Well my little baby turned 1 today. I wonder if there will every be a time when he's not my little baby. I've thought about writing a blog several times about Fin and his first year, but I always dismissed it.
As I tell Will, "I love Fin so much that it makes my heart bones hurt."
You know that feeling when you are so overcome with emotion that it just hurts. That's how I feel about him all the time, and the idea of writing about how wonderful and crazy this journey has been has felt daunting. But I'll give it a whirl from a safe distance.
Here are 10 things I've learned this year from motherhood.
1. While Dr. Brown's bottles are best for preventing gas in your little one, they're a butt to clean.
2. Video monitors are great, but the static almost makes them not worth it. Old school walkie talkies may be the best route.
3. There's a reason why people talk high-pitched to babies. They prefer it. I can tell knee-slapping jokes all day, and nothing. I can dance and make funny faces, and nothing. But the second that I say in an annoying high-pitched tone "de de de," my child is rolling on the ground laughing. So then you decide it's worth it to look like an idiot for the trade of a little giggly squeal.
4. There's a secret mom's club. You don't have to apply or sign up, you just instantly join when that screaming thing comes out of you. It's a cool club. When your child is throwing a fit, because he's decided he doesn't want to ride in the cart, another mom club member looks over and gives a forgiving smile. Because she too, has been there. And as apart of the mom club, I can smile at little babies and talk mom stuff (formula, clothes, diapers, carseats, etc.) because that's what mom club members do. I can also beam and smile at another mom club member as she swoons over my own perfectly-beautiful son.
5. I'll never have my sexy body back. I can run, diet, exercise, and do Jillian Michaels every day. But I'll never be a size six again. My stomach will never be flat. My abs will never be defined. And I'll never slide into a slinky dress to show off my hour glass figure at a dinner party. But I can choose to accept my body and dress it appropriately. For goodness sakes, I carried a human for nine months. I'd say it was worth the pay off.
6. My house is no longer my own. I can't leave crap out, because my child will eat it. I can't put cute knick-knacks on the book shelf, because my child will break them. I can't leave the mac plugged in, because my child will knaw on the cords. I can't wait to take out the trash, because my child will knock it all over.
7. God has to be the center of our house. Church is no longer about me, if I like the worship, if there are people my age, or if they believe in this or that. It is now about what's best for my family. Where will we best serve? Are there friends Fin can make and grow with? Are they teaching the gospel of a loving God? Can we invest in community as a family? Never before have I been as challenged to find God as I am now.
8. You really learn who your friends are. Everyone comes to the hospital. Everyone gives you gifts. But not everyone loves him as hard as we do. There is nothing more meaningful than seeing your friends invest in your child by changing, feeding, playing, dancing, laughing, holding, and simply loving. Not because they are required. Not because they are asked to. But because they want to play in intricate part of his life. It really does take a village.
9. My husband is an incredible dad. Every bride says, "And he's so good with kids." But it's different when there's poop up the newborn's back, I forgot to pack a bottle, and you're so tired that you can't even think straight. But being a stellar dad is the sexiest thing about my husband. It truly makes me swoon.
10. There are different kinds of love. Fin Knowles has instilled in me a love that is so raw, strong, and irrevocable. I have been tired, exhausted, angry, frustrated, selfish, embarrassed, and still, there is never a time when my love for him is not overwhelming, for even myself. It's so encompassing, that my heart bones just hurt.
Thursday, October 20, 2011
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
Lost
I'm lost. I've lost the map. I've lost myself. I'm trying to find my location. I'm trying to find where to go from here. I'm trying to find myself again.
Sunday, May 29, 2011
The Hours of TCAP
Hours of preparation. Hours of work. Hours of collaboration. Hours of worry. Hours of stress. Hours of being told I wasn't doing the right thing. Hours of feeling like I failed before I even started. Hours of feeling like I was alone. Hours of wishing I could inspire instead of teach A, B, C, and D. Hours of analyzing data. Hours of asking myself,"How can I be better?" Hours of telling my kids they mean more to me than scores. Hours of lying in bed wondering if I'm a good teacher or simply ignorant to the fact that I should've picked something different. Hours of wondering if my administration believes in me. Hours of trying to leave work at school but feeling guilty for not bringing it home.
And I kept working. I kept doing my best. While I felt hopeless sometimes, I gave it all I had.
Hours of testing. Hours of checking roster after roster. Hours of sharpening #2 pencils. Hours of directions. Hours of bubbling in little circles. Hours of praying. Hours of hoping. Hours of believing. Hours of doubting. Hours of waiting. Hours of no scores.
And then the scores came back.
And all those hours turned into proficient and advanced.
And I knew my hours were spent in the right place.
And I kept working. I kept doing my best. While I felt hopeless sometimes, I gave it all I had.
Hours of testing. Hours of checking roster after roster. Hours of sharpening #2 pencils. Hours of directions. Hours of bubbling in little circles. Hours of praying. Hours of hoping. Hours of believing. Hours of doubting. Hours of waiting. Hours of no scores.
And then the scores came back.
And all those hours turned into proficient and advanced.
And I knew my hours were spent in the right place.
Monday, May 23, 2011
Fin's seven month details
Well...my baby just turned seven months. For those of you who are tired of me talking about Fin, feel free to close the window out now. I'm not offended.
Things he likes at seven months.
-"dancing"
-his Bumbo seat
-wrestling with Dad
-balancing on Dad's hand
-Baby Einstein
-Sophie the giraffe
-sitting in between cushions of the couch and playing
-grabbing anything in his reach
-drinking water from a cup
-not wearing clothes
-laying on the changing table
-saying "booty" really fast.
Things he doesn't like at seven months
-ear infections
-long trips in the car
-going to bed when he's not tired
-putting on pants
-being cold after baths
-old women's faces
Things he likes at seven months.
-"dancing"
-his Bumbo seat
-wrestling with Dad
-balancing on Dad's hand
-Baby Einstein
-Sophie the giraffe
-sitting in between cushions of the couch and playing
-grabbing anything in his reach
-drinking water from a cup
-not wearing clothes
-laying on the changing table
-saying "booty" really fast.
Things he doesn't like at seven months
-ear infections
-long trips in the car
-going to bed when he's not tired
-putting on pants
-being cold after baths
-old women's faces
Sunday, May 8, 2011
Mother's Day Thoughts
So it’s my first “official” mother’s day. Last year I was sort of a mother, with a plum sized child, but this time... He’s about 17 lbs and very much a real member of our family.
People always say, “You don’t know what love really means until you have your own child. Then you realize that you love even more than you knew you were capable of.”
While I thought these were sweet mushy-gushy words, I never really believed that I would attest to that. I never thought I would be protective or have that “motherly instinct.”
Fin’s eardrum burst again this week. That wasn’t the worst part. The night preceding the eruption, Fin had been up all night in intense discomfort. Because he can’t talk yet, a guessing game begins. I’m not the best guesser at 3 in the morning.
We tried everything. We changed him, fed him, held him, sang to him, undressed him, and finally we decided he might be too congested to breathe. In the middle of the night, Will put the restless and emotionally frail child on the changing table and preceded to bulb his nose.
While Fin has always hated this…I have never heard him scream like he did. He was in pain and tired, and his cry was just one of intense discomfort. He was screaming because of the additional pain we were causing. While I knew this was what was best for him, it literally felt like my heart was being ripped from my chest.
I understand babies cry, and I’m the first one to tell you that crying babies are normal. I hate it when parents think their child must always be pleased and never unhappy. But at that 3am hour, I had to leave the room with tears in my eyes, because I couldn’t bear to see my child hurt like that.
You never know what it means to love until you have a child.
What’s interesting about my profession…is that I have 23 additional children. While I don’t share those 3am moments with them, I spend seven and a half hours with them. Some of the kids have no mom. Some have an absent mom. Some have an uneducated mom. And suddenly I find myself becoming a comforter, protector, educator, and encourager to 23 additional children who don’t share any DNA with me.
On this mother’s day, I’m overwhelmed with how blessed I am. I am so thankful for Fin and the joy he brings to me. I am so thankful for Will and the ways that he teaches me how to love. And I’m so thankful for the 23 other children who teach me even more about being a mom.
People always say, “You don’t know what love really means until you have your own child. Then you realize that you love even more than you knew you were capable of.”
While I thought these were sweet mushy-gushy words, I never really believed that I would attest to that. I never thought I would be protective or have that “motherly instinct.”
Fin’s eardrum burst again this week. That wasn’t the worst part. The night preceding the eruption, Fin had been up all night in intense discomfort. Because he can’t talk yet, a guessing game begins. I’m not the best guesser at 3 in the morning.
We tried everything. We changed him, fed him, held him, sang to him, undressed him, and finally we decided he might be too congested to breathe. In the middle of the night, Will put the restless and emotionally frail child on the changing table and preceded to bulb his nose.
While Fin has always hated this…I have never heard him scream like he did. He was in pain and tired, and his cry was just one of intense discomfort. He was screaming because of the additional pain we were causing. While I knew this was what was best for him, it literally felt like my heart was being ripped from my chest.
I understand babies cry, and I’m the first one to tell you that crying babies are normal. I hate it when parents think their child must always be pleased and never unhappy. But at that 3am hour, I had to leave the room with tears in my eyes, because I couldn’t bear to see my child hurt like that.
You never know what it means to love until you have a child.
What’s interesting about my profession…is that I have 23 additional children. While I don’t share those 3am moments with them, I spend seven and a half hours with them. Some of the kids have no mom. Some have an absent mom. Some have an uneducated mom. And suddenly I find myself becoming a comforter, protector, educator, and encourager to 23 additional children who don’t share any DNA with me.
On this mother’s day, I’m overwhelmed with how blessed I am. I am so thankful for Fin and the joy he brings to me. I am so thankful for Will and the ways that he teaches me how to love. And I’m so thankful for the 23 other children who teach me even more about being a mom.
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
What it's like to be a teacher under NCLB
A fellow teacher showed me this article. Never have I been able to express what the stress of TCAP does to me as a teacher. Now, I can read this and feel like I'm not the only one. Come into my world, and see what it's like.
Letter to Students from a Torn Teacher
By Amanda Sheaffer
To my students,
I greet you at the door with a smile, but I feel uneasy. I see your bright faces and hear your cheerful words with an inadvertent cringe. I am caught in a struggle between what I have been told to do and what you deserve. In my mind, I am clawing and scraping for solid ground, but I cannot find it.
I obey and trust the wisdom of an unknown authority whose face I cannot see but believe to be honorable. I follow, with your hand in mine, and ignore a call beckoning to me from my gut—this isn’t the right way. You come along without resistance, a partnership of blind trust and good will.
For a while I am able to maintain the integrity of our space. Academic rigor coexists with preparation for judgment day, and I meet your needs as individuals. But the crescendo of fear plays in my mind as the test steadily marches toward us. While I am proud of your achievement, I know it is too complex to be represented so simply.
Inevitably, I surrender to the pressure. I cannot serve two masters. I panic and reluctantly declare allegiance to that which holds the most power.
I proceed with infamous rituals of submission. I have you read lengthy irrelevant passages, practice strategies for multiple-choice items, and make marks that are suitably heavy and dark. You barely maintain attention, but I give you the you-can-do-it song and dance and promise fun times will follow. We suffer through this ridiculous charade, squeeze in a lesson of value with any remaining time, dismiss, and repeat in the morning. Caught in a trap I cannot define, I steal your time and give it away. I am afraid, but I continue on a mission to higher scores with determination and focus in the name of success for my school, for me, and for you, yet you do not look at me as though you feel successful.
I realize you are silent. It occurs to me that I barely recognize you. I feel uneasy again. Finally, I stop and look in the mirror. I choose to acknowledge my shame while I can still feel it. I must consider my character and decide to what extent I will participate. I sort through this confusion in search of resolve. Though the nation will applaud when your numbers rise, the cost is high. At my core, I am uncomfortable with the sacrifice required.
I am here with you and must make it my responsibility to speak your truth. You are not products to be homogeneously assessed and used as bragging rights. You are much more. Each of you is intricate, a contradiction to the implications of standardization. When given opportunities for curiosity, fascination, and discovery, your insights amaze me. When I offer you occasions to be brave in thought and expression, I am impressed by your abilities. You are smart, and you know that you could never tell the world who you are with a No. 2 pencil within the tight constraints of an itty-bitty bubble.
So as I look at my tired face in the mirror, I make my choice. I do not want to contribute to a system that limits you and expects so little, but if my only alternative is to abandon you, I will stay by your sides. I will steady my frustration and find a balance. I will prepare you for the test, but I will not forfeit your education. I will whisper as loudly as I can to you.
You possess unique qualities that are immeasurable. You are minds and voices unexplored, hotbeds of potential, a gift to your community.
You are more than a number.
And so am I.
Letter to Students from a Torn Teacher
By Amanda Sheaffer
To my students,
I greet you at the door with a smile, but I feel uneasy. I see your bright faces and hear your cheerful words with an inadvertent cringe. I am caught in a struggle between what I have been told to do and what you deserve. In my mind, I am clawing and scraping for solid ground, but I cannot find it.
I obey and trust the wisdom of an unknown authority whose face I cannot see but believe to be honorable. I follow, with your hand in mine, and ignore a call beckoning to me from my gut—this isn’t the right way. You come along without resistance, a partnership of blind trust and good will.
For a while I am able to maintain the integrity of our space. Academic rigor coexists with preparation for judgment day, and I meet your needs as individuals. But the crescendo of fear plays in my mind as the test steadily marches toward us. While I am proud of your achievement, I know it is too complex to be represented so simply.
Inevitably, I surrender to the pressure. I cannot serve two masters. I panic and reluctantly declare allegiance to that which holds the most power.
I proceed with infamous rituals of submission. I have you read lengthy irrelevant passages, practice strategies for multiple-choice items, and make marks that are suitably heavy and dark. You barely maintain attention, but I give you the you-can-do-it song and dance and promise fun times will follow. We suffer through this ridiculous charade, squeeze in a lesson of value with any remaining time, dismiss, and repeat in the morning. Caught in a trap I cannot define, I steal your time and give it away. I am afraid, but I continue on a mission to higher scores with determination and focus in the name of success for my school, for me, and for you, yet you do not look at me as though you feel successful.
I realize you are silent. It occurs to me that I barely recognize you. I feel uneasy again. Finally, I stop and look in the mirror. I choose to acknowledge my shame while I can still feel it. I must consider my character and decide to what extent I will participate. I sort through this confusion in search of resolve. Though the nation will applaud when your numbers rise, the cost is high. At my core, I am uncomfortable with the sacrifice required.
I am here with you and must make it my responsibility to speak your truth. You are not products to be homogeneously assessed and used as bragging rights. You are much more. Each of you is intricate, a contradiction to the implications of standardization. When given opportunities for curiosity, fascination, and discovery, your insights amaze me. When I offer you occasions to be brave in thought and expression, I am impressed by your abilities. You are smart, and you know that you could never tell the world who you are with a No. 2 pencil within the tight constraints of an itty-bitty bubble.
So as I look at my tired face in the mirror, I make my choice. I do not want to contribute to a system that limits you and expects so little, but if my only alternative is to abandon you, I will stay by your sides. I will steady my frustration and find a balance. I will prepare you for the test, but I will not forfeit your education. I will whisper as loudly as I can to you.
You possess unique qualities that are immeasurable. You are minds and voices unexplored, hotbeds of potential, a gift to your community.
You are more than a number.
And so am I.
Thursday, January 20, 2011
It was Christmas for Ms. Knowles today
I got two presents today. One was a late Christmas present. It wasn’t from one of my kids this year. It wasn’t from one of my kids last year. It was from a sibling of one of my kids last year who always walks by my door grinning like I’m a movie star. She joyfully spouts out every morning, “Good Morning, Mrs. Knowles.”
Today she brought me a present in Charlie Brown Christmas Paper. She said, ”I brought you a Christmas present,” not showing any proof that she knew Christmas was already over. I was pleasantly surprised and confused, but I thanked her and set it on my desk.
In between reading groups and while checking e-mail and telling kids to sit down, I ripped it open without thinking about it.
There in the Charlie Brown paper was a not-so-gently used paperback thesaurus with water stains and doodles in the front. I was perplexed as to what made this girl say,” I’ll give this book to Ms. Knowles.”
I started to think…maybe she was trying to get rid of it. Maybe she thinks my vocabulary is an embarrassment to teachers. Maybe it’s her favorite accessory and wanted to share with me. I don’t know why she gave it to me. And really, I don’t know what I’ll do with it.
Then I decided maybe it was that she was so excited to wrap and give me a present. And the present itself was seeing her beautiful smile as she handed me her gift.
The other present I got was an apple from my sweet yet rugged girl. It’s hard not to call her by a name, but I still have to be a professional, even if I’m a blogger.
It’s been a rough week, and I’ve been praying for her each night and in those moments when I am beyond frustrated. I have felt your prayers, and I truly feel as if my life is better, because she is in it. Normally her lunch consists of a slice of ham and two pieces of bread. And that’s it. She always tells me she’s hungry. While her lunch at school costs forty cents, her mom still can’t afford to pay for it. Or something. Today she had her usual sandwich. But the apple is not usual. That was a treat. I know this, because we talk about her lunch and how she wishes she could eat more.
So I knew this apple was not an everyday apple.
Then she pulls out another apple…that she brought me. She gifted me with a piece of fruit, giving me what is a treasure to her. Who knows where that apple has been? Honestly, I’m scared to think about it. But I humbly accepted it and kept it on my desk as a reminder of my love for Faith, but more importantly, my Savior’s love for her.
May I never miss the little moments to learn of sacrificial love, even if it’s in the form of an apple and a fourth grader.
Today she brought me a present in Charlie Brown Christmas Paper. She said, ”I brought you a Christmas present,” not showing any proof that she knew Christmas was already over. I was pleasantly surprised and confused, but I thanked her and set it on my desk.
In between reading groups and while checking e-mail and telling kids to sit down, I ripped it open without thinking about it.
There in the Charlie Brown paper was a not-so-gently used paperback thesaurus with water stains and doodles in the front. I was perplexed as to what made this girl say,” I’ll give this book to Ms. Knowles.”
I started to think…maybe she was trying to get rid of it. Maybe she thinks my vocabulary is an embarrassment to teachers. Maybe it’s her favorite accessory and wanted to share with me. I don’t know why she gave it to me. And really, I don’t know what I’ll do with it.
Then I decided maybe it was that she was so excited to wrap and give me a present. And the present itself was seeing her beautiful smile as she handed me her gift.
The other present I got was an apple from my sweet yet rugged girl. It’s hard not to call her by a name, but I still have to be a professional, even if I’m a blogger.
It’s been a rough week, and I’ve been praying for her each night and in those moments when I am beyond frustrated. I have felt your prayers, and I truly feel as if my life is better, because she is in it. Normally her lunch consists of a slice of ham and two pieces of bread. And that’s it. She always tells me she’s hungry. While her lunch at school costs forty cents, her mom still can’t afford to pay for it. Or something. Today she had her usual sandwich. But the apple is not usual. That was a treat. I know this, because we talk about her lunch and how she wishes she could eat more.
So I knew this apple was not an everyday apple.
Then she pulls out another apple…that she brought me. She gifted me with a piece of fruit, giving me what is a treasure to her. Who knows where that apple has been? Honestly, I’m scared to think about it. But I humbly accepted it and kept it on my desk as a reminder of my love for Faith, but more importantly, my Savior’s love for her.
May I never miss the little moments to learn of sacrificial love, even if it’s in the form of an apple and a fourth grader.
Monday, January 10, 2011
A different kind of Joy
I got a new student while I was out on maternity leave. Her name is spelled with an apostrophe and the substitute told me she'd be a "piece of work." All the kids tell me, "Just wait until you meet her." I tried to prepare myself, but nothing could prepare me for the minute I met this little girl.
She's a tiny African American child with purple glasses and a smile as big as her entire face. Her hair is scraggly and sticks out everywhere. Her pants are too short. Her shoes have holes in them. Her desk has been placed directly next to mine, while the other kids sit in clean, organized groups.
She opens her pencil box. It's full of dirt, trash, two inch pencils, and dried out markers. While I truly have the sweetest class in the school, the kids know Joi's different. They are cordial to her but would never pick her for a game, project, or to play with at recess.
I introduce myself in my teacher voice. "Hi. You must be new. I'm Mrs. Knowles, and I'm going to be your teacher. I'm so glad you're in my class."
She looks at me, smiles, and replies, "I love you Mrs. Knowles." Her speech is so unclear that it sounds like she's deaf. I truly can't understand her.
As I watch her throughout the day, I realize she can't read. She's in the 4th grade and can only recognize letters and some sight words. This frustrates me beyond belief. While she does have a disabiliy, I feel like the system has failed her. Why can't this little girl read while her peers are analyzing advanced text? Better yet, how can I teach her when I have 22 other students not remotely close to her? Why do they "dump" her in my room, when she is unable to do anything close to what we're doing?
As I teach, during the first week I'm back, I notice she's drawing on her whiteboard, coloring pictures, and "pretend reading" a book about butterflies with "cool pictures."
I get so upset, because I'm stopping my class every few minutes to find something for her to do or tell her to stop doing something else.
I talked to Will about how much this disrupts my class and how I wish she wasn't in there, especially come TCAP time. And I prayed about her since that was all I knew to do.
At lunch the next day, I asked her where she lives. She lives in a hotel with her mom. She said quietly,"I used to live with my Nana, but she died." I began to realize...maybe this year wasn't going to be about bringing her to a 4th grade reading level and teaching fractions. Maybe this year would be about loving this little girl with purple glasses fiercely and doing it with joy.
Instead of leaving her in the corner to do independent work all day, I've been working with her even if it inconveniences me. Even if I know she won't pass the test that my country judges my effectiveness on, I still know her need of love is greater than anything else. While school is for educating, I am reminded that I am not simply a teacher. But I am a mother, caregiver, provider, and lover. Yes, I will continue to work on word study, reading comprehension, and math. But I won't get frustrated with the little girl who still smiles when she's completely lost. I'll take a breath, and congratulate her on what she did do right.
I pray I make a difference in this little girl's life. My test scores won't show that. My colleagues won't see that. But if this girl feels valued and truly loved, then I've done my job.
She's a tiny African American child with purple glasses and a smile as big as her entire face. Her hair is scraggly and sticks out everywhere. Her pants are too short. Her shoes have holes in them. Her desk has been placed directly next to mine, while the other kids sit in clean, organized groups.
She opens her pencil box. It's full of dirt, trash, two inch pencils, and dried out markers. While I truly have the sweetest class in the school, the kids know Joi's different. They are cordial to her but would never pick her for a game, project, or to play with at recess.
I introduce myself in my teacher voice. "Hi. You must be new. I'm Mrs. Knowles, and I'm going to be your teacher. I'm so glad you're in my class."
She looks at me, smiles, and replies, "I love you Mrs. Knowles." Her speech is so unclear that it sounds like she's deaf. I truly can't understand her.
As I watch her throughout the day, I realize she can't read. She's in the 4th grade and can only recognize letters and some sight words. This frustrates me beyond belief. While she does have a disabiliy, I feel like the system has failed her. Why can't this little girl read while her peers are analyzing advanced text? Better yet, how can I teach her when I have 22 other students not remotely close to her? Why do they "dump" her in my room, when she is unable to do anything close to what we're doing?
As I teach, during the first week I'm back, I notice she's drawing on her whiteboard, coloring pictures, and "pretend reading" a book about butterflies with "cool pictures."
I get so upset, because I'm stopping my class every few minutes to find something for her to do or tell her to stop doing something else.
I talked to Will about how much this disrupts my class and how I wish she wasn't in there, especially come TCAP time. And I prayed about her since that was all I knew to do.
At lunch the next day, I asked her where she lives. She lives in a hotel with her mom. She said quietly,"I used to live with my Nana, but she died." I began to realize...maybe this year wasn't going to be about bringing her to a 4th grade reading level and teaching fractions. Maybe this year would be about loving this little girl with purple glasses fiercely and doing it with joy.
Instead of leaving her in the corner to do independent work all day, I've been working with her even if it inconveniences me. Even if I know she won't pass the test that my country judges my effectiveness on, I still know her need of love is greater than anything else. While school is for educating, I am reminded that I am not simply a teacher. But I am a mother, caregiver, provider, and lover. Yes, I will continue to work on word study, reading comprehension, and math. But I won't get frustrated with the little girl who still smiles when she's completely lost. I'll take a breath, and congratulate her on what she did do right.
I pray I make a difference in this little girl's life. My test scores won't show that. My colleagues won't see that. But if this girl feels valued and truly loved, then I've done my job.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)