, her extended community of support, and her husband, kids, and grandkids. I hope this feels like home, and that she is happy.

*The title is a nod to Lisa Genova's book Still Alice, which is about a woman who contracts early onset Alzheimer's disease. It's not the best written book ever, but it is filled with helpful information about what happens in the brains of people with dementia. I highly recommend it if you're interested in the topic-- or caring for someone afflicted.

enough influence to last a lifetime

Season 12 of Project Runway aired tonight. For the last 12 seasons (and 2 of PR All Stars), I have watched on the east coast while my fabulous uncle has watched on the west. Every weekend we would exchange a flurry of emails dishing on the designs-- and the designers. We'd make predictions on who would make it to the finals, who would get auf'ed, and who the judges would demoralize next. One of the hardest things for me to do would be to wait to read his emails if I had to wait 'til the weekend to watch the replay online.

My uncle played a huge role in my life, and I think I did the same for him. Uncle Bob was Fabulous, in every sense of the word. He was single, neat, and over 30... not that there's anything wrong with that. When I was a junior in high school, we spent Thanksgiving with my grandparents and him (he was living with them, providing support after my grandfather had yet another stroke). He and I would stay up late talking, and one night he showed me a movie. He loved movies, and classic Hollywood actresses... but this one wasn't a classic. It was about a young boy who figured out he was a homosexual. I didn't pick up on his reason for showing it to me immediately, which I'm hoping is because it really didn't matter to me, but more likely because I was a very black and white thinker as a teen. When I went to visit him as a new college graduate, he told me stories about the Vietnam War protests at UWisconsin-Madison in the late 60s, the early 70s in San Franscisco, and when the "gay man's cancer" hit in the early 80s-- he worked in the hospital credited with identifying AIDS during the outbreak. Largely because of AIDS, he moved to AZ to care for my grandparents-- consciously choosing to help them with their lives and probably saving his own. After they passed, he moved to Palm Springs and worked for the Barbara Sinatra's Children's Center and at the Desert AIDS Project, as a volunteer coordinator in both places. He made a career out of helping people in need, but was one of the most judgemental I have ever known. "Remember Darling-- you'll never get a chance to impress them with your brain if they don't like what they're looking at..." He taught me about growing up, and I helped keep him young.

He never married-- nor did he have any desire to. He couldn't understand why so many of his gay friends wanted to be in a legally binding long term relationship-- but completely supported their right to ruin their lives if that's what they so chose.  He came of age during the Stonewall Riots, and almost lived long enough to see DOMA struck down. He never had kids-- my Gawd, so messy!-- but I know my siblings and cousins filled that role in his life.

I got a perspective on life from him that my parents could not give me. He rounded out my thoughts-- starting with that movie in 1986-- and continuing throughout my adulthood. He took me clubbing after I'd graduated from college. My parents flew me out to stay with him, and he asked his straight friends where the hot clubs were. It took all of 15 minutes in this joint for him to lean over to me "You want to go someplace fun?" I danced like fool, and was in no risk of sending the wrong impression in my Victoria's Secret dress.

He had his first heart attack at 44. There's a family history of deadly cardio events-- my grandfather had his first stroke in his 40s (which he survived, but eventually is what got him), and my great and great-great grandfathers dropped dead in their 40s. Luckily for me, he had access to great medical care and survived it-- but he was diagnosed with congestive heart failure by 55, and was not supposed to see 60. He died this March of a massive heart attack. He had just sent me an email about his youngest brother who had died suddenly 2 weeks before, of a bleeding esophegal ulcer, and his cousin who was only a few years older than him who also died suddenly in her sleep. "Do you know The Invasion of the Body Snatchers? I'm afraid to close my eyes!" He signed off with a Game of Thrones reference-- I'd told him to read the series after he started watching it on HBO. Hodor (Hodor Hodor Hodor) signed off that day, now carrying me around on his shoulders for the rest of my life, helping me get through whatever may come my way. When they went out to take care of his things, my mom and Uncle Jim found the signed and stamped birthday card, complete with the $5 bill he sent for our birthdays every year, ready to be mailed. In his final hours, he left me multiple sources of comfort to hold onto-- including the knowledge that his final acts were done knowing how deeply he was loved and how much he meant to me.

Back to Runway. Tonight as I watched the premiere with my family, I didn't get teary watching, which sort of surprised me. I think it's because I could almost see him here with me, straightening the remote controls to be perfectly parallel to each other, cigarette in his fingers, trying to figure out who should be in, and who would be out. He looks like he did when I went out in 92-- probably because he'd rather that's the image I see than how he looked this spring.

As I've told many of you, I bought a Chloe Dao dress for my cousin's wedding, in his honor. When I got the email from Chloe's sister explaining it was their mistake but it was only available in a size 0 I figured Fate had spoken. (Sorry, Uncle Bob, but my size 0 days are long gone.) I got a follow up email saying since  it listed on her website as being available for a sale purchase, they would make this one special for me, in whatever size I wanted, and honor the sale. Yes, indeed, Fate was speaking... and I know he was very proud of me in that dress. In fact, I know he was very proud of me, period. There is no greater gift than that.

zen and the art of preserving

I love prepping for winter. I know it's an odd way to describe berry picking, making jam, working at my local CSA farm, and freezing and canning the produce, but there it is. Yesterday I went raspberry picking with my friend, and we picked for 2.5 hours. Honestly, I'd have kept picking if I could have, even in the heat and humidity. It was me, the plants, the berries, and the task at hand. That's it. There was a nice breeze, and I was free to think about what I wanted to make with all my berries (ps: 12 quarts is a lot) while also thinking about song lyrics, my to do list, and anything else that's been floating around in the deep recesses of my mind. I get the added bonus of knowing that the work I do now will pay off in January makes it all the more satisfying.

gotta get it out

There is a lot going on in my head, and my life these days. Without going into too much detail on this ole' wide open interweb, my head and my heart are processing through easing my in laws through their own aging process, guiding my children through the teenaged years, balancing my physical and emotional needs with all I've said I would do at work and in the community, and being the best wife, friend, daughter, sibling, and person I can be.

My guess is it's fairly obvious that it's my needs that are taking the back burner... and as a result, my body has started yelling louder and louder that I need to listen or I'll be in a world of hurt. I keep thinking about the flying analogy-- in the unlikely event of a fall in cabin pressure, put on your own oxygen mask before assisting those near you. I have never been good at this... and as much as I know I need to get better, my actions are not matching my intentions.

I realized last night that I've put my head down and pushed through a lot of the issues without fully processing them. As an extreme extrovert, I don't do well when I don't talk about what's bothering me, and I haven't been talking enough. (I know-- that seems almost impossible.) And so back to the ole' blog I go, as a place to process my thoughts without driving my poor introverted husband into hiding.

I am going to be as cryptic as I can be (which is the whole reason I stopped writing in the first place-- trying to protect the privacy of others), but my health is suffering, and I need to get it out. And so out it shall get... although be warned, any resemblance of the names and situations described in the coming months to anyone you know is purely coincidental.

*chink chink chink*

Forgive me, Reader, it's been 4 months since my last post...

This one won't be a long one, either, but you've got to start somewhere.

I'm most likely leaving this address behind and starting a new one. I've been saying "when I write my book..." for a few years now, and it's time to get started. I don't have a good word processing program on my laptop, and I'm too cheap to buy one, and I'm tired of using those as excuses. The idea came to me to start a new blog and use that as my rough draft. If you're interested in the new address, let me know. You'll be called upon to help me reflect, and edit, so realize it comes with strings attached.


Thanks for reading and commenting all these years. I don't know if I'll keep 2 blogs going (I've done such an amazing job of keeping the one) but I can't imagine this one will disappear any time soon.

ready for step 2

There's a lot of current brain research in the area of long term effects of constant stress on executive functioning. This article highlights what all educators have noticed-- the kids who just can't "keep it together" at school are getting younger and their behaviors more extreme. I'm glad we're identifying the problem, and acknowledging it's real. Too many kids come to school without the luxury of a carefree, innocent childhood. I've seen the impacts of living in a constant state of stress for my entire teaching career. What I need now is solid ideas on how to help mitigate the effects, and help kids thrive at school regardless of what's going on at home.

When I figure it out, I'll let you know.

my rationale

One of the most powerful moments in my teaching career was the day I explained unconditional love-- and a sophomore boy understood it for the first time in his life.

We were playing a "would you ever" type game-- would you keep a thousand dollars if it landed in your mailbox unannounced? Each kid tried to give me a more impossible hypothetical: would you call the cops on me if you knew I was on the run? Would you visit me if I went to jail for murder?

It's important to understand what I do for a living. I teach alternative ed at our local high school. Kids come to alt ed usually because they have suffered some sort of traumatic loss in their childhood. Often times that loss is of childhood itself-- either poverty, substance abuse, pregnancy, divorce, violence, or family tragedy forced them to grow up fast and take on adult responsibilities before their brains were ready. School becomes something to be endured, and often puts up roadblocks to their day to day success. Back when kids could get decent jobs without a diploma, this wasn't much of a problem. In today's world, though, being a high school dropout has severe ramifications, so most public high schools have an alternative ed program to try to help find ways around said roadblocks. So these "would you ever" games are fairly common in my classroom, and they have real value. I teach a lot of  coping skills through these conversations. (Honestly, I teach coping skills more than I teach any credit class, but that's another story for another post.)

So the questions kept intensifying, sort of along these lines:
Would you visit me in jail if I committed a murder?
Yes, sweetie, I would.
You would? But I'd be a murderer?
Yes, honey, I'd be disappointed in your choice, but you'd still be one of my sunshines, and I'd still love you.
Wait a minute, you'd still love me? Even if I killed someone?
Again, I would not be happy with you. I would certainly not be proud of your actions. But I can't stop loving someone every time they do something wrong. I'd make darn sure you paid your debt to society, but I'd come visit and help you through it. It's called unconditional love, and it means just that: I love you, without conditions, forever.
Wow.

The look on his face said it all. At age 15, he did not believe me when I said I love him because of who he is, not what he does. He was certainly floored by that knowledge, but I was just as moved. I grew up in a perfect, rose colored childhood, surrounded by love, support, and opportunity. I knew from the time I could walk that I was loved and valued. How did he not know the same thing? How could anyone grow up not knowing that they would be loved forever? But that day... he did know it. When I look back, I can trace when he started to "grow up" and make better choices to that conversation. Wow indeed.

That moment, among others, helped cement my teaching style. My number one priority is not awarding grades or credits or diplomas: I am here to teach kids that they are worthy of being truly, absolutely, and completely loved, valued and respected. Which does not mean that I respect each choice a kid makes (because I know they make many bad ones) nor do I let them off the hook when they screw up. It is my life's work to help them learn how to make better choices for themselves and then have enough pride in their reputation to have the strength to make the hard choices. I'm not a trophy-for-every-participant kind of self esteem believer-- not even close; but when you can help a kid (and like it or not, teenagers are still kids) stand up a little bit taller because they are proud of who they are becoming, or owned up to a mistake and made amends, or pushed themselves harder than they'd ever pushed before-- well, that's the kind of self esteem I'm trying to teach. Because ribbons fade and tatter, but character endures.

Whether or not a student is able to earn his high school diploma by the age of 18 and graduate with his 4 year cohort, I can teach him things that will enrich his life and hopefully enable him to get that diploma in his 20s, when he is ready. I do not define my success on my graduation rate, no matter how much the current chatter about the problems with schools does. For me, it is when I start to see the subtle changes in how a kid sees himself, and starts to make decisions based on a positive reputation and not a negative one. That will take him much further than any piece of paper could.

Many of my colleagues think I'm too easy on my students and don't hold them to high enough standards, and I can appreciate why they think that way. My classroom does run differently than the other classrooms, but it says so in the title. Until the kid is willing to come to school and try to learn, no amount of rigor is going to make a difference. I don't take their concerns lightly, but I also don't take them to heart. If the general track was what was going to work for them, they'd never end up crossing my threshold. But if I have to make a choice about sacrificing content or relationships, well... without a relationship, no one cares about content.

Yesterday I saw another post about this very topic. I'd never put it into words before, but I realized it is what I do. I can't not do it-- I have been blessed with the ability to love everyone I encounter on some level, so this isn't something I've taught myself to do but something I have just lived my life doing. But I can do this job-- and believe me, there are some very difficult days-- because I am able to love each and every kid just because they breathe. It's a powerful notion, with powerful implications. I'm pretty sure that every kid who has ever entered my room has left it knowing I enjoyed spending time with them-- even when they left as a result of having made poor decisions. If I've done nothing else, I've done that, and that is enough for me.

unpredictably predictable

I have always believed in fate. I wrote an essay in high school-- probably after reading some Shakespearean play-- that debated fate vs free will. My thesis was that it's not a debate at all, but an exercise in irony: we believe we have free will, and are making choices all along the way to control our own destiny, but in fact all those choices are predetermined, being guided by the hands of fate. I'm sad to say my teacher did not get it, at all-- but I'm sure my writing skills did not do justice to the task at hand, either. To be honest, I'm not sure I can communicate it right now, either, but that has never stopped me from trying.

But this is the way I've always felt about things. I was born in the greater Bangor area, but my dad got a promotion and we moved when I was 8. Time passes... and when I get to college, I meet up with a girl who was close with someone I was close with back in first grade. Whatever the reason, I was supposed to know her, and while I thought it was my choice to go to UMF, perhaps the universe had spent 10 years trying to find a way for our paths to cross again. After graduation, I had two job offers-- coastal and mountains. I chose mountains and proceeded down my less traveled path. One of my colleagues decided to pursue his administration certificate, and ended up interning in the very building on the coast that had offered me a job. And in all honesty, knowing that I would have met him either way is still a great comfort, as he died from cancer 12 years ago. Even me marrying WB-- we'd met in anatomy lab when I was a freshman and he a junior, but he was dating someone else. The universe reconnected us at Peru School a few years later, and that time it took.

This week, my bestfriend's mom was hospitalized for pneumonia. The norovirus going around is a particularly pesky one, so this news wasn't terribly shocking to me. The story came back that Pepere took her pulse, didn't like how low it was, and called 911. Bestfriend and I talked about this-- of course her pulse would go down as she was resting, that's the point, but he did the right thing for sure, so who cares what his reasoning was. He and I (fatefully?) were both on the team scheduled to visit a high school down the road from his parent's house, so we made arrangements to ride together and visit them after. As we were waiting for them to get home from being discharged (a way lengthier procedure than was necessary, but that's a different rant for another day) his brother stopped in and mentioned the "clippy thing Dad used to check her oxygen". My ears perked up: my asthmatic daughter learned at age 4 what the pulse/oxygen meter showed, and when the numbers were lower than 95 she was struggling for air. It turns out that last Tuesday-- 5 days before he used it-- Pepere picked one up just to have on hand. When he used it to read her pulse/ox levels-- not just her pulse-- he knew that she was in severe oxygen depletion, and rightly called 911.

How did he know 5 days before Memere even got sick that he'd need that simple little tool? What caused him to miss Mass (something Pepere never does) and check her oxygen levels? We'll never really know what caused him to make those little decisions, but there is no doubt in my mind that it's because it wasn't her time. Had Pepere not made any one of those choices, this story would probably be ending differently, but God took over and changed his path to ensure that the story played out to it's fated end.

As an aside, I know many people struggle with fate vs God's Will. For me, they are one and the same. I also believe that all religions stem from the same God, so no matter what you call him or what your specific belief system is, the same Being is running the show. Call Him God, Fate, Great Spirit-- heck, call him Zeus if you want-- but to me, all faiths lead to the same place.


I don't know why some of the things that happen in my life happen; I've long since stopped trying to understand it in the moment. Sometimes I get lucky enough to find out within a short time span, but most of the time I just trust that the universe knows what it's doing, and that someday it'll make sense to me.

I'm so glad you're still hanging around, Memere. I wasn't ready for you to go, either. I'm glad the Heavens agree.

being there

On the list of stupidest things I've ever done, attending today's Nordic ski meet is at the top. The universe tried to talk me out of it, but I wasn't listening... but, I guess that's not surprising: I have been known to have a stubborn streak every now and again.

I had overslept-- woke up an hour late, with no time for breakfast or the deeply desired Dunkin stop. The meet was taking place at a school with athletic fields that are on three levels of hills-- I've been there before, and knew I'd need my boots to see anything. I couldn't get it on over the ace bandage, but I figured I could take that off and stuff my foot in when I got to the meet. I'm sure you've deduced by now that was some faulty logic.

And so, I put on the one boot and climbed the hills in my walking shoe.

I know. I could have turned around, and my son would have understood why. WB was with his middle school team at their meet at Sugarloaf, so I was the parent available to be there. It was his first high school meet, and I was 50 yards from being able to see him ski. Those of you who are parents will understand why I climbed that hill, stood by the fence and watched him leave the start line and enter the woods; balanced on one foot as the wind almost blew me over; and recognized his gait as he emerged from the woods the last time to swing around the lower field and climb the hill and ski by me towards his finish. I'd be lying if I said I didn't tear up watching him go by, or if I said it was only because my foot was starting to make it's displeasure known. But watching him ski-- seeing the confidence, dedication, and determination as he made his way around the course-- well, that's why I went, and why I stupidly climbed that hill.

I'd told him I'd be there but wouldn't stay long after, so I hoped he trusted in that fact. I cheered for him as he went by, but who knows if they really hear you or not? When I ran (stumbled? hobbled?) cross country in high school, I could only focus on finishing... but I knew, somewhere, at least one of my parents was there. After he finished, I tried to find where the team was, but I couldn't see them, and at that point I knew I was risking damage staying on that snowy hill. (As I was typing this post, in fact, he texted me-- he tried to get to me before I left, but couldn't reach me in time.) So far, he's unaware of the depth of my folly, and part of the reason for this post is so he might have a glimmer of understanding why I pushed the edge of my physical abilities to be there: I'm pretty sure he won't fully understand, though, until his oldest has his or her first high school meet.

Our job as parents is to be their personal cheering squad, following them around through their various events, giving them support. Sometimes it's advice, many times praise, and every so often a kick in the behind. In many ways, it's all about being there, watching them grow and mature and figure out who they're going to be as adults. As I said before, at least one of my parents was at each and every one of our events. I took it for granted as a kid that everyone had the same experience, but I know now that was never a safe assumption. If it is all possible, one of us will be at each of our kids events, too-- and if it's not, we'll line up someone else. Gramma (and Uncle Uncle) played that role the night of my surgery when Cheer Chick did her Christmas routine at their game. It matters to kids that someone is there watching them. It matters a lot.

Being there was worth the discomfort. I'm proud of you, buddy. Hope you had a good first meet.

2013 is being brought to you by the letter W

I'm not usually one to bid a fond farewell to the year gone by, but this year is one I'm glad to leave in my dust. It was really the Year of the Doctor: I started in January with an ovarian torsion caused by a pesky cyst, tests for which revealed I also had gallstones. So, in February I had my gallbladder removed, just 17 days after losing half my left ovary. Originally I had planned on getting my second foot repaired in May-- right after the recital. I could not bare the thought of a 3rd surgery in 5 months-- nor could I have another week-plus absence from this group of sunshines. But.... 2 surgeries plus other random maladies rack up the deductible points pretty quickly, so it made sense to do it before the new year. And so, 2 weeks ago I went under the knife again. If I could resolve to do such things, trust me, staying out of surgical suites would be on my list every year.

Last year my resolutions were simple ones-- only 2 of them, really. Write more, and be aware of other's struggles and don't make them worse. I did pretty well on the former... but regular readers of this sad blog should show that I did horribly at the former.

But all this is just avoiding the subject. What am I resolving to do this year? As I said in the title, there's a W theme. I feel like Bert from Sesame Street... except instead of talking about lightbulbs and lampposts I'm talking about visiting Weld on a regular basis, writing more, and walking again. I also want to keep focus on my photography, but I haven't found the W connector for that yet. Hmm... maybe... a women's photography club? A friend of mine said she and some other friends were talking about starting such a thing, so maybe that's the link.

So here's to you, 2013. Let's stop meeting in hospitals and doctor's offices, ok?

sorrow

I haven't talked much about the Sandy Hook school shooting, mostly because I can't. It makes no sense to me, in much the same way that I couldn't process what happened at Columbine High or at Virginia Tech. This is not to say I'm not affected by this shooting, or any of the other tragedies. I can't imagine anyone not being affected. But I can't make sense of it. No one can.

The fighting between outraged politicians, though, is disgusting. Turning the debate towards school safety or gun laws is avoiding the issue. Our schools are incredibly safe and are staffed with caring, dedicated individuals. But life is unpredictable, and sometimes horrible things happen. But to discuss the shortfalls is to intimate we could have predicted this attack and therefore prevented it. In the end, I think that is what disgusts me most about all the news reports and FaceBook memes floating around: the idea that this was predictable and preventable, any more than any other tragedy is.

I pray for the families affected and all of Newton. I pray for everyone who has lost someone dear to them, regardless of how publicly.

Magi, Dickvale style

For Devon, on that memorable Christmas Eve in 2002. There are edits I'd make to this today, but since this is how I read it to her, this is how it remains.


I know you are all familiar with O Henry's telling of the sacrifices we make for those we love (if you haven't heard it again tonight, be patient...). That story is one of my favorite stories of all time, Christmas or otherwise. I love the variations on that story as well-- especially Bert trading his paperclip collection with Mr. Hooper for a soap dish for Rubber Duckie, while Ernie gave Rubber Duckie away in exchange for a cigar box for Bert's paperclips. Children's programming being what it is, Mr. Hooper, who was Jewish, arrived Christmas Eve in Bert and Ernie's apartment to return their treasures to them, free of charge. All is right on Sesame Street again. Love is alive.

I had the honor of witnessing a very real reenactment of this classic tale. As you all know by now, I took it upon myself to inform as many friends as I could about the shinny new washing machine now sitting in the other room. The responses were overwhelming. They came fast, they came furious, they came overflowing with emotional and financial support. Many responded by saying "let me know if you don't achieve the goal"; more than a few came with disclaimers saying "I wish I could send more...". In a week's time we had paid for the washing machine. Money is still trickling in. It's a tangible way of telling Nick and Devon how much they mean to us, individually and as a group. You can't put a price tag on a life, but you can on major appliances.

While it was amazing to receive checks for $50 or $100, the most incredible ones were the small ones. High school and college kids donating what they had. But the one I still can't think about without crying came from our very own magi. She showed up at my house one morning before work, and said "I'm giving you all the cash in my wallet It's what I told myself I would do, so here it is.". She stood next to me, gave me a few bills, and proceeded to empter her change purse. It totaled $2.68. I know this was as much as she could afford to give-- to be honest, it was more than she could afford. " Some of my best childhood memories have Nick and Devon in them..."

Christmas is about love. I believe in the poer of love, and in the goodness of people. Whether you gave hundereds of dollars or $2.68, you gave it out of love, and my life-- our lifes-- will be forever changed for witnessing it. In a wold of selfishness, in a time where extra money doesn't exist, our mailbox has been filled with generosity. What do you give to the most giving people you know? You give love, in whatever form it takes.

Of all who give and receive gifts, such as they are the wisest. Everywhere they are the wisest. They are the magi.

the blessings of traditions

I am lucky to have stumbled into living and working in an amazing community. I came here mostly because my best friend from college had been hired here, and why not move to a place where you know people already? When I got here, I had no idea that I would become surrounded by an incredible community of like minded individuals. Talk about cashing in on some good karma...

One of the traditions we stumbled into is Christmas Eve readings. This was a Farm tradition, Nick, Devon, Kaiya and Caitlin at first, but one year they opened their home to all their friends. I can't now remember the first year we were invited, but we have spent every Eve with these people since sometime in the mid 90s. It's a classic Dickvale event-- delicious, gourmet pot luck and lots of great conversation and laughter. But it ends differently than all the others: starting from youngest to oldest, everyone has a chance to read a Christmas tale of their choosing. Over the years we've been graced with The Grinch, tag team readings of The Polar Express, various excerpts from A Christmas Carol, and many others. Devon would read King John's Christmas by A. A. Milne, and someone would read Gift of the Magi. The final reading was A Child's Christmas in Wales, read to us by Nicky himself. These nights were as powerful as any Christmas Eve service I've ever attended-- love, acceptance, and peace flowed through the walls, surrounding us all in a surreal comfort that follows us still.

Unfortunately, life marches on, and not always in a pleasant way. It's been 10 years since we shared a Christmas Eve with Devon. I remember that night like it was yesterday: the room was filled with friends and family, kids and adults of all ages. She had been fighting cancer for awhile, and we had lived our very own Magi experience that holiday season when A. bought her a replacement washing machine on faith that the money would come through. It did, and then some. I read something of my own creation that night, explaining how this 'young wench' hijacked Nicky's email list and said we were gathering money to help with the laundry. It was my retelling of the O. Henry classic, and how I got through that reading I'll never know--to read my own words to and about one of the kindest, most generous people I have ever been blessed to know-- well, let's just say it was a watershed moment for this fledgling writer and leave it at that. I think about that night often, remember my seat near the door and how the Christmas lights blurred as my eyes filled. And I remember Devon's smile as I finished...

Last night we were at a different home further out Dickvale, but the love was the same. The kids are older, and some of the faces have changed. Nicky and company spend the holiday at K's home in VT so the grandchildren don't have to worry about Santa's ability to find the right chimney. But as I looked around the room last night, I could see that this tradition is a part of all of us, and has extended well beyond those first years at the Farm. Even though she is no longer here on Earth, I could hear Dev reading along with WB "...and oh, Father Christmas, my blessings on you fall, for bringing him a big, red, India rubber ball!"

My blessings to you all, whatever your traditions. Hold them close, and treasure them, because you know not what the future will bring. Twenty years ago I moved to Peru, stumbling by luck into the perfect place for me to build my life. Kind people welcomed me into their world and allowed me to introduce them to some other people already important to me. My worlds of love have collided and overlapped ever since. It's almost like we live in Bedford Falls, with Tiny Tim a member of FPES. Our Christmas is not the biggest or the grandest, but it is exactly what I look forward to doing every year: gathering with friends, sharing good food, great conversation, and giving and receiving so much love.

Merry Christmas, to all of you. I have a Wonderful Life, and am surrounded by Magi every day. I am very blessed.

preaching to the choir

I stumbled upon The Minds of Kids blog somehow-- probably something WB posted along the way. This post makes tons of sense to me, and probably to you, as I think all my readers drink the same kool-aid as I do.

In all the professional development in which I take part, teachers consistently say that standardized testing holds us back. It's hard to encourage kids to explore ideas when you have to make sure you expose them to X material before the testing dates roll around. And between giving the universal screeners 3 times a year for math and reading and preparing for and giving the mandated state tests for math, reading, and science once a year, a significant amount of class time is lost to testing.

Teachers notice that students (in general) are not good at thinking for themselves. We know it's an issue... and yet the very tools we use to prove that point are the ones holding us back from making a change and improving the situation. To say my head spins regularly is an understatement.

I've said lately that I hope I'm still teaching when gay boys can have out relationships the way lesbian girls can now (and very much could not when I was a student myself). I also hope I am still teaching when we leave standardized testing behind and focus on learning and thinking instead.

failure is not an option-- it's required

I've been thinking a lot about mistakes lately. As a culture, I'm not so sure we have a healthy relationship with making mistakes. Think about it-- what happens when you screw up at work, or your kid messes up at school? It feels like someone dropped a bomb on your soul, and it often takes time to climb out of that hole. And yet... no learning comes without a mistake being corrected. So which attitude is the right one? Can we even define 'right' in this situation? I mean, I don't want my students to fail classes in order to learn the material... but if they know it all and don't make some mistakes, what's the point of spending time on it?

That is the spiral I've been circling through for a while now. And so far, it's taken me 4 days to write this post, which is still not getting to the heart of the matter for me.

As with everything that matters in life, this is not a black and white issue.

The challenge is figuring out which mistakes are helpful-- which help you grow as a person, an employee, a learner, a spouse-- and which are just plain old 'stupid' mistakes that send you backwards. It turns out, unsurprisingly, that intent matters. Did you intend to fail, or were you trying to succeed but missed a key concept along the way? Have you made this mistake in the past and failed to learn from it? Or all those other times you screwed up, were you not ready to learn it but now that switch in your brain gets flipped? Someone says it takes 30 times of doing something for it to be a habit, and little kids have to fall down 100 times before they learn how to stay up. So why do we expect perfection from then on out?

Another little musing of mine is what we do once the mistake is made. We're big on punishment-- suspension, jail time, a letter in the proverbial office file-- but not nearly focused enough on restitution. This leads in with my 'natural consequences' rant-- if my kid refuses to eat what we have for lunch, they're going to be hungry. They'll have to decide which is worse-- the hunger pains at 3 PM or the texture of squash. A simple, non-judgemental consequence that follows a choice made by a texture sensitive person. But the idea that I'd not feed them lunch to punish them for breaking the living room window? That just makes no sense to me, and seems like it might lead to a bit of anger that we'll have to then deal with later.* And we still have a broken window that needs to be cleaned up and replaced.

*To date, neither of my children has been denied food (far from it, those spoiled darlings) nor have any windows been harmed, in the writing of this post or otherwise.

 As I'm sure you've surmised, I am a fan of the 'you break it, you bought it' school of parenting. You jumped in the mud puddle and got your new shoes all muddy? Get cleaning. Broke a window? Now seems like the perfect moment to learn how to clean up broken glass. So losing your license for drinking and driving? I'm all for it. Getting jail time for refusing to believe you've lost your right to drive? You bet, because clearly you're a risk to someone else innocently driving down the road. Suspensions from school because you're a danger to other kids works for me. Suspensions because you skipped a detention which you were given because you skipped class? I can't even fathom how crazy that is.

There's so much about mistakes and the ensuing learning that should come from making them tied up in our schools, but we can't get to the heart of it. Between the fear of being labeled one of the 'lowest performing schools', or needing a CIPs (Continual Improvement Plan, I think) plan, or having your school average national test score printed in the local paper (which might not be the worst thing ever now, since newspapers are dying out... but the internet sure isn't...) there's a lot of motivation to downplay mistakes. Schools lose federal funding when they land in one of these naughty categories, and less funding only leads to bigger problems.

I would love to get to a point where I don't have to grade kids in class. This is part of what appeals to me about standards based learning-- when you demonstrate you have met a certain standard (communicating your ideas to an audience, let's say) there is no judgement about whether you did it 97% right, or 78%, or 42%. You did it, or you're still working on it. What holds me back, however, is that we are always comparing. Do you may have met the standard, but Susie over there exceeded the standard... and just like that, we're back in the comparison business. Customized learning is the newest buzz in education, and there are parts of that philosophy that I embrace wholeheartedly. If the standard is persuasive writing, why can't Johnny show it by creating a commercial, Mary by writing the standard essay, and Susie by presenting a speech? You might say that Johnny then doesn't have to write anything, but creating a script for a commercial is writing, and may be more relevant to him than a 5 page essay. I'm on board with that, 100%, because I think the 'student failures' that come out of that model are more on line with mistakes we can learn from, and in the end, they succeed when they finish whatever project they're doing.

At the end of the day, I want us to learn from our mistakes. All of us, whether we're the movie star who keeps getting busted for drug and alcohol use, the politician who makes a shady side deal, the teacher who spells something wrong on a note that goes home, or the student who doesn't like to write. None of us like our dirty laundry aired in public, so it's never fun to say "Hey, look at how stupid I am by what I just did wrong!" But sometimes that's what it takes to learn from what happened and move forward.

coloring outside the bubble

Today was a district workshop day. I did not go into education wanting to spend my day sitting in an auditorium or cafeteria with adults only, so I will admit up front to these not being my favorite days. PD* (jargon, baby... we all make our fun in the way that is best for us...) is important in all professions, however, so I find my way to get something out of the day.

*professional development

We were shown a slide of our district proficient/not proficient scores for math and reading data, I think for last year. The slide was scary-- as kids got older, their proficiencies dropped, at least according to the NECAPs or SATs.


I got a bit of my math geek on (again, we all find our own forms of entertainment. I like doing math without a calculator. What about it?) and figured out the percentages by hand. Even if you didn’t do that, it was obvious that about 67% of our elementary students are proficient, and about 33% aren’t yet; middle schoolers are about 50-50%; and high school has more kids not proficient than are.

We were then asked to figure out why, and the hope (strongly implied from the presentors) was we would see this was reason to change our instruction practices. MCL, here we come!



But wait... what if the problem isn't with the test takers, but the tests themselves?

I saw more fault with the disconnect between how we teach kids today, and how we then assess them. We have kids engaged in conversation in classrooms, working in groups and engaging in authentic learning. When is the last time you saw an AUTHENTIC SAT section? (And how authentic can anything be for a 17 year old at 8 AM on a Saturday morning, other than the back of their eyelids?) The tests we use do not line up with how we teach kids-- and the further you get from elementary school, the worse that disconnect becomes.

There is no doubt that we need to change our teaching, and we need to keep evolving to meet the needs of our learners. But we also need to change our tests to reflect what we’re asking of those learners. Right now we’re doing EXACTLY what we know is bad practice-- we assess kids in ways that do not match up with how we taught the material. And by ‘we’, I mean State and Federal DOEs. We all know that our kids know more than they are able to show on standardized testing, and until we can change how we’re being assessed, we will never hit the target.

[Teachers out there-- can I get a what what?]

It was 20 years ago today

(Ok, well, not today, but you know how I am with song lyrics...)

It was, however, 20 years ago that I came to town. Fresh out of college and ready to make my mark on the world, it was only natural that I'd choose a town of 1500 people and work in a small, independent k-8 school with 225 or so students-- I mean, that screams me, right?

It turns out to be about the best decision I've ever made. Granted, when one takes the road less traveled, it's hard to know what the other path may have lead one to. (Apologies to Mr. Frost for removing his poetry from the sentiment.) I have met more amazing people in this little community, and have relationships with people that sustain me through every situation. I met WB* working at that school. I got married while working at that school, and resigned my position in order to live my dream of being a stay home mom. We moved to town so our kids would get to go to that school. That school is no longer open as a school-- which is another story for another day-- but it is fast becoming a vibrant community center. We don't have town sewer, or garbage pick up, or even a full time police or fire department, but what we do have is worth much more: we have neighbors and friends who are in it together.

This place is our home, in every meaning of the word.I know we will always be 'from away', but I think we've been accepted regardless. This is where our children will tell people they are from-- and then have to explain what towns it is near because no one from outside of Western Maine will ever know where this place is. It's not Camelot or Brigadoon... but some days, when I cross the little wooden bridge to our property, I do feel like I'm in a magical world that only the lucky ones get to see.

So here's to another 20 years... and, if luck is on my side, another 20 after that.

*Truth be told, we'd met at college, but it didn't take. He was dating someone else, and I was just a little freshman in his section of science lab. He claims he remembers me, but I don't blame him for not-- I looked like Velma from Scooby Do, and was just as dorky.

time warp

... and just like that, we're back to school.

It truly feels like summer didn't happen. I know it did. I have thousands (yes, literally) of pictures saying we had 10 weeks off. And yet, my desk is still buried in haphazard piles, my mental to do list is a mile long, and I'm already falling behind on what needed my full attention 10 minutes ago. How does this happen? How are things so crazy all. the. time?

I am still committed to finding a balance between work and home, frantic and relaxed. Although I haven't found it yet, I'm pretty sure I'll settle into a routine before long. Until then, I'm actually writing lists (I have never ever been a list girl, and I can't imagine there will ever be check boxes on any list I create). And laughing. And remembering to breathe. It's all I can do.

Daddy : hammock :: Mumma : pool

Today I floated in my pool. I left the house at 7:15 AM (which for me is early to be up, never mind motivating) and went to a school meeting. After that I headed off to do a portfolio review for some homeschoolers, and then I stopped and checked in on my inlaws on the way home. All of these things are good things-- I'm happy to be able to do so much, and I enjoy being around so many people. But I am also learning that it is important to savor the downtime...

And so I did. One of my school year resolutions (similar to New Year resolutions, but following the agrarian school calendar schedule that has been the center of my life since... well... 1975) is to include mental down time every day. On the last real day of summer vacation (the rest is just a weekend), floating in my pool while soaking up sunshine seemed the perfect tribute to the passing of summer break and the welcoming of school year.