I can feel the stress creeping up my back. Into my shoulders. Down my spine.
Everywhere I turn, I hear what seem to be hundreds of little voices calling me. Calling me to ‘come!’ and ‘look!’ To intervene and facilitate. To watch and guide. Happy Voices. Tattling voices. Whining voices. Crying voices. Pleading voices. Voices. Calling me in various cadences of sound. Until all the voices fade into one and I hear instead a distinct ringing in my ears.
“Mrs. Gaaaarrrrrrddddd!”
I feel that taut muscle system pulling in the back of my neck and shoulder. And I rotate my neck, hoping to alleviate the strain. I am probably doing damage there in ways that would make a chiropractor cringe.
Nonetheless. Muscle relaxation, cartwheels and games of tag. It is what we teachers do. To survive and enjoy that sweet half an hour stretch known to children as Big Recess. And known to teachers as: ‘The Slowest Half Hour of the Day Which Has Been Designated Specifically for Outdoor Bedlam’.
Or, in the handbook: it’s known as Lunch Duty. And it can go one of two ways. Smooth. Or utter chaos.
I start walking over to the new tether-ball set-up, as there is a crowd of students gathered. Tether ball stations for a K-2 playground. “Seemed like a great idea at the time, said no teacher ever.” And it has already proved to be that expected source of contention that was anticipated, that is: contention over whose turn will be next and whether or not everyone is getting a fair shot. And the very real dilemma that one kid has already received two bonks in the head worthy of a pretty good concussion. It is a hot spot of entertainment for one and all. Love that I am the guinea pig teacher who gets to try it all out first! And as I left this huddle of fun only five minutes prior (to investigate such worthy matters as bodies in backpacks and ‘who wasn’t playing with whom’), I know that it is time to make my dreaded return. To the tether-ball game and the twenty or so children lined up waiting for a turn.
Time is up just now for the two whacking the ball into oblivion.
I trundle over.
“Time to shift,” I holler. “Who’s up next?”
The two already in play start to contend. One yells at me, “But we haven’t won yet!!”
“Sorry guys, there are a lot of kids waiting for a turn. So, you’ll have to end your game and move to the back of the line.”
“What.the.FRIG,” comes the angry retort. Then, the stomping begins, and Little Tether-Ball Player starts to storm off.
What the FRIG sounds to me like a string of swear words, seeing as I am dealing with innocent Primary-aged students.
I can feel blood boiling, along with that tight shoulder spasm.
I can almost sense a blood vessel about to burst. You could pump a bike tire with this pressure.
“So-and-so, you follow me please. Over to the wall.”
So-and-so walks off in the other direction.
“So-and-so,” I repeat again, in as calm but insistent a voice as I can muster, “Follow me over to the wall.”
So-and-so follows. But reluctantly.
I have exactly ten seconds to talk myself down from this potential heart attack I can feel coming on. I am ready to explode or spontaneously combust.
I arrive at the wall and I realize. I have a choice to make. I can issue stern reprimands for disrespect to a teacher, which will be followed up on once said child arrives inside. Or. I can choose another route.
Another way.
When we see children as precious souls. As little people with big stories. We then make a choice to understand the ‘why’s’ of their behaviors. Thus allowing us to get below the surface of the ‘what’s’ of the circumstances in their lives. So as to uncover the truth. Their truth.
For every child has a truth that is their very own. And we do a disservice to them as human beings when we don’t listen closely enough. For the rest of the story.
Big breath.
Calm voice.
Heart connection.
And I make a choice of compassion and understanding over frustration and anger.
We both win. That Tether-Ball Champ and I. And know it as true as the sky is blue. As true as there are not enough words to justly tell a story. Truth- a child’s truth. I can see it shining in his eyes.
Ten evidences that I have ‘parented’ in the last twenty-four hours…
10.) Although I picked both daughters up late for Birthday Party # 1 (let’s just say…I am use to seeing the cell phone out and panicked looks on my children’s faces) and then dropped one daughter off at the wrong entrance for Birthday Party #2 (causing her to miss one hour and fifteen minutes of said party and scoring a slice of pizza the size of a garlic finger for My Bad…), I did remember to retrieve both and bring them home at the end of the day. (Dirty looks abound…)
9.) Although I was responsible for Latter Daughter not getting supper at said b-day bash, I did dodge the mosquitoes and frigid Island June weather to buy milkshakes all around from the Dairy Royale. (Score! And I’m back in.)
8.) Although I remembered the edible art supplies for my daughter’s L.A. landscape project made from common grocery items(think: mouldy bread covered in jam, then sprinkled with hardened brown sugar rocks that are better suited for a construction site project…), I forgot to plan an essential trip to Foodland for the main ingredients. (Back in the red…)
7.) But due to eaves-dropping on a convo’ between two colleagues re. a trip to the corner grocery store, I managed to pass my grocery list to one Sweetheart who offered to pick up the finishing touches to said project so that my daughter could eek a passing mark out of this project.
6.) But, because everyone was hungry and we had not time to stop for a burger, I gave the groceries to my children to eat. Which they proceeded to devour with concerning ferocity. And maybe I might have eaten a little too. (So long!, art project. So long!, passing marks…)
5.) Since I am awesome at smoothing things over, I promised Daughter of the Art Genius that I would get the art supplies even if that meant I would leave at recess to go purchase the necessities…pleading with said Daughter to state my case to her lovely teacher (Rehearse: “Busy weekend, no time, stressed to the max” And again…!)
4.) Didn’t have time to go to the store. Met teacher in the hall instead. Panicked. Told her I ate the homework.
3.) Made an emergency trip to Foodland. Bought the groceries. Roundtrip: exactly 4.37 minutes.
2.)Then had a brainwave of creativity. Saw broccoli on sale. Thought it might be useful. Purchased a pretty sad looking pair of stocks. Hoped daughter might think in terms of environmental restoration and use them as filler.
1.) Dropped off the bag only to have teacher ask, “What’s the broccoli for? Am I suppose to look after this until the end of the day?” At which point I realized she thought I had also bought our supper. I guess it would be a plausible theory. So, we ended up eating it anyway…in a stir-fry. At which point my daughter asked, “Is this broccoli from my ART Project?
And so I say. Here’s the proof. I parented much, baby. I did. And I got the broccoli to prove it.
We were born for this. This journey, this life adventure. This journey on which we travel in and out of days and weeks and months and years. In and out of seasons. We were born for this quest. Were born for the highs and lows, the twists and turns. The bends. The forks in the road. Were born for travelling up hill and down. We were born for the good times and the bad times.
We were born for the ride.
And it is a ride. At times a roller-coaster. At times a meander. And at more times than I would like to admit: a tedious crawl- face to the ground.
I’ve always liked to think that my exciting, real life is going to happen sometime soon. Like maybe today. Or tomorrow. Or sometime in the not-so-far-away future. Because this business of crawling: of living in reality. Of working 9-5, of making meals, of chauffeuring, of settling spats amongst children. Of living the daily grind. This business is for the birds, really. And it cannot possibly be what I was born for.
I was born for more.
And the real life I am so desperately waiting for looks more like this: quiet mornings sipping coffee. Uninterrupted writing time. Long, invigorating walks. Deep, meaningful conversations. Face-time with my spouse. My head stuck in a good book. Exotic travel. Rewarding humanitarian work. Service to country and fellow human beings: brothers and sisters both here and abroad.
And to cap it all off, maybe just a little more time to follow my dreams. In other words, time to pursue what I have always believed I was born for: something more.
Something more than crawling.
And there are times I wonder, “Why this?” Why the noise and confusion and chaos and trouble and hurt and heartache and pain and sacrifice? It wasn’t part of the dream.
Or was it?
To be sure, life is a ride. A ride full of fearful unknowns and weary treks as much as it is a ride full of adventure. And so it is that I will hold to the belief that I was born for the trip in its entirety. And although the ride is not what I always envisioned the real journey to look like-this stuff of everyday living slows my travelling down. It is this- the stuff of everyday living that has truly taught me the most. About self. About others. And about God. About life.
I was born for this. Was born for mothering. For teaching. For service. I was born to live this life that I am living now.
I was born to these callings. Was born for such a time as this, for such a time as now. For such a time as are a mother’s hours: 24/7, 365 days a year. And added to that, I was born for teaching five days a week, from 9-4. Was born for such a time as even more than those boxed-in hours. For late nights at the computer and early mornings, my hands busy folding laundry.
I was born for this. For these crazy moments spent slogging away.
But I was also born for this: I was born to be that friendly, cheerful face by the classroom doors- greeting children of all ages with a welcoming smile. A warm hug. An inquiring question. A thoughtful comment or two. Was born to hold chubby little hands, to look intently into blue-eyed baby faces. To hear sweet and innocent stories. To hear stories not so simple, of lives more complicated than my own. To hear stories told that bring me to my knees, that haunt me in my waking hours. Stories that propel me to advocate for change.
I was born for this too. For opening up milk cartons. Cutting yogurt packages into a slit at the top. Passing out pizza slices. Issuing band-aids. Umpteen-dozen band-aids each and every day. I was born to look at ‘owies’- with a professional’s eye.
Was born to read books- piles and piles of glorious books. To read them with expression, passion and joie de vivre! To saturate the room with them. To buy them by the dozen! To relish children’s laughter as I read favorites again and again.
I was born for even this.
I was born to find joy in everyday pleasures. To find joy in the mundane, the ordinary. Joy. In reciting the alphabet, counting to twenty and playing with play-doh. In watching the weather and growing bean plants and using scented markers. In playing with puppets and using brand-new crayons. In practicing piano. In bouncing balls.
I was born for all this.
Was born to fight for the underdog, to defend the rights of the under-privileged. To hear the hard stories and not turn away. To look into hearts and ask difficult questions. To put a face to the data.
I was born for this. What joy!
I was born to do hard things. To make tough calls. To follow through. To see a story through to its ending. To never give up.
To always hope. To always protect. To always believe.
I was born for this. For all of this.
I was born to not go down quietly. To be a loud voice, if need be. To shout it from the roof-tops or whisper it in the quiet of a room. I was born for even this.
I was born to be a builder of blocks, a builder of lives. A mender of hearts- a champion of dreams.
I was born to be a mother. Was born to teach. To be the teacher and the learner. To make room in my heart. Always enough room for one more. And true. It has not always been the easiest space I’ve ever inhabited, nor has it always been the most pleasant. It is exhausting work- all of it. But these acts of service have been the most rewarding of my journey thus far. The most worthwhile. Because the joy I have found in giving and receiving love, in knowing and in learning about people and the world we live in. In understanding the stories connected to the lives. This privilege. It is unmatched in nearly any other act of service I have ever done. And these acts of unconditional love in service to the four precious children I have borne as well as the caring and compassion I freely give to the children I have found room for in my heart. Whom I teach inside classroom walls. Whom teach me that life is more. So much more. These lives, these stories are what make the ride worthwhile.
It’s about the people. It’s about humanity. And it’s about the children.
Because I was born for much, not the least of which- to nurture, love and care. I was born to do the grueling work of care-giving as much as I was born to inspire, challenge and motivate. And above all, I was born to give back. For in my life I have been given much. And so much is required.
I was born for this, this life I am living. I was born for all of it.
Was born to this calling. Was born for such a time as this, for such a time as now.
For such a time as five days a week, from 9-4. And then, for such a time as even more than boxed-in hours. For late nights and early mornings.
I was born for this.
I was born to be that friendly, cheerful face- to greet those precious children of all ages with a welcoming smile. A warm hug. An inquiring question. A thoughtful comment or two.
Was born to hold chubby little hands, to look intently into blue-eyed baby faces. To hear their sweet and innocent stories. To hear stories not so simple, of lives more complicated than my own. To hear stories told that bring me to my knees. That haunt me in my waking hours. That propel me to advocate for change.
I was born for this. For opening up milk cartons. Cutting yogurt packages into a slit at the top. Passing out pizza slices. Issuing band-aids. Umpteen-dozen band-aids each and every day.
I was born to look at ‘owies’- with a professional’s eye.
Was born to read books- piles and piles of glorious books. To read them with expression, passion and joie de vivre! To saturate the room with them. To buy them by the dozen! To relish children’s laughter as I read favorites again and again.
I was born for this.
I was born to find joy in everyday pleasures. To find joy in the mundane, the ordinary. Joy. In reciting the alphabet, counting to twenty and playing with play-doh. In watching the weather and growing bean plants and using scented markers. In playing with puppets and using brand-new crayons.
Joy!
I was born for this.
Was born to fight for the underdog, to defend the rights of the under-privileged. To hear the stories and not turn away. To look into hearts and ask the difficult questions.
I was born for this.
I was born to do hard things. To make tough calls. To follow through. To see a story through to its ending. To never give up.
To always hope. To always protect. To always believe.
I was born for this.
I was born to not go down quietly. To be a loud voice, if need be. To shout it from the roof-tops or whisper it in the quiet of a room. I was born for this.
I was born to be a builder of blocks, a builder of lives. A mender of hearts- a champion of dreams.
I was born for this.
I was born to teach. To be the teacher. And true. It has not always been the easiest space I’ve ever inhabited, nor has it always been the most pleasant. For teaching is hard work. And it is a tremendous responsibility. A sacrifice. But teaching has been one of the most rewarding things I have ever done. Because the joy I have found in giving and receiving, in knowing and in learning. In understanding the stories of people’s lives. Young and old alike. This honor is virtually unmatched in nearly any other act of service I have ever done, apart from being a mother to my four precious children. But then again. Once a mother, always a mother. I am mother always. Whether I be mother at home or at school. During hours or after hours. On week days or on the week-ends. A mothers work is never done. Much like a teacher’s.
And I was born to be both.
Because I was born to nurture, love and care. Was born to inspire. To challenge and motivate. To teach and mother.
There are students at my school that sing to the teachers as we come in the school. This is what they sing: “Welcome to Blooooomfield!!!! Have a nice day! And I cannot help but think that these students have a really great way of looking at life…and a great perspective. And they remind me each and every morning that a great life starts with a great day. Not a perfect day…just a day that has potential to be awesome. And all because of perspective.
Sometimes I just need to remember how to have a beautiful day. That great days happen when I…
*smile often and lavishly
*think before I speak
*laugh as much as is possible
*make lemonade out of those lemons!
* make the best of things…
*treat myself to something every day…little luxuries make life special
*dream a little. On second thought..nah! Dream a lot!
*pray continuously
*kiss those special ‘somebodies’
*hug a child
*allow myself to be challenged
*push myself outside your comfort zone
*relax
*sleep
*read
*and remember: this is not just another day…it’s NOW. There will never be another NOW exactly like this one, again.
So. have a nice day! And make the most of NOW. Don’t be one bit surprised if you have a beautiful day because of it.
Okay. Whatever. I am just going to throw in the towel and join the circus. Add to the usual chaos that follows me from home to school to wherever I go, you can add to that list: Dream Crasher. ‘Cause there is one lil’ gal in West Prince who no longer believes in the tooth fairy because of Your’s Truly.
You wouldn’t believe this story even if I swore it was true. Which incidentally it is.
ONE MONTH AGO…a little girl came up to me on the playground and told me she had lost her tooth. I was on duty. I knew that I had no where safe to put the tooth. So, being a tad bit squeamish of other people’s bloodied dental apparatuses, I asked her to carefully place the tooth in her front pocket…. to which I commanded- “and for goodness sake, don’t lose it.”
So, she lost it.
But not on the playground, as one might be prone to do. If one was active and five years old and a little lackadaisical. Rather. It got lost when she tried to find a safe place to keep it (of course, isn’t that always the way?) And where, pray tell would that SAFE place be, hmmm? None other than…inside the jungle that is my kindergarten classroom. Seriously, even I lose stuff in there. It is a kaleidoscope of mayhem and activity. I wouldn’t suggest anyone leave their keys kicking around, as I lose mine inside the confines of these four colorful walls almost daily. But, she was on her game…trying to find a safe place for that darn tooth. And in the time it took me to take the Duty Clipboard up to the office, grab my lunch and head back to class- the tooth got mislayed.
Oh, the horror that immediately struck me. Because Kindergarten teachers know that part of the magic of teaching this precious age is the beauty of imagination and fairytale. Most notable, the event that is the loss of those first baby teeth and the magic that ensues when the tooth fairy makes her first visits.
So, I was under considerable duress about that tooth. Stressed out to the MAX. Add to which, I probably also had to use the bathroom (duty day, and all).
When I recovered my wits, I began an all-out search party for the tooth. At the end of that day, I thought the worst of things were over, and wrote the following:
…a conversation that ensued over the afternoon (for those who might not have read that particular night’s Facebook status…)
Recess, Duty Day:
Little Girl: “I lost my tooth, Mrs. Gard!!!”
Me: “Well, let’s put it here in your coat pocket.”
Lunch:
Little Girl (on her hands and knees under the desk): “I lost my tooth, Mrs. Gard.”
Me: “You lost your tooth, and now you’ve gone and lost your tooth?
Afternoon:
Little Girl (muttering to herself): “Oh man. My mother is going to be so mad when she finds out I’ve lost my tooth. What’s she going to think? What’s she going to say…? She’ll say, ’Oh ____, you lost your tooth…where is it?’, and I am going to have to tell her, ‘I don’t know where it is, Mom’.”
End of the Day:
Me: If I find your tooth, I’ll save it and give it to you after the long weekend, ‘kay?”
Little Girl: “Okay!!!! (then, upon deciding I might need some description so as to narrow things down, she says this) “Okay, well…it’s WHITE….and it’s a little dirty.”
No kidding.
ONE MONTH LATER…
We are on the rug. The same little girl is minding her own P.’s and Q.’s when all of a sudden she cries out, “I found a tooth!!!!”
I immediately think to myself, “Let the ground swallow me whole,” as I know that the tooth Fairy has come and gone and left the cash. How could she have been so careless. And thanks alot, you little impish demon for leaving me to concoct a story on the spot about why that tooth showed up now…ONE MONTH LATER?
All manner of things are going through my head, not the least of which… “…and how dirty IS this blue rug upon which I sit my dainty buttocks each and every day… that a tooth could show up a month later and not landed it’s pearly self inside the darkened bin that is the school vacuum cleaner.” But I digress.
Forward to today…
I meet her Father in the hall as he is dropping her of to classes, and in my complete and utter stupidity, I also COMPLETELY forget the story we had concocted (last MONTH) to tell if and when the tooth should ever be found. It was over a month ago, people.
And in my eagerness to say something…ANYTHING, I say this, “Wasn’t it cool how we found the tooth…and one month later, nonetheless???????”
Utter.silence. Please open up Earth and swallow me whole.
If looks could kill, you’d all be attending my wake tomorrow evening. I guess you could say that I opened up my big mouth and the words couldn’t stop flowing. I started back-tracking then, trying to think of another reason that tooth could possibly show up in my room. And people, I couldn’t think of ONE GOOD REASON. Nope. I was blank. And spouting suggestions at the drop of a hat. Finally, the Father made the “cut your throat’ gesture, and I stopped talking, slinked into the classroom and checked to see if I still had a pulse. I did, much to my own dismay. And much, much later, when I called and asked the family if there was anything, (and I quote) “ANYTHING I can do to fix up this faux pas” they kindly asked me to do this.
Please.don’t.say.another.thing.
I am officially muted on the subject of the Tooth Fairy.
When my son was little, I lost natural hair color over stressing about his day at school. I don’t know if his initial school experience was typical or not, as he is my only boy, and I merely have his one experience to go on. But, I am starting to think it might be. Although the variables might change from boy to boy, there are certainly some parallels to be found when it comes to educating boys. When it comes to boys and their indifference- and lack of interest in, the whole school experience.
My boy fretted and worried about school from the get-go. His first day home from kindergarten, I waited patiently under the old maple, picking at the moss growing along the spreading roots. I watched the bus go by, and then watched as it swung back again, up our side road, dropping my son off at the end of the lane. And, as eagerly as I chased him down to hear stories about the first of all experiences at school, he equalled my enthusiasm in stridency, storming past, eyebrows in a furrow. Pounding feet against the stone walkway, as he stormed into the house. What a mother fail for me. How I wanted to sit in the late summer breeze hearing about all the wonderful things he’d done, all the magical experiences he’d been part of. He’d have none of that foolishness. He had some unwinding to get to, and sitting with me waxing poetic about his school day, was not on that list of after-school priorities.
Grade 1 was even harder. He clung to my leg for the better part of forty-five minutes. He was anxious, worried about making friends, scared of being alone, frightened of me leaving. I held one babe on my hip and clasped another toddler with my free hand. Three little bodies stuck to me like crazy glue. And while I tried to un-peel his little hands, I thought to myself, “There’s got to be a better way.” I knew this was awkward. I knew there would be eyebrows raised. And I felt that pressure to let go his hand, even as my mother instinct was telling me, “No! We’re both not ready for this.” And yet, I let his hand slip first, turned and walked away. Hoping for the best.
Each year got both easier and harder. He began to distance himself from me…no more clinging. But there were new worries to be had. There was the whole adapting to classroom structure to fret over. Homework routines to make and then stick to. And the issue of his making and finding friendship, to add to the mother lode. Not to mention the usual childhood rite of bullying to endure, that helped to establish the playground pecking order. Somehow, he often found himself on the bottom of that pile-up.
And woven into each additional year was the stress of performance anxiety. He was not a behaviour challenge inside the school setting. Indeed, his teachers raved about his smarts and his ability to focus. But, there was something awry that I just couldn’t seem to put my finger on, at the time. It seemed to be the combination of his trying to find his place in this new world of norms, along with trying to please both his peers and the adults around him, along with the very high expectations he placed on himself. All combined, becoming a triple threat of trouble. Perhaps the most taxing of all was the pressure he placed on himself to stay in tip-top academic shape, as that was often the only area he was able to truly control about his school experience. And in doing so, school became difficult at times. Tedious. Even dreaded.
And although my son has succeeded academically, there are many ways in which I feel he has fallen through the cracks. Because he is prone to performance anxiety on a personal level, yes. But also because in a more general way, he is a boy. A boys and school can often make for an unstable combination.
Although I am a mother, I am also a teacher. And I have gone through my fair share of navigational mishaps in trying to find my way as a teacher of both male and female students. I have made many mistakes along the way. But, in gaining experience, I have come to believe that there are some ways in which the school systems could better service boys, and girls for that matter. Helping students who don’t fit the usual mold better adapt. If it was a perfect world, and I was Big Boss of the Education System, here is what I would change. (And might I add, many of these beliefs/ideas about learning are already at play in some awesome classrooms of colleagues and fellow teachers)
Students need choice. Students need as part of their day, time built in for choice. Time where they decide what their learning will look like. Time when they set the learning outcomes and strive to meet their goals.
Students need responsibility. Students need to learn to follow through on choice. When they make a mess, they clean it up. When they make a mistake, they initiate the change. When they do it wrong, they find another way to do it right. When they make a poor choice, they are given instruction on how to make a better choice next time.
Students need flexibility. When students are starting to zone out, students need options. School is hard work. Some kids can only last for a short period, and they need a break. Some kids need physical activity interwoven into every part of their day. Or they can’t survive. Some students only learn when they are out of a chair. Some kids can’t handle a desk. Some kids need to run. Kids need lots of different things to learn. We need to get better at helping them cope with their differing learning styles.
Students need less structure. I did not say ‘no’ structure, I said less. When I think of a well-balanced, healthy home environment, I think it is an ideal learning atmosphere. In a typical home, at any given time, a child can be on the computer fine-tuning their problem-solving skills, all while one sibling is measuring ingredients for an after-school microwave concoction and another is practicing their tuba. Or, if you will. While one is resting on the sofa, texting messages to a friend and another is sketching designs for the latest fashion show. What the home environment does for learning is allow for freedom from rigid structure. There is structure, it is just more fluid. And learning takes place in a less rigid environment. It just looks different than traditional, formal education.
Students need more student-led learning and less teacher-led instruction. The days that talking heads are the ‘be all and end all of instruction’ have already gone the way of the do-do bird. Sure, there is a place in instruction for lecture-style learning. Sure, some students learn best in a structured, traditional classroom setting. But, many students don’t. These students need application and hands-on experiences, they need trial-and-error, risk and adventure, opportunity and choice. What everyone needs is the opportunity to put into practice what they are learning. And what better way to do so than when following an interest initiated by said student themselves.
Of course, these all rest on the commitment of teachers to best teaching practices. And past that, teachers rely on school boards enabling them the time, resources and space to follow through on these best teaching practices. And school boards rely on government, and so on and so forth. Change is always hard coming.
Little by little.
And sometimes it’s the simplest things that matter the most. Like an upper-elementary boy being allowed out of class to come down to the Kindergarten room to color. Like an over-active boy in Kindergarten being allowed time to go for a run in between learning goals. Like students being given time to dance in music class. Like showing kids that physical activity counts as an important part of learning.
And its these smallest of changes that often make the biggest difference in the life of a child.
My baby turned six today. Happy birthday, M.A. You bundle of energy, you ball of fire. You, my own little spitfire. I love you to the moon and back.
Who would’ve ever thought we would get this far, intact. Intact being the key word here, and don’t think I don’t mean it. Intact, with most of my sanity still hovering at even-keel. My gray roots still clinging to the scalp for dear life. Holding out for a brighter color wash tomorrow. If I am lucky.
Grey roots are so optimistic.
What I know for sure is this. What is going to happen tomorrow is NOT that color wash: instead, I am going to get up at the crack of…actually, make that get up in the dark. (darn time change) I am going to rush around like a chicken with its head cut off until it is time to load the Gard bus/mini-van. I am going to burst headlong into the school, second last to arrive. Yes, sadly arriving nearly last and only before the Grade1/2A teacher pulls in and parks beside me, at our usual spot… next to the ditch. (I can tease her…she’s not on Facebook. HA!)
Then, I will greet the various students who are gathered at the front doors, and eventually make my way to my classroom, which will be half-organized because I was at the school the night before past ten o’clock. Then, I will have first and second recess outside duty, I will have afternoon centers/mad mayhem, and I will help load the precious little students on the bus so they can go home to their families. If only for the better part of an hour. (more on that later)
And if I am lucky. I will have pulled out in my Gard bus/minivan with my own three children in tow before the school buses leave the school parking lot. And all this so that I can pick up Son up at his school for a three o’clock dentist appointment. After which, I will indeed head to the beauty parlor. But I will sadly, as I mentioned above, not have time to cover those blasted roots. Instead I will comfort myself with freshly plucked and shaped eyebrows. This is what I call a good time.
While I am lying horizontal on the esthetician’s bed, my darling children will be somewhere, talking to someone and doing something over which I will have no control. Because I will be lying prostrate in a very compromising position, and I will also be in no position to get up. That’s what getting my eyebrows shaped really does for me: it gives me the great satisfaction of thinking that I am totally off the hook for the well-being of my three girls for those five minutes.
“Que sera sera, my generous beauticians.”
“Don’t break anything, lovies.”
I will then leave at exactly 3:15 p.m. for Alberton where I will persuade the bank to entrust me with some American money which I will try not to spend the first five minutes I land in an American mall. I will leave the bank, and head back towards home. Only I will stop before the bend. And that stop will land me directly at the Alberton Baptist Church gym. And I will stop because I have invited 20 children and various adults, (seven children of whom have already spent six hours with me today), to bounce basketballs and scream very loudly in a very ‘sound-inefficient’ gymnasium. And this fun will carry on for, oh say, the next two hours.
In other words, I am planning on having a migraine.
After succoumbing to which, I will head then to the bowling alleys for my eventual and imminent demise. And if I am lucky, someone will roll me down the lane into the gutter. I will be able to take a nap behind the curtain.
And to cap it all off, this fun day ahead, I will come home and finish packing for a trip which I still have yet to finalize the details regarding my return trip back home. Which really means: I have been very interested in Florida real estate lately.
My crazy schedule combined with my sudden interest in the housing market in Florida…coincidence? I think not. I am already looking into a green card. I hear they give them out on St. Paddy’s Day.
(and of course y’all know that I’m kidding. I love that word…y’all. I hope I get to use it in Florida…)
I am home today. Which is to say, I am not at work. Which is to say, I feel like a slacker.
So. When one is home, as I myself have now discovered. There are a few things that sometimes occur. Sometimes large brown security trucks arrive unannounced in your driveway, with the unspoken expectation hanging there like a cloud over one’s head, that one must needs come to the door armed themselves with all the right answers.
Which is to say. The UPS guy just dropped by the house.
And I must say: he quite caught me off-guard. I almost didn’t come to the door. Me, with yoga pants on, hair done up in a purple butterfly clip and no make-up. Scary, female stuff. Working blue-collar guys just might not understand this stuff. But I am only surmising. Nevertheless. He looked as surprised to see a human being home as I was to hear the knock at the door, surprise which quickly turned for him to annoyance. It appears my husband had forgotten to inform me of this little visit from UPS, and the important package I should have had ready. No matter. He’s gone now. Off to do his important, adult job which quite possible could include harassing other unsuspecting housewives over packages their husbands forgot to mention.
All in a day’s work.
Today is meant for me to be a mental health day off from my real life (where I practice being an able-bodied, competent adult.) Again, which is to say: I often moonlight as a scared and tired, unable preschooler because that’s how humans roll sometimes, if we’re being honest. Adults are just kids whose skin has stretched. And truthfully, mental health days are sometimes necessary, even for me. And right now, especially for me. Because my life is not as perfect as it might seem from the outside(as if anyone’s ever is). And mental health counts as whole body wellness. And then some, I might add.
So I am home today, healing a few things from the inside out. And in order to be at home today, I had to get up at 6:00 a.m. this morning, so as to prepare my lesson plan at sharply 6:15 a.m. After which, I drove into the school for 6:40 a.m. to get my sub plan ready. And all this, so I could take my most-needed mental health day off from work.
All in a day’s work.
I love the school at 6:40 a.m. I move quietly around the classroom, preparing sheets, books, homework bags. Readying supplies, sticking Post-It notes on everything. Photocopying. You know, the usual teacher stuff. I love the quiet, the peace. The calm. So still. I can think without interruptions. Some people ask me why I go into school sometimes late at night to prepare for the next day’s lessons, and I have to answer that question in this way: the school after-hours, is for me, a respite. After the hectic events of the school day, that building is the quietest, most peaceful place I know.
It reminds me of a book in my classroom called My Teacher Sleeps in School. Which has done wonders in unravelling the mysterious myth that teachers have no life outside the confines of the four classroom walls. Now, if parents could only read the book.
Someone asked me yesterday, “Do I enjoy teaching this age?” (I teach Kindergarten), which really threw me for a loop. As those kinds of questions often do. Whenever I am asked questions like “Do I enjoy teaching?” or the more broad “Do I enjoy parenting?” or the more specific “Do I enjoy having a big family?”: I feel like it’s a test. Like I am completing an exam. And we all know, when writing exams or when answering those kinds of questions- there is always a right or a wrong answer.
I wish they’d just ask me if I have ever tried licking my elbow. For the record, I have.
In general, I have come to believe that quite often, people don’t really want to know the real answer to tough questions about life. They want to hear you say the right answer. That “yes,” you love “altruistically laying your life on the altar of self-sacrifice and that you get a secret thrilling satisfaction from doing everything the above questions entail, including but not limited to refereeing disputes and laminating holiday crafts of every variety, to wiping snotty noses (this one is geared to the middle and last questions) and changing bums, to acting as a chauffeur and making household ground rules only to have them broken the minute they’re been issued.”
I quite like all that. Really. I do.
But if that was the real reason I decided to be a teacher, or a parent or a mother, I’d have to be truthful. There’d be more mental health days than just the present one I’m on right now. Because quite honestly, I don’t really love all those latter parts of my job, as it concerns both being a parent or a teacher. Or as it concerns being a mother, to up the ante even more. The above answer is more about the details that sometimes complicate my love of this Life that I am living. Not so much about my motive. And we all know that details sometimes weigh us down. The records I am required to keep, the list making. The unrecognized acts of service: like wiping up bloody noses and picking freshly chewed up wads of gum off the classroom floor or dispensing of crumpled up food containers that didn’t quite make it in the right waste receptacle. The constant, continual reminders, to follow the classroom rules. The late nights and early mornings. The duty days with no regular pee breaks.
Acts of service that sometimes go unnoticed. It’s all in the details.
Details like rushing home so as to throw supper on before rushing back to pick up kids from after school programs, then making sure everyone has practiced their piano, done their homework and hung up their coat, even if that means receiving the Meanest Mommy Award in the process. Details like sifting through back-packs and lunchboxes so as to ensure everyone has their ‘favorites’ and enough of these goodies to last at least three feedings throughout the day; along with all papers signed and ready to go, mittens, hats, boots, coats. Oh! And Pajamas, teddy bears, slippers and housecoats packed, if it happens to be Winter Carnival. Details like filling medicine vials for one while slathering Vapo-Rub on another, while lying down with another who is just a wee bit scared of being alone. Details like acting as the presiding judge over such important cases as “who really did touch that donut first” or “who let one go during bedtime story.”
Details like listening to your children’s hearts and navigating through the clutter of everyday life. To search out and know, I mean really know the issues that matter to them. The issues that are important in understanding another human being, as precious as a child. Details that help shape a person into a good citizen, details that make or break a person’s character. Details. But so important to the job. Without such, there would be no job. The details could be defined in this way: all that essential stuff that makes a person a teacher, a woman a mother, a human being a citizen: stuff the life manuls, textbooks and baby books never covered. You can’t fault a book. They just forgot to include that life isn’t really all in the details. Sometimes life is more complicated than that.
No biggie.
I’ve read articles on parenting and have had really deep discussions about teaching with my colleagues. And the question I hear asked or that I am asked myself, is this one: “What makes a good teacher, parent, mother, human being?” And I have thought long and hard about this one.
Because the right answer, I think, is also the real answer.
We human beings in general can forget that life is about caring. We can feel these expectations weighing down on us. Feeling the pressure on us, so much so that we think that if we slack off in any aspect of our lives- whether that be the job, in the homes, in relationships, through unspoken expectations we have placed on ourselves- that we are failing to live up to a certain standard. Some people oddly, yet joyfully align themselves as slackers. And I’ll admit it. There is a freedom that comes in admitting you cannot do your job perfectly well. And for those who don’t take the pressure off themselves, there can be enormous guilt from not living up to expectations, whether those be for a job or a home. But for either/or: if a person ultimately CARES about what they do, it really doesn’t matter how well they think they are doing. Or not. What matters is their concern about the matter.
Caring about something indicates your heart is in the right place. You cannot qualify care. You either have it, or you do not.
The thing is. We all want to do our best. Those who openly say they don’t care, and those who inwardly beat themselves up because they do, we all care about what we do. We care, because we are human. We care about what we do because to not care would be to not be human. And caring is just a form of kindness. When we care, we show kindness. Whether that be showing care to one’s students, co-workers or one’s children. Care indicates kindness.
All of life is really about kindness.
The question that matters in everything is this: “Are you kind?”
I write a message to my Kindergarten students everyday to reinforce learning outcomes, and the latest area of teaching has been regarding the area of punctuation in writing. So this week, I introduced quotation marks. Every day, I write a new quotation at the end of my message, all in the hopes that the students will “get it.” The punctuation, that is. I am such an intentional teacher, teaching quotation marks to Kindergartners. But I digress. So this morning, I was finishing up my message, all while searching my mind for a quotation to put in the message. I began looking around the classroom, and the very last line of our collaboratively created class rules caught my eye: Show others you care.
Which is to say, I wrote the following: “Show others you care,” said Mrs. Gard. And as I was writing, I began to see that teaching quotations marks is not the lesson.
The message was the lesson. “Show others you care.”
Is this not all of life summed up in a line? Is it not the answer to those hardest of questions? Do I like teaching this age or that age? Yes I like teaching- not because of the outcomes or grade level-expectations: but because I care about the students. Do I like my job? Yes. Because I care about the people with whom I interact. Do I like parenting? (And here is where the questions get harder…) No, I don’t always like parenting, but I like being a parent. Because I care about my kids. Do I like mothering? No, I don’t always like mothering, but I love my children. And because I care about them, it makes everything else worthwhile.
Do I like the details that weigh me down in my various roles of Life? No. Do I always even like my own four sweet children? No. But I love them. (No one ever said you had to like ‘em or their peculiar habits and annoying ways.) Do I have to love the details in order to love The Life? No. But I have to love the people who are affected by the details, who often create the messiness of the details, that hinder me from understanding the true meaning of life. That life is about love. And love is borne of care. And care is just another word for kindness.
The right answer to the hard questions about people is always this: to care about them. If we care, it takes care of the sordid details. Caring makes everyone and everything else worthwhile. And if there is one message in life that I would have my students learn, indeed my Flesh and Blood- my own four beautiful babies learn, it is this. That all of human relationships- both work-related and home-related boil down to this underlying principle: caring and kindness are what they are all about. And when we practice these two in tandem, it makes all the difference for everything else.
The big events in life are fantastic, of course. And when they happen, I am blown over. Awestruck. But it’s the little things that really get me. Those smallest of events, the little graces. And when something little happens to change the course of my day for the better, I know there is nothing else to do but offer up gratitude. To yield true appreciation for what I have received.
Because that one small thing was the game changer. The difference.
Friday afternoon, I am sitting at a small desk with a stack of papers, a student to my left. As I have been out most of the week with Oldest home sick, I am truly behind. Depressingly behind. Everything’s a mess. And I hate messes. Never mind the fact that I was SUPPOSE to have been home even today. That didn’t happen because my sub never got booked. And The Call (the “where in the heck are you” call) came from the school about ten minutes before homeroom.
Where was I? And who was my sub for today? Good questions, both of them. I didn’t quite know the answer to either, to be honest. All I knew was this: I’d better get my heiny in gear as I had a class to teach, with or without a substitute.
Me still in my flannel pajamas, mopping up water spills on the cupboard. Hair like a rat nest.
So, the rush began. Trying to call a sub, while frantically moving around to get ready anyway, I ran my leg into the corner of the hope chest in our bedroom. Leaving a sharp pain searing through the torn flesh. No time to stop. Just.keep.moving.
I rush. Arriving at school only twenty-five minutes into the day. My eyes like lead balls. I have a strong desire to prop them open with my fingers. But in spite of this all, the children’s voices call out to me. And I can feel the teacher engine revving. The hugs, the little arms that envelope me. The “I love you’s” offering up the encouragement I need to make this all happen.
“I can do this,” I whisper to my inner self.
The day grinds on. I use my prep to return home to check on the invalid, bring drinks to the bed, pulling up covers. I scramble to also pull together or put away a few of the things I left hanging in my haste to leave the house. And then. I am off again. Back to the classroom.
Back to the reality of today.
And so it was that I found myself sitting there in the afternoon with that stack of papers. Feeling the pressures of deadlines and checklists weighing in on me. And right in the midst of it all, an extra little Boy showed up. “Could I come in for a break?” says he. Ah, yes. I had almost forgotten that this was that time of the day. Him needing the break, and my room being the “just-right-spot” for that break to happen.
And then, I’ll admit that I thought it. “How am I going to get all this done…with another busy little body to add to the mayhem?”
Needless to say. The noise levels rose, the toys began to take on a life of their own. My concentration was breaking, as was that of my uninterested little subjects, whom I was testing. And right about the moment that would have been the breaking point, a little voice asks, that of the Boy:
“Mrs. Gard, where is your broom and dustpan?” And I’ll admit it. I turned swiftly, expecting to see an overturned sandbox emptied out on the floor. But all I saw was a tiny pile of moonsand. And a Boy who was willing to help sweep it up. Could I find him the means to be of assistance?
But of course.
Kindness matters. It can come quite unexpectedly. Sometimes coming wrapped up in shiny, big packages, done up with bows. But at other times, it arrives quite unobtrusively. Through a Boy’s hands and feet. I like big shows of kindness, but my favorites are really the smallest of gestures. Because kindness matters, regardless of the proportions or dimensions of the expression of goodwill. It is the act of doing that makes the difference.
And when kindness comes from a child, directed toward me, the adult. I don’t know why. It just blows me away.
Of course it matters that we practice kindness in relation to our fellow humankind. But Adults, listen to me: it especially matters that we direct kindnesses to those who are still so very small. Toward those who are still the child. Who are still the impressionable ones. And kindness matters when adults are the givers because those first of all impressions are the hardest ones to undo. And our first impressions of life are of course made in our childhood.
So then. It really matters how we treat a child. It matters because children never forget. And neither do we who were once the child ever forget. We never forget the unkindnesses, but thankfully neither do we ever forget the truly wonderful little graces that make life more bearable.
Kindness always matters.
It matters when one is sitting on the bench at a sporting event, and a child is competing for their personal best. And the pressure’s on- the score is that close. It matters, whether or not, the Adult- the coach, is kind. Whether or not he treats the child with integrity, with value. It matters that the coach believes the best about the child’s abilities and thus wants to lift the child to even better bests. Every time she plays. Because he believes she can. That she is able. He has that kind of faith in her abilities.
It matters when one is sitting in a classroom, and their child’s educational records lie naked before them on a student-sized desk, peppered with 1s and 2s, along with (maybe) a few 3s and 4s thrown in for good measure. It matters, whether or not. The Adult, the teacher kindly speaks and listens to that parent’s desperate entreaty for understanding. Whether or not the teacher can see the child through the parent’s eyes, through their unique awareness of the child’s needs and conditions. It matters that the teacher listens as that parent urgently makes their case, that the teacher honors their role as the primary caregiver of this child. It matter that the teacher really cares, truly believes in the child. That she sees through to the person, beyond the behaviours. To the heart, to the essence of the human being.
And later still. It matters when one is sitting across from a school administrator, trustee or board director, and a child’s future rests firmly in the hands of significant others. And there is a lot to lose, a lot at stake. It matters that the school board personnel act with integrity and honor, always seeing the child as a face, not a number. Because children are more than just cases, or data or the property of anyone or anybody.
Kindness matters.
And when inevitably. One is sitting in a hospital room, and a child is lying limp on a bed, temp rising and cheeks flush with fever. It matters whether or not kindness has been done. It matters if the Adult, the doctor, kindly speaks and listens to the parent’s pleas for help. It matters that he listens as the parent speaks their mind, that he hears her with respect and consideration. And it matters that he talks kindly to the young patient, soothing them with his gentle demeanor. It matters that he act with the utmost of consideration. To preserve the dignity and sanctity of life. It matters.
Because kindness matters. And although the big things in life are wonderful, it’s the little things that make all the difference.
