Extrinsic Motivation Through the Eyes of My Son

Tags

Ed Reform, education, High-stakes testing, NCLB, parenting

I’m never sure what to expect when C starts asking questions. Awhile back he woke me up early one Saturday morning to talk about motivation and rewards. Okay, he didn’t use those words, but the conversation went something like this:

• C: Mom, do you think it’s a good idea to try to get people to work harder by teasing them with something they want?
• Me: What do you mean?
• C: If someone is pulling a heavy wagon and they really loved donuts, do you think you could get them to pull harder or faster by putting a donut on a stick in front of them but where they couldn’t reach it?
• Me: Hmm, what do you think?
• C: Well, they might try harder for awhile, but if they are doing the best they can, they’ll probably just give up because they know they’ll never actually get the donut.
• Me: I think you are exactly right.
• C: That’s kind of stupid when you think about it. I mean, wouldn’t it make more sense to make the wagon lighter or help them pull it until they got stronger?
• Me: Would they still get the donut?
• C: If you helped them and they learned to do it on their own, you wouldn’t need to bribe them.

Have I mentioned how much I love this kid? He’s only eight, but he gets it. Rewards and prizes aren’t what motivate us to succeed, especially if the goal is set outside our reach or if it is a constantly moving target.

A Reading Lesson from Mae

Tags

A League of Their Own, education, reading

I’m not a huge baseball fan, but I love the movie A League of Their Own. It’s one that sucks me in every time, and I found myself staying up way too late watching it Tuesday night.

I always have to laugh at Tom Hanks’ character when he laments, “There’s no crying in baseball!” and how can you resist Marla’s rendition of “It Had To Be You?”

This time, however, amidst all the familiar lines and scenes, something else jumped out at me: a reading lesson.

http://www.tubechop.com/watch/1117500

Mae has it right. “What difference does it make, okay? She’s reading. That’s the important thing.”

It’s not about making sure they read X number of books from each genre – a nobel idea but unrealistic. Do YOU read like that?

It’s not about staying within a lexile range or level. I know I read well above and below my reading level based on interest.

It’s not about filling out a reading log, reading a certain number of minutes each night, or writing book reports or even journaling.

It’s about more than teaching kids HOW to read. It’s about teaching them to WANT to read.

I Teach Kids Not Data Points

Tags

Assessment, education, Educators, NCLB, Rick Wormeli, Standardized test

Twenty-five years as a teacher, and never once have I had a student come back and say, “Hey, I remember that standardized test I took in your class.”  By the same token, I’ve never run into a former student who said, “Do you remember me?” where I replied, “Yes! You’re Susie and you were advanced on your 5th grade state reading assessment.”

In fact, I can recall standardized testing data on only two students, both because of my frustration with a system that looked at data not kids.  The first was a boy who scored below the 40th percentile on the NTBS test, and I had to write an At Risk plan for him even though I clearly knew he was not at risk. His parents had fled as refugees from Laos to France and then later immigrated to the U.S.  He was taking a test in his THIRD language! The second was a girl who didn’t score high enough on the TAAS test to qualify her for honors English as a 6th grader. She was an avid reader; gifted at writing as well. The day before the test, her grandfather died. Her heart was grieving and her mind was somewhere else. That test score did not reflect her true ability. What I remember, in both instances, is pleading my case to not label one student at risk and fighting to get the other into a class that would fit her needs.

When I think about the hundreds of students who have passed through my classroom, I don’t think about numbers. I remember conversations, some about curriculum, many about books, but most about little things that were of the utmost importance to a particular child.  I remember laughter and tears, aha moments when things clicked, and moments of frustration when they didn’t. I remember faces and names.

I remember

• the three 3rd grade boys my first year who said, “Why is it, every day your hair looks different, but you wear that same pair of earrings?”
• the 3rd grader who gave me a card on Mothers’ Day that read, “To my other mother”
• sweet little Dana saying, “Miss Smithers! Michelle (the class hamster) is in my desk!”
• playing football with my 5th grade boys on Fridays because I was allowed to wear jeans and a school t-shirt
• eating lunch in the classroom with small groups of kids, hearing about their families, their friends, their dreams
• going to soccer games and seeing a different side of kids
• the 5th grade class that tried to fix me up with a mortician on Career Day because he was my age, and they didn’t want me to be lonely
• the day my rough and tumble tomboy realized that the ‘perfect’ girl in the class really didn’t have a perfect life
• taste testing homemade tamales because two of my boys each insisted his mom made the best (for the record, it was a tie – both were delicious!)
• the class who made me a handprint tablecloth as a wedding gift and forgot to put paper under it so their handprints bled through to the carpet
• the day a student with behavioral issues asked me for a break rather than throwing a chair
• the kid who was held back twice before 5th grade who drew me pictures but didn’t want his friends to know
• the kid who told me he wanted to be a rodeo clown
• the girl who wrote the most amazing story….about the stench of a dirty litter box
• the class that wrote ‘human’ in the blank that said Race on their middle school registration forms
• the kid who quoted Monty Python and was duly impressed when I quoted the next line back at him
• bursting out laughing when I told a younger student named Forrest to walk in the hall but one of my 5th grade boys called out, “Run, Forrest, Run!” from the back of my line
• reading the climax of Searching for David’s Heart aloud, tears streaming down my face and looking around at my class and realizing there was not a dry eye in the room
• the discussions that occurred during the trail decisions of our westward movement simulation; discussions about sharing water, leaving people behind, about picking good leaders
• the team building fieldtrip when my group realized that the quietest kid in the class had some of the best ideas

Don’t get me wrong, I believe in assessing students for learning, but tests given in sterile environments, where the emphasis on rules and procedures trumps common sense, breed contempt for true learning. (When I taught in Texas I had to cover ALL my bulletin boards before the test and was even asked to put tape over the locker numbers in the back of my room!)  Imagine your boss coming into your work area, covering up or taking all the materials you need to do your job, forbidding you to speak with your co-workers, and then giving you a task to complete.

I teach kids not data points. What I know about them doesn’t come from a bubble test. It comes from conversations, collaboration, and authentic assessment.

Intense Like Me

Tags

Dabrowski, gifted & talented, intensity, parenting

I’ve been mulling this topic around in my head for several weeks. It’s one of those things I want to write about, and every time something comes up about it I think, “I should really blog about that,” but then it gets too personal and I back off. After all, why would I want to put my own intensity and insecurity out there for the world to read?

Then last week, at C’s basketball game, I came to the realization that while he looks like his dad, his personality and emotional intensity are all me.

He didn’t know the play so the coach pulled him out of the game to go over it (handled extremely well by the coach), but C did what any 8 year-old boy would do, he got mad. But then I watched him go from mad, to embarrassed, to hurt, and the tears started to come, and then he was mad at himself for starting to cry, and the emotional rollercoaster took off. I was sitting in the bleachers and he was on the other side of the gym, literally right in front of me. I have to admit I gripped the bench to keep from just going over there and scooping him up because that’s what the mom in me really wanted to do. But instead I tried to catch his eye, hoping to send some telepathic message to brush it off and let it go.

He caught my eye, the tears welled again (in his eyes and mine), he looked away. He watched the game, and then he wiped his eyes. The sullen look on his face told me he was still angry, probably more so at himself than the coach, but it was boiling right below the surface. I sent a few more telepathic thoughts: breathe, let it out, let it go, it doesn’t matter.

And I thought of how often he and I have had these conversations:

• The time in kindergarten when the boys at the ballpark made him cry, and he told me he had a fragile heart.
• The school assembly where he said Cats in the Cradle by Harry Chapin made him think of all the things I did other than spend time with him.
• The soccer game where he was mad about not getting to play offense and when I told him that he needed to hustle on defense before he’d get to play offense, and he said, “Usually, mom, you’re pretty good at helping me with my problems, but right now you’re just pushing me further down into my despair.”
• His reaction to my going out-of-town for the second time in two months: “Five days! I barely survived without you for three days!”
• Coming out of church after Christmas program practice, fighting back the tears because someone had called him weird.

It all came tumbling through my brain as I willed him to get his emotions under control and go back in the game. He did. It took a few minutes, and from my side of the gym it seemed like an eternity. But he finished the game, sat through the team meeting, and then flopped, emotionally drained, once we got in the car.

I worry about him way more than I worry about S. He has an intensity about him that she doesn’t, and it scares me; scares me because he is me. And I remember how it felt, how it still feels to be overly sensitive. To be joking around one minute and then taking someone’s words to heart the next and feeling the tears brimming your eyes. And those telepathic messages I was sending him?  I know that he has no clue how to let it out or let it go, and it DOES matter, at least to him.

The next time he makes a mistake in basketball, he will pull up this incident in his brain, and relive it, and get angry at himself all over again. I know that because that’s how I have always been. My brain doesn’t turn off, and in those quiet moments when I let my guard down, I am still flooded with thoughts about mistakes I’ve made, stupid stuff that no one else remembers. But I remember, and I mentally beat myself up over it again.

But I want C to have a better handle on it long before I did. I was in my late twenties before I learned to accept myself for who I was, and in all  honesty, it’s only been a  few years that I have truly learned to let go of things I can’t control.

So I read books like Mellow Out They Say, If Only I Could and Living with Intensity,  and If This Is a Gift, Can I Send It Back? I talk with C about how he feels, and we talk about what he can control and what he can’t, and I use that talk on myself so that I can be a better role model. And I pray for teachers and coaches and peers who will understand him and let him be himself.  And I tell him that a fragile heart is a good thing, and that it’s not so bad being weird. And I let him tag along on my walks and curl up in my lap, and talk, just talk.

And I tell him that he should never be somebody or do something he doesn’t want to do because he thinks it makes other people happy, that it takes courage to be himself.

He smiles.

On an intellectual level, he gets it.

But on an emotional level?

He’s still intense like me.

One Word

Tags

New Year, One word

I’ve never been a big fan of New Year’s Resolutions. I find anytime a goal is forced by someone else’s time frame that it rarely works out. That’s not to say that I don’t regularly set goals or have a bucket list; it’s just that I realize  for a goal to be meaningful, it has to have relevance. So, I have always just blown off the idea of new year, new goals.

I was intrigued, however,  when I read this blog post from Bill Ferriter, In One Word, I Will Challenge.  I hadn’t seen the One Word project before, but I liked it.

It seemed simple enough, find one word that would be my daily focus for the year. How hard could that be? Well, harder than I thought. I read Bill’s post more than  three weeks ago, and I’m just now deciding on the ‘right’ word.

My first word was reflection. That seemed like a good choice until I realized that this is something I do naturally, reflecting on what I read, what I see, and what I do.

Next I thought about drive. I mean Daniel Pink’s book by that name is one of my favorites, and I love his idea that “mastery attracts precisely because mastery eludes.” I entertained this one for just a moment before realizing that I have always been driven.

Then I thought about balance. The idea of focusing on how to balance all the things I have going seemed like a good idea. But then I realized that I’m really not happy unless I’m busy, so maybe I already have balance that works for me. It may look like the circus guy spinning plates to other people, but for me it’s normal.

I finally settled on present. For 2013, I will focus on what is happening at this moment, here and now.

I will focus on being present for my family. Sometimes I’m ‘here’ but not really ‘here’. I will do this so that C doesn’t tell me again that Harry Chapin’s Cats in the Cradle reminds him of all the things I do instead of spending time with him.  I will focus on listening with my eyes and my mind as much as with my ears.

I will focus on being present with the task at hand. This means paying attention to the subtle details of a plan, a lesson, a conversation rather than thinking ten steps ahead.

I will focus on the present moment. Rather than looking back at what might have been or looking forward to what might be, I need to look at what is.

I will focus on the present and heed the words of Emerson, who said,  Finish each day and be done with it. You have done what you could. Some blunders and absurdities no doubt crept in; forget them as soon as you can. Tomorrow
is a new day; begin it well and serenely and with too high a spirit to
be encumbered with your old nonsense.

Stop Reading for Points

Tags

Accelerated Reader, education, reading

Recently I said something shocking to my eleven-year old daughter. I told her not to do her homework. More specifically, I gave her permission to politely refuse to take Accelerated Reader/Renaissance Reading quizzes or write book reflections whose grades are based on AR points.

My frustration stems from the fact that a majority of her reading grade has nothing to do with her reading ability. It has to do with her compliance and her ability to get us to sign things on time. If she has to get grades, I want them to reflect what she’s learning.

I’ve battled the AR mentality since she started middle school last year. I’m a rule follower by nature, so I’ve gone through the proper channels – talking to teachers and administrators, sharing research, talking with other parents – always keeping what is best for kids at the forefront of my conversations. I’ve had lots of good conversations but very little else. I get that change in education moves at glacial speed, but quite frankly, I’m ready for a little educational global warming.

A conversation on Halloween night pushed me to the edge, and a conversation last week was the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back.

The first conversation was between S and a 7th grade friend. We were going home after trick-or-treating, and the conversation in the back seat turned to school, and ultimately to AR points. After we dropped off the friend, I told S not to worry about AR and the book reflections. She says, “You know, mom, you’re fighting a losing battle. Next year I’ll have to take AR tests like every two weeks!” I assured her that it wasn’t a losing battle, and that I would continue to have conversations with her principal and teachers about the negative aspects of AR.  After she went to bed, I made a mental note that I needed to touch base with school again.

Then last week, on our way home from basketball practice, she and a friend started talking about school, and, of course, reading came up. That part of the conversation stopped me in my tracks. It went something like this.

• Friend: I hate reading!
• S: I like to read, but lately I like it less and less.
• Friend:  Why?
• S: I feel like I’m rushing; reading for points instead of enjoying the story.
• Me:  Then stop reading for points.
• S & Friend at the same time: WHAT??
• Me: I said, stop reading for points. I don’t care about the grade. I don’t care about the points. I care that you enjoy reading. Stop reading for points and just enjoy the story.

I dropped the friend off, and S was pretty quiet the rest of the way home. After a shower and dinner, she asked me about it again. I reiterated that I wanted her to stop reading for points. She pointed out that 25% of her grade was based on the points and/or reflections. I very honestly told her that in the big picture, it was 6th grade reading, and no one would remember that grade past this year. Middle school GPA’s mean nothing in the big picture of life, and twenty years from now, I wanted her to still love reading.

The second quarter just began. There’s a designated number of Renaissance Reading quizzes and/or book reflections to do, and S has permission to not do them. At some point the reading teacher will comment that she hasn’t done any and try to encourage her to get going. I’ve told her to very politely tell him that she’s opting out, and if he has questions, he needs to call me.

I’m feeling a bit like a rebel, but at this point, I don’t care. I’ve tried the proper channels (and I’ll continue because this is about more than just my kids), but right now it’s not about the system.

It’s about one girl who has loved to read since she was very small, and I’m not about to let anyone take that away from her.

Teachers Are Too Loquacious

Tags

education, Educators, teachers

Yesterday I finally got around to sorting through a box of posters. It’s been sitting in the corner of my office since I moved into my new position, more than three years ago. I’ve been on a cleaning kick recently because I know that even if I end  up teaching in a self-contained classroom again, I won’t use things I used three years ago.

As I sorted through the box, I came across a laminated cow with the word loquacious printed on it.  (I used to do a vocabulary wall with a ‘Herd of New Words’ – what can I say, I live on a dairy farm in Wisconsin). I hadn’t saved any of the other words but this one, and I suddenly had a memory of why.

I learned the word loquacious from a wonderful teacher named Diane Lilly. She taught next door to me my first year, and she was an amazing mentor.  I don’t remember how she introduced or taught vocabulary, but I remember her using lots of great words with her third graders. Diane and I switched kids during the day; she taught Social Studies, and I taught Science.  She had a young man in her class who had been in an accident and had suffered a traumatic brain injury. One day while I was lecturing, I heard this young man’s voice from the back of the room; a slow, methodical voice that said, “Teachers are too loquacious.” At the time I was torn between thinking he was rude and thinking it was cool that he had been able to grasp and use the word correctly. It never dawned on me how right he was.

Teachers are too loquacious. We make announcements, give directions, direct discussions, share knowledge, and try to maintain order. Let’s face it, we like to talk.

But I’ve gotten better – collaborative groups, wait time, and open-ended questions all help. A few years ago I read an article that suggested using ‘Talk Circles’ to make sure each person in the group had equal opportunity to share.

I don’t know about you, but when I remember that young man saying, “Teachers are too loquacious,” I can’t help but think of all the adults in a Charlie Brown special, ‘Wah, wah, wah, wah, wah. Wah, wah, wah, wah.”

I’m not saying teachers shouldn’t talk; we just need to talk less.

Dear President Obama, We Need to Talk

Tags

Barack Obama, education, NCLB, No Child Left Behind Act, Race to the Top, Ralph Waldo Emerson, Standardized test

Dear President Obama,

We need to talk. Four years ago, you promised us Hope and Change, and as a veteran teacher, I hoped that would mean ending the destructive education atrocity known as No Child Left Behind (NCLB).  But, alas, your changes in education have wrought even more damage to the psyche and well-being of American students, teachers, and communities.  Race to the Top  and NCLB waivers aren’t about holding us accountable; they’re about holding us hostage.

Race to the Top was supposed to “provide competitive grants to encourage and reward States that are creating conditions for education innovation”, instead it is about States competing for limited funding by promising things that are unrealistic when looking at where our students really are. In addition, Race to the Top funding is never enough to cover set-up and implementation of the program, let alone sustain it over the long-haul.

NCLB goals are admirable but unrealistic, especially when proficiency is a moving target. And NCLB Waivers? I can’t help but think of my grandmother warning me about jumping out of the frying pan and into the fire. In order to qualify for these waivers, States have to kowtow to the whims of your Department of Education, mandating and implementing education reforms that are not supported by sound research.

I want to believe you when you say, “…we have piled on a lot of standardized tests on our kids. Now, there’s nothing wrong with a standardized test being given just to give a baseline of where kids are at,” (Univision Town Hall Meeting). But, Mr. President, there is something terribly wrong when our elementary students take tests that are longer than the ACT, SAT, or GRE.  There is something terribly wrong when a special education student who has an Individual Learning Plan (IEP) under the Federal Individuals with Disabilities Act (IDEA) that states they are reading well below grade level is expected to take the on grade level standardized test. There is something terribly wrong when schools are buying “curriculum” that mandates the day and time a standard is taught with no regard for the individual needs of students. There is something terribly wrong with labeling students, teachers, and schools good or bad based on a standardized test. There is something terribly wrong when a data point trumps the individual lives and stories of our students.

I teach children not standards or benchmarks. I get to know them and their stories, and I find out where they are, and I take them as far as I can. I  have spent the last twenty-five years trying not to let any of my kids fall through the cracks and get left behind. I have spent sleepless nights worrying about where they are, where they need to be, and what I can do to get them there. And I know I have failed some of them. Not because I didn’t try, but some things (poverty, domestic violence, hunger, abuse) are outside my circle of control.

I want to believe you, but I am reminded of Ralph Waldo Emerson who said, “Your actions speak so loudly that I cannot hear what you say.”  When you try to determine my worth by some arbitrary value added model based on subpar standardized tests, you de-professionalize what I do, and you de-value who I am.

Just Let Them Read Books

Tags

education, parenting, reading, Teacher, teachers

I come from a family of readers. As the youngest of five, I inherited lots of books from my sisters and brothers and probably read well outside my reading level early on. I only remember being told I couldn’t or shouldn’t read a book one time, and that was by a public librarian. She kicked me out of the young adult section because I was too young, and my mom took me back and told her I had permission to check out anything I wanted.  My mother’s philosophy was that if I started reading a book and didn’t like it, I would put it down and pick something else, and if it was above my head, I’d lose interest quickly.

In 8th grade, my homeroom teacher jokingly asked me if I’d read every book in the library because I spent so much time there. I don’t think I read them all, but I know I read some of them multiple times, and each time I learned something new. In high school, an overzealous school board banned Stephen King books, so my English teacher brought in her personal copies for me to read. It wasn’t the quality literature she was teaching in Brit Lit, but she understood my love of books. In college, my roommates and I celebrated the end of semester exams by buying the latest popular fiction to read, just for the sake of reading.

In all of those times, I read for the pure enjoyment of the story. I have never sat up late at night to finish a novel and then asked myself basic comprehension questions. I have favorite authors and series I read that are not challenging at all,  but I can’t wait for the next release. I still laugh with C when he shares Captain Underpants (definitely well below my reading level). I love books, and I credit my parents and amazing teachers who encouraged me to open books and slide into stories but never asked me to write reports or take tests on my free reading.

I want the same experiences for my children. They have been surrounded by books from the day they were born. As toddlers, they asked for the same story over and over; memorizing every nuance so they could later pick up the book and ‘read’ it themselves. The look of joy on S’s face when she had No David! down pat is irreplaceable. When she decided to tackle the Harry Potter series the summer before third grade, I thought she was a little young but pulled my copies off the shelf. She struggled through the first one, asking lots of questions, but she finished and loved it. Before she started the second, she spent about a week rereading Magic Treehouse books because she could cruise through one in an afternoon. Her brain needed to just read without effort. The summer before second grade, C discovered the joys of graphic novels, and he devoured the Bones series, rereading parts, asking questions and wanting to know what words meant. It wasn’t easy for him, but he wanted to read them, and I wasn’t about to tell him no. By the third book in the series, he was connecting characters and asking totally different questions.

I watch my children read at home, and there is a difference when it is for homework and when it is for fun. Homework reading involves watching the clock, looking at questions first, and rushing to get done with the required time frame. It’s “I don’t need to know that.” “That word’s not on my list.” Reading for fun is sprawled out on the floor, lying on the dog, a flashlight under the blankets late at night. This kind of reading leads to snacks, perfect silence, sudden bursts of laughter, a half-dozen books pulled from the shelf, and pleas to stay up just a little longer to finish a page, a chapter, the whole book.

Reading for pleasure should be just that. No strings, no plans, no limits; just reading. When we tie a grade to it or mandate a time frame, we devalue reading and limit the world of books by imposing our thoughts and views on the reader. We need to stop trying to judge reading for pleasure through reading logs, Accelerated Reader, and Lexile scores. I understand the need to assess learning, but we have to embrace the fact that some things are not quantifiable.

The Only Thing Of Lasting Value

Tags

Cat's in the Cradle, education, Harry Chapin, Jim Trelease, parenting, Teaching

Last spring C’s school had a magician come in as part of a kindness/character ed. program. There was a show for the kids during the school day, and then an evening performance for families.  Now I hadn’t planned on going, lots of other things already on the schedule, but when I got home from school, there was C with the note in his hand and a grin on his face. So, with a bit of shuffling to get S to and from basketball practice, C and I were off to see the magician. It was really great until the guy ended with Harry Chapin’s Cat’s in the Cradle. During the song, C leaned over and hugged me tight. I didn’t think much of it because he’s always been a hugger,  but when it was over he took off.  When I caught up with him, his best friend was walking away, and C looked sad. Of course my first thought was that his buddy had said something that hurt his feelings.  Nope, it was the song. It made him, and I quote, “think about all the things you do instead of spend time with me.” We went through all the one on one time we’d had in the past week, but “it’s just never enough, Mom!” I listed the things we do for him and the things we buy for him, and he replied, “Spending money on me isn’t the same thing as spending time with me.” So, a few weeks ago when he asked to join me on my nightly walks with the dog, I said yes even though I really valued that alone time.

When we registered for school earlier this month, S said, “Do you realize in three years I’ll be starting high school?” Yes, I realize that, but I look at her and still see the three year-old in a Cinderella costume jumping on the trampoline, swinging on the swing, and giving her new baby brother a bath.

Earlier today I was emailing back and forth with a former student; a young man I had the privilege of teaching as a third grader and a fifth grader. I wished him luck as his school year begins on Monday. He was a third grader my first year teaching, and he is starting his ninth year as a teacher and coach.  Funny how I still see him as the nine-year old who was perceptive enough to point out that I wore the same dress every Wednesday.

Maybe it’s the fact that I’m starting my 25th year as an educator or my impending 25th college reunion, but I have become very aware that time is fleeting, and I’m reminded of this Jim Trelease quote: “The problem is not time. With few exceptions, it is simply a matter of priorities. Most find time to put in a full workday, take a full complement of coffee breaks, eat lunch, dinner, read the newspaper, watch the nightly newscasts, or ball teams, do the dishes, talk on the phone for thirty minutes (mostly about nothing), run to the store for a pack of cigarettes or a lottery ticket, drive to the mall, and never miss that favorite prime time show. Somehow they find time for those things-important or unimportant as they are-but can’t find time to read to a child.  You don’t have to be an astrologer to predict certain parts of the future. In twenty years, the ball teams will still be winning or losing, you’ll have twice, even three times as many malls to shop in, your favorite soaps will be rerunning on one of 150 different channels, and the dishes and dust balls will still be waiting. But your little boy or little girl will not. They’ll be all grown up, with lives of their own. You get only one shot at it. In the long run, the only thing of lasting value you can give a child is your time and the memories of the time you shared together.”

As a new school year starts, and the schedule gets full, I plan to keep this last line in the forefront of my thoughts. After all, in three years S will be starting high school, and she’s already starting to spread her wings.  And yes, C still likes to sit on my lap and talk my ear off when we walk, but for how much longer? I want to be fully present for all of it because Trelease is right. In the long run, there really is only one thing of lasting value.