Teaching Kids Not Lessons

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It’s graduation day, and as excited as I am to watch our students walk across the stage, there is a part of me mourning the ones who didn’t quite make it.

Those kids who didn’t turn in that one assignment that made the difference between passing or failing.

Those kids who missed too many days and couldn’t do ALL the work that was missing.

Those kids who just never quite fit in at school and slipped through the cracks.

Those kids who realized, at the eleventh hour, that they had messed up.

To those of you reading this who are thinking, “It’s their own fault,” please take a moment and step back and think about your own mistakes. I’m sure you’ve made a few.

To those of you who didn’t bend even a little because “in the real world” or because you believe it’s your job to “teach them a lesson”, please think about a time someone gave you a second (or third or fourth) chance or lent you a helping hand.

I remember two things my first principal said to me. First, you can’t save them all (but I’ve spent 28 years trying), and second, never take something away from a student you can never give back.

Students only have one chance to walk across that stage and graduate with their class.

Sure, they can do summer school or come back as a 5th year senior. And yes, they can get their GED or HSED.

But they won’t ever have the chance to graduate with their peers again.

I get it. These kids have made choices that put them in this situation, and it’s hard to overlook that.

I get it. You have rules and expectations, and you want to be “fair” to all the students who followed those rules.

I get it. Those last-ditch efforts create more work for you.

I get it. Some kids are just so far behind, there’s not much you can do.

But what about the ones who are trying, even if it is at the eleventh hour?

Think about what you know about the adolescent brain (if you haven’t read anything since your undergrad adolescent psych class, you need to).

Think about the iceberg principle – we see 20% of what’s going on in a person’s life. 80% is hidden.

Think about what you really want that kid to learn.

Me?

I want to teach those kids that when they were down, someone lent a helping hand.

I want to be able to say, “Hey, you did mess up, but let’s figure out together how to fix it.”

I know we can’t save them all.

Despite our best efforts, there are those who won’t ever walk across that stage.

But what about those who are close?

What’s more important, teaching a lesson or teaching a kid?

For me, it will always be teaching a kid.

Time, Resources, and an Audience

Back in the fall I turned to an artist friend for advice on how to nurture the creativity of one of my students. We had an extensive conversation (art, pedagogy, creativity, how we kill creativity), but what I walked away with was a simple set of directions – give him time, resources, and an audience.

That advice is so simple yet so powerful.

What if that is what we did for everything in education? What if we provided our students with three simple things:

Time

Resources

Audience

 

 

Let’s Talk About the Professional Part of Professional Development

I get it. We all have a million things we need to do that seem in direct competition with sitting through “yet another” professional development. I’ve seen this meme often enough this year to know that my teacher friends don’t always (ever?) value the time spent in professional meetings.
teacher inservice meme

And I’ll admit, there have been times in my career where I’ve thought, “Just leave me alone and let me teach my kids,” as I’ve sat in a district or building inservice.

But, let’s be honest, what would we say to our students if they came in our rooms and said, “Just leave me alone and let me do what I already know how to do,”?

And how offended would we be if the meme above was changed to this?

teacher inservice meme 2

Yes, there is a need for personalized professional development.

Yes, I value the professional learning I do on my own via Twitter, Google+, and even Facebook.

Yes, I love attending conferences about topics that are high interest.

Yes, we all need time to do our own thing.

And yes, there is a need for us to come together and learn things we might not really want to learn.

Things that might force us to take a second look at our practices.

Things that make us realize that to most effectively teach our students, we need to change what we do.

Like our students, sometimes we don’t know what we don’t know.

 

Dear School, It’s Not Me, It’s You

A few weeks ago, a friend shared an essay written by her son. It was a rough draft of an assignment in which he was to declare his independence from something.

She shared it with me for a couple of reasons. First, because he’s not a kid who likes to write, and second because there was a passion in his writing she’d not really seen before.

It’s not often I’m left with no words, but this essay made me just read and nod my head. He summed up, in a couple of pages, the frustrations many students have with the standardization of our education system.

I asked for permission to share his story right away, but I wasn’t sure how to put it out there. Then yesterday I read the latest blog post from Peter DeWitt (Finding Common Ground). According to an extensive student voice survey (Quaglia and Corso), only 46% of students feel valued in their school.

With that in mind, here is his draft.

Read it with an open mind (Yes, there are some things we probably all agree students need to learn).

Read it and remember your own school days.

Read it and ask yourself why so many students do not feel valued.

Dear School,

We have been together for twelve years now and I think it has been too long. You actually started out okay in the beginning: giving me time for naps during the day and allowing me go outside and get fresh air at least 3 times per day. You also let me play, build, pretend, create and color. At first, I thought you were pretty cool and that I would like you and would want to be with you forever.  However, I have finally figured out you have tricked me and I must say you have done a great job trapping kids in your world.  Each new school year, you take away a little bit of fun and add in boring activities that are supposed to help me “learn”.  Taking naps only lasted a mere year before you decided I didn’t need rest anymore and that I needed more work.  Very quickly, you turned my free play and discovery into subjects called math, science, reading and social studies.  You also took away my creativity and I had to do things your way or it was wrong.  Playing outside also slowly got cut down year by year.  Instead of being outside, you wanted to keep me inside of your walls.  Your subjects started out relevant and useful but quickly turned for the worse.  For example, “if you had twelve cookies to share with three friends how many would you each get?” That wasn’t enough for you because then you had to start timing me to see if I knew math facts at a certain speed.

After six years, you made me move to another one of you.  You told me how much better it was going to be and how much more fun I was going to have. I actually believed you for the whole summer but when I got there I soon realized you tricked me once again.  I had to come to you way earlier each day and once I walked in you would not let me out until you were done.  You kept me locked up like a prisoner with no fresh air or freedom.   You made your subjects full of useless information, added letters to math and made me memorize ridiculous formulas, you gave me tests upon tests, you had to grade every little thing and you took all my play and discovery away.  You gave me the worst three years of my life.

I still wanted to believe you when you told me this next move would be the best years of my life.  However, after two and a half years with you here, I cannot take any more of your lies. I’m done with you and I don’t believe you anymore.  I have to wake up at an ungodly hour to get to you and then you keep me locked inside for 8 hours.   But eight hours is not good enough for you anymore, you make me do work for you at home.  There is no way to get rid of you; you haunt me 24 hours a day.   After I am done with soccer, ski, or golf practice and want to go hang out with some friends or go relax you are in the back of my head saying “no, you can’t have fun, you have work for me to do”. On weekends, when I should be spending time with family and friends, you selfishly won’t let me do that, I have to be doing more work for you.  

I’m angry with you and I think it is best if we went our separate ways immediately. You have fooled me for practically my entire life and now I am 110% done with you.  All I wanted you to do is to teach me about things that really matter in life.  I wanted you to teach me about things that would really help me in my future.  Instead, you have squashed my creativity and love for learning.  Instead of giving me relevant information you have filled my head with useless knowledge. Instead of inspiring me, you have tested me and tested me and ultimately degraded me.   I can’t be my real self around you and I will never be good enough for you.  I wish I could say, “see you never” but as much as it pains me to say this I have no other choice but to say, “see you tomorrow”, I am trapped in your world.

Sincerely,

 

Mourning a Friend I Never Met

It’s been more than a week since I learned of the passing of my Twitter friend, Joe Bower. In those days I have read many tributes to Joe that made me nod and smile, realizing that others had made the same connections with him that I had.

I hesitated to write a tribute of my own; after all, Joe and I had never met face-to-face. But this morning I came across a tweet from Chris Emdin (@chrisemdin) in my Timehop feed that made me change my mind.

Chris’ tweet read, “I have never met many of my mentors. Some of them don’t even know who I am…but I am watching, and I thank them for guiding me.”

Joe Bower was one of my many mentors.

I never met him face-to-face, but our conversations via Twitter were like conversations between old friends.

What started out as a Twitter follow of a fellow educator turned into great admiration for Joe’s work with students and his unwavering efforts to do what was best for kids not what was convenient for adults.

Our conversations most often focused on intrinsic motivation and punishing with rewards. I think we really connected over the topic of reading for points and the damaging effects of Accelerated Reader.

Posts with titles like Working with Children When They Are at Their Worst made me stop in my tracks. Joe made me think about consequences vs. punishment, restorative justice, and power and control.

Last fall I co-taught an Introduction to Education course, an elective for high school juniors and seniors interested in becoming teachers. One of the assignments was to read education blogs. Joe’s blog, For the Love of Learning, was on the list we gave the students.

I sent Joe a Twitter message that read: Teaching an Intro to Ed class to 11-12th graders this semester. Had them spend time reading education blogs – lots of great conversations from the ones who read yours. Your ideas resonate with them. Favorite comment so far from one of the girls – I cannot be defined by a number.

Joe’s response: So awesome to hear!! Please extend to your students an invitation to write a guest post on my blog.

We extended the invitation, and they wrote a post which Joe published, Education Students Ponder the Profession.

It was a huge moment for our students – an opportunity to not only reflect on their learning but to share it with a wider audience. I wish we would’ve bottled up the learning that happened as they grappled with exactly what they wanted the world to read.

I came across a second quote that reminded me of Joe, this one from Mother Teresa. “I alone cannot change the world, but I can cast a stone across the waters to create many ripples.”

 I never met Joe face-to-face but considered him a friend.

His posts and tweets challenged me to think deeply about education.

His passing leaves a hole in my PLN that will be next to impossible to fill.

I will miss the conversations.

I will miss reading about his continual growth as a teacher.

But I know that he cast a stone across the waters of education and created many ripples.

Celebrating Rough Edges

I’m not really a fan of resolutions, but I’ve come to love the One Word movement. If you’re not familiar, you can check it out here.

I picked my first word in 2013 – present. My goal was to be present in the here and now rather than worry about what else needed to be done. It was hard: remembering to not check my phone all the time, listening with my eyes (one of my favorite phrases from C when he was little), and not being three steps ahead in my thoughts. But having this one word as my focus really made a difference.

In 2014, I chose the word intentional. As the kids’ sports schedules increased and my dissertation proposal and research loomed, I needed to focus on being intentional with my time. Too often I had felt like the guy at the circus who spins plates. By choosing the word intentional, I planned to let some of the lesser plates; to be intentional in which ones kept spinning.

2015, my word was determined.  When went back to school, my goal was to graduate as S finished middle school. I knew that her schedule in high school would add to our family chaos, so I began 2015 determined to complete my dissertation in time to defend it in April (which I did:) ).

These three words have stuck with me: reminded me of what was important, what I wanted to accomplish, what I was willing to work for.

My word for 2016 is a little different. It is, in a way, a reflection of what I have learned from the other three words. My 2016 word is enough.

This word comes to mind because so often I see and hear the word ‘too’ attached to descriptions of my students, my kids, myself. When I hear it attached to me, well, it makes me feel like I am not enough, and if it makes me feel that way, what does it do to my kids (my personal ones and my school ones)?

So, here’s to this year’s word, enough.

Here’s to recognizing that I am.

Here’s to making sure I tell those around me that they are, as well.

Here’s to embracing my inner Stuart Smalley.

Here’s to celebrating the rough edges that make us unique.

Here’s to being enough.

B1DELMACUAAMAqX

 

Speaking In Absolutes

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How can I tell the new school year is about to start?  My social media feed – it is filled with posts aimed at new teachers, veteran teachers, administrators, new parents, parents of high school students, and, of course, students.

These posts are filled with absolutes.

~10 (or 15 or 20) things to NEVER  do the first day of school.

~10 (or 15 or 20) things to ALWAYS do the first day of school.

~MUST do learning space arrangements

~NEVER do learning space arrangements

~5 (or 10 or 50) MUST use technology apps for teachers

~The latest MUST have back to school fashions

~This year’s MUST have school supplies

~10 (or  20 or 100) MUST pack lunches for your child

~Things you MUST have on your college application (or in your essay)

~Words you should NEVER use when writing your college application (or in your essay)

You get the idea.

Advice written in stone.

Advice that comes across as fact rather than opinion.

Advice that cannot be ignored because if you do you must be a bad teacher (administrator, parent, student).

I’ll admit I read through them – some because I’m looking for ideas, others because I can’t believe someone can be so presumptuous.

I think it’s great to offer advice on what we have experienced or see as successful, but I think we have to be cautious in how we project that.

If we assume that there is an all or nothing approach to the first day of school, the perfect packed lunch, or the Holy Grail of college applications then we lose sight of the big picture in education: meeting the needs of students.

I believe that when we speak in absolutes we lose credibility.

We come across as a “my way or the highway” kind of person, and I don’t think that’s what most of us want.

Do I think teachers should smile before Christmas? Yes!

But it shouldn’t be forced or fake. Kids can see right through that.

Do I think the first day of school should be about more than rules? Yes!

But I know there are big picture thinkers who really NEED to know what you expect.

Do I think kids should have healthy lunches? Yes!

But I know that just because you pack it doesn’t mean they’ll eat it.

Do I think time and effort needs to be put into college applications? Yes!

But when my 11 year old states he should stay in 4-H (something he did not enjoy) because it would look good on his college application, we have a problem.

This will be year 28 for me. No two have been exactly alike.

I learn.

I grow.

I change.

Most of all, I get to know the group I have and go from there.

I may have curriculum to follow and standards to meet, but I know that students are not standard.

They come in all shapes and sizes and abilities.

And I do them (and myself) a disservice if I only work in absolutes.

 

 

 

The Importance of Real Conversations

Then the world turns around, And the boy grows tall. He hears the song of the river call. The river song sings, “Travel on, Travel on!” You blink away a tear, and the boy is gone.(River Song from A Musical Adaptation of Mark Twain’s Tom Sawyer)

I’m not sure why this song has been stuck in my head recently. I haven’t watched the musical, and honestly, the only way I know the song is because Mrs. Ringer made us sing it in 7th grade.

Maybe it’s because C has grown tall(er) and S is just a few short months away from high school. Maybe it’s because I’m counting down the days with another amazing group of seniors – excited for their futures but sad to see them go. Whatever the reason, it serves as a reminder that time waits for no one – hat tip to Chaucer (and the Rolling Stones) for that bit of wisdom.

I’ve always enjoyed the time in the car with the kids – sounds crazy, I know, but both of them are good travelers, so that time is usually pleasant and, more often than not, filled with conversations we wouldn’t have anywhere else.

I remember when S was little, pre C days, and she and I would sing along to the Wiggles as I drove her to daycare. (There’s a funny side story about the Wiggles, my lead foot, and a speeding ticket I should have gotten but didn’t.)

Then there was the time when she was in 1st grade, and she said to C, in her most grown-up voice, “I hope, when you get to school, you have Mrs. Sheahan and Mrs. Vogel because they are both phenomenal teachers!” Without missing a beat, a then 3-year-old C replied, “Does that mean the rest of them aren’t any good?”

And one of my most favorite conversations was about agronomy test plots (C: Who in their right mind would camp in a cornfield?) that led to a discussion on franken-foods (C’s word) and bioengineering which made S say, “I thought engineers built bridges,” which led to a discussion on bridges which jumped to bungee jumping and ended with a lively debate about the laws of physics and bungee jumping off a jello house.

Now that they’re older, I often find myself in the car with just one of them, and I love that time.

S plays AAU basketball, and practice is more than an hour away. Some would say that’s too far to go for a youth sport, but she loves to play, and I love that time alone in the car with my daughter. On the drive up we talk about school, friends, books, upcoming games and tournaments, and a million other things. On the way home, she critiques her practice and I listen. We usually stop to eat – by then she’s starving – and we go someplace we enjoy that maybe Tim and C would not. The conversation continues but moves away from practice and back to other things.

My conversations with C are more random – he thinks like I think, and together we have lots of “Squirrel!” moments.

Last week, on the way to baseball practice, the conversation was about music. His question (we were listening to Sirius XM Classic Vinyl and Freebird was playing), “Why were songs from your time so much longer than songs today?” He didn’t buy my first answer, “We had longer attention spans back then,” so we talked about how marketing had changed (radio now has to compete with so many other types of media) and how the emphasis has shifted from the musicians to the performance (stage presence, lighting, choreography, etc).

And just a few days ago, he and I headed out for dinner, just the two of us. Our conversation topics for the evening included the following:

  • The randomness of band names (Echosmith, Lady Gaga, Lady Antebellum)
  • Antebellum (as in pre Civil War)
  • Fossil fuels on the moon
  • Vail, Colorado (mileage sign in the restaurant )
  • The right way to round numbers (based on the inaccuracy of the aforementioned mileage sign)
  • Sense of smell triggering memories
  • Overachieving (his humor coming through when he closed the door a little more forcefully than he intended)
  • Dendrites and brain synapses (me explaining why he should remember what we had both just forgotten – young brain, more dendrite growth.:) )
  • The color of syrup vs. the color of caramel ice cream topping
  • Monopolies (brought about after noticing a CVS being built across the street from a Walgreens)
  • Monopoly – the game
  • Paying homage (Yes, his words)
  • Play-doh vs Plato (brought about by a Plato’s Closet commercial on the radio)
  • Correct pronunciation of Plato (emphasis on the T so it’s not confused with Play-doh)
  • Uma Thurman (thank you, Fall Out Boy)
  • The Munsters (I mentioned that the Fall Out Boy song sounded like the theme song for the Munsters, and he had no idea who the Munsters were)

I learn so much about my kids this way – conversations driven by their interests, their curiosity, their willingness to be themselves with me.

And I try to have similar conversations with my students.

Some of my favorite memories from the last 27 years are from those moments that have nothing to do with curriculum and everything to do with building relationships.

Conversations about sports – the ones they play as well as the professional teams they follow.

Conversations about books – okay, so this might be curriculum related, but more often than not, these conversations come about because of a love of reading. There is something pretty amazing about a former student seeing a title on my office shelf and then sharing a memory from reading that book in 5th grade.

Conversations about fashion – I learned early on that elementary kids can be brutally honest about fashion (3rd grade boys who pointed out I wore the same pair of earrings everyday and the same dress every Wednesday).

Conversations about music – I have taught through more boy bands than I care to remember, but I have learned to listen with an open mind to current hits.

Conversations about feelings – I’ve learned that when students feel safe in the classroom, they will share what excites them as well as what frightens them.

Conversations about life – It can be something random or something deep, but either way I have to admit, these are some of the best conversations.

Whether it is one of my former 5th graders (last group are juniors this year), a student from one the two electives I have been lucky enough to co-teach (Intro to Education and Global Studies), or just one of the seniors who likes to hang out in the library, I love our conversations.

Sometimes it’s a quick little walk down memory lane – back to elementary school and a favorite or funny memory.

Sometimes it’s a question that leads to a much bigger discussion – the survey about how much TV you watch each night led to a lively debate.

Sometimes it’s a serious conversation like when I asked the Global Studies class to think about this question from Angela Maiers – What breaks your heart about the world? Act on that.

Sometimes I catch a tidbit as I walk by and either smile or laugh, and that opens the door for a lengthier discussion about any number of things.

You can’t schedule these conversations.

You can’t write them into your lesson plans.

You can’t have a script.

You can’t force them.

They have to be real.

They have to be genuine.

They happen when you take time listen.

 

 

 

 

 

What The Test Doesn’t Tell Me

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I’m not a fan of standardized testing, especially not the barrage of tests we throw at kids these days.

Tests that take time away from real learning.

Tests that may or may not cover what has been taught in class.

Tests that teachers are not allowed to look at.

Tests that students are often told not to share anything about.

Tests scored by non-educators earning $10 an hour.

Tests whose results come months later with a score and no feedback.

As a parent, I don’t need those test scores to tell me how my kids are doing. You see, I talk to my them about what they are learning. I look at the feedback on their assignments. I read the comments on their report cards, and I count on the teachers to share relevant information with me during conferences.

S is an 8th grader, and when she recently brought home her WKCE scores (the test was taken the end of October!), I glanced at the sheet and tossed it in a pile of papers to recycle.  That test told me nothing about what she has accomplished this year. I know she is learning when she tells me that she missed two questions on her Algebra test but that now she understands what she did wrong on those two problems. I know how she is writing because she is excited about it and shares her work with me. I know how she is reading because I am constantly getting texts to bring her books home from my school library.

So, why didn’t I opt my kids out this year?

Honestly, I thought about it, but curiosity got the best of me.

You see, my kids are good test takers. They know how to play the game. They don’t get anxious about the tests because I have always told them not to worry. The tests are not true indicators of what they know.

I figured this was the first year of the new test (Wisconsin’s version of the Smarter Balanced Assessment). The state had issues with getting the testing off the ground as there were multiple glitches in the online testing system.

I was curious to hear what the kids thought about the test.

S tested first.  She didn’t have much to say, other than that the wording on the math test was really confusing.  Once she figured out what they wanted, she could do the problems, but she felt the directions were worded to trip them up. She also commented that several things were not things she had been taught.

Keep in mind, this is a kid who has always been in advanced classes. She has had the equivalent of high school algebra as her math curriculum the last two years, yet questions on the test were things she had not been taught!

C tested this week, and in true C form, he nailed my concerns with the testing.

When I asked how testing was going, he told me the math was ridiculous.  “Mom, they had us solve equations that I will never solve in real life. I mean, they had like ten steps! I could do it, but if I had to for real, I would’ve used a calculator!”

Then he said, “And there were some problems on there that I know from advanced math (He’s a math kid. He’s always loved numbers, and he loves participating in math club.), but not things we’ve been taught in our regular math class.”

Then he paused and added, “I knew how to do them, but, mom, I don’t know how my friends who aren’t in math club could be expected to know that.”

Another pause, “I know some of them were upset because they didn’t know how to do some of the problems, and I felt bad for them. It doesn’t seem fair to test us on things we aren’t taught.”

Yeah, those are the words of my 5th grader.

More worried about how these tests make his friends feel than anything else.

And now we wait for results that won’t come for months.

Results that will not arrive in time to inform instruction.

Results that will come with a score of what was right vs. what was wrong.

Results that are lacking in any meaningful feedback.

Results that will be used to sort and rank students.

Results that will be used to judge teachers and schools.

Results that will have no real connection to what my kids have learned this year.

I have no problem with assessment or accountability, but I know a standardized test does not provide either.

I trust my kids’ teachers to use classroom assessments that are relevant. Assessments that inform instruction. Assessments based on real learning.

So, what will I do next year?

I will join the ranks of parents across the country choosing to opt their kids out of the testing madness.

My kids are more than a number.

 

 

 

Busy Is Not A Four Letter Word

“No such thing as spare time, no such thing as free time, no such thing as down time. All you get is life time. Go.” ~ Henry Rollins

I keep reading posts about busy.

Busy is a sickness.

We wear it like a badge of honor.

We say it to get people to feel sorry for us, admire us, envy us.

I get it.

But I don’t necessarily agree with it.

I think it’s like anything in life – depends on your personality and your perspective.

For me, busy is a good thing.

It’s the hustle and bustle of a well-oiled routine as the kids and I share the same space and all manage to eat breakfast, pack snacks and lunches, and get ready for school. Throw in a little attention for the dog, a quick rundown of the day for Tim, and we’re all out the door with quick good-byes and I love yous.

[I love that start to my day because I know it won’t be this way for long – S starts high school in the fall, and those years will fly by, and I’ll miss the busy-ness of our mornings.]

Then I have a short car ride of just me time – time to listen to what I want on the radio (currently classic vinyl on Sirius XM) before the busy-ness of work kicks in.

[I love that time, but there’s a part of me that misses the drive with a toddler or two buckled in the back seat and the Wiggles CD in place of classic rock. And the questions they asked – a different kind of busy time.]

I love the work kind of busy. I don’t think you can stay in education as long as I have and not appreciate the beauty of busy.  No two days are the same, and that challenges me to keep a schedule, use a to-do list (Remember the Milk is my go-to on this), and rely on my Google calendar to remind me where I need to be.

[But that doesn’t mean I don’t have time to chat with a friend, talk with a student about their weekend, or to drop everything and write a recommendation letter for one who realized the scholarship deadline was today.]

And after school?  Sometimes there are meetings. Sometimes I teach graduate classes. Sometimes I stay at school and work on my dissertation because my office has fewer distractions than my house. Often, though, I leave to pick up one kid or the other from practice or go to a game.

[Classes and committees are choice busy – I love to be part of those kinds of education experiences. The dissertation is bucket list busy. I know a lot of people don’t get my drive to do this and I have read often enough that on my deathbed I won’t be clutching that diploma, but it’s a brain kind of busy that I do  just for me. And youth sports? I have never made either of them sign up for a sport they weren’t into, but I have encouraged them to try lots of different things, and then to choose the ones they love. And the busy of running S to her AAU practices? That hour+ car ride may keep us busy, but it also gives us the time to just talk, her and me.]

Eventually, I find my way home.

The dog greets me at the door – howling like I’ve been gone for weeks, not mere hours. One kid or the other needs something signed or help with a homework question. Both want to know what I’m making for dinner. Most nights a load of laundry needs to be washed or sorted and put away. Dinner gets made and eaten (usually with a compliment or two from C).  The dishes usually get washed but sometimes they sit in the sink til the kids are in bed.

[I have things to do – an article to read or another few pages to write on the dissertation – but when C says, “Do you want to watch an episode of Psych?” I say yes, and he goes to the next episode on Netflix, and even though it goes past his bedtime, he curls up next to me on the couch, and we watch it til the end.]

Backpacks get repacked. Teeth get brushed. Both kids still get tucked in. Good night kisses and I love yous are said.

Lights out upstairs.

Back down to finish the dishes or the laundry or both. An uninterrupted conversation with Tim who sometimes is just getting in from the barn.

[I should probably sweep or mop or dust, too, but busy lets me be okay with a house that’s clean, not spotless.]

Papers out – to read, to write just a little more.

Tired.

Let the dog out one last time.

Check the doors.

Set the alarm.

Turn out the rest of the lights.

Go to bed satisfied with the day -knowing I was busy in the right kind of ways.

 

 

 

 

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