Category: Anxiety and self-discovery

I had my own room for a time in my teens.  I had my own apartment for a few months in my 20s.  But for most of my life, I’ve shared space with various siblings, roommates, and friends.  When Jack and I started dating, I didn’t consciously consider the reality that I just signed up to share a room for the rest of my life. 

I’m a pretty social person.  I enjoy people.  And for the most part, I like sharing space.  I love having someone to talk to, someone to cuddle with, someone to laugh with.  I especially love that that person is my husband.  I want to share a bedroom with him forever.

But I’ve always wanted my own little office.  Since I was a kid, I’ve been slightly obsessed with pretty stationery and pens, post-its and colored paperclips.  I love the feel of a solid stapler in my hand, and the smell of a brand new notebook. The click of my fingers on the keyboard is a calming sort of background music to my thoughts.  An office. A quiet space for working and reading and writing.  Wouldn’t that be lovely? 

Turns out, it is.  It is SO FREAKING LOVELY. 

It’s not entirely finished, but over the past few weeks, I’ve been assembling my office.  With Bea gone, we have an extra little bedroom.  It’s just barely large enough to fit a full size bed, so it wasn’t ideal as a kid’s room.  But it is the perfect size for this.  

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When I first started this project, I had a vision in mind.  I wanted a comfy chair.  I wanted lots of shelving.  I wanted calming colors and pretty patterns and knickknacks and tchotchkes that made me smile.  I imagined pretty candles and soothing scents and fabric-covered boxes to hold my memorabilia.  

I have a canvas print of a photo that Cal took on the beach.  The sun is setting and the water is coming in and Lee is a blurred figure in the foreground of the shot.  It’s beautiful.  And I could picture it clearly on the wall in this room in my imagination.  

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The first thing I bought for the space was a teal, wire wall hanging shaped like the side of a birdcage.  It came with a few small clothespins on it, and it functions as a pretty sort of corkboard for hanging photos and reminders and business cards.  I bought it at a local antique shop when the office only existed in my imagination.  It felt frivolous.  I was buying something I didn’t need for a room that didn’t exist.  But I LIKED it.  I REALLY liked it.  So I splurged a little.  

A few weeks later, the work began.  We started to empty that little room.  The closet was full of Legos and Light Sabers and Avengers paraphernalia. Cal and I painstakingly sorted it all into piles.  Keep.  Gift.  Donate.  Trash.  To make this new space for me, we had to wade through so many of his memories.  It was bittersweet.  

Once the room was cleared out, I wanted to maximize the space.  The doors came off the closet and Jack removed the built-in shelving.  Now I had a cubby.  The old closet was about 7 feet wide and a little more than 2 feet deep.  I imagined a desk in that space, surrounded by shelves for books and photos and pretty, useless things.    

But if I was planning to sit in that little cubby and create something beautiful, I wanted to look at something beautiful.  Instead of painting the wall, I decided I wanted wallpaper there.  I wanted something that would pop a little.  I wanted something happy and colorful.  

I started at Lowe’s.  Jack and I looked at wallpaper, and while there were some perfectly nice things, I didn’t find anything I loved.  And I wanted to love it.  

That was a new feeling.  I have always shopped for the best deals on the most useful things.  I typically pick the ‘good enough’ version of what I need because it is less expensive or more functional or whatever.  I’m quick to compromise. 

When shopping for new bedding, I chose something with a mandala pattern because Jack didn’t want to sleep in a flowery room.  I went easy on the throw pillows, because he doesn’t share my affinity for decorative fluff.  It wasn’t that I didn’t like what I was choosing; it’s just that everything was a little bit of a compromise. 

The couch that I really loved was crazy expensive, but we found this set in the clearance section that would work just fine.  I don’t love my dining room table, but it is a huge, hefty, functional antique and it was free.  

And so the story goes…

But as I sat there looking at that wallpaper, I thought about my little birdcage.  I love that birdcage.  And I wanted it to sit against wallpaper that made me smile.  

So I didn’t buy wallpaper in Lowe’s that day. I did buy a lovely hanging light covered in crystals to replace the single bare bulb in the closet.  It was sparkly and girly and perfect.  

And then I went home and spent two weeks shopping online for just the right wallpaper.  It was a little expensive.  But it was exactly what I had hoped to find.  A pretty blue and gold floral pattern.  The colors were just right.  The pattern was delicate and light but interesting.  I loved it. 

My canvas print.  My little birdcage.  My sparkly light.  My pretty wallpaper.  I was beginning to gather lovely things.  I was choosing without compromise.  I didn’t have to consider anyone else’s preferences.  I wasn’t limited by a shoestring budget.  

It was a brand-new feeling, and I loved it. 

Jack and I found a chaise lounge in the clearance section at the furniture store, but this time it didn’t feel like a compromise.  It was exactly what I wanted.  A comfy chair with a corner, perfect for reclining and reading and relaxing.  It was the perfect size and shape and color and it was only a hundred bucks.  We loaded it into the truck. 

I found an adorable little clock at a craft store.  I picked it up and put it down and  walked away and came back three times before I finally decided that I needed to have it. I finally bought the paper shredder that I’ve wanted for years. I ordered a cute little spinning organizer for my pens and pencils and paperclips and post-its.  I got candles and fabric covered boxes and pretty throw pillows.  I hung Lee’s paintings and Cal’s photo and filled a basket with yarn for crocheting.  

Lovely things.  All lovely things.  But it’s more than that.  When I sit in this room, I don’t just love it because it’s full of lovely things.  I love it because they’re MY lovely things.  I love it because I had a vision and I made it a reality and I didn’t compromise.  I love it because it is totally and utterly MINE.  

I still haven’t gotten my shelves.  Because I haven’t found ones that are exactly right.  I’m still looking for the perfect curtains.  I want to add some plants.  And all of that will come in time.  

For now, I’m going to sit here and sip my coffee and listen to the ticking of my adorable little clock.  I’m going to breathe in the scent of this candle and admire my kids’ artwork and cuddle up on my chaise lounge with a book and a homemade crocheted blanket. I’m going to pay attention to the feel and the sound of my fingers on the keyboard as I edit this piece and write down my thoughts in a room of my very own.   

I haven’t written lately.  I’ve been waiting for some sort of inspiration.  Well… maybe inspiration isn’t the right word.  An idea?  A worthy thought?  

When I write, it’s not always because I’m feeling inspired.  More often, I’m having some sort of internal debate.  Or I’m obsessing about something and I need to get it out.  Usually, when I sit down at my computer, I at least have an IDEA.  Sometimes, it’s a fully-fleshed out blog post in my head and I just have to get it on paper.  Often, it’s just a topic; an observation or a rant … and I’m not quite sure where the writing will take me.  

But sometimes, there is no idea.  Sometimes it’s just been too long and I feel the words building up inside of me.  Journaling helps.  But it doesn’t always do the trick. Because if I’m really honest, it’s much more rewarding to write something that other people might read.  

I had a writing teacher in middle school who once told me, “If you can’t think of an idea, just write, ‘I don’t know what to write’ over and over again.  Something will come to you.  And at least you’re writing!”  At the time, I thought it was stupid.  But I’m not sure I’ve ever gotten better advice.  

Now, instead of ‘I don’t know what to write,’ I’ll start by describing my surroundings.  Maybe I’ll add in a stream of consciousness.  It might not even be complete thoughts.  I’ll jot down words and phrases.  I’ll write terrible sentences, knowing they’ll never be read.  But I have to start.  Sometimes it turns in to something presentable.  More often, it becomes part of the collection of half-written musings in my ‘draft’ folder.  

That’s the kind of day that today is.  I don’t have an idea or a topic.  I certainly don’t have a fully formed blog in my brain.  Today I just have a cup of coffee and a few extra minutes and a desire to put words into sentences.  

I’m not sure if these feelings point to typical writer’s block, or if they’re a symptom of a more pervasive, societal lethargy.  Everyone I talk to is just… tired.  I don’t have to tell you.  You know.  We’re tired of homeschooling and social distancing and wearing masks and missing our family and our friends.  We’re just TIRED.  

And there’s something deflating about a SECOND Easter without.  Without church.  Without tradition.  Without family gathering.  Without the fanfare and celebration. 

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I’ve always loved Holy Week.  As we conclude the Lenten season, we’re reflective and aware of ourselves as being flawed and human and capable of better. And Holy Week gives us permission to slow down and really sit with ALL of our emotions.  We don’t gloss over the hard parts.  We study them.  We FEEL them.  Betrayed. Persecuted. Forsaken.  Crucified. But to get to the end of this journey, it is our responsibility to move through all of it.  If we skip from the parade celebration of Palm Sunday right to the joy of Easter, we’re missing the point.  

Holy Week starts with the anticipation and enthusiasm of Palm Sunday.  It moves to the uncertainty and confusion of Maundy Thursday.  The sanctity and sacrament of the last supper.  Then we feel the deep, heavy, tragedy of Good Friday.  And finally, the joy of Resurrection Sunday.  

But what about that Saturday?  TODAY is that in-between day that we don’t know what to do with.  This Holy Saturday isn’t marked by a church service.  It’s not celebrated with a liturgy.  Today is the day after the tragedy but before the joy. We cannot deny that there has been great suffering.  We can see to tomorrow; we know that joy will be upon us soon.  But today? Today we can only feel our feelings and wait.  

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Yeah.  Holy Week has a different meaning this year.  We have spent the last year moving through the hard parts.  The fear, the confusion, the uncertainty.  The grief, the sadness, the frustration.  

And this spring? This spring is the Saturday before Easter.  

We can’t celebrate yet, but we can see it.  The mood is changing.  The air is shifting.  There is hope.  There is optimism.  Tomorrow, there will be joy.  

Hallelujah. 

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.