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.

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.

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.

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.

Thoughts on the first year of marriage.

Everyone says the first year of marriage is the hardest. They tell you that you'll fight. And pout over little things. And get frustrated with dirty underwear and socks all over the floor. And they tell you that you'll feel like you weren't cut out for this.

While our first year of marriage has been, what's the word, trying...I've never wanted to "throw in the towel." Yes there were nights when emotions ran dangerously wild. Nights when I begged Will to come to bed from the couch. Nights when I wondered what I had gotten myself into. But it is all part of a learning process.

We are 17 days away from our first anniversary. I look over a year filled with times of uplifting one another. Times of holding one another when words wouldn't suffice. Times of fear and doubt about whether we would make it. Times of rejoicing over a healthy baby boy. Times of true sadness and times of true joy.

Couples get divorced a lot these days. I always thought it was because they were always fighting. Or couldn't get along. Or they have nothing in common. But after being married a short while, I think I know what it is.

Apathy.

Apathy takes a couple from marriage to roommates. From date nights to same old same old. From getting dolled up to not caring. From passionate sex to a chore. From sweet texts to not even knowing they're gone.

I guess things start falling apart when the everyday becomes mundane, and you are no longer experiencing life together. No longer calling each other just to say "I miss you." No longer sharing hopes, fears, dreams, and passions. No longer being "one."

But instead worrying about laundry. And taking the trash out. And e-mailing people back. And running errands.

Will and I have talked about this a lot lately. It's hard to find time, because it feels as if life is dragging us as it races by. It's hard to discuss his dreams of travel and photography when the baby is screaming, needs to be fed, has a diaper that needs changed, or just demanding full attention.

How will we continue to pursue one another? How will we continuously fall head over heels for one another?

My sweet husband is a wise man. And a Godly man. That's why I married him. I was reading through his old blog posts, missing his deep, sensitive, and intellectual thoughts. I discovered this post that he posted in 2007 describing the purpose for his blog. He wrote,

"My goal is to make the everyday beautiful. I aim to express awe for the mundane. I hope to show you my delight for the ordinary. All the while, chronicling the journey that is the rest of my life."

I pray this becomes the anthem to our journey. Instead of apathy and mundane.

Make everyday beautiful. Express awe. Show delight. And then chronicle the journey.

May our marriage become one of richness, desire, and beauty.

Antigua, Guatamala

Things I like about Antigua
-Gorgeous cobblestone
-Colorful buildings
-Rooftop verandas
-Casa Christina
-Perfect weather

Things I don’t like about Antigua
-Unsweet granola
-Loud mopeds
-No bathrooms

I'm selfish

I’ve always wanted to travel. Like all travelers, I want to see beauty and excitement. More than anything, I want to travel to a place that has far less than I do. I want to be stretched, uncomfortable, and have no other choice but to rely on something greater than myself. My dream of travel isn’t about bragging rights, digital pictures, or trinkets. My dream of travel is really about recognizing my selfishness and going somewhere where there’s no choice but to die to myself.

My biggest fear in life is that I won’t go. I will get distracted. Or busy. Or poor. Or scared.

It was a requirement that my life partner would share this dream with me. When we said, “I do,” we were ready to go explore together. We were talking of places, timelines, and money.

Then, we got pregnant. All at once, it seemed those dreams died, and we woke up in a different reality. We were in the game of life and got fast-tracked to adulthood. I experienced an overwhelming amount of failure, because I hadn’t gone. My one life goal, and I had missed my opportunity.

People always say you can “travel with kids.” If it’s so easy, why don’t people actually do it? In my heart, I knew I could go later, but it would never be as easy and convenient as it has once been. Here I was with a weekly grocery list and house slippers. Still in America. Still consumed with myself.

And then, a beautiful boy came into our lives. It was pure bliss, and we continue to praise God for all the goodness and love wrapped up in a 7lbs body.

All he does is poop, pee, burp, eat, sleep, and cry every ten seconds he loses his pacifier. My days and nights all look the same. Changing diapers, bouncing him in my arms, turning on the sound machine, and putting the pacifier back in every eleven seconds. Where’s the adventure? How could this be anything anyone would admire?

And then in the middle of the night as I’m up feeding my little boy, I realize something. My dreams of travel for the sake of being selfless are perhaps more selfish than I realized.

Maybe God’s way of showing me how to die to self is getting up five times a night, hearing the broken record of a pitiful cry, having to feed him whether it’s convenient or not, taking off work to care for a newborn, skipping lunch because I can’t set him down, doing laundry late at night because there’s no other time, and the list goes on and on.

When I hear that sweet cry through the monitor at all hours of the night, I realize I am being stretched, uncomfortable, and I can’t do this without Someone greater than myself.

I will travel one day, but maybe that dream doesn’t have to define me. Maybe God has other ways of showing me that it’s not all about me. It is about caring for others, taking care of needs, and learning that we need each other. I pictured myself learning this while sleeping in a hut, but perhaps I’ve just learned it holding the sweetest 4-week-old as his little hand holds mine.