The Story of Penny and Benny

Once upon a time there was a little boy named Jack, who loved cats. He had been seriously heartbroken the day he found out the family cat, Adele, had passed away. He cried and questioned when she was coming back. It saddened his family to see his tears and to have to explain that Adele was never coming home again.

Days passed, months even, but Jack thought about that cat constantly. Every day he asked, when would he get a new cat? He checked out books at the library about how to care for cats and put a picture of Adele in a frame so he could keep it by his bedside.

His mom, who had always had cats growing up, understood his pain. She, too, missed the quiet companionship of her feline friends. Over time, however, she began to realize that with fewer pets there were fewer messes to clean. less fur to vacuum up, and it was a lot easier to plan trips out of town.  And so, even though she missed the cats she had had previously, she realized she was content, for now, to live without them.

His dad, however, didn't really like cats. (Or so he claimed.) Although he wasn't exactly happy when Adele passed on to Cat Heaven, he wasn't sad, either, to no longer have to deal with the meowing at four o'clock in the morning or with the litter box that just never seemed to stay clean. He had no intention of ever owning a cat again.

Then, one day a funny thing happened. No one is quite sure why, but Jack's dad made a deal with him. If Jack could keep his room clean for 30 days, his dad would get him a cat. See, Jack was not a very tidy boy, and his dad was certain that there was no way on Earth that Jack could keep his room clean for an entire month. He was so certain, in fact, that he helped Jack clean up his room to get him started.

Jack's dad underestimated just how badly Jack wanted a cat.

Jack, though not the neatest of children, was however a clever boy. Days passed and Jack's room remained clean. Unbeknownst to his dad, he had worked out a plan: he would simply avoid going into his room as much as possible. He even took to sleeping on the floor in other rooms, just so his bed would remain neat and tidy.

Each day he gleefully reminded his dad how many more days until he got his cat.

And that is how Penny and Benny became part of Jack's family. After fulfilling his end of the bargain, there was nothing left for Jack's dad to do but to fulfill his. His dad graciously accepted defeat and Jack's greatest wish was at long last about to be granted.

One day, while Jack was at a birthday party, Jack's mom and brother went to PetSmart where they were hosting cat adoptions. There, cuddled up in a cage together, were brother and sister, Benny and Penny. They were adorable and fluffy and impossible to resist. They were also impossible to separate. So, after the birthday party, Jack's mom and brother took him to PetSmart and surprised him with not one, but two kittens to call his own.

Now, Jack's mom realized very quickly how much she had really missed having cats in the house. Yes, these two were full of energy and mischief and caused way more damage than she was happy about, especially to the leather couch they had just recently purchased. Yet, when they cuddled up and purred those giant purrs that were ten sizes bigger than their bodies, she knew that they had made the right decision.

And Jack's dad?  How did he feel about these new fur babies? Well, he might not admit it, but he, too, fell in love with those cats. And it has become very clear that the feeling is mutual.

                  

Welcome to Sunday Dinner

"Jared, it's your turn."

"Grandma, it's your turn."

"I'll go 2 and sliiiide," I hear my husband say.

"And take another turn," adds my son, Jack.

My two boys, my husband, and my mom are gathered around the coffee table in the family room, enjoying a lively game of Sorry before dinner. The smell of meatloaf and vegetables roasting in the oven envelops us in a warm cloak of comfort. Or perhaps the comfort comes simply from us all being together.

Sitting at the kitchen table, I listen to the click-click-click of the game pieces being manipulated around the game board and the laughter and conversation of the three generations just steps away.

Beeeep.

Dinner is ready!  The day's been cold, so I welcome the blast of heat as I open the oven door to take out the meatloaf. Play continues in the adjoining room.

"Did you know it's a proven strategy to go after red?" 

My mom has gotten a Sorry card and that's my teenage son, Jared, trying to convince her to take out one of his brother's pieces.

"No, not the yellow guy!" my husband Dan calls out. Evidently, Grandma didn't buy the red guy strategy but didn't go after Jared's blue piece either, choosing instead to send one of Dan's pieces back to start. I smile, knowing I probably would have done the same thing.

"Dan, are you going to cut the meatloaf?" I ask. He's the meatloaf master of the house. I have this thing about raw meat, so I've never made one myself.

"Yeah, I'll cut it," he answers, getting up and heading to the kitchen. "We're in the middle of an intense game of Sorry," he tells me once he's standing right in front of me.

"I know, I know. Sorry to interrupt."

"Sorry!" we say simultaneously and both laugh.

With dinner served, we all sit down to the table. We are quiet for a few minutes as we busy ourselves with stuffing our faces, but gradually conversation resumes as we tell each other stories about our day or discuss the latest news and weather reports. Jared's alarm goes off in the middle of dinner; he had set it to remind himself to check to see if our older dog had finished eating before letting out our younger dog, who we had discovered was stealing her food. This reminds both Dan and me to thank Jared for setting his alarm to go off at 5:30 a.m. on the only day we get to sleep in. We might not have minded so much if Jared had actually been home at the time and not sleeping over at his friend's house down the street.

After we have all finished, the boys and my mom return to their game while I clean up and prepare a container of leftovers to be sent home with Mom.

"You sound like Mom when she's playing," I overhear Jack comment.

"She is the upgraded version," Dan replies, referring to an earlier comment that "Grandma is like an upgraded Mom." I had tried to convince them at dinner that, since I was the newer version, I would be the upgraded model. They weren't buying it. To be honest, neither was I.

Over the clanking of the dishes I put into the dishwasher, I listen to the ebb and flow of their game playing. Raucous laughter and gentle ribbing soon gives way to out-and-out fighting between the two brothers, as it inevitably does. Gradually it quiets down and their conversation is punctuated with occasional bubbles of laughter rising up. To be sure, these are simple moments, but they are moments worth living, moments worth remembering.

Soon it will be time to take Mom home, thus ending another perfect Sunday night dinner. 

In Between

In between
a rock and a hard place 
is nowhere anyone wants to be.

Yet, in between is where I seem to be.

My home is in the in between,
not quite valley but not quite foothills,
just somewhere in between
where the land can lie flat or suddenly swell in glorious surprise.

My age is in the in between,
no longer young but not quite old,
just somewhere in between
where memories of the past and dreams of the future dance joyfully together.

Even this moment is in the in between
sitting in the car, waiting for my son to finish his run,
writing words in a notebook to fill up this time 
in between.

The season, too, is in the in between,
no longer winter but not quite spring
just somewhere in between
where crisp air and blue skies with white clouds sailing by 
gently remind me

It's a beautiful thing, living life 
somewhere in between.

Just When You Think You Totally Suck As a Teacher

I'll admit it. I've been feeling pretty discouraged professionally lately. Maybe it's just part of the COB (Cranky Old Broad) Syndrome I've been experiencing. I'm really not sure what has been causing it; all I know is that I have definitely been feeling it. I get the Sunday night blues big time, usually starting around 3:00 p.m. Monday morning arrives like a slap in the face, and I drag myself through my morning routine of coffee, shower, hair, and makeup, all the while chanting to myself like a disagreeable 3-year-old, "But I don't want to go!" I fantasize about retirement and all the home improvement and craft projects I'll do and all the time I'll spend reading. Then I remember I'm quite a few years and two kids' worth of college payments away from that fantasy. 

So day after day I report for duty, teaching the best I can all the while trying to keep my class focused on learning. It isn't easy. Every lesson is interrupted with constant reminders:  Turn around, the front of the room is over here. Sit down; the kids behind you can't see. You need to come out from under the desk and do your DLI. Pull a card, we don't say "What the hell" in our class. (Actually, I do on occasion, but only in my head. I hope.) Turn around, your friend isn't giving the directions. Focus your eyes on me, not inside your desk. Close the book, we're doing math now. Please stop flipping your marker. Is this really an emergency? You know you need to use the restroom during recess. Of course your Expo pen is dried out; that's what happens when you draw all over your whiteboard instead of just doing the math problems. Turn around and focus on your work. Let's not throw things at our friends.  The list goes on and on. There have been moments that I would simply break down in tears if it weren't for 46 eyes in the room and the fact that I am an ugly crier. By the end of the day, I am left feeling exhausted, cranky, and like I totally suck. (Another word one of my students needs to be reminded not to use at school.)

Come to think of it, "discouraged" might be putting it lightly.

But then, a few things happened in the last few days that have me thinking maybe I'm not quite as sucky as I think. Little things, things that would be easy to miss. But maybe since I have challenged myself to write 31 blog posts this month, I'm just a little more perceptive than normal. (Could blogging lead to the development of a super power? One can only hope.) 

Tuesdays are our days for computer lab. Which, really, is kind of silly, since we have access to Chromebooks now, so most everything I want to do I can do in our classroom. 

But I digress. 

This last week I had a few students who needed to get caught up on some previous blog posts, so I told those who were finished, they could write a new blog post about anything they wanted. I mean, it's their blog, they should be able to do that, right? As I was walking around (again, trying to keep certain ones on track and focused on their work and not on their neighbor), I noticed a few students writing poetry on their blog. That probably doesn't seem all that amazing, but the reason they were writing poetry was because I had just read aloud to them Love That Dog, by Sharon Creech, which is, of course, written in verse. They were actually inspired by a book I read aloud! I was stunned for a moment; whether it was from their writing of poetry or the fact that I felt that unfamiliar lift inside my heart that seemed to indicate I'd actually had a positive influence, I really cannot say. But I gave into the urge to smile while simultaneously resisting the urge to break out into a happy dance. I don't think the kids would have understood. (Or recognized it as dancing, for that matter.)

The other positive reinforcement this week also came from reading my students' free-choice blog posts. For the last couple of months, I've been giving the kids assignments for their blog. It was honestly just a desperate attempt on my part to get my class actually blogging. Each year I get them started on their blog, and each year it seems like I never really do much with them. So, I decided I would give them basically a cloze paragraph and they would fill in the blanks. Many of my students struggle with writing, and I thought this would be a good scaffold, teaching them the basic structure of a paragraph and give them practice using writing conventions, which they seem to forget on a regular basis. (They can tell you a sentence starts with a capital and ends with punctuation, but when it comes to actually doing it? Not so much.) Plus, it provides authentic keyboarding practice, preparing them for the upcoming SBAC testing. (Oh, yay!) I always include a question at the end of the paragraph for them to include, explaining that with a blog, you want to encourage conversation with your readers. This way, when students read each other's blogs, they can respond to the writer's question. As I was reading the posts written by my students, I was astonished to discover that many of them, though writing freely, used the same basic structure. They even included a question at the end! It would appear that they are paying more attention than I realize.

The final stone thrown to shatter my illusion of suckiness was discovered this morning. Drinking my coffee, I sat down at my computer. After scrolling through my Facebook feed, I switched over to my work email. (I know. It's the weekend. Why am I checking my work email? Just a compulsion I guess.) Anyway, today I am glad I did. For there, beckoning me, was an email from one of my students. It was an invitation to edit a Google Drawing. 

In order for this to make sense, I need to give some background. We recently have been working on a project based on the Who Would Win series. Students researched their own animals, compared and contrasted them to their partner's researched animal, and ultimately decided which one would win in a battle between the two. We ended up with some interesting opponents! One of the things I had the students create was an infographic using Google Drawings. (I had recently attended a Google Summit, so I was feeling a bit techie.) The kids, of course, loved doing it! It was probably my one and only successful computer lesson of the year. They have never been so quiet and focused as they were when I was teaching them all the rather intricate steps of creating their infographic. So, yesterday, during Author's Chair, one of my students asked if she could share something she made at home. "Of course," I said. What she shared was her own Google Drawing she had made showing pictures of both animals with captions about each one. This was neither something I had shown them nor suggested. She had done this on her own, by choice, at home. Wow! I thought that was amazing. And then I opened my email this morning only to discover that another student had sent me one of her own, at 7:00 on a Friday night. Double wow! There was no denying it: there are actually students in my class going home and using what they learned to create and extend their own learning.

Would she have spent the time creating that if her classmate hadn't shared hers? It's doubtful. Would she have even known about it if I didn't make time each week for my students to share their writing? Probably not. And of course, neither one of them would have even thought to do it had I not one day decided to take a chance and try something new.

Lesson learned? It's easy to get discouraged, to feel like nothing you do is right or making a difference. At least it is for me. We all want our days to run smoothly and to have a class fully engaged and excited about learning. I read on a daily basis in articles and blog posts that this must be my goal, that it is possible. Perhaps that is the true source of my discouragement. I don't have 23 fully-engaged, enthusiastic learners completely focused on their learning all day long. And because of that, I feel like a failure. 

It would appear, though, that I am the one who hasn't been paying attention. Because there is evidence that my students are learning and growing and engaged. Will I reach all my students? I wish I could, and I'm certainly not going to stop trying. But I need to stop being distracted by the noise and the idea of perfection (it gets me every time), and focus instead on the learning. Both theirs and mine.

A Quest for Inner Peace

The room before me is surprisingly quiet. There is the rustle of pages being turned and the hiss of whispers rising up from the back corner of the room. Desks have been pushed out of the way, and wall to wall students spread across the floor. Some remain seated in chairs. Some lie on their backs and some lie on their stomachs. Some have arranged the red, green, and blue privacy screens to form fortresses, claiming their own spot of floor space. A few have invited a friend to join them. The room looks like chaos, yet it feels just the opposite.

It has been 15 minutes since we began, so there is a perceptible shuffling of bodies being rearranged in an effort to find a more comfortable position or simply to take a break. Even this late in the year, not all students have built up their stamina. An hour of reading seems like a great idea until you've been at it for 15 minutes and realize the floor isn't any softer than the hard plastic chairs you're normally confined to. Even the pillows, blankets, and overgrown stuffed animals don't offer enough relief from the hard cement that lies just beneath the thin, poorly padded carpeting. Then, there is the quiet. Despite the page turning and the occasional whisper, the room, which was just earlier in the day filled with the sounds of talking and giggling and the banging of pencils and other assorted odd noises, is just so quiet. Too quiet. It seems unnatural. But I know if I wait, if I'm patient, they will settle back down after a while and get lost in their books once again.

So far three students have ventured from their carefully constructed nests to come speak to me in hushed tones. The first came to inform me that she needed to go to the office because she wet her pants. Oh my. She assured me she didn't get the floor wet. but I find that doubtful given the saturation level of her jeans. Just another part of the fun of teaching third grade, I suppose.

My next two visitors had happier information to impart. The first was reading Ultimate Bug Rumble and needed to tell me that he just learned that Daddy Long Legs are not in fact spiders, despite their eight legs.  Mind blown!

The next visitor informed me that golden retrievers always look happy because their mouths turn up. That kind of thing is obviously too good not to share.

As I sit here, watching my students read, the thing that strikes me about this simple, low-key Read Across America celebration is how peaceful it is and how utterly content I feel. Sadly, I realize this moment stands in stark contrast to how I normally feel. How I would love to feel this relaxed all day, every day! How much more could I get accomplished? How much more effective could I be as a teacher? And if my students felt like this? How much more could they learn? How much better would school be for them?

I'm just not sure exactly how to get there. I know, however, that it begins with me. Maybe that old adage is right: you need to take care of yourself before you can take care of others. Finding my own inner peace suddenly seems to be an imperative, not just for my own sanity, but for these young growing minds bursting with potential, who, in spite of protests to the contrary, really do want to learn.

So, where do I begin? 

Perhaps the first step has already been taken, right here within the lines of the words I write.

The Cranky Old Broad

There's no denying it. I'm getting old.

It's not so much the physical changes, although those are readily apparent. The gray hairs pop out, screaming, "Look at me! Look at me!", no matter how hard I try to hide them.  The lines around my eyes and the crevices carved into my forehead also stand testament to the passing of time. And we won't even talk about the southern migration that's going on.

Believe it or not, that's not the worst part. The worst part is that I have become, well . . . cranky. There's really no other way to put it. It's like I've morphed into one of those stereotypical crotchety old people they like to put in movies for comic relief. Only, when it's you, it's really not all that funny.

I only have to look over the last couple of days to find examples of just how out of control it's gotten. Yesterday morning, for instance, as I was dropping my ten-year-old son off at school I found several people to get irritated with. (This actually happens EVERY  morning at drop-off. If you want to find examples of the worst driving in the world, just hang out at an elementary school at drop-off and pick-up times.)  As I was waiting patiently in the long line of cars to exit the parking lot, I watched in stunned silence as one mom drove along the right hand side in what is supposed to be the drop-off lane and forced her way into the head of the line. (Actually, I don't think it was in stunned silence. I'm pretty sure I had a few things to say about that, but fortunately they were confined to the interior of my car.) Now I get why my 3rd graders get so enraged when someone cuts in line. Wait your turn, people! I will have to restrain myself in the future from feeding them my usual glib line: We are all going to the same place. Yeah, we are, but I should get there first!

No sooner had I recovered from that incident, but I almost hit a car as I turned right out of the parking lot because someone decided they needed to drop off their child at the curb. Where it clearly says NO STOPPING. Can't you read people???? (Yes, I said that out loud. No, I'm sure they didn't hear.)

I believe the rest of the drive (it's only 10 minutes after all) occurred without incident, but on the way home I found myself shouting (I won't say what; I'll leave that up to your imagination.) at the string of cars that decided the red turn light didn't apply to them, making the line of cars I was in wait, even though our light was clearly the color of go.

And the thing is, this happens all the time. Don't worry; I'm not on the brink of committing some atrocious act of road rage or anything, but I do find myself on a daily basis thinking, "People these days just don't know how to drive." I mean, that's a cranky old person thing to say, isn't it?

The other day dealt another crushing blow in the you've-turned-into-a-cranky-old-broad department. This year, at the school where I teach, a company has been brought in to run our annual jog-a-thon. A company run by disgustingly young people who look like they're barely out of high school. And like most disgustingly young people, they are full of annoying energy and enthusiasm. (See? Who but a cranky old broad would find that annoying?) Their program has them coming in each day to teach a mini-lesson on leadership and to get the kids all pumped up about the fund raiser. To kick it off, they held a rally on Monday. The kids loved it. They had music playing and there were demonstrations of the prizes the kids could win that had them oohing and ahhing and high-energy explanations of how the fund raiser works. The kids were decidedly pumped as we left the multi-purpose room. As it turns out, however,  I work with a bunch of other cranky old people because all we could talk about afterwards was how loud the music was.

Attitude toward music is one of the most telling signs that you have crossed over into the realm of Getting Old.  I have actually found myself on occasion uttering the words "music these days." If that isn't a sign of being old, I don't know what is. I used to make fun of my parents when I was a teenager because they would listen to the oldies station to hear the music from their youth. Guess what station is programmed into my car radio. Yep. And they play the music from my youth. Even the radio station is telling me I'm old.

Speaking of my parents, I have found one way in which I have totally turned into my dad. I constantly find myself turning off lights that have been left on in empty rooms and lecturing those allegedly responsible (oh come on, we know they're guilty!) about the necessity of turning off said lights. Although truthfully, this may not really be a sign of old age but more the direct result of having to pay the PG&E bill each month. (Everything has gotten so expensive!)

At any rate, every day I find myself muttering to myself about the shortcomings of the people around me and the sad state of our society. Kids don't have any respect for adults and don't know how to listen. All they want to do is goof off and play video games. They don't know the value of hard work. And their parents! How many times have I received an email asking for this or that, and after I respond - outside of school hours, mind you - they don't even have the decency to say thank you. Why, back in my day, people had manners.

<Sigh>There's simply no more denying it. That cranky old broad? That's me.

Beginning. . .Again

March has arrived and with it the Slice of Life Story Challenge. This will be my third time out. Thirty-one days of blog writing.  A daunting task that this year fills with me with a bit of trepidation. It has been months since I set pen to paper or sat in front of my keyboard to write anything other than a grocery list, email, or lesson plan. My days have seemed too busy, rushing from one thing to another, barely enough time to breathe let alone time to let my brain process events and feelings and find the words to adequately express them. And in that rush, in that lack of processing and word-finding, my days have slipped into a running of sameness. Looking back over the days I struggle to find anything to point to that makes each one stand out.  I have reverted to survival mode. 

I have forgotten to live the life of a writer.

So, yes, it is with trepidation that I begin this challenge.  Will I be able to find subjects to write about each and every day? Can I still find the words to bring those subjects to life? Can I still find meaning in even the smallest of incidents? Will I find the courage to write about what I feel reveals too much of me?

Yet in that fear lies excitement.  Because even though clouded with doubt, I still retain a glimmer of belief that those subjects are there. That I will find moments in my days worth writing about and the words worthy to celebrate them. That through my writing I will once again be able to make sense of the craziness that takes over at times, holding me captive, unable to escape. That my voice will appear once again loud and strong and clear, if not to others then at least to me. That I will find time to sit and think and ponder and write. And breathe.

March has arrived and so has the Slice of Life Story Challenge.  Welcome! I look forward to beginning. . .again.