SOLSC '19 Day Three: What a difference support makes

Dressed in a red-and-white striped top with a bright red cardigan, I drove back to school  yesterday morning for our two Texas State Teacher Fellows' Saturday Seminar.  The breakfast opener was being held in my library. Since the event just happened to fall on Dr Seuss' birthday, they had decorated the space appropriately on Friday afternoon.

We were greeted at the library door by our kindergarten and first grade Fellow teachers,who were sporting fun Dr Seuss headbands.  The library was full of members from their program cohort, their professors, several representatives from our district's Central Office, and our own kindergarten and first grade teachers and administrators.  I thoroughly enjoyed my coffee, breakfast taco, Round Rock doughnut, and cinnamon roll while listening to the welcome speeches from the teacher mentor, district and campus administrators, and Fellows.  We made a cute notebook in the shape of the iconic Seussian cat-hat, and were directed to the first presentation in the classroom.

As familiar as I am with our Fellows--they visit the library with their classes every week, and I've supported them with both children's and professional book and material selections--I don't get to spend time observing my teachers in their classrooms.  I was blown away by their presentations.  From the looks of their classrooms, the routines and communities they have established, the effective teaching and learning strategies they modeled--they presented as experienced educators, not as the first-year teachers they are.

Sitting in the back row of seats in each room, I reflected on my own first year of teaching.  Alone in a portable, assigned no mentor, not even really knowing what questions to ask...I had to figure a lot out on my own.  These young women had a library full of people--classmates, professors, an on-site experienced teacher mentor, our own campus new teacher mentors, their teammates and administrators--helping them overcome every hurdle they encountered over what is arguably the hardest part of teaching: getting through your first year. 

What a difference support makes.  Perhaps our legislators, currently working on school funding yet again, should take note.

SOLSC '19 Day Two: Puffy eyed blinks

There is something mesmerizing in a newborn baby's gaze.  They fight against puffy lids to open their eyes just the teeniest bit, pupils looking huge and mysterious, knowing and curious at the same time.  Those eyes pull me in; a soft, higher pitched "Hello, sweetie!  Whatcha looking at?" falls from my lips. 

I have spent the last three Tuesday nights training to volunteer at the same hospital where my daughter lived for the first sixty-five days of her life, and where I later worked for three years as a NICU unit assistant and desk clerk.  It's hard to believe that it's been almost twenty-six years since the former, and twenty years the latter.  I was hoping to volunteer in the NICU, but weekend slots aren't open at the moment, and so I am down the hall in the newborn nursery.

It is strange and familiar at the same time.  The nurses are in the same blue scrubs I wore years ago; my scrubs are now a light blue embroidered top and khaki pants.  There are open warmers and bassinet cribs, but no isolettes.  Babies come and go, spending most of their hospital stay in their mothers' rooms.  And, of course, they are born at term, unladen with the  IVs, CPAP cannulas, and pulse-ox monitors that accompanied my own child who lived down the hall.

This afternoon, I'll meet my regular shift nurses for the first time.  Then I'll get to work--cleaning cribs and warmers, restocking supplies and linens, delivering lab samples, changing diapers, and hopefully cuddling a baby or two before delivering them back to their mamas, their postpartum experience already so different than my own.

SOLSC '19 Day One: Friday night hangout

The sign that said "Please seat yourself" was turned around tonight, to read "Please wait to be seated."  Our favorite neighborhood Mexican restaurant was unusually busy this Friday, and we were led to one of the few open booths in the far corner.  With my back to the bar and facing the front door, I had a sweeping view of the small main floor.  

A small square table in the middle caught my eye.  A young couple occupied two chairs, a woman on the left, and a man to her left, facing me.  They were both casually dressed, their body language relaxed, calm conversation unheard over the chatter of the restaurant.  The chair to his left was turned sideways, holding a car seat with an adorable, several-months-old baby girl, equally calm and relaxed.  She alternated looking around with taking drinks from her bottle or chewing on a snack, perfectly content while her parents enjoyed their dinner.

Other tables held larger extended families having animated conversations, laughing men and women in groups of twos and threes presumably enjoying a guys' or ladies' night, older couples like us eating in comfortable silence.

We filled our bellies, and went home to video chat with our daughter, our Friday night her late Saturday morning in Japan.  She has another two-and-a-half years with her job there, and is already thinking about what she wants to do when it is done.  Her Japanese friends, well aware of American news reports of political strife and general unrest, have asked her why she wants to return--and she's wondering if she wants to wait awhile longer to do so.

Agreeing with her friends, I hesitated to respond.  But then I thought about our restaurant.  It was busy with all kinds of people--white, black, Hispanic, old, young, and in-between.  My view for an hour held no animosity, no rudeness, no incivility. Just neighborhood folks eating good food and tipping their smiling waiters. 

I assured my daughter that no matter what she saw on the news--there are still plenty of nice folks here in the U.S.  I could vouch for that with my own eyes.

Tuesday Slice: A cloud of February words

Last month, I made a cloud of January words based on my January posts from 2016 to 2018, to see if the frequency had any wisdom for me.  I thought it might be fun to do at the end of each month this year, so here's my February cloud:

Most used words, from the eleven February posts:

12 will

9 bed

8 school

8 time

7 library

7 hours

7 just

7 days

7 one

6 SoulCollage

6 cards

6 night

6 home

6 two

6 new

I think it takes a certain amount of will for educators to make it through February.  The glow from the winter holidays has worn off, we're jittery from too much Valentine chocolate, and we're worn out from repeating the expectations we've been practicing since August.  Bed is a welcome respite from school.  While I love my time in the library, the hours just keep getting longer, mirroring the growing sunlight of our days.  One way I relax is to make SoulCollage cards.  Another is to enjoy my nights at home with my husband, the two of us creating new routines as we transition to empty nesting.

This February doesn't feel much different than those of the past!

Tuesday Slice: Five-thirty pm

Just three years ago, five-thirty pm marked my first hour home.  I might be throwing a load of laundry in the washing machine, putting together a plate for my high school boy, reheating leftovers for my husband and myself.  Five-thirty pm may have even called for a power nap on the couch, reading my emails or a book on the front porch, walking over to my neighbors' house for a chat.

The high school boy has since gone on to college, and doesn't need a ride home from school anymore.  My artificial boundary gone, five-thirty pm often finds me still at work.  There are emails to read and answer, lessons to plan, overdue tasks to complete.  Late yesterday afternoon, I hosted an online meeting, and was about to walk out the door before five-thirty pm (gasp!) when I realized there was a staff meeting in the library this morning.  Down went my purse and keys; the next thirty minutes were spent rearranging tables and adding chairs to fit our growing faculty.  Tablecloths were laid where the potluck would be placed.

There are moments of peace during these times:  waning sunlight through a window casting a previously unseen pattern on the carpet; the quiet clicking of my keyboard; the satisfaction of tasks completed.

Then I shut off the computer and the lights, lock the doors, and walk outside to a nearly empty parking lot.  The sun is setting in line with my road home, and any peace I felt is replaced with the sad realization that I am truly spent; I have little left to offer the rest of my day.  I drive home in silence, shuffle through the door, and stare at the list of what will once again remain undone at home.

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Afterthought:  I did not write this to garner pity or admiration.  This is an observation of the lack of balance in my energy these days, a struggle faced by more than a few educators.  I love my job, have written and will write about the wonderful moments that fill my days at school...but I also think it's important to note that this work can and often is depleting.  We must find ways to "fill our own buckets" to continue to be able to give.

Tuesday Slice: I'm here; now what?

I tried starting a Slice last night, but it turned into a complaint about being tired.  So I'm starting over this morning...

Here I am at my keyboard at oh-dark-thirty.  Now what?  

Still yawning.  Sips of coffee in between phrases.  

No Muse landing on my shoulder, no wonderful childhood memory coming to mind.

Snippets.  

Yesterday...The eyes of a child, filling with tears as she came to the library clutching her bag of money, two hours too late for the book fair,the crates that we feverishly packed in the background.  Not sure if the promise of the continuing online fair consoled her much.  

My hands, dry from handling money and paper and books all week long.  I'll be applying lotion frequently today, since I'll be scrubbing in tonight for my first volunteer training session at the hospital. 

The training session ends at nine tonight.  Long day ahead...which brings me back to feeling tired.  Quitting this post before it turns into a complaint... 

Tuesday Slice: Important conversations

I just finished up two weeks of reading Mae Among the Stars to my first and second graders in our library Book Nook.  (When two grade levels equals twenty-one classes, it takes awhile to share a book with everyone.)  Written by Roda Ahmed and illustrated by Stasia Burrington, it's a picture book inspired by the childhood of Mae Jemison, the first African-American female astronaut.

The book is interesting--especially the afterword, detailing many of Jemison's amazing accomplishments.  But the conversations we had about race and gender bias were even more moving.  Mae was born in 1956, and grew up in the tumultuous times of the Civil Rights Movement.  This fictionalized version of Mae's life shows us her supportive parents who buoy her dreams, and a teacher who can't see past her skin color and gender.  Fresh on the heels of taking our MLK Day break from school, my students were able to connect the dots.  Most refreshingly, they all agreed that women and people of color have a place in our space program, today and tomorrow.  I didn't hear a single word of dissent on the subject.  When I asked, "Who wants to be an astronaut when you grow up?", there was a lovely mix of hands in the air, boys and girls, light and dark.

Times like these in our Book Nook give me hope for our future.  May my students' attitudes toward race and gender opportunities remain as open as they were these last weeks.