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.

Teach Like a Country Music Star

Life is just full of lessons, isn't it?

When I began my blog three years ago, my vision was to reflect on my life as an elementary school teacher and a middle-aged (I really hate that term!) woman. The title, "Lessons Planned, Lessons Learned," emanated from what I already knew: that the lessons you plan don't always turn out the way you expect, and sometimes the most valuable lessons are learned in the most unexpected places.

As I began writing, this last idea became even clearer. Many of my experiences outside of school led to some sort of revelation that impacted my role as teacher. This has happened repeatedly, so I guess I shouldn't have been surprised last week to find myself thinking about my teaching practices at a Keith Urban concert. I know, it seems a little incongruous, but it's true.

Let me pause here to explain a little about myself.  I have been a huge Keith Urban fan for many years. Not the stalker, gonna-need-a-restraining-order kind of fan. Just one who will make sure she buys each CD as soon as it comes out and keep said CD in her car stereo pretty much until the next one is released.  When my now 14-year-old son was two years old, he could identify just about any Keith Urban song. Whenever one came on the radio, his sweet little voice would call out gleefully, "Kee Uhban!"

Fortunately, I am married to a man who is not offended by my borderline obsession. He has taken me to numerous concerts, even going so far as to drive nine hours to get to one in Las Vegas. Yeah, I will never forget that one, and not just because of the long hours in the car. My husband got seats on the aisle and midway through the concert, Keith walked down that very aisle right past us to get to a smaller stage that had been set up in the back.  He was close enough to touch. My husband practically pushed me toward him. But as Keith made his way toward us, I noticed how everyone was reaching out, trying to touch him. It seemed kind of . . . weird. I don't like it when one of my students pokes me to get my attention, I couldn't imagine having hundreds trying to grope me. Plus, even though I may feel like I know him from listening to his music, I don't actually know the man. So, when he was within my reach, I just stood there and let him walk by.  It's a decision I have kicked myself for many times.

But seizing opportunities is not the lesson I learned recently, although it certainly plays a role in it.

Last week, my husband Dan and our two boys, Jared and Jack, went on vacation in Lake Tahoe. It is one of my favorite places, having vacationed there frequently my entire life. From the first view of the clear blue water and the first whiff of pine-scented mountain air, all the tension in my body melts away. I was especially looking forward to our little getaway this year as life had been a wee bit more stressful than usual in the prior weeks and it was almost time to start preparing for a new school year, which definitely was bound to add to my stress levels. To make our trip even better, Keith Urban was performing at the Lake Tahoe Outdoor Arena.  Keith Urban and Lake Tahoe? It seemed like the perfect combination to me.

My plan the night of the concert was to enjoy a couple of hours of good music. To not think but simply feel.  And honestly, that is what I did.  But a teacher brain is hard to turn off completely, and the events of the evening eventually led me to ponder what life lessons could be found in the experience.

When we arrived at the concert venue, I noticed right away that there was once again a small stage set up toward the back. And once again, Dan and I had an aisle seat, but of course I had no way of knowing if Keith would walk down that particular aisle.  It didn't really matter since I'm not a crazy stalker fan anyway, right? I was just there to enjoy the music and temporarily escape reality. (Okay, I'll admit that I was secretly hoping that this would be the chance to make up for my previously missed opportunity.)

Well, fate was working in my favor that night, and Keith did walk down our aisle. I actually almost missed it, though, as I was a little distracted by a fight that had broken out between two women a few rows in front of me.  As the fighting got more intense and drinks were spilled and hair was pulled, my husband moved me from the aisle, fearing that the fight would move our way. Suddenly, he nudged me back toward the aisle and there, right in front of me was Keith Urban.  Without even thinking, I stuck my hand out. And he grabbed it!

I think I expected that any contact would be just a quick high-five kind of thing, so I was surprised when he held onto my hand for a second and squeezed it. Now, I know that this is all in a day's work for him. I doubt he even knew which crazy fan the hand belonged to. Mine was just another hand thrust out toward him, asking, begging, for contact. And touching those hands is just what he does. The thing that struck me was he could have just given me a casual high-five. The fact that he held on for a second sent a powerful message. While it may not have mattered to him that he was touching my hand, his firm grasp conveyed he understood that it mattered to me. And even though he had somewhere to get to and many more hands reaching toward him, he took that extra second that made all the difference to me.

A second. That's all it was.  It doesn't seem like a lot, does it?  Yet, how many times do I feel I don't have that extra second to give to the hands reaching out to me? In the classroom it seems like I am always in such a hurry to get to my next stage and there are an overwhelming number of hands demanding my attention. So much emphasis is placed on standards and accountability these days that it is easy to lose sight of the very heart of teaching. Too often I am consumed with worry about what my students are learning and at what rate, and I forget that sometimes all my students really want or need is to feel a connection to their teacher. Just like me, they, too, carry the weight of their world on their shoulders into the classroom each day. Now, I'm no celebrity, but what if one extra second from me could ease their burden just a bit? Maybe by giving them that one extra second, something much more valuable than time would be gained.

And here's the other thing I realized. You don't have to ask Keith Urban if he likes his job.  He makes that abundantly clear. You can see it in the energy of his performance, the smile on his face, and the twinkle of his eyes. I will confess that I don't love every song on Ripcord, his current CD. When you see him perform, though, you can't help but be caught up in the joy and energy. He is making music the way he wants and incorporating different influences, not following some prescribed formula guaranteed to produce desired results.  He isn't just going through the motions.

I am embarrassed to admit that I have had students ask me if I like teaching. They shouldn't have to ask.  It should be clear in everything I do.  I realized as I thought about the passionate performances Keith Urban delivers time and time again that I need to get back in touch with what makes me love teaching.  I need to make it fun again. With all the focus on standards, testing, and accountability, it has been forgotten that teaching truly is an art. I need to get up on that stage and not worry about whether the music I make fits neatly into a box that has been defined by others. I need to make sure that it is full of life and energy that sweeps across the audience and carries them away. I need to teach with joy and passion, so that no one ever wonders if I like what I am doing. The learning will follow.

Next week, 20+ little bodies will walk through my door. I won't know what burdens they carry with them, what they might need to escape. But I will hold onto their hands, a second longer than maybe I really need to, and let them know they matter and I am glad they are there. They are the reason I am there. Not Common Core State Standards. Not standardized tests. Not district-mandated curriculum. I will make it clear that I am right where I want to be, doing what I love to do. I will teach like a country music star. 

Who knows, I may even teach them a Keith Urban song or two.

Waiting for the concert to begin.

Right in Front of Us

I almost missed seeing Waldo.

My morning had followed its typical pattern.  After dropping off Jared at the middle school, I had driven back across town to Jack's elementary school and parked the car in our usual spot.  Together we walked hand-in-hand along the path to his school.  Birds were singing as they flitted from tree to tree and the happy sounds of children playing filled the air. We added our voices to the early morning symphony with excited talk of how many - how few - days of school were left. As we shared our mutual relief that the glorious days of summer were just ahead, I scanned the greenbelt for signs of Waldo.

I had thought it would be easier to spy him after the yearly passing of goats had shorn the tall grasses down to nothing more than a dry, rough carpet.  I was evidently mistaken as days had passed without a sighting.  Then, as we turned left down the path that would lead to the playground, something to the right caught my eye. To the casual observer it would appear to be nothing but one of the many rocks scattered throughout the space.  The casual observer, however, would be failing to notice that this one particular rock had ears.

Waldo sat completely motionless. I imagined he was playing a game of hide-and-seek, only with his mottled brown fur he didn't have to try too hard to hide. Indeed, I wondered how many people would walk past and never even notice him.

But that's the way life is sometimes, isn't it?

Wrapped up in our own thoughts, in our own crazy worlds that exist inside our heads, how often do we fail to notice what is right in front of us?

How often do we forget to look?

We want love. We want happiness. We want peace, contentment, success. . .the list goes on and on. We go off in all different directions searching endlessly for the one thing we think we need, the One Thing that will make our life complete. Or perhaps, we sit dejectedly in the corner, convinced that that One Thing will never be ours.

I can't help but think sometimes that we humans make life much harder than it has to be. Maybe, just maybe, we simply need to open our eyes and look, really look, at what is spread out in front of us and recognize that sometimes a rock isn't a rock at all, that what we've been looking for has been right in front of us all along.

How much more peaceful would life be then?

Finding Waldo

I don't remember the first time I noticed him. Was it last year? The year before? It was one of those things where the first sighting was nothing out of the ordinary, nothing memorable. It was only after seeing him on multiple occasions that he became part of my conscious life. After a while, it progressed from merely noticing him to actively seeking him out.

It was probably around that time that I began calling him Waldo. Everyone needs a name, right? And Waldo seemed perfect. Not because he sported a red and white-striped shirt but because he seemed so elusive and it had become a game to try to find him. Each morning as I walked along the path with Jack on his way to school, I would fervently search for him. Mornings were so much better when I caught a glimpse of him, even at a distance. 

He was in some ways much harder to find than his namesake. His camouflage was much better, as he wore the colors of the rocks and the grasses in which he sat. Most often it was his ears that gave him away. The noise of the nearby playground and of the children and parents walking along the path bordering his home caused him to sit still, but his long ears would peak up above the grass as he listened attentively, seeking out any signs of danger.

Did I mention that Waldo was a jack rabbit?

When my husband and I first moved here, there were jack rabbits everywhere. As the area became more developed, we unfortunately most often saw them in the roadway, victims of progress and speeding cars. But, there was Waldo, defying the odds, continuing to make his home in the narrow strip of land that had been left untouched, sandwiched in between the elementary school and a tract of houses.

Seeing him each morning as I walked peacefully hand-in-hand with my young son made me happy. I'm not sure I can explain why. I'm not even sure I entirely understand it. But every morning, I would eagerly search for him crouched low in the tall grass. Some days I would see him. Some days I would not. It was if he were my own special secret, waiting for just the right moment to reveal himself. Or, I thought, waiting for me to find him.

I never worried the days I didn't see him. I didn't need to see to believe. I trusted he was there, somewhere, just out of reach of my human eyes, watching me perhaps. I had begun to feel that I wasn't playing this game of hide-and-seek alone.

Then he was gone.

I didn't notice right away, of course. Often days would go by without a sighting. When the days stretched into weeks, however, I grew concerned. One day, as I drove down the road that cuts through the swath of natural space that was Waldo's home, I saw the remains of an animal near the center divide. I fought the urge to stop the car and get out to examine it more closely.  I couldn't tell from my moving vehicle what kind of animal it was, but I prayed it wasn't a rabbit. That it wasn't Waldo.

Over the next few weeks, my search for him intensified. Still, there was no sign of Waldo. Desperately, I hoped that he was there, that it was my failing not his that kept him from view.

One morning, a few weeks ago, I walked Jack to school. Again, I searched for Waldo. Again, I didn't see him. With a heavy heart I acknowledged to myself that it was time to accept the truth. Waldo was gone.

I am, however, not very good at accepting truths. "Maybe" is my favorite word, and even as I reluctantly gave up hope and forced myself to believe that the expanse of grass now lay empty, that Waldo was indeed never to be seen again, somewhere deep inside there still bubbled one little insistent "maybe. . . ."

Many would believe that holding onto maybe in spite of such damning evidence is foolish.  They may be right. They may think that mourning the loss of a jack rabbit is downright idiotic. They may be right again.

What "they" think doesn't really matter though, does it? Certainly, I was not worried about what "they" think when I got out of my car a couple of weeks ago and, as I waited for Jack to clamber out of the back seat, I glanced toward the open space. Old habits die hard. Naturally, I didn't expect to see anything.

Then a movement caught my eye.

I gasped as I spied not one but two jack rabbits bounding through the tall grasses that the winter rains had coaxed from the earth. Tears filled my eyes. Waldo was back!

I have only spotted him once since that day. But that's okay. I know he is there, somewhere, waiting for me to find him.