Tissue?

Unlike most people, my food allergies were adult-onset.

As if I didn't feel strange enough that my body saw a peanut for the zillionth time, and its calm and measured reaction was to swell up and reject the evil can of Planter's, every doctor and specialist I visited mentioned
something similar as I sat in a paper outfit watching my skin pimple from the room temperature.

And while, overall, the switch to organic eating (because I am also sensitive to pesticides and food additives) has resulted in some great benefits, yesterday was Halloween.

When I was little, Reese's Peanut Butter Cups and Mr. Goodbars were my favorite things to find in my orange plastic pumpkin. My younger sister and I would sit in the middle of the floor and dump our pumpkins after an evening of tramping around our neighborhood. We would carefully count and sort our loot. Mom would check it and take her Reese's tax, and then we would carefully hide the rest of our chocolate from each other and Mom. Otherwise, the Reese's tax would become regressive.

So how do my Halloween experiences, peanut allergy, and last night's festivities connect?

Weeble trick-or-treated in a friend's neighborhood last night. To be more clear, she ran up and down the sidewalk as fast as her short little legs could carry her, as she chirped "hi" to everyone she passed. Better Half carried her plastic bucket and collected candy, and I kept her out of the street. (She trucked along as if covering as much pavement as possible was her job, never realizing that collecting candy was actually the point.)

When we returned to our friend's house, I checked her bucket. Everything was appropriately wrapped. There were plenty of Reese's. And my Mommy tax? A couple of sleeves of Smarties.

I guess Daddy gets the Peanut Butter Cups.

But I can mourn the loss.




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A Real E-Mail I Just Received

I just received the following e-mail from the institution of higher learning that I am currently attending. (Names/identifiers have been changed to ensure privacy.)

"Hey, y’all, hey!!

1. The __________ Halloween Party has been moved to Friday. Yes, it seems like last minute, but we had to due to a scheduling conflict with the venue. Also, Fridays are awesome, and you can sleep in on Saturday.

-We need your body at FILL IN YOUR FAVORITE BAR NAME HERE from 9-12 (where you take your body after that is your business) this FRIDAY!

-There will be drink specials! They are so special, you will have to wait to get there to figure out what they are.

-As always, you are strongly encouraged (and by that I mean I you need to dust off the old fishnets) to dress up as your favorite queer icon. Please go all out.

-The event is 21 and over. And you don’t really want me to approach you, demand your ID, and find out your real age. So, let’s keep it together, pretty people. PRIZES!!

Yes, there is only one number on this list. You can add whatever you want to, but this is already number one, at the top of the list.

All the best,
Guy Who Sent the E-Mail"

Technically, I am a graduate student. In the way that I haven't graduated with my PhD yet, but still pay higher course fees than post-bachelor work because I obtained a Masters seven years ago...

But definitely different than the typical 24-yr-old grad student. For one thing, at this point in my life my Friday night activities are a little tamer. Fridays mean sweats, a Disney movie, and possibly a soda. If I'm feeling really crazy, it might mean a half-glass of wine.

If I am still awake at midnight, it has been a not-so-good evening for Weeble, Better Half, and me. When my "body" isn't in my own bed at that time of night, I am experiencing a mixture of hopelessness and helplessness that isn't foreign to parents of toddlers.

I think this e-mail serves as a great reminder for list-serv makers to be very familiar with their demographics. But, I'm not sure this school is listening.

After all, this institution is the same one that sends letters to my home (where I pay the mortgage) addressed to "The Parents of..."

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True Grit

I need a massage. The muscles in my neck and back have seized, and make it impossible to look over my shoulder. Driving may be a little interesting today. It took me a little while, but I think I've discovered the reason (besides the hours I've logged on a keyboard since school started.) I am gritting my teeth again.

I've spent the last couple of weeks helping people (read: administrators) review data and statistics.

Please no one repeat the quote "There are lies, damned lies, and statistics." Just because you don't like the raw data, doesn't mean that it lies. (Commence gritting while I craft an appropriate response that pushes thinking instead of ending dialogue...) There's the distinct possibility that what you think is happening might not, in actuality, be happening. If you really want to know what's going on, ask the teachers. They know the issues, and can develop solutions that really work for them AND their students.

Or we can spend a lot of time and energy admiring the problem. We're pretty good at that...

It always comes back to collaboration.


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Collaboration

My definition of collaboration includes people working together, actively listening to each others ideas, and then working towards a goal that the team believes is worthy.

Unfortunately, my definition is not the most popular one. Some people use the word, but forget to add the phrase they are thinking in their head: "as long as we agree to what I wanted to do anyway."

However, this attitude immediately breaks any collaborative leanings a group may have. And, frankly, makes me twitch.

If I were suddenly turned into a K-12 student again, with the knowledge I have gained, I think I might be labeled oppositionally defiant.


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Blinking

At some point, I made the mistake of blinking.

Weeble went from a warm bundle that needed me every second to a burst of energy who can stand on her own two feet. (Except when she's really tired...)

She sings and dances. She giggles and claps her hands when something strikes her as funny. She loves to make us laugh, and intentionally tries to be silly. She's equally entranced by The Muppet Show and her t-strap Stride Rites. She devours grilled cheese sandwiches and loves fajitas with guacamole.

I'm afraid to blink again. I already see flashes of the little girl she's becoming right in front of me. I don't want to miss a second.


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Look Both Ways

After a full morning/early afternoon of studying at Starbucks, I realized I would have to either buy another beverage or hit the road. The barristas at the store I frequent tend toward the grumpy side. Usually, I don't mind, but this morning I had made their list because I misunderstood a question and ended up with a cold drink instead of a warm one. And, then I wanted what I thought I ordered. It has to happen every once in a while. After all, they are serving people their first cup of coffee for the day...

They had been glaring at me since they realized I was going to take up space instead of get it and run. So, rather than blow the rest of my $10 gift card, I decided to head to the grocery--alone!--and make my way back home. I don't like Weeble-free Saturdays, but she's so entranced by technology I can't actually do homework at home.

In the grocery store parking lot, I watched a lady walk off the sidewalk into the street, texting as she went. Frankly, I was impressed. I can barely text sitting down without dropping my phone. Walking and texting is right out.

But another thought occurred to me. What was so important that it had to be texted immediately? She walked into traffic, but at least she texted the cure for cancer at the last second?!

I made a decision tonight when I thought back to this weekend. Weeble needs to see that when I am home, my attention is with her and Better Half. Maybe she's so excited by screens because Mommy has one in her pocket all the time.

So, the phone will be parked until Weeble's asleep--if I have any energy left. Otherwise, just about anything can wait until morning.

Except for Weeble. Her tea parties are high priority, and Sandra Boynton's literature is a must-read to score an invitation.

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Good Days

Someone asked me this week what a curriculum and instruction coordinator's job really is. That question is always difficult for me to answer and not be too flip about it. Because, saying I teach teachers is not really true. And saying that I'm a resource person or facilitator makes anyone outside of education circles look at you as if you grew another nose. And the truth, which is really--what don't I do?--sounds like I'm hiding a cape underneath my denim blazer.

Lewis Black in one of his comedy routines once mentioned the importance of corporations being able to state their business in one sentence. So, I'm going to give it a try.

If I'm really doing my job well, people don't know that I'm doing anything at all. Everything runs smoothly: teachers have time to collaborate about important issues like instruction and intervention. Resources magically appear, professional learning is relevant... We can focus on what really matters: student learning.

And then there are days when it all falls apart. Those are the days when I want to have my own classroom again. Mostly, so I can go in and do what I love--help students learn more than they expected to.

Today is one of the good days.

Confessions of a Closet Co-Sleeper

Before Weeble was born, we had great plans about how bedtime would go at our house. We're relatively laid back people who enjoy our rest, so Baby would be the same.

Weeble, in fact, loves her sleep. As a newborn, she preferred it to eating, which opened up a host of other problems. This preference required us to do the unthinkable: wake a sleeping baby. Every few hours. And encourage her to take at least a little milk.

By nine weeks, she had the whole eating routine down, and we were allowed to let her sleep at night. We read her a story, swaddled her, fed her, and laid a slumbering bundle gently in her bassinet next to our bed. And it was amazing. Because we were getting a full night's rest, too.

Did you know swaddling is not a good idea once a child starts rolling over? We didn't think that far ahead. And Weeble decided to start rolling over early in the continuum. This physical milestone coincided with my return to work.

The great sleep every night abruptly disappeared. Within a week we were properly bleary-eyed. Other parents we knew who were getting up several times a night probably cheered under their breath. Sleep deprivation loves company. We began to read every sleep book written. And we started to take turns sitting up with her asleep across our chest or bellies.

After a month and a half, I couldn't sleep upright one more night. And, since I refused to physically, spiritually, and emotionally withstand leaving her in her crib alone to cry, I baby-proofed our bed and brought Weeble into it. All the warnings against bringing baby into bed were ringing in our ears. But, we weren't getting enough sleep to listen. The naysayers didn't have kinks in their back and an overtired baby to contend with every day. Plus, nursing at night and getting up for work in the morning was getting more and more difficult.

The first night, she nursed once and slept twelve hours! Hallelujah! Now, I'm not sure how many times she nurses. It doesn't really matter because neither one of us fully wakes.

I have found a fraternity within and among working professional parents. No one talks about it. We're afraid we'll be judged by others, but there are a lot of us sharing sleep with our babies and attempting extended nursing. (All while feeling a little afraid that our teenager will still want to be cuddled all night long.)

I'm pretty sure Weeble will want her space by then. And the convertible crib will prove to be a great idea. It is going to make a gorgeous full size bed.

Until then, I will enjoy the extra time and connection we have. I'll probably need these memories in about 13 years.

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Layover

Passing out in the bathroom was not on my list of things to do today. Let's just say I had to adjust my list.

I was looking forward to attending teacher-level meetings and helping a team prepare for a state-level presentation.

Apparently, my schedule over the past six weeks, and some dehydration issues converged in a vasovagal episode at around 5:30 AM.

Thanks to some great friends our daughter was well-cared for while my husband concentrated on my needs by getting me to the ER. After a few tests, and confirmation that I had a concussion, I was released with strict instructions to "rest."

I've been thinking a little bit today about the speech we all barely listen to before our flights take off. Especially the part about securing our personal oxygen masks in an emergency before helping others. I think I might just take that advice.

I'm at least going to make it a point to drink more water.


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Important Things

It's lunchtime, and I'm up to my usual: pumping for my kiddo, eating, and checking various e-mail accounts. I thought adding writing thoughts down on virtual paper might be a worthwhile one-handed activity.

My better half likes this use of time much better than my other preference--wandering through Amazon's Best Deals. My postal carrier will probably agree, as she once commented on the number of packages we receive. (Isn't that job security?) And, since "the new budget" doesn't agree that I _must_ have the green rubber rain boots that I didn't even know existed yesterday, I'll move on to what I started to post about.

I watch nearly all my television by way of Netflix streaming because I am too cheap to pay for cable. (Kelly green Kamick's yes, ESPN, nope!) We stumbled over Demetri Martin's television show, Important Things, a few weeks ago. One of the portions (sketches?) is called "Some Data." I'm a curriculum person working in K-12 public schools, and anyone making data into a joke has my full attention. I definitely can't use the full sketch with teachers or administrators in my districts. But, I get a nice personal chuckle each time I think about his bar graph of "Interest" and "Your Child," with bars labeled "You" and "Me."

So, within that spirit, I share the following story.

My husband taught our little Weeble how to say "thank you" whenever people hand her items. She has since generalized this statement to mean that whenever a toy, book, snack, or nifty electronic device is in someone else's hand that saying "thank you" is the correct way of forcibly transferring control.

Until last weekend... when she squeaked "Yoink" as she grabbed her daddy's cell phone and wobbled across the living room. 

She's spending a lot of time with Daddy.




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Superman is Fictional

I am not waiting for Superman. 

I am also not Superman.

Despite a weakness for Dean Cain’s portrayal in the 90’s show Lois and Clark, I don’t expect to see him flying to my window any time soon. 

But I’ve been told that the hero exists, and he (or she) will save us all.

Maybe I’m jaded, but I refuse the idea that there is a single answer to “the problem of education” in the United States. 

It’s time to stop looking for capes.  And time to start talking to one another.  About what we value.  About what it means to have high expectations for students.  About what learning is and can be.  About why we do what we do.  And about how we can help each other, our students, our districts…

More thoughts to come, but what do you think?