A Good Life

Yesterday the boys woke up at 4:45. They were fussy all morning, feeding off my own nervous energy.

We were visiting the elementary school where I've taught for the past seven years. My first visit since I left in October to go on bed rest. My first visit with the twins. 

My first visit since resigning last month.

There were many things whirling in my mind: fears of germs, nap schedules, diaper changes, did I remember binks-Winston-Churchill-teething rings-diapers?

But my mind was most focused on how would I feel returning. Would I sit in the parking lot daunted by the eight months that have passed since I crossed that threshold? Would I feel left out, overwhelmed by all the experiences, jokes, and events I've missed while holed up with the twins? Would I remember my students' names? Would I regret my decision? Would it feel like good-bye?

When I actually pulled in the parking lot I didn't pause to feel anything. There was a stroller to unload, two sleepy babies to settle.

And it was school. My school. It was a parking lot I've crossed a thousand times, a front office I automatically pause to chat in.

School was school. It felt like I'd never left, like I could step through the door of room 202, pick up the pen on the SmartBoard and resume teaching where I left off.

Except my students are a whole lot bigger than they were eight months ago.

I loved my job. LOVED it. Adored my colleagues and felt privileged to work with the students. It challenged, inspired, energized and fulfilled me.

I will miss it.

BUT.

This morning the boys slept in, we played, cuddled and lazed around and then went to a playdate with the Schmidtlets still in their pajamas. I drove there grinning and so grateful – I love this life. Today and tomorrow and next week-month-year is a combination snow day and summer vacation.

I am so lucky. So blessed. And so thrilled to be able to stay home and saturate myself in baby love and memory-making and writing.

Asher is giggling in the baby sling while I type this. Brad is napping with Churchill and smiling in his sleep – revealing a spot of spinach I missed when wiping his face after lunch.

When he wakes up we've got a baby dance party scheduled.

I can't think of a better song than this one --

A Practice Separation

Today my class was supposed to be going on a field trip that includes a nature hike and sploshing around in a river, picking up slippery rocks and looking for macroinvertibrates. I wish there was an emoticon that truly captures the look my doctor gave me when I asked him about it. Part: Are-you-serious? Part: Don't-even-dream-of-it. Part: Do-I-have-to-chain-you-to-a-couch-and-feed-you-a-diet-of-Common-Sense-&-Caution.

Outcome: I won't be going; apparently nature trails and river explorations are not acceptable activities for people who can no longer see their feet. So I took the day off… and woke up to it bucketing out and the trip being postponed.

I am not handling this well. My parent chaperones received four different e-mails with instructions for today (& then cancelling today) – and this was only partially due to baby brain causing the omission of important details like WHEN they should show up at school. I also called the substitute at home twice to give her directions and left her two sets of plans: one for the trip and one for in case the trip was cancelled. My cell number is circled in red in case she runs into any questions. Not that she'll need it, the kiddos in my class this year are the definition of angelic.

And here I sit, at home, fighting the urge to pick up the phone and call in to my classroom to make sure there are no last minute questions. Did I mention that the school day only started 15 minutes ago?

If I need to, (once I finish typing this) I will sit on my hands. Hide my phone. Go outside and pace the backyard --- *looks out window*. Maybe not that last one. And, er, maybe I shouldn't hide my phone. With baby brain it's likely I'll never find it again.

I will not, however, call, e-mail, or go visit the school to check on the kiddos. Will. Not.

Can you sense that I'm having some separation anxiety? There are two weeks until I have to walk out of my classroom door and teach myself not to look back. After October 15^th, they are not MY class anymore.

Once the Schmidtlets arrive, I know I'll be far too enamored with my bundles of baby to miss them. But it's the interim weeks, the couch rest leading into bed rest weeks, that keep me up at night.

I'm not a sitter. I'm not a TV watcher. I'm not a do-for-me-what-I-can-do-for-myself girl. And more than all that, I'm not good at good-byes or letting go. Each year I cry at elementary school graduation as my kiddos prepare to leave for the summer and middle school.  This year I'll be the one leaving, and I need to learn to be okay with that.

So today is practice. And just in case I've forgotten the reason for all this sitting, I've scheduled an ultrasound for this afternoon. One look at those squirmy Schmidtlets on the screen and I'm sure I'll find all the strength I need to park my Twin Belly on the couch. It'll be a great reminder to stop looking backwards and to look forward to a time when those babies are out of the Twin Belly and in my arms.

Show me the Marshmallows!

In class last week, I showed the kiddos this video*.



When it was over and the giggles subsided, I asked them why they thought I'd shown it. (Sometimes I'll show them something with no real motivation in mind, except to see what they'll guess, but this was not one of those times).

"To show that if you wait, things get better?"
"Yeah, patience is important."
"Nope."
"It's like in writing, you need to keep working when you're stuck."
"Nope."
"You're gonna give us marshmallows?"
"Nice try."

Since it was snack time, the kiddos' eyes shot towards the baggies of Cheez-its and containers of carrots waiting on their desks. "Can we have a hint?"
"How many words were spoken in video clip?"
"16?"
"Not a lot."
"So did we know what those kids were thinking and feeling?"
"Oh yeah!" Nods of agreement, animated recounting of favorite parts.
"How?"
"The way they acted. Like the kid who sniffed his marshmallow."
"And the one that licked it."
"I like the kid who won't even look at it… but he's still holding it to make sure it doesn't go anywhere."

"So, even without saying: I am impatient, you could tell how they were feeling?"
Nods and my-teacher-is-a-moron eye rolls.
"And in real life, do you need your friends to tell you that they're annoyed or scared or surprised?"
"No."
"Because you can tell from their actions and body language, right? Let's try something. Show me what you look like when you're angry."
Grimaces and giggles.
"What about surprised?"
Gasps and louder giggles.
"Hmmm, because in your narratives I'm seeing lots of I was so mad and Mom looked sad. How could you show me that instead of telling me?"

As the pieces clicked in their heads, they reached for their notebooks with eager fingers and waited for their cue to head off and write.

Before I could give it, a hand shot up: "Mrs. Schmidt, is this how you can always tell when someone needs help in class – even before they ask?"

"Exactly! You show me you're confused with your expressions and actions. And because teachers are psychic…"


We all need this reminder sometimes; it's easier to tell than show. That night I went home and checked my own new WIP for places I'd taken telling-shortcuts. And of course I found some. We all do. I found myself trying to rationalize: how many ways can there really be to show fear? Sorrow? Anticipation?

Then I thought back to the video I'd shown my class: There are 11 kids who face the marshmallow test. They each express their frustration and impatience in a unique way. Why would the characters in my story be any different?

When I eliminated the excuses and shortcuts, I found myself doing a lot more reflecting -–how would each character show his/her emotions? The more time I spend thinking this way, the more I learn about my characters.

… And soon, just like with the kiddos in my class, there's no need for the characters to raise their hands and tell me how their feeling, because I know exactly what they'll say or do when faced with a surprise, a challenge, an obstacle.

Now, excuse me while I go make Indoor S'mores.**


*Thank you, Julie Weathers, for posting the link on Twitter
**I dare you to try watching that video 8 times in a row to count the number of kids and not come away craving marshmallows.

Class Meetings and Kanye

Each year room 202 has a defining moment.

It's the instant the kiddos change from a rag-tag group of individuals who happen to have the same teacher to a class. The Schmidties.

Some years they're united by a sense of accomplishment. Some years a tragedy forges a bond that can't be broken by graduation. Some groups are lucky; they ease into a sense of cohesiveness just because they have similar temperaments and motivations.

This year's moment happened today. And before it did, I'll admit – I was nervous. My kiddos this year are eclectic. They're quirky. They're individuals who are proud of that individual status. And all of these things are to be valued and respected… but they weren't engaging with each other. They were too busy noticing each other's differences and setting themselves apart. Too busy isolating within their niche or established friends.

They weren't rude to each other – they just didn't seem to have a use for or need to acknowledge their classmates.

This couldn't continue. I want a collective. I need a community. A grouping of isolates wasn't going to create the type of learning environment in which any of them would thrive.

I knew I'd have to get creative. And I did.

Today's class meeting centered on respecting others' differences. With little introduction other than, "Some of you may have seen this before. I want you to watch this video clip and notice how you react to the people's actions," I played the video of Kanye West interrupting Taylor Swift's acceptance speech at MTV's Video Music Awards.

And I watched their faces as they became outraged – or crumpled. We watched the video a second time. This time we paused to discuss how Taylor felt at each stage.

1) Thrilled. Proud of herself for having accomplished her dream.
2) Excited that someone she respected had joined her on stage.
3) Defeated.

They had such insight into Taylor's response: noting her change in posture from tall and animated to slumped and curled in.

One pipsqueak piped up, "No matter what, that award's never going to be as special to her anymore. It's ruined."

Another said, "It's like watching a balloon get popped."

And they got my point. They shared times they'd been proud of an achievement and been disrespected

"I read this book that was really hard and someone said they read it in third grade."
"I got an A on a hard test and someone called me a nerd."
"My team won a tournament and someone teased me for not playing much."

"I just don't get why Kanye would be so rude," was a common sentiment – and I didn't have an answer for them.

"Why do we sometimes make fun of or keep away from others who are different from us?" I asked.

*crickets*

"I wish… I wish that Kanye had gone on stage and sang with Taylor Swift instead," said one idealistic kidlet.

And my final point was set up perfectly. "I know. How awesome would that have been? Even though they have such different music styles, can you imagine what they could accomplish together?"

As the class nodded their agreement, I played the remix below:



(Thank you, Makaio )

And they danced. Together. And encouraged each other's zany moves.

In the last 30 seconds before dismissal, I paused the music and told the group – acting as a group for the first time – "We have 28 different individuals in this room. We all have different talents. Can you imagine what we can accomplish if we're willing to work together?"

Cheesy? Perhaps. Unifying? Definitely.

As they drifted off to safety jobs or waited for their buses to be called, they didn't sit in their seats – they clumped up. Talking. Listening. Engaging.

Schmidties, I'm excited for Monday. It's going to be a good year.

Tiara Day

I've been battling the End-of-the-Summer Plague (the doctor says it's a respiratory infection, I still think I'm allergic to the start of school).

It makes me sound less like this:

photo link

And more like this:

photo link

Did you notice what both of those images have in common? Stellar head-wear. Which is convenient because this Friday is Tiara Day on Twitter. A day full of positivity and sparkles that many literary tweople celebrate by displaying a bejeweled avatar. For more details or to enter a Tiara Day contest, see the Sparkle Queen, Susan Adrian's website.

'Cuz, who couldn't use a day of positivity, sparkles and tiaras? On the last Friday before school starts, I know I could.

If you're looking for me on Twitter that day, I'll look like this:

I hope Tiara Day brings you sparkles, good news and a surge of optimism and luck. I also hope it brings back my voice!

Start practicing your royal wave...

St. Matt's School Visit

St. Matt came to school with me on Friday. It was the kiddos’ last day and emotions were running high as limits were being tested.

St. Matt’s come to school with me once before; he chaperoned a field trip to the Franklin Institute with last year’s Angel Class. I assigned him the most cooperative girls of the Angel Class and he spent the day supervising conversations like this:

Kiddo 1: “Mr. Schmidt, can we please go to the human body exhibit?”
St. Matt: “Is that what everyone wants to do?”
Kiddo 2: “I wanted to see sports exhibit – let’s see yours first and then mine if there’s time.”
Kiddo 3: “Sounds like a great plan!”

At the end of the day he gave me a smug, skeptical look. “This is supposed to be hard? They compromised, group hugged and smiled the whole day. I didn’t have to do anything but hold a sweatshirt while they went in the bathroom.”

I rolled my eyes and bided my time. A year later he was back at school – and this year’s class is Team Tiara, just as wonderful but not a smidgen angelic. The kiddos quickly obtained St. Matt’s permission to call him by his first name and took full advantage of smirking and asking things like: “Mrs. Schmidt or Maa-att, would it be okay if I ran this card down to the art teacher?” “Matt, I still have a clipboard in my cubby, where should I put it?”

Each “Matt” was accompanied by a giggle or mischievous grin – infectious and irresistible.

The kiddos had a half-day – mostly consumed by their farewell breakfast and yearbook signing – during which St. Matt was a hot commodity. The whole sixth grade packed the cafeteria with their yearbooks and Sharpies and swapped signatures. Few outside of my homeroom knew who St. Matt was, but that didn’t stop the students from demanding his autograph – some bypassed me to get to him. One kiddo went up to her teacher and reported, “Mrs. Schmidt’s husband looks really young…. He’s cute.” That explains the number of giggling girls and glitter pens waiting for him – can’t say I blame them!

The last hour of the day was for the Schmidties. Our final class meeting. There were tears, laughs, and lots of “do you remember when….” There were reflections: “Can you believe we’re going to be the youngest in the school again?” And a smiling, “Matt, you’re much quieter than Mrs. Schmidt.”

“We balance each other out,” was St.Matt’s diplomatic reply.
Mine was more candid: “I bring the crazy; he brings the normal.”
The kiddos all nodded, sagely and immediately accepting this as true.

There was time for one last enthusiastic singing of “Don’t Stop Believing” and the dismissal announcements came on.

The kiddos’ faces vacillated between summer-excitement and farewell-panic. Hugs were given, received, given again and a few kiddos were gently pushed out of the classroom so they wouldn’t miss their busses.

The door shut behind the last kiddo and I turned to face St. Matt – sitting at my desk with his chin in his hand. “I’m exhausted.”

I nodded and looked around the classroom. It needed to be packed away and I’d barely started. I’d tried taking down posters earlier in a week but a kiddo had protested: “It’s so sad to see our classroom not look like our classroom anymore.” So I’d stopped.

Now I’d run out of excuses and there were only three hours until the faculty party. St. Matt’s engineering nature assessed the state of my cabinets and began to remove items and reorganize them in space-efficient manners.

My non-engineering nature sat down opened presents and re-read the cards my kiddos had given me. Then I responded to e-mails from parents –including a piece of fan mail about St. Matt: “My son so enjoyed meeting your husband. It just made his day.”

St. Matt called me over and asked me to look through a pile and identify what should be saved and what could be tossed. I told him the story of every item in the pile as he reorganized my supply cabinet and uh-huh’d.

The day proceeded in this manner:

Me: “Oh, look at this…” Flitting from project to project.
St. Matt: pragmatic, organized, efficient. “Tiffany, could you please…”

Finally, at five o’clock – now two hours late for the party, St. Matt decided, “You have 15 minutes. Anything that’s not in a cabinet in 15 minutes, we’re throwing away.”
“Okay, let me just pick a song.”
“15 minutes.”
“Well, we need the right song.”

I settled on Warren G’s "Regulators" and got to work. 13 minutes later I was shutting off the lights and shutting the door to room 202, precariously balancing bags of books, gifts from kiddos, the classroom plants and our one surviving fish, Yumberry.

We loaded the car, and St. Matt slumped behind the wheel with tired eyes. I reached over and poked him, “Hey! Guess what? It’s SUMMER! Ready for the party?”

"I'm ready for a nap."

Lesson's learned my last day of school:
St. Matt's cute (well, duh!)
St. Matt's quieter than me (I knew this already!)
St. Matt's patient (knew this too)
He's a better packer (so? I'm a better pack-rat)
And he's a big WIMP if one 1/2 day with the kiddos tired him out!

Top 10 Teacherly things that make me melt:

1) Hearing my class groan in unison when I pick up the bookmark during read aloud and then beg: “One more page, please!”

2) The bucakaroo who stops by my desk at dismissal each day, waits until he has my attention, makes eye contact and says: “Thanks for today.” And sincerely means it.

3) During scary or intense parts of read aloud, the kiddos unconsciously snuggle closer to their turn & talk partner in a way that is all too innocent and adorable.

4) 26 sixth graders wearing tiaras to support a classmate who’s very ill

5) Returning to the classroom after walking the kiddos to gym and discovering that the straggler in line was leaving a surprise note on my desk telling me why I’m her “favorite teacher ever.”

6) E-mails & visits from the first class of Schmidties who are now in 10th grade. E-mails and visits from last year’s Schmidties every time they read a book they love. E-mail and visits from any former- Schmidty

7) Class meetings.

8) When they get so comfortable they sing – loudly – while working. Even if we don’t have music playing.

9) Monday mornings when they run down the hallway to share something from their Writer’s Notebooks (or holler from the stairwells: “Mrs. Schmidt, wait ‘til you see this…”)

10) When the clock hits 3:00 PM, I tell them it’s time to pack up & they startle and respond, “Already? Seriously?”

I’ll have to wait until September 1st to start drafting a new list – with a new crop of kiddos. I met them today; they seem sweet, small, and nervous – soon enough they’ll be singing.

Tonight I graduated the current crop – mostly dry-eyed and smile-faced. There may be a few tears between now and tomorrow night, but the pull of summer-excitement is fairly irresistible.

Days of hammocks, reading, writing, running, coffee-shopping & procrastinated-projects will keep me twirly.

And all too soon it will be Septemeber 1st – 5 AM wake ups, and a new group of kiddos to love.

But first: picnics, ‘ritas, tennis, fireflies, s’mores, vacations, drive-ins, ice cream & kayaking…

And one last hug from each kiddo at dismissal tomorrow.

But, but... I'm just not ready to say good-bye

Confession: I will meet next year’s crop of kiddos on Thursday morning. I will spend an hour with them and smile and prattle. And I will hate them.

Not for always, but for that morning I will. I won’t want them. I’ll be vehemently wishing they’d stayed in their fifth grade classrooms with the teachers who loved them so I didn’t have to fake a smile and waste an hour away from my own kiddos.

Because there are so few hours left. Thursday night my 08-09 Schmidties will graduate – I’ll dab at tears and read their names with a proud and wistful smile. Friday they have a graduation breakfast and at noon I give them one last hug and send them out to their busses as middle schoolers.

Then I shut my classroom door and bawl. And offer a prayer that middle school is careful with them – or if the other middle schoolers aren’t kind, that they remain kind and supportive to each other. And remember that they’re amazing – no matter who conspires to tell them otherwise or what doubts sprout with hormones in the back of their brains.

But Thursday morning I spend with next year’s class. I know I’ll love them. I know they’ll be phenomenal and amaze me in all sorts of creative and unpredictable ways, but right now they’re usurpers – trying to steal their ways into a heart that’s slightly broken with impending farewells.

I know I’ve done my job. I know that each Schmidty feels loved and valued. I know they’ve grown, matured, and changed since September. They are ready – each and every one of them – for the new challenges that middle school will bring them.

I’m just not ready to say good-bye…

Field Day

Field Day: n. A school event comprised of various non-traditional sporting competitions; designed to turn formerly angelic students into demonic hellspawn.

It never fails to fail. Field day is a great idea in principle, but in reality it is a mess of sunburns, hurt feelings, and sports equipment.

I love the idea of field day. A chance to celebrate altheticism and being healthy and teamwork. I love that it provides an opportunity to shine for the kiddos with more bodily-kinesthetic than mathematical-logical intelligence.

But in five years of teaching sixth grade I’ve yet to have a year where this day wasn’t a test of every ounce of patience I pretend to have.

It brings out the worst in them. The kiddo who dashed across the classroom on Friday to help a friend clean up his spilled snack is today telling that same friend: “C’mon! Ugh! Just dribble it. It’s not that hard. C’MON – we’re losing! GO FASTER!”

When the thing being dribbled is a football, and it’s being dribbled around a slalom course of traffic cones, it is that hard.

There are the kiddos who dominate. For them, dribbling a football, throwing a frisbee through a hula hoop, relay-racing with tires and playing soccer on scooters is easy.

Then there are the kiddos who… don’t dominate. Either from fear of failure or lack of athletic skills, these are the ones who know they’re going to get dragged during tug-o-war, run over during scooter soccer, trip and tumble during sack races.

Putting both groups on the same team and telling them to work together is a recipe for disaster. Half cringe and half cheer. The louder one group yells, the more the other group cowers.

It’s a mash-up of insecurity and ego – with some I-haven’t-figured-out-how-to-use-my-post-growth-spurt-body-awkwardness sprinkled on top.

But criticism and mean-spirited competitiveness don’t fly with me. I haven’t spent all year creating a group-centered mindset to let them tear each other down because they’re suddenly broken into Blue, White and Maroon teams. They know that when they line up for lunch, they’re all still Schmidties. And when they come back to our classroom tomorrow, they need to be able to look each other in the eye with respect, not regret.

I saw one kiddo freeze today during a ‘team-building’ activity where they had to get all eight of them across the blacktop using only nine random pieces of gym-class-junk. She was teetering on a wooden block, her face a mask of panic as her teammates screeched at her: “DON’T FALL!” and told her to simultaneously crouch and pick up a traffic cone and pass it forward. She wanted to freeze, stabilize… or disappear – but she was “slowing them down’ so she bent, grasped the cone… and lost her balance. Her hand touched the blacktop momentarily, and her team had to start again from the beginning.

Her walk back across the playground, chin tucked down and lips pressed tight, looked like a battle march and I wanted to cry for her.

But I wasn’t giving my kiddos enough credit. When she reached the starting line they hugged her and offered: “You almost had it. You’ll do better next time. We’ve got this.”

And she picked her chin up and smiled – offering a strategy: “Why doesn’t someone with better balance go last? I’m no good at balancing and picking up the equipment. Also, it’s way easier to balance on the block if you turn it the other way.”

~Proud teacher moment~

Flash forward a few hours to Field Day – part 2. Instead of wacky made-up games, it’s now lightning rounds of volleyball. Pitting the six 6th grade classes against each other.

This began out promisingly enough. Both my boys’ and girls’ started off 2-0 for one simple reason: they know each other. They were so quick to say: “You’ve got this one. Great shot. I’ve got your back. Ah, great try! Don’t worry, I’ll get it.”

The other classes bickered and stumbled over each other as they all scrambled for every ball.

My class didn’t end up 5-0. The loses eventually came as the other classes organized – determining their best servers and using them exclusively while my kiddos clung to: “You haven’t served yet? Hey guys, let’s make sure he’s next. Don’t worry, you’ll get the next one over.”

They laughed and chattered and congratulated while their competitors strategized.

And the cheers started. I believe I could live my whole life without needing to hear another chorus of “We Will Rock You.” Or the words, You've been schooled! I pwn'd you! You’re going dooooow-oown.

My favorite? When a boy from another class jeered, “Oh, it’s over!” And one of my literal-minded kiddos responded, “No it’s not; we’ve got 8 minutes left in this game.”

Ahhh, innocence.

At the end of the day we trudged back in the building – exhausted, sweaty and stinky (please, for the love of all things olfactory, remember that Axe and Body Splash are not the same as deodorant). The face paint that had been so crisp and sparkly this morning was now running down cheeks and smeared into eyes. Ponytails were askew, ribbons un-bowed. The kiddos slumped into their seats and rested panting chins on grimy, suntanned arms.

They listened with squirmy-anticipation to the afternoon announcements, anxious to find out which team had ‘won’ the no-prize for having the highest number of points.

As soon as the gym teacher began to read the results: “And in third place, with a total of 1127 points, we had the BLUE TEAM…” The kiddos forgot their exhaustion and hoarse throats and began a new round of chants and cheers. By the time the White Team had been proclaimed the winner, you could hear the jibes & applause echoing from every classroom.

But in room 202, the loudest cheerer of all was quickly copied by the rest of the kiddos, and what he said was colorless: “Go Schmidties! Good job today.”

I couldn’t agree more.

Poets, yes. Spies, no.

Sixth graders are not stealthy. This isn’t news to me, but it was brought to my attention today –yet again – in a quite adorable way.

April is National Poetry Month. April is National Poetry Month and my kiddos have been writing poems. April is National Poetry Month, my kiddos have been writing poems, and one of this year’s dads was Poet Laureate of our town. I invited him in to talk to the class. Today.
This is where the not-so-stealthy part comes in.

Mr. Kiddo is in front of the class doing an excellent job of speaking about his writing process. He’s sharing some truly beautiful poems. I’m trying not to tear-up as he reads a poem about when his 12-year-old Buckaroo was just a baby. I glance around the classroom and notice something…

Most of the kiddos are entranced, chins in hands, leaning forward with rapt attention. But two… no, make that three. No, actually it’s four. Wait! FIVE! Five kiddos are futzing in their desks, or have put their head down, or are scribbling something in notebooks on their laps. WHAT? This is unacceptable. We are respectful in room 202!

I attempt some stealth of my own, trying to walk quietly across the room while my heels clack on the tile. One looks up with a sheepish grin as I approach. A second startles and slides what he’s writing into his desk. A third stays face down; her forehead pressed against the edge of the desk. I tap her shoulder, she jumps. I crouch and whisper: “Sweetpea, what are you doing? That’s not very polite.”

And then - I get it. I see the notebook in her lap and I get it. I peer across the table and spy another kiddo doing the same thing. I get it.

They’re writing.

They’ve been inspired by Mr. Kiddo, his talk, and his poems: they’re writing.

“Sorry, Mrs. Schmidt,” whispers the pink-cheeked Sweetpea.

I wink. “Promise I’ll give you writing time after,” I whisper before patting her shoulder, standing, and not-so-stealthily clacking back across the room with a proud smile stretched ear to ear.

I'm melting... melting...

The high temp for Doylestown today was 86°. The lowest temperature my classroom managed today was 86° - and that was at 7:30 in the morning before 26 preteens arrived to add their body heat to the mix.

The classroom worked its way above 90°, so we did most of our work outside, chasing shade around the school as it shifted with the hours. I mother-duckling’d the kiddos: “Bud, you need to get under that tree,” “Sweetpea, scoot back a few inches, your shoulders are in the sun.” They were sent home sweaty and flushed, but without sun damage.

Did I take similar care of my own precious skin? Not so much – although I didn’t realize this right away. I noticed my coworkers giving my sidelong glances after school. A couple made comments: “Spend some time outside today, Tiffany?” Being an idiot, I worried my class had been too loud and disturbed others – but no, they were unusually quiet, subdued by the child-melting heat of our classroom. It wasn’t until I arrived home and looked in the mirror that I figured out how my colleagues knew I’d had a courtyard-classroom today.

Do I match my powder pink polo shirt? No. I am burned darker, more like the color of a Macintosh apple. I’ve got reverse racoon eyes, white in the places my sunglasses covered. Guess I might have to add sunblock to my morning routine.

I’m too cranky and pink to do much more of a blog, so I’ll just leave you with this:

Ten Signs it’s too hot in your classroom

10) You can pick up a piece paper by pressing your warm palm to it. Sweat makes an excellent adhesive.

9) Each time you shift in your seat, it makes an embarrassing ~squeeelph~ noise. Each time it makes this noise, you feel the need to say: “It’s just the chair.” And everyone gives you a sure-sure look, even though they know it’s really just the seat.

8) The room starts to take on a funny odor that reminds you of childhood summers – you hunt for the source and realize that it’s the crayons melting in their bins.

7) The room starts to take on another odor – this one isn’t funny at all – the smell of 26 pre-teen bodies post recess-basketball.

6) Pens and pencils slip from sweaty hands while writing. This may occur spontaneously and accidentally once or twice. Then it becomes accidentally-on-purpose.

5) Snack time string cheese becomes snack time soup cheese.

4) Math class features problems like: If it’s 90° in Doylestown, snowing in Denver and 26° in Montana, where would we like to live right now?

3) Your projector overheats before morning announcements, rendering all of your PowerPoint, SmartNotebook files, and lessons unusable.

2) The kiddos ask you to play ♫Frosty the Snowman♫ and ♫The Nutcracker Suite♫so they can “visualize snow”

1) Despite being alarmingly under-caffeinated, you wait until your coffee is room temperature before drinking it.

Tomorrow’s supposed to be in the 50’s again – so we won’t have a repeat of today. What we may have, however, is students who come to school dressed for a repeat of today – and spend the hours between morning announcements and dismissal with chattering teeth and goosebumpy arms.

At least I won’t have to worry about sunburns.

Conferences aren't all they're CRACKED UP TO BE

Today’s blog isn’t going to be all hyped up with jellybean-inspired hyperness or toilet-tweezers antics. On the whole, it’ll be more serious than my usual hijinx.

Last night I read Courtney Summer’s Cracked Up to Be. I planned on starting it while I worked out and made it all the way to the basement before I cracked the cover while tying my sneakers. I was absorbed instantly and stumbled my way over the elliptical with my eyes glued to the pages and my hand groping for the buttons on the display. I punched a few of these to set it for hill intervals and turned my total attention to the book.

I didn’t lift my eyes from the words until St.Matt came clomping down the stairs wearing a sleepy but less-than-saintly expression and carrying all our bedding.
"What’s wrong?"
"Bruschi peed on me!"
"He did what? Why?"
"I don’t know – I was sleeping!"
"Did you take him out?"
"Well there’s really no reason to now, is there?"
I nodded solemnly and managed to wait until he walked into the laundry room before giggling.

After starting the washer, St.Matt came to stand by the elliptical.
"Good book?" He was really asking: Are you going to going to bed anytime soon?
"Excellent." which is Tiffany-speak for: I'll be finishing this book before I even begin thinking about sleep.
"How’s your workout going?"
"Good, it seems really easy today. I’ve been on for –"
I lifted the book to check the display and saw it flashing 00:00. I hadn’t hit start. This is why I need wait until after I get on the elliptical to crack the cover a book.
"I’ve been on for 31 pages," I answered him as I pressed the start button.

I stayed on until I hit page 97, then I had to get off because it was too hard to breathe. Not because I was tired (although I bet I was by that point – I just wasn’t paying attention). I couldn’t breathe because I was crying, because all the air had been sucked out of the room.

Before I go any further, I want to say I think this book should be required reading for all high schoolers and all high school parents. It’s only fair to warn you, you won’t all like what you read, but it’s realistic and honest.

I wandered upstairs to the couch to finish the book – stopping periodically to take some deep breaths and unclench my tension tightened hands. I wanted/ want to save Parker – to save every child like her. And Summer’s honest writing doesn’t allow the reader to keep a safe emotional distance from Parker’s pain.

When I finished reading my chest was tight and my abs hurt from sobs. I had to focus on the inhales and exhales and tell myself: it’s just a story, it’s not real.

Except, for a lot teens – it is. Maybe not Parker’s exact story, but the sense of identity tied to perfection is an overwhelming and impossible reality.

Cracked Up to Be was both the ideal and an awful book to read the night before portfolio conferences with my class. In my district, students attend their spring parent-teacher conference, which focuses on identifying their strengths and weaknesses and setting a few, specific academic goals for them work on in the final semester.

Can you imagine an experience more anxiety-inspiring than walking into a room where your parents and teacher are going to discuss your strengths and weakness – and expect you to participate?

With Parker fresh in my mind, all I wanted to do was give each of my kiddos a hug, say: "You’re amazing, you’re loved, and I’m so proud of you."

While the actual conferences did comprise of more than those sentiments -- I did, after all, have twenty minutes with each kiddo -- I hope they all left knowing those three things. Because they are, every one of them, amazing, loved, and impressive. I hope that if they ever enter into a Parker-type-period, they remember this and remember no matter how flawed they feel or what mistakes they’ve made, they’re still amazing, loved, and I’m still proud of them.

There’s a reason I have the following Emerson quote hanging on the door of classroom so it’s the last thing the kiddos see before leaving each day:

Finish every day and be done with it.

You have done what you could.

Some blunders and absurdities

no doubt have 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 cumbered withyour old nonsense.

No matter what happens on any given day, I truly expect the kiddos to come back the next one and impress me again.

Because they are so amazing, so loved, and I’m so proud of them.

A Raven' Scaredy Cat

Today was dark and gloomy. And a half day for the kiddos. I decided that since Mother Nature was cooperating and it is Poetry Month, we’d study Poe’s The Raven.

I shut the blinds and killed the lights. Turned up the volume of the recording I have of Basil Rathbone reading the poem in a delightfully British accent. Would it be too scary? I watched the kiddos closely for cues.

Not scared, the kids were spellbound. They listened. We discussed. They asked to listen again. Who am I to deny them poetry pleasure? I hit play and ducked out of the room to visit the teacher across the hall and borrow her freakishly realistic fake raven: complete with feathers and beady eyes. I stepped back into the room and most of the kiddos didn’t even look up from their copies of the poem.

I walked over to one kiddo who was concentrating particularly hard: forehead leaned against the edge of his desk as he studied the poem in his lap. Holding a finger to my lips for the sake of his smiling desk neighbors, I placed the bird on his desk. When he shifted to turn the page, his shocked double-take was quite comical.

I repeated this to great effect with three other students. The kiddos weren’t really scared, just startled and amused. When the poem ended, they begged to write their own scary poems. Being the selfless teacher that I am, I agreed to let them learn, practice their writing skills, and share the results.

Then it was noon and time for them to leave.

I had the classroom to myself and four hours to put a dent in a Everest-sized pile of grading. I looked at the pile and sighed:

Once upon a [afternoon] dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,

Over many a quaint and curious [page] of forgotten [answers],

Remember that dark and gloomy day? Ten minutes after the last bus it turned a lot darker and a LOT gloomier. And then came the lightning. The building-shaking thunder. The rain so loud I couldn’t hear the showtunes I’d turned on.

All that fear I’d worried about inspiring in my students – it must have been on delay, because I found myself terrified; irrationally, embarrassingly quaking in the middle of my classroom. I turned on all the lights, and turned the showtunes up louder, singing along in a quavery voice and fighting the urge to duck under my desk and cower.

And then IT happened.

Suddenly there came a tapping,

As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my [classroom] door

I may have squealed a little bit and shot a horrified glance at the model bird before realizing that it was only the teacher across the hall asking if I wanted to go to lunch.

I made her take back the bird before I agreed.

Poems & Pranks... it's April 1st

Today is April 1st. In the teaching world this is a day of greatness and a day of dread.
Dread because it’s April Fools’ Day – and when you teach 6th grade, that means anything, anything could happen. Gone are the days of whoopie cushions or chalk in the eraser (I don’t use chalk & eraser’s electronic). Anything could happen.

Luckily not too much did. (Have I mentioned lately that I <3 my class?) They did try a cute little trick, convinced the art teacher to let half of them hide in the back room and she told me they’d been sent to the office.

Clearly my kiddos aren’t schemers because they chose all the teacher’s-pets to be the hiders, which I kinda get – they don’t get in REAL trouble, but it’s safe to pretend. The remaining kiddos giggled, hid grins behind marker-smudged hands, and examined their shoes.

I played along. "Really? They got in trouble? I’m so disappointed. What did they do?"
*crickets*
"Surely you guys must’ve seen something. What happened?"
"Um, they were goofing off."
"And being disrespectful."
"Yeah! Disrespectful – that’s it."
"And then one of them threw something."
"Uh-huh, and it hit me in the head"
"Wow. That’s awful! I’m so proud of you for not getting involved. Maybe you guys should have the night off of homework. That’ll be my thank you for behaving." I raised my voice so the crowd tittering in supply closet could hear, "And those other kids – man – they’re going to have so much homework, they’re going to wish they never got came to school today. They know better!"

The ‘behavers’ were about to lose it, so I winked at the art teacher and started walking them back to class.

We made it about halfway down the hall before the others came tearing up after us, laughing and whooping: "We got you so good!" "Ha ha!" "April Fools."

I froze, put on a stern face, and turned to face them: "Sixth grade! Is that how we walk in the hallway? Turn around, go back to the art room and try again."

When the hiders slunk into the classroom, they were nervous. I kept my sternest face on and addressed them: "I don’t care about the prank, that was actually pretty funny – but what about that hallway behavior? Is that how we walk in the halls? Were you being role models?"

Chastised, they lowered their heads. "No."

"Not at all! Why don’t you come in at recess and reflect on appropriate hallway behavior."

*sighs and sorrys*

I let them fret through Reading class – possibly the most evil thing I’ve ever done as a teacher – then lined them up for lunch. "Those of you that had some hallway issues this morning, don’t forget to meet me in outside the cafe after lunch. We’ll have a discussion about that behavior and then maybe write some letters to your parents telling them what happened this morning."

Shoulders slumped, okays were muttered.

Without missing a beat, I shut off the lights and led them out of the classroom: "Now let’s have a nice quiet line all the way down to lunch. And April Fools."

The kiddos were halfway down the stairs before the first kid stopped and said: "WAIT! Did you say…? Did she say…?"

Kiddos, don’t mess with me – this is my 6th time in sixth grade. You’ve only been here six months.

Oh, and the reason today is wonderful? It’s the first day of poetry month.

Today we listened to and analyzed George Ella Lyon’s "Where I’m From."

Some of the kiddo’s responses made me teary. And not in that I’m-scared-you’re-going-prank-me way.

Luckily, there’s another 29 days of poetry month, while April Fools’ doesn’t reoccur for another 364 days.

That gives me plenty of time to plan for next year!

Toilets, Tweezers & Twitter

I was feeling optimistic as I brushed my teeth last night. I could do this. I could beat insomnia. I could sleep. I could – gulg, blurble. Those sounds, in case you don’t recognize them, are the sounds tweezers make when they’re knocked off a counter and into a toilet.

Toothbrush still wedged between my molars and cheek, I stared open-mouthed. Toothpaste foam began to dribble down my lip. Looking like a rapid insomniac, I peered in the toilet.

Nothing.

Did that just happen? Maybe I imagined it. Sleep deprivation can cause hallucinations.

I checked the counter. No tweezers.
I checked the toilet. No tweezers.
They’d gone down the hole.

Confession: my first instinct was to flush. If there’s no proof or witnesses, it never happened, right? I stood glowering at toilet and imagining what would happen…

Husband: Have you seen our tweezers?
Me: Tweezers?
H: Yeah, tweezers. Pointy metal things? Used to take out splinters like this one?
Me: *giggling nervously and edging out of the room* Never heard of such a thing

Later the same day, the pipes EXPLODE and plumber is called. He spends hours muttering things like ‘hopeless,’ ‘major repairs,’ and ‘Maserati’ before plucking the tweezers out of the ruin that used to be our bathroom and saying: "Here’s the cause of the bazillion dollars of damage. I’m going to hafta turn off your water. It’ll take four months to repair."

Me: *innocent look in place* Wow. How could those have gotten in there? I have no idea how they could possibly, accidentally gotten knocked into the toilet and then impulsively flushed.
Husband: Tiffany!

Resisting the urge to flush, I backed out of the bathroom.

I needed an expert – but who to ask?
Around 1:30 this morning, I tweeted this:

HELP! I dropped my tweezers in the toilet. Can't see them - can I just flush & consider them a lost cause, or do I need to do something?

But no help was offered. Tweople were asleep. Stymied, I took a post-it note, wrote: Don’t Flush! Tweezers in there. And went to bed.

Since it was 2 AM when I crafted my post-it, it took multiple snoozes, wet puggle noses and finally Husband threatening to withhold coffee before I got out of bed in the morning. He was on the way out the door.

Me: Um, honey, did you fix anything this morning?
H: Yes.
Me: *perking up* Really?
H: Yes, your coffee’s ready to go and sitting on the counter downstairs. Now get up!
Me: Oh, coffee. (first and only time when having coffee fixed for me will be disappointing)

I followed him downstairs, and held my breath as he popped in the bathroom to Lysterine before heading out the door.

Husband emerged with post-it. Ut-oh.
H: What’s this?
Me: You’re going to be late, we’ll talk about it tonight.
H: Why didn’t you just pull them out?
Me: I’m not putting my hand in THERE. Besides, I can’t see them. But don’t worry, I have a plan.
H: Ooo-K.

Great, now I needed to find a plan. Well, it’d taken him that long to find my note. We have other toilets – maybe we should consider this one a lost cause and abandon it forever. I could find an alternate use for the toilet – like people who use tires as lawn art. We could fill it with dirt and make it a self-watering planter. If we got a step stool, it could be a water bowl for the dogs.

I needed help.

• Co-workers just reiterated that Tiffany should NOT flush the toilet. No matter how much she believed that maybe the tweezers disappeared overnight.
• Students thought it was very funny. Sixth graders like to say ‘toilet’ and make bathroom jokes.
• Our DARE officer stopped by and I asked him: "I know this is outside of your typical jurisdiction, but…"

I needed more help; good thing that the Twitterverse was very ready to be helpful. It assembled a virtual support team for my tweezer/toilet crisis.

Thank you Suze, Emily, Linda, Clinton Books, Lisa, Julie, Alea, Michelle, and Pseudosu for being there for me in my time of need. Julie, if I have a plumbing emergency – I’m calling you! The rest of you – I’m glad you weren’t around when I was fighting the just-flush impulse last night. Clearly you’re in cahoots with the plumber – he wasn’t really going to let you test drive his Maserati.

My students came through in the clutch too; they created a fetch-your-tweezers-from-the-toilet-dance. It involves reaching down, making a fist, pumping it in the air, shaking it off, then reaching around with the other hand to ‘flush.’ I’m sure it will be appearing on dance floors near you later tonight.

With all this support, I was ready when I got home from school. I plucked the strongest magnet off the fridge. Tied my best former-Brownie knot around it. Twice –I wasn’t a very good Brownie. Took a deep breath. And marched into the bathroom.

And it an utterly anti-climactic turn of events – the tweezers stuck to the magnet the first time I dropped it in the toilet.

SUCCESS!

The tweezers and magnet are both safely in the trash and I’m dancing. It’s a great new dance that’s all the rage in 6th grade; the fetch-your-tweezers-from-the-toilet. I’ll teach you if you want.

These are life lessons, people!

And survival skills too.

It was math class and my students were diligently working their way through some operations with positive and negative numbers. I was playing with the Sony e-book reader that my colleague, Mr. Techie, had dropped off for me to explore as I continue to dither about if and what type of e-book reader I want/need.

I answered a question, handed out a few ‘good jobs’ and a ‘get back to work’ as I paged through Techie’s book selections. He had Pride & Prejudice, so I gave him + 10 cool points. He had all the Meyers books, which just made me laugh.

And then I got to last page in his catalogue and gasped: "Schmidites. Writer’s notebooks. Front rug. Nooow!"

Did I mention it was math class? And that I didn’t even have my whole homeroom and that some of the kids didn’t even have writer’s notebooks? Whatever. It’s called problem-solving.

The kids assembled themselves on our sharing rug; they were full of anticipation and questions: "What’s up?" "What’s going on?"

"I have something important I need to teach you. Now. This might be the most important thing I teach you all year."

"What is it?"

"Kiddos, get the lights. "

And then I began to read to them from: The Zombie Survival Guide by Max Brooks.

"There’s no such thing as safe," I read to them, "only safer."

We read about forms of transmission: bites, an open wound exposed to the virus (this begged for the comment: "Oh, so the next time I get a papercut, I shouldn’t go rub it on the nearest zombie?"), or if a zombie explodes on you. We read about the timeline of the disease’s progression: starting with fever, eventually death, then reanimation.

And then math class was over. "Writer’s notebooks!" I announced as the rest of my homeroom stumbled back in, bleary-eyed and drained from pre-algebra. Come to think of it, they looked a little zombified until they read the buzz of excitement and ran for their notebooks.

After we’d read about how to evaluate your zombie killing weapon, how to protect your home & school, and the list of items to have on hand (our favorite: earplugs to block out zombie moans), I turned the lights on and shared their writing prompt: "In your notebook, respond to the following: Zombies, dangerous or not?"

They would’ve written all afternoon if I let them. Many of them will write all weekend and share their zombie stories on Monday.

I felt like this was a book I had to read. After all, zombies are attacking… or at least infiltrating. Prior to October I’d lived a zombie-free life.

Now…

• There’s the Austen thing
• Then there’s Generation Dead by Daniel Waters (Kiss of Life comes out in May). I read this book in one night in October. I gave it to a co-worker the next day and haven’t seen it again because it’s been passed from one reader to the next.
• And what about Patient Zero by Jonathan Maberry? This doesn’t come out until March 3rd, but I was lucky enough to read it early. You need to buy it on Tuesday (along with a copy of Brook’s book).

And who would have thought I’d plan on attending a zombie night – complete with zombie movies? Now that I’ve read the Zombie Survival Guide, I know I can handle it. (I hope). If you see me there, feel free to sit next to me. I’ll gladly keep you safe… until I run from the room screaming and crying for my mom.

Mad for Vlad: Part 2

"July? Seriously?" he asked me.

"Yes, bud, July," I answered.

"Are you sure?" Because he’s an all-knowing sixth grader and I’m just the teacher, he needs to double-check this.

"Well, I went to Heather Brewer’s website and it says pretty clearly that Tenth Grade Bleeds comes out July 9th." I can say this without even a trace of sarcasm because I’ve had five years of practice.

"Man! July? I won’t even be in your class then!"

"You’ll still be allowed to read it," I assured him.

"I know – but then we can’t talk about it. Man." Student hangs his head, sighs, heads back to his desk and picks up his reading response journal.

A few minutes later he’s popped back over to visit. "I thought of two things."

"Okay."

"Well, maybe she’ll write faster and it will be out sooner."

"What’s the second thing?" I asked, not wanting to get into a whole discussion on the publishing industry.

"We can e-mail. But you have to promise to buy the book and read it." He’s serious.

"Bud, did you think I wouldn’t buy the book and read it?"

"No, I know you will, but you need to buy it ON July 9th. Don’t make me wait this time."

"Deal," I agree and we shake.

So, on July 9th, do not call, text, e-mail or tweet at me. I’ve got a date with a vampire named Vlad and then an important e-mail to answer.

If, however, in the month since his elementary graduation, my dear reading buddy has become too 7th-grade-cool to e-mail his former teacher about books – then please call, text, e-mail AND tweet to cheer me up (and talk about the book!).

Mad for Vlad: Part 1

It’s Monday morning and I’m grinning and bouncing in the hallways waiting for my students to arrive. This is not my typical Monday-morning attitude and no, I haven’t had an extra cup of coffee. I’m impatiently-excited because I’ve finally gone out and bought the copy of Ninth Grade Slays that one of my students has been begging for for weeks.

I’d given him Eight Grade Bites by Heather Brewer and he’d read it in two days - "Where’s the sequel?"

"I don’t have it yet, bud," I answered.

"When are you going to get it?"

"Um…" I mentally replayed the do-you-know-how-much-money-you’ve-spent-already-this-year-on-books conversation I’d had with Matt the night before.

"Um…." And-by-this-year-I-mean-this-year-2009-not-this-school-year. "Soon?"

And so started a refrain of: "Did you get it yet?"

It even became accusatory, "I don’t think you’re a real fan!"

So on Valentine’s Day when Husband took me to the bookstore and told me to pick out what I wanted, I knew that Ninth Grade Slays was going to be in the stack.

And that brings us back to my bouncing Monday. I read the book Valentine’s night (that’s the thanks poor Husband gets for his gesture – a super-romantic night of reading!) and had already strategically placed on my student’s desk so he’d see it first thing.

I was beaming like a two-year-old with a sticker when he walked down the hall. I met him at the door: "Good morning, buddy!"

And he was glowing too. "Good morning, Mrs. Schmidt. Did you have a good weekend?"

"I did, but we’ll share at class meeting," I said, dismissing his attempts at a polite conversation because my gratification from seeing his face when he saw his desk was much more important. And since when was my buddy a morning person? He typically half-dozed until announcements came on. Why was he so cheerful? I shooed into the classroom so he could find his surprise.

I followed a few steps behind him: bounce, bounce, bounce. Ready to squeak and receive a loud THANK YOU!

And he walked right by his desk to his coat hook, oblivious but still smiling. Seriously? Does he mistake me for someone patient?

"Um, buddy?" I prompted, picking up the book and waiting for him to turn around after hanging his sweatshirt (this is 6th grade, we’re too cool for appropriate winter attire).

"Look what I got for you!"
Only, this wasn’t me speaking.
It was my buddy.

My student whirled around with his own copy of Ninth Grade Slays that he’d bought for me over the weekend.

I looked at what he was holding – he looked at what I was holding.

So now we’ve got two copies of Ninth Grade Slays (twice the Vlad love) and we’re rapidly recruiting new members into our fan club.

If you haven’t checked out this series yet, buddy and I encourage you to do so. But even though we have multiple copies now, you can’t borrow them – there’s a waiting list to read them.
You’ll have to get your own copy. Or better yet, buy someone else a copy – make his or her day by sharing the Vlad love.

Check back tomorrow for "Mad for Vlad: Part 2"