Humans measure memorable milestones by their first occurrence. First word. First steps. First tooth (both to come in and fall out). First day of school (captured in film by emotional mothers for as many years as children will permit). First crush. First kiss, date, love (firsts certain to repeat themselves frequently in most lives).
Interestingly enough, we also account moments we most likely wish to forget in firsts. First speeding ticket. First fight (both physical and verbal). First loss (of a job or loved one or a game). First night of drinking till you puke. First lie that caught up with you.
As a classroom teacher, I have experienced many firsts with my students. Breaking up my first fight. First time I made a student cry (as well as the first time a student made me cry). First time teaching freshmen (and sophomores and juniors and seniors). First student to faint in my class. First student death. First student to thank me for imparting wisdom and encouraging greatness. These firsts, as well as others too numerous to list, line my memoirs with relationships and remembrances time cannot erase. But some firsts--the first time a student cussed at me, the first time a student plagarized a paper, the first time (or any time) a student came to school drunk/stoned, the first time a student brought drugs to school, the first time I discovered students being overly affectionate--cause teachers, students, and parents alike to wonder what in the world would cause a student to make such a negative decision.
I recently experienced one such first*. After the situation escalated and subsided, a student in class, who also witnessed the first, stated, "Welcome to our school. This place is messed up."
I spent much time this week considering this first--trying to to blot it from my brain--as well as the observant student's claim that "this place" might possibly be to blame. I refuse to blame the place for the student's actions. Nothing about the place where I teach welcomes, encourages, or condones such behavior. Assuming that the place has any culpability in that student's actions is absurd.
And in my opinion, it's equally absurd to assume his parents are to blame. I know little about his family life so it is completely possible that he lacks parental guidance and support, leaving him primarily responsible for his moral behavior; however, it is equally possible that his parents are conscientious, caring people who have raised him firmly yet lovingly, only to find that at 17 he, like many teenagers, is straying from their teachings to discover his own way in life.
Whatever his reasons for his actions, he made a choice--a choice he made for himself regardless of his parental influence at home and the character education program at school. A choice that was shocking to me and his classmates, but a choice where the blame lies solely with him. Parents and teachers do what they can. We model and prepare, but in the end, all we can do is set our children and our students out in to the world and hope they make the right decisions--decisions that will create a lifetime of memorable firsts instead of the forgettable ones.
*The details of the first are purposefully undisclosed as it is not the first that matters so much as what we learn from it.
Sunday, April 10, 2011
Saturday, April 2, 2011
Bloodline
This morning a television commercial made me cry. Was it for Hallmark? Or Children's Hospital? Or Jared? Or Folgers? (C'mon, you know you cry every time they air a new segment in the series about Peter.) No. None of these obviously saccharine advertisements evoked such emotion. Instead, a commercial for the new Jeep Compass moved me.
For the past eleven years, when people asked me why I moved to Georgia, I vaguely explained that I "just needed something else." If Jeep had been around to speak for me, it might have moved my inquisitors to tears as their commercial did today because they eloquently summed what I have been unable to express on my own. It was my turn. It was my destiny. I had to prove it.
Within Jeep's wistful discourse one also finds my reasoning for returning to Missouri: connection to my bloodline, and more precisely, Braden's connection to his.
Of course, Braden knew his bloodline prior to our return to the Show-Me State, but most of our visits consisted of five day marathon sprints to squeeze in time with the members of three clans. Breezing by blurred faces of loved-ones was no way for him to form roots. And thus our return--or my return and his transplant--to the homeland.
That's it? That's why I cried? If only it were that simple....
Three weeks ago my sister Tessa moved to L.A. Motivated by love, which to some may seem a silly reason to relocate 1800 miles, Tessa answered the calling of her spirit, boldly taking charge of her turn and her destiny, to see what more life may have in store for her. In many ways, Tessa came to her decision to move with more clarity that I did mine eleven years ago. She processed it for months and consulted with those nearest to her heart before jumping into the decision whereas I woke one morning with a plan and announced my intention without concern for the opinions or sorrows of others. (Those who know me well know I am a planner, often to a fault, who cautiously considers every move before making it. Yet with both moves--to Georgia then and back to Missouri now--I acted quickly--mainly as to not talk myself out of the decision because of fear. Tessa, whom many assume--somewhat incorrectly--to be impulsive, considered every scenario and came to her decision with confidence and clarity.) There were moments during her process when I wanted to beg, "Don't go. I just moved back home. Stay and get to know me again." (And I especially wanted to offer up the "your nephew needs you" ploy.) But I did not. Could not. Mainly because I understood, possibly better than anyone else in our family, why she needed to go.
And this is why I cried. Because I miss her like crazy. But am proud beyond measure.
See the commercial in its entirety here:
Fast Fever 2011 Jeep Compass - "Bloodline" Commercial
Born of a deep-rooted family tree, but not content to merely live under it. We all have a bloodline, but it takes a bold spirit to say "It's my turn; my destiny" and go out and prove it.
For the past eleven years, when people asked me why I moved to Georgia, I vaguely explained that I "just needed something else." If Jeep had been around to speak for me, it might have moved my inquisitors to tears as their commercial did today because they eloquently summed what I have been unable to express on my own. It was my turn. It was my destiny. I had to prove it.
Within Jeep's wistful discourse one also finds my reasoning for returning to Missouri: connection to my bloodline, and more precisely, Braden's connection to his.
Of course, Braden knew his bloodline prior to our return to the Show-Me State, but most of our visits consisted of five day marathon sprints to squeeze in time with the members of three clans. Breezing by blurred faces of loved-ones was no way for him to form roots. And thus our return--or my return and his transplant--to the homeland.
That's it? That's why I cried? If only it were that simple....
Three weeks ago my sister Tessa moved to L.A. Motivated by love, which to some may seem a silly reason to relocate 1800 miles, Tessa answered the calling of her spirit, boldly taking charge of her turn and her destiny, to see what more life may have in store for her. In many ways, Tessa came to her decision to move with more clarity that I did mine eleven years ago. She processed it for months and consulted with those nearest to her heart before jumping into the decision whereas I woke one morning with a plan and announced my intention without concern for the opinions or sorrows of others. (Those who know me well know I am a planner, often to a fault, who cautiously considers every move before making it. Yet with both moves--to Georgia then and back to Missouri now--I acted quickly--mainly as to not talk myself out of the decision because of fear. Tessa, whom many assume--somewhat incorrectly--to be impulsive, considered every scenario and came to her decision with confidence and clarity.) There were moments during her process when I wanted to beg, "Don't go. I just moved back home. Stay and get to know me again." (And I especially wanted to offer up the "your nephew needs you" ploy.) But I did not. Could not. Mainly because I understood, possibly better than anyone else in our family, why she needed to go.
And this is why I cried. Because I miss her like crazy. But am proud beyond measure.
See the commercial in its entirety here:
Fast Fever 2011 Jeep Compass - "Bloodline" Commercial
Sunday, March 27, 2011
Delusions of athleticism, part two
I am not an athlete. Not even remotely. But even at eight, Braden is an athlete. For Braden, athleticism comes naturally as part of a gene mutation he got from his dad (who is also naturally athletic). Think I am too biased to proclaim that my son is athletic--you might be right; after all, it is very mommy-like to consider your child good at everything they do. But as someone completely void of any athletic ability, I can identify such weakness in others from miles away and Braden, though a little clumsy at times, adapts to athletic situations with ease.
Braden tried team sports with three seasons of soccer and one season of basketball, but had little patience for sharing his team's success with the team. He, even at 5 and 6, was a ball-hog and a show-boater--not very endearing behavior. Upon some advice from a friend, I put him into swimming. Swimming, a sport you play against yourself, is ideal for him. So, Braden is a swimmer. This proclamation makes my friends Stephanie and David, who have unsuccessfully attempted to persuade me into letting him loose on a football field for three years now, cringe. But for now---and secretly in the recesses of my heart forever--he swims. Like a fish. Like the next Michael Phelps. Like no other 8 year-old boy on his team.
This season marks Braden's second in year-round swimming. When he came into this season in August, he swam a 25 back in 23.55; 25 free in 31.06; 25 fly in 31.54; and he rarely swam the 25 breast without DQing. Last weekend, he ended the short-course season with these times: 25 back in 18.20; 25 free in 16.28; 25 fly in 18.50; and 25 breast in 26.62. In total, Braden shaved over 32 secs off this season and he can swim the breast without a DQ.
At districts here at Mizzou, he left with a first place medal in the back, 4th in the fly, 5th in IM relay, and 14th in free. At State, he left with a 9th in back and a 15th in fly. But the medals are only half of the accomplishment. He's stronger. He's more focused. He's confident. He's proud. He's an athlete.
And I love watching him swim.
Braden tried team sports with three seasons of soccer and one season of basketball, but had little patience for sharing his team's success with the team. He, even at 5 and 6, was a ball-hog and a show-boater--not very endearing behavior. Upon some advice from a friend, I put him into swimming. Swimming, a sport you play against yourself, is ideal for him. So, Braden is a swimmer. This proclamation makes my friends Stephanie and David, who have unsuccessfully attempted to persuade me into letting him loose on a football field for three years now, cringe. But for now---and secretly in the recesses of my heart forever--he swims. Like a fish. Like the next Michael Phelps. Like no other 8 year-old boy on his team.
This season marks Braden's second in year-round swimming. When he came into this season in August, he swam a 25 back in 23.55; 25 free in 31.06; 25 fly in 31.54; and he rarely swam the 25 breast without DQing. Last weekend, he ended the short-course season with these times: 25 back in 18.20; 25 free in 16.28; 25 fly in 18.50; and 25 breast in 26.62. In total, Braden shaved over 32 secs off this season and he can swim the breast without a DQ.
At districts here at Mizzou, he left with a first place medal in the back, 4th in the fly, 5th in IM relay, and 14th in free. At State, he left with a 9th in back and a 15th in fly. But the medals are only half of the accomplishment. He's stronger. He's more focused. He's confident. He's proud. He's an athlete.
And I love watching him swim.
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Delusions of athleticism, part one
I am not an athlete. Not even remotely. As a teenager I experienced delusions of athleticism, dabbling in both volleyball and basketball in middle school and early high school, but my two-handed shot and inability to spike were easily and quickly overshadowed by more skilled team mates. I also took a spin around the track a few seasons in high school (and by spin I mean I did the high-jump and long-jump), but I did that for a boy so it never really matter to me to be good My sport--though even I argue that my lack of talent decreases the likelihood that one can call it a sport--was cheerleading, primarily because cheerleaders at my high school were able to play in the band and band was a sport I could get behind. (If cheerleading is a sport, so is band. You march a trombone for a twelve minute field show and tell me how it's not more intense than sideline chants.)
No, I am not an athlete; however, I do admire athletes--the grace, the agility, the competition, the adrenaline. It all appeals to something carnal and competitive in me. I am definitely a fan of athletes. Sometimes, I find myself even a little envious of athletes. But mostly I'm just a fan. Of athletes--not sports, but athletes. I can go months without seeing a sporting event, but when I do take in a game it's the athletes, not the sport, I watch.
After all, sports would be nothing if not for the athletes.
No, I am not an athlete; however, I do admire athletes--the grace, the agility, the competition, the adrenaline. It all appeals to something carnal and competitive in me. I am definitely a fan of athletes. Sometimes, I find myself even a little envious of athletes. But mostly I'm just a fan. Of athletes--not sports, but athletes. I can go months without seeing a sporting event, but when I do take in a game it's the athletes, not the sport, I watch.
After all, sports would be nothing if not for the athletes.
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
Wherefore art thou?
Procrastination is not to blame for my nearly 6 week absence from these words. On the contrary, I've been busy as hell--drowning in grading and planning like a first year teacher. Sadly, I feel as floundery as a first year teacher, too. (Yes, floundery not floundering. I don't care if it's not a word. Just consider me like Shakespeare--or better yet, Chaucer.)
No, procrastination is not to blame. Instead, my floundery classroom esteem keeps me encumbered, preoccupying my thoughts and my words, stealing my prose, and thusly my confidence. Leaving me to wonder: have I climaxed? have I experienced everything that a profession in public education has to offer me? is it time to move on to....to what....collegiate....private sector......life of crime?
Loyal readers of the teaching profession, I seek your advice about this current woebegone phase of my career. Please share your tales of triumph or tragedy. (Though I prefer triumph. As I am not well suited for a life of crime, I hope to learn that feeling floundery is normal, even in the 13th year.)
Til it be morrow...
No, procrastination is not to blame. Instead, my floundery classroom esteem keeps me encumbered, preoccupying my thoughts and my words, stealing my prose, and thusly my confidence. Leaving me to wonder: have I climaxed? have I experienced everything that a profession in public education has to offer me? is it time to move on to....to what....collegiate....private sector......life of crime?
Loyal readers of the teaching profession, I seek your advice about this current woebegone phase of my career. Please share your tales of triumph or tragedy. (Though I prefer triumph. As I am not well suited for a life of crime, I hope to learn that feeling floundery is normal, even in the 13th year.)
Til it be morrow...
Monday, January 31, 2011
Mother Nature Misnomer
As a literature teacher, I fully understand the symbolism behind Mother Nature, named such because of the parallels of fertility, fecundity, and over-all nurturing bounty between the two. (And even if I weren't a literature teacher, the connection between the two life-bearing entities would still be obvious. It's one of those things you just know.)
Four hours in to what meteorologists across the world purport to be unlike any winter weather system to hit Missouri in years, I can confidently assert that Mother Nature is neither a stay-at-home mom or a single mother. Think about it. If Mother Nature was sole entertainment provider for her children during severe weather systems, she would be more sympathetic to mothers. But no, she's too busy climbing the ladder and leaving her mark on the world to think about the middle woman--the actual mothers of the world.
Drive on roads covered by .5 inches of ice to pick her child up from school...not Mother Nature; purchase groceries for a potential three (if not more) days isolated to the house...not Mother Nature; shovel the driveway while her son begs her to build a snowman...not Mother Nature; explain to her son that just because there's no school tomorrow doesn't mean he can stay up as long as he wishes...not Mother Nature; watch countless episodes of "Johnny Test" as well as sequels of movies that shouldn't have even produced in first runs...not Mother Nature; play Scrabble and Sorry and Battleship and Uno and Monopoly until she's numb...not Mother Nature; hum the background music to Mario Bros in your sleep...not Mother Nature; lose personal mental capacity to such severity that you YouTube search the "Mario Bros" music and find this: Big Band performs "Mario Bros" theme...not Mother Nature.
Nope. Mother Nature lacks the compassion and heart of a real Mother. Because I wasted thirty minutes of my intelligence today looking at Mario Bros YouTube videos, I have no other suggestions of names. For lack of something better, I'm just going to call it nature.
Mother, my ass....
Four hours in to what meteorologists across the world purport to be unlike any winter weather system to hit Missouri in years, I can confidently assert that Mother Nature is neither a stay-at-home mom or a single mother. Think about it. If Mother Nature was sole entertainment provider for her children during severe weather systems, she would be more sympathetic to mothers. But no, she's too busy climbing the ladder and leaving her mark on the world to think about the middle woman--the actual mothers of the world.
Drive on roads covered by .5 inches of ice to pick her child up from school...not Mother Nature; purchase groceries for a potential three (if not more) days isolated to the house...not Mother Nature; shovel the driveway while her son begs her to build a snowman...not Mother Nature; explain to her son that just because there's no school tomorrow doesn't mean he can stay up as long as he wishes...not Mother Nature; watch countless episodes of "Johnny Test" as well as sequels of movies that shouldn't have even produced in first runs...not Mother Nature; play Scrabble and Sorry and Battleship and Uno and Monopoly until she's numb...not Mother Nature; hum the background music to Mario Bros in your sleep...not Mother Nature; lose personal mental capacity to such severity that you YouTube search the "Mario Bros" music and find this: Big Band performs "Mario Bros" theme...not Mother Nature.
Nope. Mother Nature lacks the compassion and heart of a real Mother. Because I wasted thirty minutes of my intelligence today looking at Mario Bros YouTube videos, I have no other suggestions of names. For lack of something better, I'm just going to call it nature.
Mother, my ass....
Sunday, January 23, 2011
Put a little math in your love
While I know Braden comes up often in my musings, I consciously attempt to keep my Braden blabber to a minimum when I write. I do not intend for this personal preference to offend anyone; if it does, I am sorry. I see nothing wrong with blogging about your children (and if you want to read a blog that carefully, whimsically, and poignantly chronicles 'baby' adventures, check out my friend Amy and her family at Herman Nation). But I feel that I started blogging a little late in Braden's life to journal about it for prosperity. (Seeing as how he's only 8, it's funny to think of it as 'late in his life', but I had no other words.)
This evening, however, I abandon this resolve to impart a story to you.
Braden's bedtime routine begins with a shower around 7:30, after which we snuggle on the couch until 8:30. A small fight over oral hygiene segues to tucking and kissing good-night. Then we play a friendly game of "I love you more than ____________", a game most often played by trumping the other in the grossest manner imaginable. (For example: I love you more than a snotty nose. I love you more than puppy poop. etc. Disgusting--absolutely--but it's a game suited for an eight-year old boy with a vivid imagination.) Finally comes the "I love you" exchange, yet another opportunity for one-upping the 'opponent'. Tonight's exchange went as follows:
Me: I love you multiplied by two. It's huge. Beyond infinity.
Braden: I love you, too, mom. Good night. (Obviously, based on his commonplace reply, I won the "I love you" exchange.)
Braden (from up in his room, several commercial breaks later): "Mom, I figured out the solution to your love multiplication problem. It's 'I love you I love you'.
Me: Really, how do you know?
Braden: Well, two multiplied by two repeats and so does four multiplied by two and so on. I love you multiplied by two must be 'I love you I love you'.
Me: So how would you add I love you plus two?
Braden: It would be 'I love, love, love you'. Just like addition. It's really simple math when you think about it. Plus, love is better multiplied. You have more when you multiply than when you add and what's better than more love?
I'm not much of a math person, but it sounds pretty logical to me.
And so I ask you, dear reader: what's better than more love?
This evening, however, I abandon this resolve to impart a story to you.
Braden's bedtime routine begins with a shower around 7:30, after which we snuggle on the couch until 8:30. A small fight over oral hygiene segues to tucking and kissing good-night. Then we play a friendly game of "I love you more than ____________", a game most often played by trumping the other in the grossest manner imaginable. (For example: I love you more than a snotty nose. I love you more than puppy poop. etc. Disgusting--absolutely--but it's a game suited for an eight-year old boy with a vivid imagination.) Finally comes the "I love you" exchange, yet another opportunity for one-upping the 'opponent'. Tonight's exchange went as follows:
Me: I love you multiplied by two. It's huge. Beyond infinity.
Braden: I love you, too, mom. Good night. (Obviously, based on his commonplace reply, I won the "I love you" exchange.)
Braden (from up in his room, several commercial breaks later): "Mom, I figured out the solution to your love multiplication problem. It's 'I love you I love you'.
Me: Really, how do you know?
Braden: Well, two multiplied by two repeats and so does four multiplied by two and so on. I love you multiplied by two must be 'I love you I love you'.
Me: So how would you add I love you plus two?
Braden: It would be 'I love, love, love you'. Just like addition. It's really simple math when you think about it. Plus, love is better multiplied. You have more when you multiply than when you add and what's better than more love?
I'm not much of a math person, but it sounds pretty logical to me.
And so I ask you, dear reader: what's better than more love?
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