Saying Goodbye to Elementary School — CMB Post

This was originally posted on the now defunct Chicago Moms Blog.

On Friday, my youngest child completed fifth grade, which means it was our family's last day of elementary school after 12 long, mostly wonderful years.

This child has literally spent his entire life at this school, having been born same the year his twin siblings were in kindergarten. He has attended 12 years of school picnics, talent shows, and band concerts. He has met every teacher, joined every club, and climbed every inch of the school's two playgrounds. He's bored, well-prepared and more than ready to move on to the challenges of middle school.

But what about me?

I really don't think I'm ready to leave elementary school behind. No more crayons, no more playground bonding, no more room parenting. No more little kids with cute backpacks and silly winter hats. My house will now be completely taken over by smelly adolescents with attitude — some of them taller than me.

Elementary school has been a sweet time, a relatively leisurely time, a time when I had the opportunity to get to know my children's teachers, as well as their friends and their friends' parents. It's been a time when parental PDAs were not only acceptable, but welcome; when my kids waved goodbye from the bus windows or ran back to me for one more kiss and hug.

But all that's over. From now on, school is about moving up and out and away. It's about making new friends and trying new things. It's about moving from classroom to classroom with many different teachers and influences. I get that. I know the whole goal of parenting is to develop independent human beings.

I also know that the three years of middle school fly by, and that high school goes even faster. I know that their job between now and high school graduation is to pull away until they don't need me any more. Knowing it and accepting it are two different things.

I thought I would be weepier during this particular transition. After all, I sobbed for two days when my twins moved from preschool to elementary school.

Perhaps it's because, as the youngest of six, this particular child has the grace to recognize my angst as well as his own. He has always reached into adulthood with one hand while holding on white knuckled to his childhood with the other. He's wise enough to know that growing up isn't necessarily all it's cracked up to be; that the rewards and freedoms come with hard work and consequences. And he indulges me no end, holding my hand (even in front of his friends) and understanding that just because he'll always be my baby, doesn't mean that he still has to be a baby.

So, I was a little melancholy, but dry-eyed at the fifth grade recognition ceremony — until people started asking me if I was going to cry, which sent me over the edge. Good thing my son was there. "It's OK, mom," he reassured me, "you can still read stories to me." Maybe having only big kids won't be so bad after all.

This is an original Chicago Moms Blog post. When Susan isn't sobbing over baby pictures and wishing her kids would stay little forever, she can be found writing at Two Kinds of People and The Animal Store Blog.

Regarding Teachers

A teacher affects eternity; he can never tell where his influence stops. 

 — Henry Adams 

(1838-1918)

There are two kinds of people in the world: those who are teachers and those who are not. 

Some of my best friends are teachers, including my mother, who has never really forgiven me (or my brother) for not following in her footsteps. 

If you are lucky, you will experience at least one truly wonderful teacher in your life. If you do, you will carry that memory and those lessons with you forever, even if you didn't recognize the gift at the time.  

We've all heard the claims about the cushy lives teachers lead: short hours, great vacations, summers off and autonomy in the classroom. Don't you believe it. Teaching is hard. How do I know? Well, my mother and my teacher friends have told me their horror stories. As a parent, I've observed nearly 100 teachers who have had the herculean task great pleasure of trying to meet the disparate learning needs of my four very different children. And now I'm experiencing it first hand as a newly minted substitute teacher. Let me tell you, it's been an eye-opening experience.

While I have taught before — everything from preschool through graduate-level adults — I am not a teacher in the traditional sense of the word. My formal ed school experience was limited to one disastrous semester my sophomore year (don't ask). 

In many ways, teaching is like parenting: it's the constant, all day, every day nature of the thing that will drag you down. In the course of any given day a teacher, in addition to educating her students, will be called upon to act as: manager, nurse, cop, judge, disciplinarian, mediator, secretary, parent, social worker, guidance counselor and confessor, to name just a few.

Unlike parenting, teachers don't have the biological or emotional imperative to work toward the success of their students. They must summon from within themselves the dedication, perseverance, sense of humor, and something else — a certain je ne sais quoi — that enables them to try to reach a new group of students every year. You can't pick and choose your students; all are strangers in the beginning and some are very hard to like. From all reports, it's the ability to touch a student in some profound way that keeps teachers coming back September after September, despite mediocre pay, little respect and lots of contagious diseases.

I don't think substitutes get those same kinds of warm fuzzies. Substitute teaching is like babysitting — your primary responsibility is to keep everyone safe and busy until the real deal returns. In just a few days of subbing, I've learned that group dynamics are everything, you have to set the tone in the first 60 seconds, and that the most important asset for a teacher (substitute or otherwise) is a sense of humor.

As I started on this journey, I sought advice from a variety of sources. My mother told me not to be late and to dress professionally. My 17-year-old daughter told me to be sure to introduce myself and:  "Don't pretend to know something you don't know. You'll just look like an idiot." My teacher friends told me not to complain about anything. Absent teachers don't want to know that Johnny was throwing spit wads, or that Sally and Amy wouldn't shut up, or that A.J. tried to scam 15 extra minutes of recess. Unless the building burns down, the absent teacher just wants to pick up where she left off.

I also had the opportunity to learn from a 20-year veteran, Phillip Done, an award winning teacher who recently published 32 Third Graders and One Class Bunny: Life Lessons from Teaching. Whether you're a teacher or a principal, a parent or a truck driver, whether you've had a third grader or only been one, this witty little treasure will keep you laughing while teaching you everything Mr. Done has ever learned.

Mr. Done is a real teacher. He knows this because he has sung "Happy Birthday" 657 times; he can fix zippers that won't zip; and he can make a totem pole out of oatmeal boxes. In these short, clever tales that cover the school year, Done takes us from pie-eating contests through third grade musicals. He laments his annual first-day-of-winter-break virus:

"Why does this happen to me every December? I was so careful this year too. I handed out Kleenex every morning when the kids walked through the door … Next year this will not happen. Next year if I hear so much as a sniffle, I'm not letting any of them into the classroom without a note from the surgeon general."

He extols the value and virtues of garage saling for teachers:

"I walked over to one of the boxes, put down my coffee mug, and started to shake. The boxes were filled with Madelines and Babars, and Encyclopedia Browns and Nancy Drews in almost perfect condition! This was better than Vegas!"

He admonishes the late, great Roald Dahl for using the word "ass" in chapter 6 of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory:

"Do you know what it's like having a classroom full of third graders read that word? Do you? Let me explain what happens … This year was one of the worst. Melanie said she's telling her mother that I swore in class. And Justin? Justin had to be rushed to the nurse's office for oxygen. Quite frankly, Mr. Dahl, I'm trying to have a nice reading hour, and you're ruining it!"

I cried when Katie, who was to be a tree in the class musical, reminded Mr. Done why he does a musical with 90 third graders every year. I was touched when Phil took French lessons and learned all over again how really hard it is to be a student. And I'm still laughing at his passionate, but tragic love affair with the laminating machine. 

So, thank you Mr. Done, for teaching me about being a teacher and a student. I'll carry you with me on my next substituting assignment, laughing all the way.

Tell me about your favorite teacher or what made you laugh in Phil Done's book by clicking here.

Stumble It!

Children and Religious Diversity — CMB Post

Originally posted on the now defunct Chicago Moms Blog.

We are a very liberal household. We chose our community in part because it is diverse — racially, ethnically, socioeconomically and, presumably, politically. Many residents who have the financial ability to live almost anywhere frequently cite our city's diversity as a major draw.

Yet few of us are naive enough to believe that we have achieved true integration of these diverse populations. There is still a pronounced achievement gap in most of our schools. There are neighborhoods that are considered "better" or "safer" than others. Children who play together in preschool and elementary school drift apart in middle school and high school — often along racial lines. Still, we try. At least our children know that not everyone looks alike or comes from the same background.

In our home, we talk a lot about tolerating differences, even within our family. My children are so different that I sometimes think they aren't even members of the same species. But we strive for acceptance (except when it comes to college football, as we are devout Michigan fans). So imagine my surprise when my middle boy came home in second grade and asked if it was OK that he was friends with someone who didn't believe in God.

I was stunned by the question. We are Jewish and our children attend religious school, but we are not particularly observant and have certainly never implied that we had a corner on the religious market. In fact, within our own extended family we have plenty of believers of different faiths, as well as our fair share of nonbelievers.

"Of course, you can still be friends," I assured him, and we had a wonderful discussion about how freedom of religion also includes the freedom not to believe. The First Amendment suddenly made perfect sense to this logical child and he moved on to being intolerant of his brother touching his stuff. I patted myself on the back for another parenting job well done.

So imagine my surprise when, a few years later, my youngest child encountered an even more disturbing form of religious intolerance at school — in third grade! A big playground brouhaha arose when ugly words were hurled at a child who said that his family did not believe in God. Parents and social workers were called in, and the school conducted a "Cool Tool" lesson in the classrooms about tolerance. I was proud of the school for addressing the issue directly, and yet something still did not sit right. I was particularly struck by the fact that both these instances of intolerance were directed at children and families who did not believe in God. Differing religious beliefs did not raise an eyebrow, but non belief seemed to be a huge issue.

One of the things I like about Judaism is that the religion itself encourages questions, debates, even arguments (at least within the Reform community). There is a constant quest for knowledge and understanding. We made the conscious choice to bring our children up within this religious setting because most of the people I knew who were raised without any religious affiliation grew up to believe in nothing. We felt it was important to give our children some background that they could learn about, rebel against, embrace or reject — but come to their decisions from a place of interest, knowledge and questioning.

I worry now, however, that by providing specific religious instruction, even in a tolerant congregation, we may inadvertently be teaching them that our beliefs are somehow "right", which almost by definition implies that different believers must somehow be "wrong." I hope this is not true. I hope these examples of intolerance will lead to more discussions, more growth and more tolerance. I hope my children continue to question — us, their religious teachers, their friends and their community — and I hope they do it in the spirit of achieving true diversity.

This is an original Chicago Moms Blog post. When Susan isn't pondering the big questions of religion and politics, she can be found writing at Two Kinds of People and The Animal Store Blog.

Photo courtesy of Jeanne Levy via flickr.com; the chalk art was done by Liza White and Kary Taylor at the Forest Grove Chalk Festival.

For Sale: Mama Guilt — CMB Post

Originally posted on the now defunct Chicago Moms Blog.

I recognize that in this bear market, it might be prudent to hold onto my portfolio and ride out the storm, but I'm desperate: I need to dump about 10,000 shares of Mama Guilt ASAP.

It all started about three weeks ago when my youngest boy caught a cold, which devolved into the inevitable lingering cough. I'm a sinus infection girl, myself, but the lingering cough is our family Achilles' heel, and the one thing my four children share without fighting over it. That first week, he missed about a day and a half of school, a session of Hebrew school and one soccer practice.

Then he rallied, although not completely (cough, cough), and I sent him back to school. I'm pretty lenient about sick days, because I loathe when people send their infectious children back to school before they are ready. But, frankly, if I kept my kids home every time they coughed, they would grow up illiterate.

On and off over the next 10 days, he would look a little tired and pasty, so I'd give him a steamy bath, some over-the-counter elixirs and an early bedtime, and by the next morning, he would be up and ready, if not raring to go.

Then the weekend rolled around, with soccer practice on Saturday and a game on Sunday in the pouring rain. (OK, it was a heavy drizzle, not a downpour, but from a spectator's point of view, it was miserable. The boys actually seemed to enjoy it.) Throughout the game, huddling under my broken umbrella and cursing the entire soccer program, I made my first acquisition of Mama Guilt stock for the fall season as I began to feel uneasy about allowing him to play. This is ridiculous, I thought. He's had a cold for two weeks. He's going to catch pneumonia.

Mama Guilt, Round 2: Relax, I argued with myself. He's not a baby anymore; you've got to stop hovering. A little water never hurt anyone.

Mama Guilt, Round 3: The next day, I couldn't even wake him up to go to school. He slept until 10:30 a.m. and spent the day hanging out, but didn't really seem sick (except for the aforementioned lingering cough).

Mama Guilt, Round 4: Tuesday morning, I again argued with myself — send him to school, or keep him home again. This is ridiculous, I thought. School's barely been in session a month and he's already missed nearly a week. So, off he went. Not three hours later, the phone rang and I just knew it was the school health clerk. I brought him home and he promptly fell asleep for three hours, waking with a fever of 102°.

Mama Guilt, Round 5: "Bring him right in," they said when I called the pediatrician. She listened to his chest, frowning; she listened to his cough, frowning; she tested his blood oxygen level, frowning. "He's really junky," she said. "We're going to treat him for bacterial pneumonia. He'll either feel a lot better in two days or you'll have to bring him back." And even though she assured me that I was not a loser mother, that I had done exactly what I should have done, it was too late — my portfolio runneth over with Mama Guilt.

The good news is that he's responding well to the meds and I find I'm ready to divest myself of Mama Guilt, so if you know anyone in the market, I'm selling — cheap!

When Susan isn't busy wallowing in guilt here at Chicago Mom's Blog, she can be found wallowing on her own blogs, Two Kinds of People and The Animal Store Blog.