When I was a kid, I had visions of what my life would look like when I grew up. They were fairly simple, even "humble" and sweet. This unfinished post is what kept me from writing for the last three weeks. I will finish it, but not today.
I think I'm going to leave each version of this post in place. Leave it as a rough representation of my thought process. Of how I'm working through my revision to find my new vision. I've had a little growth spurt recently. I'm glad for it. I'm feeling slightly wiser and unsettled -- hoping I'm never too settled in my ways of seeing -- that's part of this little bit of growing. So, I'm going to leave this up here -- messy, unfinished, and unsettled -- Like me.
The dreams I had about what life would be like were likely constructed by the lives I saw around me in my own family, in the media I was exposed to, and the people I knew. They were reinforced in playground games and in dramatic play. I don't resent them. I do regret that I didn't have the skills to reimagine, revise, and reconstruct the templates I was given, but seriously, very few of us do.
Laundry break.
Sunday, October 7, 2012
Email to an Algebra 2 Teacher
This year, I'm finally interacting with teachers in a way that feels right.
Dear [teacher who keeps hounding me for a conference and asking what I am doing to help my daughter who is struggling with algebra]:
I apologize for my slow reply. I check my gmail too infrequently. Since Ella told me she is having some trouble with Algebra, we have discussed strategies for using homework more effectively, and she has begun receiving help from one of her colleagues at school.
So, I have made the decision to start being the "involved parent" the schools ask for. I have a teensy advantage because I have a little access to "teacher talk" in terms of the words we use when we talk about what we do.
BUT here's what bothers me about conferences: for the last 10 years that my kids have been in school conferences have tended to go one of four ways:
The "Good and Smart Kid" Conference: Teachers glowingly report to me how amazing my kids are -- I already know that, and I'd prefer not to hire a sitter to hear about it -- just send me a note. They also tell me things I can do at home with them to help them be even better! Okay man, I totally value that. Again, send me a note. I hate to seem unfriendly, but I don't need to hang out with six or more teachers for fifteen minutes at time to know my kids are awesome. I'd rather be spending time with my six awesome kids. And if the teacher would like to get to know me? Let's do lunch some Saturday. We could all use some more friends.
The "Smart but badly behaved kid" Conference: Teachers tell me that my child (this scenario plays out with one particular kid's teachers at least once a year) is disruptive, but is still doing well academically. They ask if there is anything going on at home. They ask if the kid is getting enough sleep, enough to eat, enough attention... They ask me about my parenting. They ask me what am doing to get my kid under control. I then reply that they eat plenty of healthy food (without a bunch of artificial shit that poisons them makes them bounce off the walls) and explain at length that I am very fussy about what they eat and why. While I'm explaining (and I've learned to be extremely brief), they tune out and wait for their next opportunity to talk. They tell me that my kid is smart and charming but wiggly. He IS a jitterbug. It IS annoying. He is also growing out of it slowly. His behavior is profoundly influenced by his diet, so much so that it surprises even me. I tell the teachers the kinds of things we do as a family. They half-listen while the wait to ask me more questions, to which they will half-listen to my responses while the get out handwriting samples and test scores for me to look at ...
The "Well-behaved kid who is struggling with a particular subject": The teacher tells me that my child is bright but just isn't getting it and asks me what I'm doing at home to help. Shows me evidence (usually in the form of test scores) that my child is struggling with the subject. Then basically hands me a prescription of what I can do to help her at home (this comes along with the extremely problematic assumption that I am literate enough to help my child, have the time to help my child, or even WANT to help her <-- of course I do, but that is a dangerous assumption to make). Then sends me on my way with my homework.
The "Wiggly kid who is struggling with a particular subject" -- I delightful combo of the last two with an assumption that the child's behavior is getting in the way of his or her ability to learn. This is a favorite angle from the teachers that have the gift of my special needs kid in their classes. They show me test scores and tally sheets of how many times she wiggles or whatever. They tell me she is bright, but... They ask me if there is anything going on at home... They don't listen to my replies. They honestly don't. This isn't whining. This is true. I began to collect the evidence of this at IEP meetings last year, when I had everyone who had asked me questions about my daughter in the same room at once. I started informally quizzing them about our previous conferences. "do you remember when I said this?" And they would say yes, but here's the thing -- I never said that. OR, "I'm don't think I told you this, but ..." and they received the information like I never said it, sometimes even saying things like, "Wow! I'm so glad you told me that. That's really good to know." Yeah, I told you that, suckah, I told you at our conference! muwahahaha!
Anyway, I've decided that enough is enough. I am going into every conference prepared to actually advocate for my kids. What I've done in the past, and felt pushy doing, is tell the teachers what we do at home while they half-listened, and I have fairly meekly suggested strategies that some teachers did employ in classes, usually with great success. Indeed, my kids HAVE had a handful of (okay, not quite a handful, three?) awesome teachers in this suburban, test score driven, district. (maybe four? the jury's out on the first grade teacher this year. So far, I really like him!)
But from now on, I am layering on accountability on their part. I am going in with questions: Is there anything going on in the classroom? Can you tell me about how you teach? (Damn it, If they can ask me probing questions about my parenting, they better be bloody prepared for me to ask them questions about their teaching! REAL questions, not bullshit annoying questions, but real questions, and they should be prepared to answer). Can you tell me how you deal with behavior problems in the classroom? Can you tell me how you define behavior problems and how you communicate expectations to the children? Can you tell me how you assess their work? Can you tell me if and how you use assessment as a teaching tool? etc.
And here's the big difference between me and them -- when they answer, I will be listening. AND I'll be taking notes.
I will ask because I want to know. I've ALWAYS wanted to know, but didn't want to be annoying, didn't want to overstep my bounds, didn't want to make teachers and administrators angry -- mostly I didn't ask because I was afraid, afraid of authority.
There is a lot going on here, in this shift of attitude. Most of it has to do with authority. I am the expert on my kids. This is not MY teacher. She or he cannot send me to the principal's office for asking questions. And if she or he takes it out on my kid? Oh, there will be hell to pay. I have cowered under the tyranny of being well trained into my place in the institution -- the place that the institution wants me in, I should say -- that of a good student (and everything oppressive that goes along with it), and I can't do it anymore.
So to my kids teachers: I have some questions for you, and I'm not afraid of detention anymore. So, what's up now?
Dear [teacher who keeps hounding me for a conference and asking what I am doing to help my daughter who is struggling with algebra]:
I apologize for my slow reply. I check my gmail too infrequently. Since Ella told me she is having some trouble with Algebra, we have discussed strategies for using homework more effectively, and she has begun receiving help from one of her colleagues at school.
Can you tell me a little bit about how you teach? For example, do you work through problems as a class? How do you use homework? Are you using it as formal or informal assessment? If the latter (how most teachers I know, including myself, use it) how do you instruct students to proceed when they find their mistakes? Ella said that you are available before class, but she has trouble getting to you because of how her day is scheduled. During the time that you are available, do you have individual conferences with students to help them identify their weaknesses and advise them on how to work on them? Is there any other time in the day that you might be willing to meet with Ella? Perhaps around the lunch hour or as the day is drawing to a close? I know I should have advised her to ask you that last question, but I honestly just thought of it.
I ask about how you teach, so I can perhaps augment the instruction she's getting at school more effectively, perhaps by helping her get her learning style more in line with your teaching style? There are many good strategies I can offer her.
Coming in for conferences is pretty challenging because I have a full time job teaching at CSCC, and I am parenting Ella and her five younger siblings alone. Leaving the house before the youngest four siblings go to bed involves always taking them with me if I leave before 5:30 p.m. when the girls finish their extracurriculars; asking the girls to babysit when I'd prefer them to be working on their school work between 6 and 8 -- or again, taking them along; or leaving after 8 -- when the little ones are in bed. As a result, I usually leave the house only after 8 p.m. for grocery shopping, maybe taking in a movie, etc. I am more than happy to talk to you more via email (I promise I'll actually check it -- blush) or via phone conference -- My number is xxx.xxx.xxxx.
Thank you for your patience, and I apologize for the exceedingly slow reply,
Have a great day! This autumn weather is spectacular!
BUT here's what bothers me about conferences: for the last 10 years that my kids have been in school conferences have tended to go one of four ways:
The "Good and Smart Kid" Conference: Teachers glowingly report to me how amazing my kids are -- I already know that, and I'd prefer not to hire a sitter to hear about it -- just send me a note. They also tell me things I can do at home with them to help them be even better! Okay man, I totally value that. Again, send me a note. I hate to seem unfriendly, but I don't need to hang out with six or more teachers for fifteen minutes at time to know my kids are awesome. I'd rather be spending time with my six awesome kids. And if the teacher would like to get to know me? Let's do lunch some Saturday. We could all use some more friends.
The "Smart but badly behaved kid" Conference: Teachers tell me that my child (this scenario plays out with one particular kid's teachers at least once a year) is disruptive, but is still doing well academically. They ask if there is anything going on at home. They ask if the kid is getting enough sleep, enough to eat, enough attention... They ask me about my parenting. They ask me what am doing to get my kid under control. I then reply that they eat plenty of healthy food (without a bunch of artificial shit that poisons them makes them bounce off the walls) and explain at length that I am very fussy about what they eat and why. While I'm explaining (and I've learned to be extremely brief), they tune out and wait for their next opportunity to talk. They tell me that my kid is smart and charming but wiggly. He IS a jitterbug. It IS annoying. He is also growing out of it slowly. His behavior is profoundly influenced by his diet, so much so that it surprises even me. I tell the teachers the kinds of things we do as a family. They half-listen while the wait to ask me more questions, to which they will half-listen to my responses while the get out handwriting samples and test scores for me to look at ...
The "Well-behaved kid who is struggling with a particular subject": The teacher tells me that my child is bright but just isn't getting it and asks me what I'm doing at home to help. Shows me evidence (usually in the form of test scores) that my child is struggling with the subject. Then basically hands me a prescription of what I can do to help her at home (this comes along with the extremely problematic assumption that I am literate enough to help my child, have the time to help my child, or even WANT to help her <-- of course I do, but that is a dangerous assumption to make). Then sends me on my way with my homework.
The "Wiggly kid who is struggling with a particular subject" -- I delightful combo of the last two with an assumption that the child's behavior is getting in the way of his or her ability to learn. This is a favorite angle from the teachers that have the gift of my special needs kid in their classes. They show me test scores and tally sheets of how many times she wiggles or whatever. They tell me she is bright, but... They ask me if there is anything going on at home... They don't listen to my replies. They honestly don't. This isn't whining. This is true. I began to collect the evidence of this at IEP meetings last year, when I had everyone who had asked me questions about my daughter in the same room at once. I started informally quizzing them about our previous conferences. "do you remember when I said this?" And they would say yes, but here's the thing -- I never said that. OR, "I'm don't think I told you this, but ..." and they received the information like I never said it, sometimes even saying things like, "Wow! I'm so glad you told me that. That's really good to know." Yeah, I told you that, suckah, I told you at our conference! muwahahaha!
Anyway, I've decided that enough is enough. I am going into every conference prepared to actually advocate for my kids. What I've done in the past, and felt pushy doing, is tell the teachers what we do at home while they half-listened, and I have fairly meekly suggested strategies that some teachers did employ in classes, usually with great success. Indeed, my kids HAVE had a handful of (okay, not quite a handful, three?) awesome teachers in this suburban, test score driven, district. (maybe four? the jury's out on the first grade teacher this year. So far, I really like him!)
But from now on, I am layering on accountability on their part. I am going in with questions: Is there anything going on in the classroom? Can you tell me about how you teach? (Damn it, If they can ask me probing questions about my parenting, they better be bloody prepared for me to ask them questions about their teaching! REAL questions, not bullshit annoying questions, but real questions, and they should be prepared to answer). Can you tell me how you deal with behavior problems in the classroom? Can you tell me how you define behavior problems and how you communicate expectations to the children? Can you tell me how you assess their work? Can you tell me if and how you use assessment as a teaching tool? etc.
And here's the big difference between me and them -- when they answer, I will be listening. AND I'll be taking notes.
I will ask because I want to know. I've ALWAYS wanted to know, but didn't want to be annoying, didn't want to overstep my bounds, didn't want to make teachers and administrators angry -- mostly I didn't ask because I was afraid, afraid of authority.
There is a lot going on here, in this shift of attitude. Most of it has to do with authority. I am the expert on my kids. This is not MY teacher. She or he cannot send me to the principal's office for asking questions. And if she or he takes it out on my kid? Oh, there will be hell to pay. I have cowered under the tyranny of being well trained into my place in the institution -- the place that the institution wants me in, I should say -- that of a good student (and everything oppressive that goes along with it), and I can't do it anymore.
So to my kids teachers: I have some questions for you, and I'm not afraid of detention anymore. So, what's up now?
Friday, September 7, 2012
Communication
So A gets in the van, and I ask him, "What did you learn about today?"
The wind blows hard in my left ear, and I strain to hear his answer: "[inaudible]-ation."
I ask, "What?"
He answers, "[inaudible]-ation!"
"What did you say, baby?"
"[inaudible]-ation!"
I say, "I'm sorry, son. It's windy. Can you say it one more time?"
He shouts, "COMMUNICATION!"
The wind blows hard in my left ear, and I strain to hear his answer: "[inaudible]-ation."
I ask, "What?"
He answers, "[inaudible]-ation!"
"What did you say, baby?"
"[inaudible]-ation!"
I say, "I'm sorry, son. It's windy. Can you say it one more time?"
He shouts, "COMMUNICATION!"
Wednesday, August 29, 2012
Tuesday, August 28, 2012
Back to School
So, I've made changes this year -- well, it's day two of my changes, and I'm hoping they'll stick, but I've made some simple changes that seem (in the last two days) promising. What promise? The promise of a slightly more organized life -- hopefully?
These are the simple changes:
These are the simple changes:
- I put a bin by the door for backpacks. It looks like this, but it's green, recycled, and has no lid. I wish I remembered what that brand it, but alas, no such luck. Now I need to establish the habit of keeping their backpacks in the bin -- in order, youngest to oldest. So far, so good. Day two, and no one was whining about not being able to find their backpacks.
- I got two similar bins for shoes -- one for the front door and one for the back door. I know it's silly, but this is the most exciting (and potentially the most challenging) change we will make this year -- the "no shoes in the house" change. I really had to think this through because both their dad and I were pretty much raised to keep our shoes on from when we got up until we went to sleep. But that's not nearly the problem in Florida (where we grew up) as it is in Ohio (where our kids are growing up) because in Florida there is no mud to track through a house -- just sand. Here, they are constantly tracking crap through the house. Soooo benefit number one will be cleaner floors (and furniture that they still haven't learned to keep their feet off -- sigh). And benefit number two will be no more running around the house whining that they can't find their shoes! So, I'm excited. I worried that it would be ugly, but really? This is a house full of six kids. Better Homes and Gardens isn't coming over for a photo shoot any time soon.
- I got super-great containers for lunches from a company called Preserve. I totally love them! I have already discovered that I got the wrong proportion for what I want / need. I got too many of these and not enough of these, so I'll be ordering more of the square containers. The small ones are really nice, good for fruits and veggies, but putting two of them in the lunch box along with the square one is kind of a tight fit. BUT I can easily stack two of the square ones on top of each other in a lunch box and actually pack more food. So, I plan on getting a few more and packing their lunches like little double-decker bento boxes. Thank goodness that they are already in the habit of bringing home the containers. Their lunches are now 100% no waste lunches (except for whatever food they sneak into the garbage when they think I don't realize it).
- I got them water bottles and made a place to store them in the refrigerator. And WOW! This simple little step has done pretty stunning things -- saved me the money from buying them drinks in pouches or boxes for school, saved me the incredible anxiety that I get when trying to find drinks that don't contain HFCS or dyes, and saved me TIME -- so darn much time -- not just label reading time at the store, but also "Mama, can I have a drink" time. They know where their water bottles are and how to fill them. For real? This works? It does! It does! (so far).
- I decided to finally take the advice of people who tell me to get ready for school at night, not in the morning. Ah, I think they are on to something. After dinner, for the last two days, we've packed our lunches for school and work. This has been nice because we all kind of work together to assemble them. The little ones can count carrots and little tomatoes to put in the veggie containers while I wash and de-stem-ify strawberries (or prep whatever fruit or other veggies) and put them in a bowl with other fruit. THEN they can put the lids on, put them in lunch boxes, and start scooping fruit salad into the next little containers while I make sandwiches and surround them with other dry snacks in the extra space those amazing containers have! Then, lunches are ready for the fridge. They can check to make sure their water bottles are full for the next day, and put them away while I put the lunches away. Then upstairs for the clothes picking out ritual, which I anticipate alleviating a lot of the craziness of looking for the "just right" outfit early in the a.m. -- or looking for a clean shirt or matching socks or something.
- I'm working the order for what I need to remind them to do on the way in the door each day. I'm thinking I need to say, "Okay guys, shoes and back packs in the bins. Do you have any food left from lunch? Containers with food still in them on the counter, empties in the sink." Then they can eat whatever they have left with whatever snack I have for them (a piece of fruit or bowl of trail mix or whatever) while we chill a little right after school. THEN I can send them back to the backpacks for homework and papers I need to sign or see. Once I get them going on homework, I can make dinner and hang out with whoever isn't working on homework (the babies) while the middle kids use their desks upstairs to get their work done. THEN, the big girls are ready to come home from their respective after-school activities by around 5:30, so we can run to get them, or (crossing my fingers for the miracle of a ride home for them occasionally) have dinner on the table when they get in the house around six or so.
Friday, August 24, 2012
Back-to-school madness
What a week it's been! Back to school is crrrrazy! Many very cool things have happened this week. I'll write more tonight. I'm excited about changes for the upcoming year and the patience that I'm learning as I face the inevitable speed bumps on my little journey.
I remember telling Ella, when she was freaking out about doing poorly on an assignment in school in second grade (yeah, that's 11 years ago) that mistakes are like arrows that point to the things we need to work on, the things we need to practice. Mistakes are gifts (this, of course is the wisdom of my Zen-genius-father coming from my mouth). I've had a lot of "gifts" in the last few weeks. I'm learning from them. This makes me happy. Mildly frustrated and happy.
I remember telling Ella, when she was freaking out about doing poorly on an assignment in school in second grade (yeah, that's 11 years ago) that mistakes are like arrows that point to the things we need to work on, the things we need to practice. Mistakes are gifts (this, of course is the wisdom of my Zen-genius-father coming from my mouth). I've had a lot of "gifts" in the last few weeks. I'm learning from them. This makes me happy. Mildly frustrated and happy.
Friday, August 17, 2012
So I'm back to reading this amazing book, Child's Mind, and it's totally inspiring me again. I have about 15 minutes to read each night, and that's about it, but sometimes I get more in, so now I'm on Chapter 3. I think that the book feels a little overwhelming because it has sooooo many really awesome mindfulness practices in it, but I figure, a little, just a little at a time is better than nothing.
Well, we've occasionally been playing a cool mindfulness game before dinner. We just listen for the sounds that we hear and pay attention to smells, etc. And we whisper-tell each other about them. It's been good for getting them settled in. I've been trying to get them to slow down and just notice things when they eat, when they drink: textures, flavors, smells, thoughts, feelings, etc. It's been an interesting journey.
Last night, they were off the flipping' wall at bed time, so I went in room after turning out all the lights much to their very loud consternation and declarations that they were scared, etc. I just said over and over, "I really want to know what you're saying, but I can't hear you when you're shouting" and waited for them to calm down. Once they were calm, I asked them why they were scared, and they, of course, answered, "Because it's dark" to which I replied, "what changed when the lights went out, other than that one thing, the lights going out?" They had no answer. So once I go them calm and assured them that there's nothing in the dark that isn't in the light, I told them that I wanted to play the listening game and that it would be more fun in the dark dark darkest dark we could get.
So we played it. They noticed a lot of night sounds. That was cool.
Then, we played a game that worked a little like progressive relaxation, but instead of tensing up our muscles, we moved them, starting with our cores and moving out. So we made our tummies like oceans, "can you wiggle your tummy all over while you keep the rest of your body still? Okay, let's wiggle our tummies like waves on the ocean while we take five big breaths." And I counted them, exaggerating in through our noses, out through our mouths. Then we stopped and tried to be really still for five more breaths, feeling the bed under our backs or tummies and listening again. "Okay, now let's move our shoulders, move them all around, not fast, just easy. How many different ways can you move your shoulders without moving the rest of your body?" Then we breathed again and then were still again for five more breaths. Then we wiggled our booties, then our heads, then our faces, then our legs and arms, then our fingers and toes, each time keeping the rest of our bodies still and soft-soft. The baby monkeys fell dead asleep. Simon and Lydia were dubious, but went along. They complained a little, but then kinda fell in line. They didn't fall asleep, but the rhythm of argument followed by playing followed by an argument... ceased, and they chilled out.
So, success. Score one for mindfulness and a good night's rest.
Well, we've occasionally been playing a cool mindfulness game before dinner. We just listen for the sounds that we hear and pay attention to smells, etc. And we whisper-tell each other about them. It's been good for getting them settled in. I've been trying to get them to slow down and just notice things when they eat, when they drink: textures, flavors, smells, thoughts, feelings, etc. It's been an interesting journey.
Last night, they were off the flipping' wall at bed time, so I went in room after turning out all the lights much to their very loud consternation and declarations that they were scared, etc. I just said over and over, "I really want to know what you're saying, but I can't hear you when you're shouting" and waited for them to calm down. Once they were calm, I asked them why they were scared, and they, of course, answered, "Because it's dark" to which I replied, "what changed when the lights went out, other than that one thing, the lights going out?" They had no answer. So once I go them calm and assured them that there's nothing in the dark that isn't in the light, I told them that I wanted to play the listening game and that it would be more fun in the dark dark darkest dark we could get.
So we played it. They noticed a lot of night sounds. That was cool.
Then, we played a game that worked a little like progressive relaxation, but instead of tensing up our muscles, we moved them, starting with our cores and moving out. So we made our tummies like oceans, "can you wiggle your tummy all over while you keep the rest of your body still? Okay, let's wiggle our tummies like waves on the ocean while we take five big breaths." And I counted them, exaggerating in through our noses, out through our mouths. Then we stopped and tried to be really still for five more breaths, feeling the bed under our backs or tummies and listening again. "Okay, now let's move our shoulders, move them all around, not fast, just easy. How many different ways can you move your shoulders without moving the rest of your body?" Then we breathed again and then were still again for five more breaths. Then we wiggled our booties, then our heads, then our faces, then our legs and arms, then our fingers and toes, each time keeping the rest of our bodies still and soft-soft. The baby monkeys fell dead asleep. Simon and Lydia were dubious, but went along. They complained a little, but then kinda fell in line. They didn't fall asleep, but the rhythm of argument followed by playing followed by an argument... ceased, and they chilled out.
So, success. Score one for mindfulness and a good night's rest.
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