To my daughter's teacher

I type this letter to you knowing that it may leave your memory merely moments after you read it. That in the hustle and shuffling of trainings and papers and the climbing up and down off of stepstools and tiny student chairs to hang bulletin boards, you’ll file this letter in the back of your mind as something you can remind yourself to remember later. I’ve been there. I know the craziness of making to-do lists and leaving them all around your chaos of a classroom and slapping yourself in the forehead because you forgot to buy sticky tack for the 6^th year in a row. I know you need to catch up with your teacher friends over a blueberry muffin at your PTA back-to-school breakfast. I know my daughter is just a name on a name tag right now so I don’t mind if you put this out of your memory for a while. But there will come a time when I hope you’ll remember this.

My daughter isn’t easy. Just know that I know this. I also want you to know these few things. On a 21 hour long car trip, she spent 2 hours just holding her hand up in the air to block the blinding sun from her infant brother’s eyes. She cries when her siblings get shots. She doesn’t know if she wants to be a Pediatrician or a Shark scientist but she knows she’s going to live at home with us forever. She starts each day with a cotton candy frozen gogurt. She has a habit of letting her hands move faster than her brain and you’re going to have to remind her an obscene number of times to keep her hands to herself. We are teaching her not to give her toys and cash to her friends that come and play and that her time with them is gift enough. She is a follower down to her core and cares deeply about what others think of her.  

She will walk into your classroom with her summer tan and her hair in braids. She’ll have the standard brand new sneakers and most likely a plastic backpack since she prefers flair over quality. She’ll be missing a few baby teeth and her anxiety over the new setting will come out as loudness and awkward silliness. I just hope you’ll remember to be tender with my girl. We are working behind the scenes to help her mold herself into the person God has meant for her to become. We are listening. We see and understand.  When your patience wears thin with her, as it most likely will, just remember she is the glue that holds me together and she is valuable beyond words. This little person will do big things. 

Why You Should Quit Teaching

I've been there. There's a pull on your heart to let the wind blow you in a different direction.. the urge to see where you land professionally. Maybe in an office. Maybe travelling the world. You feel angst at the thought of what today may bring.. what words will be pieced together in a new powerpoint presented at a faculty meeting, written by people in charge, most of whom we’ve never met up close..that old sinking feeling “You need to be better. The 100% you're inputting is not measuring up to the 200% we need. The machine that is your body, that is also the body of a mom, a daughter, a wife, a friend, needs to move faster, work harder, with more purpose and less outside distraction.” It's the same message presented in many different ways. I feel this pull often. But I stay. And most teachers do. But this is why you should quit.

1.)   If you can’t make eye contact with a student walking into your classroom who is so desperately waiting to be acknowledged and, with a smile, make them feel like you’re genuinely happy they came to school that day, you should quit.

2.)    If you can’t push aside the bureaucracy long enough to stand in the copy room with a group of teachers and discuss something other than the misgivings you’re faced with each day, you should quit.

3.)   If you no longer feel empowered and humbled by the job you've been trusted with and the beauty in the relationship you are able to create amongst a group of little humans, you should quit.

4.)   If you just can’t seem to find it inside of you to share something positive about your most difficult student during a parent conference, you should quit.

5.)   If you find yourself no longer enjoying implementing new activities or learning new strategies, you should quit.

6.)   If you aren’t physically or emotionally able to let go long enough to give a full-on, red in the face belly laugh with your students, (because let’s face it, they’re crazy little weirdos) then you should quit.

7.)   If you find no joy in helping grow these little people, if you’re not personally invested, if you can’t give them the best of you, if you can’t put aside your personal feelings about your own professional morale long enough to plant something beautiful in each child, then you should quit. 
8.) If you can't give most of yourself away each day, every fiber of energy that makes up who you are, only to receive back a notion that it's still not enough. If you stop giving any of yourself away at all, you should quit. 

Not because you’re a quitter. Not because you have a bad heart or you don’t care. Not because you haven’t spent years and years of your life beautifully honing this craft. But because, let’s get real here, you’re tired. You're broken-hearted and feeling invisible. And the goal you had in mind is unforeseeable. You forgot why you ventured on this path. The system we are working for is broken. We are tiny little specks on a machine that is much larger than we are and it’s spinning in a direction we can’t fix in one quick tug, but if there is no fight left in you.. and your daily mantra becomes “What about me?” instead of “What about them? Then my friend, you should quit. 

Birthday number 5

On the topic of parenting I feel slightly amateurish. There are times sweet girl, when you say things that give me goosebumps. Words so carefully placed and tenderly spoken that I can’t find words to respond so I just squeeze you tightly. Then, there are the other times. The times when you stand firmly with your hands placed squarely on your hips, lips tightly pursed, wild, wispy hair flailing.. All while vehemently making demands. Those are times when I am also at a loss for words. I’m sure for the first of many times, your fierce independence and strong resolve snuck up on several occasions this past year and punched me in the face, leaving me reeling at both how strong-willed you are and how fast my time with you has flown.

You’ve christened a whole new behavior management plan at home in your time as a 4 year old as well as reinforced a solid understanding amongst family members that it’s imperative we offer bargains to get you to eat your dinner if we wish for a cease-fire. But mostly, on this day especially, you’ve given us another wonderful day in the year to be grateful for. This past year was an interesting one for us. We welcomed your sweet baby sister, and there was a never a quaver in your voice when you told others she was coming. You patiently waited for your big, pregnant mommy to waddle up the stairs at bedtime. You even gave me a lift from behind on a few occasions. You welcomed me home from work each day with a full cup of ice water and even flipped the legs of the recliner up unexpectedly sometimes so I could rest my swollen feet. You sang sweet songs to my belly, read books and talked to her about how much you love her already. There were times when my pregnancy emotions got the best of me and I spent the day apologizing for crying without explanation to which you sweetly replied “It’s ok, mommy. You’re pwegnant.” These memories, even amongst the sea of new memories we will make together, will always be my most treasured.

In your time as a four year old, mommy learned some new things, too. I always thought when the time came for me to become a parent, I would instinctively have it all together. It would come at a time in my life where I was obnoxiously self-assured. I’d be making a substantial amount of money and my house would be organized. I’d have a hefty savings and be very well-read. I became a mom 5 years ago and ever since then life has been the most beautiful firestorm of events, but nothing like I’d planned. I love that I have you as my fearless leader while I navigate my way through the twisty paths to growing a good kid.

Thank you sweet girl for pushing me out of my comfort zone. Thank you for the challenging me daily to check the person I’m becoming. Thank you for testing my resolve by occasionally embarrassing me in public and thank you for keeping me human by giving me the chance to laugh about it now. I’m probably still quite amateur-ish. I’ll probably never be an expert but my biggest hope in the next year is that I make you as proud as you’ve made me.  

You’re one of the most beautiful treasures in my life. Happy 5^th birthday, sweet girl.  

An Open Letter to our NICU Nurses

If nothing else during this labor and delivery, I’ve learned that events in our lives are far beyond our earthly control. I never planned to get to know you. I planned to spend my evening after delivery with my chubby baby lying on my chest with her long legs folded up under her. I pictured her sweet daddy and I listening to the rhythm of her breathing while we took an obscene number of cell phone pictures and ate wheat thins and licorice from the vending machine. Instead we were shaken to our core as we watched our ghastly white baby gasping for breath while your team swept in and got to work, connecting breathing tubes and wires. You were not in our plan and yet within moments you became the most important people in our lives.

There are plenty of people in the world who are effective at their jobs. There are people who work hard and go unnoticed. There are people who do far less each day and receive much more notoriety. Sometimes though, you meet people whose heart is so buried in what they do for a living that being in their presence seems humbling.

During our precious daughter’s stay in the NICU, we’ve seen you. We’ve watched you balance rooms full of critical babies. Spending the day listening to a hundred different beeps, discerning the urgent from the benign, keeping calm when an urgent one has your heart racing. We’ve seen you decorate each baby’s bed with sweet pink or blue accessories and personalized name tags. A gentle and personal touch against a stark white backsplash of sterile and uniform. We’ve personally experienced your compassion when you found a way to tenderly explain that while we would be leaving the hospital empty-handed, our daughter would be cared for just the same. 

We’ve watched you while we scrubbed in, when you didn’t know we were watching. We saw you delicately handle our daughter as if we were in the room. You’ve patiently helped a frustrated nursing mom bond with her baby and spent your precious time moving, shifting and reattaching wires and cables so I could hold her against the warmth of my chest, even just for a moment. A small gift for which I could never repay you.

No, we certainly didn’t plan to get to know you. But as I sit here with my healthy baby laying on my chest, her legs curled up underneath her, I hear her rhythmic and even breathing, and I’m ever so grateful we did.        

"and though she be but little, she is fierce.."

To my fearless child,

You let me rock you this morning. It seems minor and pretty commonplace for a momma to snuggle and rock her toddler but you my sweet girl, are like a gale force wind whipping through our tiny townhouse. As we speak, you are running past me in a tutu shouting out words to your own made-up songs, as per usual in that tireless half hour before nap time.

We had a super busy week this week and I was vacuuming the living room while you laid on your tummy playing with your Little People. You walked over to the vacuum and switched it off, looked at me and giggled. I squatted down to turn it back on and you hopped up wrapping your arms around my neck. I lifted you up, realizing that when your feet were dangling, they almost reached my knees.. and then mommy had one of those ultra sad/happy moments that moms get when they realize their baby is not a baby anymore.    

You rested your head on my shoulder and for a full 15 minutes, I swayed back and forth just listening to you breathe. Every couple minutes you would chime in with a few new verses to your original ballad called “You are my good mommy.”

I hope this coming year brings you good fortune. That your spirit grows and your soul is filled with everything you need. I hope that when God humbles you, as he does with us all, you meet your challenges with grace and not with tears and tantrums. I hope you feel loved, even in time out. I hope that you understand mommy is not trying to be mean when she doesn’t let you have a second donut. I’m trying to teach you self-control. I hope you learn at least one new thing each day and that you find something beautiful to be thankful for before you go to bed each night.  

Tomorrow you will be 3 years old. You have spent every day of your life with me minus 1 and tomorrow we will celebrate that day- the day you were brought into this world and began changing so many lives in such colossal ways. While at times, I seem tongue tied when it comes to expressing how grateful I am that our arduous battle with the court system is ending in such a beautiful way-- what I can tell you with all the honesty in my heart, is that every second I get to spend being your mom is a second I wouldn’t trade for the most precious of golds.

You are fierce and beautiful- brilliant and kind. You are determined and willful and inquisitive. A princess and an athlete. You inspire me every day to be a better person, to love God even more, to try new things, to fight for the things I love and to look at small things with a childlike appreciation. You my sweet child are a blessing that I don’t deserve but by God’s grace you’ve landed here in my living room, in my arms, with your head on my shoulder. I love you baby girl. Happy 3^rd Birthday.

   

Hug a Teacher

My boyfriend and I were sitting on the couch the other night. It had been a long work week, with a 14 hour work day nestled right in the middle of it. It felt like a job just to keep my eyes open. We were talking about our day when he asked if I had heard what happened to the young teacher in Massachusetts. My heart fluttered. The word “happened” implied past tense and the word had a sad and eerie feeling to it. He then told me she was murdered by her student. I shuddered, trying hard not to think about the maelstrom of events that were probably unfolding for her grieving family- the relentless and invasive digging that this child’s attorney will most likely do into this woman’s personal life in an attempt to find a reason to justify this sick kid’s actions. As teachers, we stand on the front line, sometimes up against the world’s most angry children. Our job is to teach learning strategies and information and yet, built into our unwritten curriculum we must also teach them love, life-skills, caring and tolerance. We must try to sell to them on the idea that the world is truly a good place when we aren’t always so sure ourselves. We parent these children and often bend and mold ourselves into the people they need us to be in order to fill the gaping holes they have in their lives left by situations beyond their control. At times, I feel this tug the world has on me to be superhuman; to be able to toggle between being loving and tough, professional and parental. I must openly accept criticism from parents, politicians, colleagues, and evaluators and accept the idea that on a daily basis we will be told that we are not meeting our children’s needs, that we are deficient. Then we must still smile hard and comfort a struggling student who is frustrated. I’m frustrated too, sweet babies. Each morning, my alarm clock shrieks and vibrates on the nightstand reminding me it’s not Saturday. It’s time to face a day where almost anything can happen. Anything can be brought into my classroom. Sometimes I find myself re-braiding a student’s braid that came loose on the way to school and I think about the hurried pony tail my own child has. I dig through my purse for granola bars because a student was tardy and missed breakfast and I think about the convenient breakfast full of sugar I started my kid’s day with. I often have to train my brain to remember I’m a mommy first. Teachers spend their days drawing boundaries for the child who wants to be mothered yet still finding ways to show they are listening and they care. We try hard to relate to the boy who hates the world. We keep our cool when he’s tearing up his work or scrawling thick black pencil across the assignments we’ve most likely spent our own personal time at home creating. We find things to love in the children with very few lovable traits. We must sometimes find creative ways to communicate with students who speak no English. We make small decisions every day for children who have never had the chance to problem solve. “There is a chair by my desk, Miss. Where should I put it?” “My paper is a little wrinkly. My friend told my other friend she doesn't want to be my friend anymore. How do I make her be my friend? Miss, what should I do?” “I don’t like chicken and it’s the only thing for lunch. What should I do?” “Someone peed on the bathroom floor. What should I do?” “My pencil lead is dull. What should I do?” We are mediators in arguments between children whose real battle is that they’re looking for some control and stability in their own lives and may only get the empowerment they need by hurtfully draining it from others. We spend our Fridays trying to harness the energy we can feel building up inside our students, ready to come out in the form of unbridled chaos and by the time the weekend comes, our brains and hearts are aching and sore. Sometimes, we are the only safe place for a child to bump into and we are on the receiving end of aggression we don’t deserve. Sometimes our hearts are raw with emotion when our children are suffering yet we are also some of the very few who get to experience the unbelievable joy they feel when they reach a goal they thought was impossible. We are not the only people who are pushed to their limits. I know that. We are regular people that are stretched like rubber bands.. trying to maintain a bit of cohesion in a classroom where the outside world visits far too often. I can't make any guarantees to any young teachers going into the field that this will happen but I know for myself, even when your heart and ego are bruised and you're spending your evenings peeling dried glue off of your fingers and you hate the sound of your own last name, in the end, when that child you thought you'd never reach gives you a hug so tight it gives you goosebumps, it's worth it. It's so worth it.

Lost my sh!t at Publix.

I woke up this morning to the sound of the peanut’s bedroom door opening. The paint on the door sticks to the paint on the frame and each morning it sounds quite similar to a shotgun blast when it opens. It jolts me awake faster than any cup of coffee I could possibly have brewing downstairs. Like every morning, I heard her feet shuffling down the carpeted hallway and the sound of Abby, our kitten, pouncing on her blanket as it’s trailing behind her. With one eye peaking open just a bit, I watched her heave her blanket and her Dora the Explorer doll up onto the bed, clumsily slide her mass of tangled blond hair out of her face with her hand and then shuffle back to her room for Abby Cadabby, Curious George, Baby Toby and Baby Mia.

I can gauge what type of day it’s going to be solely based on the immediate demands that are made by her when she discovers that I am, in fact, awake. My favorite moments are the ones where she wraps her arms around my neck and asks me what I dreamt about or moves my hair out of my face and tells me I’m her “best fren” and “I wike your hair, momma.” These times happen most often.

However, today I was hit with a critical Cocoa Puff interrogation which I bombed, followed by a hand over my mouth because my breath was “ginky”. I tried to redeem myself with an offer of pancakes for breakfast only to be caught off guard by a request for a “bamana”, which “WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU DON’T HAVE BAMANAS? I WANT BAMANAS, MOMMA. PLEASE, I WANT BAMANAS!”

Our day proceeded in this manner. A day in which my 2 year old, a child whom I love fiercely, showed me in every possible way that I was not meeting her expectations in any area and I should be seeking employment elsewhere. I threw in a few loads of laundry, we did some crafts and then we headed out to Publix to grab some snacks for our trip to Busch Gardens. I decided it would be ok to prolong nap time for a bit.

At 20, I had all kinds of advice for mothers. I was eager to impart my knowledge and wisdom to all of the parents I saw in the grocery stores whose kids were misbehaving. I made facebook statuses berating some of the things I witnessed in public places. I was shocked at the parents whose kids were screaming at them as they hurried down the aisle, tossing groceries in their cart and acting like they didn’t even hear them. “I’m never going to be that mom.” I would say to myself. “I’m going to do it right.” My intentions were not bad. I was youthful, naïve and obviously impervious to the weight of parenthood.  

A battle typically ensues when I try to tuck the peanut’s legs into the shopping cart. No words are said aloud, but there is a very clear, unspoken agreement that she is going to spread her feet as far apart as possible when it’s time to put them in the cart and that I am to accept it. To avoid this battle, I bypassed the cart today and asked her to be my big helper. She did great holding the green basket and trucking along beside me tossing in the items that I handed her. We had a great conversation about dolphins and sea turtles and how she doesn’t “wike corn dogs. Them’s nasty.” Then, it happened. I tried to avoid it. I steered her away from it and did my best to redirect her towards the fruit snacks but by that time, her eyes had locked onto it. At the end of the aisle sat an enormous display of inflated Spongebob Mylar balloons. When I informed her she wouldn’t be bringing one home with her after she asked me multiple times, she lost. her.  cool. With several other people in the aisle, my child ripped her hand out of mine, dropped the green basket on the ground furiously and threw herself backwards onto the cold tile in a full on tantrum. Fight or flight? Fight or flight? My mind raced. I decided on flight. I could feel the heat rise in my face as I glanced around to find a young couple staring at me in horror and a 21 year old Amy-type scoffing as I lifted my screaming, infuriated child by the armpits and tucked her under my arm like a tiny, fire-breathing football, leaving my basket behind me like a bad memory, its contents all over the floor. I could still feel the heat in my face and the unforgiving Florida sun was beating on us both as I stomped to the car and my squealing baby squirmed under my arm. I must have looked like a madwoman. I heaved my door open, put her in her seat, buckled her in and we took off on a silent ride home, embarrassed about how we had both behaved.

My purpose in writing this is to out loud, in front of all of you, give myself a break.. and give every mom a break that is reading this.. and a verbal fist shaking to all of the young Amy-types that feel compelled to share their novice opinions via nasty comments or scrunched eyebrows about something they have never experienced.

I promised myself that my house would always be clean when I grew up. Reality: I have dishes in my sink every night and my laundry will never be done. My child is clean. Our books are read. We have spent our night singing songs and making crafts.

 I promised I would never wear “mom jeans” or leave the house without mascara. Reality: My child is well-dressed and is a beautiful representation of what I feel is most important in my morning routine.

My child will never scream and cry in public. Reality: My child is learning boundaries. It’s an ugly job.

 I always said I will never yell at my child. Reality: My child needs to see I’m human and I make mistakes. She also needs to see what a truly humble apology looks like.

At 20 years old, I imagined I’d be married by now, driving a Scion and travelling to Europe on my summer vacations. My husband would be a CEO of a major corporation and our children would be flawless and lovely. I would wear floppy hats on the beach and drink margaritas while my kids buried each other lovingly in the sand and said kind words to each other and I would read political satire on my very fancy E-Reader as I sifted sand between my meticulously, pedicured toes.       

Instead, I’m watching endless hours of Team Umizoomi, painting tiny toenails, scooping kitty poop, changing garbage bags, paying bills, brushing through soft, bouncy curls, getting the best hugs around the neck, learning this little person, fixing barbies, and losing my sh!t at Publix. It’s not what I pictured, but it’s real and it’s mine. I’ll take it ;)