Back to School

In my first year teaching, I arrived at school with a terrible misconception.  I thought I would be handed a schedule of classes and groups to teach.  As a new teacher, I wasn’t prepared for the reality at all.  I spent several afternoons crying and sorting through piles of paperwork, trying to figure out how to fit 8 hours of instruction into a 6 hour day.  Ultimately, I failed.  It took a mentor, a partner, and two administrators several days to help me work out the kinks before I could actually start teaching.  It required creativity.  We had to do things like group two different grades together.  We had to divide 45 minutes of service into three 15 minute blocks.  We had to eliminate all of my supervision duties, which earned me resentment from my new colleagues.  It was awful. 

And I’ve had to do it every year since.  

You see, Special Educators aren’t given a schedule.  They’re given a caseload and a pile of IEPs (Individual Education Programs) that outline what services need to be provided to the students.  And it is up to us to make it happen.  We’re flexible.  We’re creative.  We’re resilient.  We work together.   And almost every year, we’re able to make it work.  Sometimes we have to hire another part time person to help with the load.  Sometimes we have to team up to tackle a problem.  But we usually wind up with a complicated, creative schedule that meets the needs of our students.  

This gets easier with experience.  You learn what classes are required and which ones aren’t.  You learn who is the most flexible of your colleagues.  You figure out how to teach two lessons at the same time.  You break kids into groups.  You partner them creatively.  You plan multiple lessons so that kids still have quality instruction when they are working independently.  You advocate for the best possible paraprofessional staff because those are the people who hold it all together when it feels impossible.  

But, despite knowing all of this, even seasoned Special Educators often begin the year thinking, this is never going to work.

In a typical year, we spend hours upon hours in May and June placing kids in specific groups and teams so that we can provide all of the services that they require.  

This year, all of that work was done… but it’s being complicated by the fact that all of these kids aren’t guaranteed to be in the same cohort.  They could be moving through their classes on opposite days, doubling the time that we have to spend teaching that group.  Some of them are choosing to stay home and participate in entirely remote schooling.  To complicate things further, kids on IEPs might receive different amounts of in-school instruction.  While their peers could be in school two days a week, some students will be in-person for four days of instruction.  They’ll attend classes for two days, and then receive specialized support and instruction on the alternate days.  

We’re still trying to figure out how that will work.  Will they complete remote assignments?  Something different?  Can we change their class times?  Add staff?  If I’m teaching an English class in my room, where will the other group be?  Who will teach them? The unanswered questions make my head spin.  

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I have to pause and say that I have been incredibly impressed with the administrative team in the district where I work.  They have created thoughtful plans, working with educators and stakeholders to ensure that we are prioritizing the safety and health of our staff and students.  I am glad to be working in my current district; I’ve worked in several school systems where educators were dismissed and mistreated.  I’ve worked in places where the union and the school administration functioned as adversaries.  I’ve worked in places where the bottom line was always the most important consideration.  I’ve worked in places where teachers were dispensable, especially as they became more experienced and more expensive.  

So, as my anxiety builds coming into this crazy new teaching experiment, I am reassured by our administrators.  My concerned and questioning emails always receive a reply.  Sometimes the answers are clear.  Sometimes the answer is, “We’re working on it.”  Sometimes the reply is, “Thanks for bringing that to our attention.” Our administration is responsive and collegial and supportive.  I have faith that we’ll figure out all of the complicated scheduling details together.  But that’s only the first step. 

In addition to complex scheduling, we’ll also be dealing with substantial changes to the WAY we teach. 

Tried and true methods will need to be revised.  

One of the most essential and evasive things that new teachers need to learn is classroom management.  To some, this comes naturally.  To many, it’s a hard-earned skill.  But it is also highly personal.  Everyone approaches it differently.  Here are a few things that teachers do:

-Use proximity.  Sometimes standing next to a student is all it takes to change off-task behavior.   Teachers in many schools are now being instructed to stand at the front of the room, without moving during class. 

-Call kids by name.  They pay more attention and they respond more quickly.  Teachers recording lessons are being asked NOT to use names for privacy reasons. 

-Use nonverbal cues.  Instead of calling out a kid’s behavior, most of us shoot a warning look across the room.  Or we tap the desk.  Or we simply take away a distraction (toys or phones) while continuing to teach.  Masks and distancing rules make many of these strategies ineffective. 

-Make it interesting.  Don’t sit at your desk.  Don’t lecture.  Instruction should be creative and engaging.  Use project-based learning.  Do experiments.  Play games.  Get the kids up and moving.  Many of the things that we’ve come to accept as best practice simply won’t be possible under new guidelines.

-Provide unobtrusive support.  When a student with executive functioning concerns can’t find his paper, silently hand him another one.  When a student with ADHD is daydreaming, tap on her desk to help her refocus. When a dyslexic student is struggling with a word, show him where the syllables break.  So many of these strategies require shared materials and close proximity.  What is safe?  What will be allowed?  Under what circumstances? 

-Group students for the task at hand.  Sometimes, we want all of the strong students in one group, so we can provide them with a more challenging task.  Sometimes we want to vary the levels of ability in the group, so that they can learn from and teach each other, because teaching is one of the best ways to learn something new.  Sometimes we want them to be with their friends.  Sometimes we want them to practice negotiating with difficult peers.  Contact tracing means that kids will be working with or near the same peers for much of their day.  IF group work can even happen, it won’t be flexible. 

-Differentiate instruction.  Students (especially those on IEPs) have different needs.  They don’t all move at the same pace.  So there are discreet ways to meet each student where they are.  Maybe they have a math worksheet. All of the even numbered problems are the same, so we go over those together.  The odd numbered questions might be review, or simplified, or challenge problems.  Kids don’t all have the same sheet, but they don’t know it.  Maybe we’re taking notes.  Some students have an outline to fill in.  Some have a mostly completed outline with a few blanks to fill in.  Some students have a complete outline and they need to highlight or add definitions.  In middle school, there’s almost always more than one version of the test.  Maybe there’s one with simplified language for kids who are learning English.  Maybe there’s one with fewer problems for kids who test slowly.  Maybe there’s an audio version for kids with dyslexia.  I recently realized that, while nearly ALL teachers do this to some extent, many families and parents don’t realize that it’s happening.  That’s how it works if we do it well.  If we eliminate or reduce paper, or stop sharing headphones, or stop walking around the classroom, we will have to change the way we differentiate.  It will require commitment and creativity.

I’m sure my colleagues could add infinitely to this list.  We’re having to re-imagine education.  We’re adjusting and innovating and modifiying. We’re teaming up to tackle problems that many parents are entirely unaware of.  

But the thing is… we will do it.  We always do.  That’s what I’ve learned in two decades of teaching.  Every year, I’ve come to the table thinking, this is never going to work.  

And every year, I find myself surrounded by passionate, creative, enthusiastic, professional educators.  I am consistently impressed by their commitment and grit and teamwork.  Every year, we do whatever it takes.  We buy materials and write grants.  We purchase curriculum and create what we can’t find.  We scope ‘Teachers Pay Teachers’ to find quality materials that our colleagues have already created.  We connect with students and parents.  We form relationships.  We get to know our students. We anticipate needs.  We modify what doesn’t work and expand on what does.  We share ideas and we learn from each other. 

Teachers are professionals.  We do what we do because we love it and because we’re good at it.  Problem solving is just one of our superpowers.  

But this year, more than any other, our jobs will be made so much easier if we could all extend each other a little grace.  Let’s adopt a few basic beliefs… for both parents AND teachers.  

We are all learning. 

We would love to go back to ‘normal.’

There will be bumps… but we are doing our very best.  

Teachers can try to be understanding… When your teen oversleeps on his remote learning day.  Or your first grader couldn’t find her crayons at home.  Or your internet went down on the day of the big presentation. 

Parents can try to be understanding… When the online assignment doesn’t load.  When the grading takes longer than usual.  When your child complains about restrictions at school.  

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How many times have we heard, “We’re all in this together?”  Well, the thing is… for educators and parents, that’s nothing new.  We’ve always been in this together. 

We’re all in the job of trying to do what’s best for kids.  To help them grow and develop into functional, kind, educated, capable citizens.  And while COVID has changed so many things, that still remains.  Teachers, administrators, and parents are all in this crazy, scary, unprecedented thing together.  

For now, we can take a beat.  We can sit for a moment with the fear that this is never going to work.  But we can’t stay there.  Pretty soon, we’re all going to buck up a bit.  We’re going to put on our big kid pants and figure it out.  We’re going to make it work, because that’s what teachers (and parents) do best. 

Adventures

It’s been a long week.  Too much screen time and busy-ness and too many online meetings.  I was hoping to get out and DO something.  I wanted to go to the beach or go hiking.  I wanted to head out of the house and have an adventure.  But it’s 10:15 in the morning, and I think I’ve changed my mind. 

I woke up early, around 6:30, and checked my phone.  There was a text from my daughter, sent at 11:14pm (after I was already asleep) and it read, “Can you make sure I’m up by 6:15?” No.  No, I cannot.  That ship has sailed.  

So I check her room; her bed is already made and empty.  I check the driveway and her car is still here.  I stumble into the kitchen and sit with her for a moment.  She hands me a banana chocolate chip muffin that she baked last night while I slept. It is sweet and light and delicious.  She’s up so early because she’s going to get her hair done with her sister.  I pause for a moment and admire the adult she is becoming before she drives away.  

Since we’re awake, Jack and I begin our Saturday morning chores early.   We load up the trash and head to the dump.  On our way back through town, we stop for coffee.  Then we take a trip to the farmer’s market to buy corn and veggies for tonight’s dinner.  They’re selling fresh, warm, cider donuts that smell like heaven, so we grab some of those to bring home to the boys.  These Saturday morning errands have become a cherished part of our weekly routine.  

When we arrive back home, there is a package for Cal.  It’s an early birthday present from his Aunt and Grandma; a Lego kit he’s been eyeing for months.  The excitement on his face is enough to make this day feel like a success already.  As he opens up the package, he proclaims, “The directions are like a real book.  217 pages!  I’m going to need a cup of coffee.”  He’s not quite 12, and he brews a cup, heavy with cream and sugar.  I’m not sure whether I’m proud or appalled.  He sips from a steamy mug and settles in with 1,173 small bricks.  

I grab my computer; it seems like a good time to write.  In the living room, I open my laptop, on the couch across from where Lee is working on a new sketch.  He starts with a pad and paper, photographs the rough image, and then uses his iPad to turn it into something sleek and professional, deftly swapping between functions with the stylus on his screen.  I am in awe of his skill.  

Meanwhile, my husband grabs his guitar.  As I type this, he’s gently strumming and composing in the other room, pausing every once in a while to write down a lyric or a chord.  When he plays like this, my breathing slows and my mind settles.  I could listen all day.  

How precious is this moment?  The art and the music?  The building and the connecting?  Writing.  Creating.  Relaxing.  I realize that I don’t need an adventure.  I need exactly THIS.   I take a moment to breathe it all in. 

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Isn’t that beautiful?  Ha.  It’s over in a hot minute.    

In a blink, the drawing morphs into YouTube browsing and the sound of the guitar is replaced by the sound of the television.  Jack picks up his phone and settles in on the couch.  

I head to the laundry room with a load of towels, and pass a plate of half-eaten nachos in the basement.  Somebody has left clothes in the washing machine that now smell like mildew.  My blood pressure rises.  

The boys are bickering over the last cider donut.  The nacho plate is now in the sink, still full of nachos, still not washed, still not in the dishwasher.  

Jack is playing a game on his phone.  Cue standard argument.  Me: Will you help me?  Him: Why can’t you just relax?  

A short debate.  

Me: Can we just clean the house real quick?  

Him: I thought you wanted to go do something?  

Me: I thought you didn’t.  

Him: We should clean the garage.  

Me: You want to clean the garage but not the house?  Fine.  Go ahead.

Him: I thought we could work on it together.  

Me: Nope.  Not a chance.    

Him: Forget it.  

Silence.  

Kyle makes plans with a friend.  I tell him he can’t leave until he cleans up his mess.  Cue the teenage attitude.  

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Jack knows I’m mad, so he volunteers to be in charge of dinner.  I think we’ve come up with a plan that involves a little shopping and a lot of cooking.  He’s ready to go to the store.  I tell him I’m in the middle of something, as I document this ridiculous morning.  

You’re in the middle of something?  You’re writing about all of the nothing we’re doing?  How is that even something?  

But it IS something.  It’s what we’ve got.  Beautiful moments and stupid arguments and good intentions and pivots.  We’ve got moody teenagers and talented artists.  We’ve got bakers and builders and writers and musicians; family meals and stale nachos and dirty dishes and smelly laundry.  

And whether we head to the beach or head to the kitchen, whether we plan our or day or just let it evolve… 

I need to remember that ALL of it is part of the adventure.  

Go in Peace

I’m sitting in my living room, watching the remnants of a tropical storm pass by my picture window.  The rain and the wind are both violent and cathartic.  There’s something beautiful that happens when the weather matches your mood. 

The wind calms.  The rain keeps coming.  My neighbor is standing on his porch, holding his baby girl.  I am intrigued.  At first I worry.  Is something wrong? After a moment, I realize that they are dancing in the rain.  Did I ever do that with my children?  No.  Why didn’t I ever dance in the rain with my babies? 

My babies aren’t babies anymore and there’s a pandemic that’s shifting everything I thought I knew. I’m simultaneously learning all there is to know about myself and understanding less and less about the world around me.  

Is this just midlife? 

Is it midlife during a pandemic? 

The rain gusts.  The wind shakes the house.  And then… nothing.  The sun is shining again.  All is calm.  What is happening?  Why can’t we have just one thing at a time? 

Huh.  I guess the weather matches my mood more than I realized. 

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At some point, I’ll gather my thoughts coherently enough to write a post about returning to teaching during a pandemic.  As those decisions swirl in my brain and around my community, I’m trying to put them aside to focus on a few things that I can actually control.  

Well, really just one thing.  Because there is only one thing I can ever control.  

Me.  

That’s it.  The rest is just illusion and nonsense.  

I can control my thoughts, my behaviors, my actions, my habits, my reactions. 

Nothing more.  

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Since March, I’ve taken the time to focus on developing better habits.  I’m sleeping more.  I’m writing more.  I’m eating better and moving more.  I’m being deliberate about friendships and connections.  I’m trying to be more intentional and attentive with my kids.  I’m reducing stress and focusing on joy and doing a whole bunch of really cool stuff.  I’m setting better boundaries.  My yesses are more enthusiastic and my nos are firmer.  I’m trying new things.  I’m stretching myself in ways that I can control.  Life is stretching me in ways that I cannot.  

I don’t think it’s just me.  Didn’t everyone start this whole quarantine thing baking bread and planting seeds and slowing down a little?  Didn’t we all get rocked by a newfound awareness of injustice?  Didn’t we all have to find some meaning in it?  Aren’t we all trying to be better people?  

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I read a book recently that was written by an Anglican priest.  Having grown up in the Episcopal Church, I was pulled into nostalgia by her references to traditions and prayers from my youth. 

At the end of Sunday worship, the final line was always, “Go in peace to love and serve the Lord.” I hear those words and my heart settles.  But the author pointed out our tendency to think of our love and service in terms of big ideas and lofty ideals.  As a child, I know I did.  I thought that meant to volunteer and feed the hungry and build homes for the homeless. 

Now in adulthood, the writer reminded me, that love and service winds up looking a lot like the mundane bits of time that compose a life.  Does that make it any less valuable?  Can I love and serve the Lord by washing dishes?  Can I love and serve the Lord when I’m checking my email or driving to the doctor or pulling my kids off screens yet again?  Of course I can.  

And I’ve begun to use this as a mantra.  Go in peace.  Breathe.  You are loved.  You are not alone.  Peace be with you.  Go in peace to love.  Love your kids.  Love everyone’s kids. Love your neighbors.  Love protesters.  Love police.  Love sinners and saints and love people you don’t understand.  Go in peace to love and serve.  Serve your friends and your family.  Your elders.  Those in need.  Those who don’t seem to be in need.  The lonely.  The marginalized.  The weary.  The joyful.  Go in peace to love and serve the Lord.  

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All of these lessons are crashing in on me.  Does it even matter if I’m becoming better as the world around me is falling apart? 

The rain comes down in sheets again.  The wind whips through the trees.  It’s terrifying and exhilarating.   

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It’s such a cliché.  Dancing in the rain, I mean.  But as a metaphor, it works… obviously.  That’s how we get clichés, after all. 

We don’t have the power to control the storm.  But peace doesn’t come from control.  Control is a tempting illusion.  Real peace comes from faith.  Faith in whatever form speaks to you.  Faith in yourself.  In your relationships.  In your community.  Faith in God or the Holy Spirit or Mother Nature or whatever you believe in.  So believe in something.  Inhale grace. Go in peace.  And if you still can, dance in the rain with your babies.  You won’t regret it.