I used to have a J-O-B. Five days a week, I got up at 5:30, took about an hour to get ready, got my son up and dressed, dropped him at daycare around 6:45 or 7, and then headed to work. I set up my classroom for the day's lessons, checked emails, checked in with teammates about the schedule for the day, checked my box in the front office, and then began my day as a teacher around 7:30. My fifty minute 'planning' or 'conference' period was usually consumed by scheduled or impromptu meetings to discuss student progress or concerns, or by training on the latest technology developments and best practices, or by reviewing data from student assessments. Very rarely was it spent planning or conferencing. My lunch was a brief 20 minutes between dropping kids off and picking them up from the cafeteria. The other 6.5 hours I spent developing relationships with kids, inspiring them to crave knowledge and take risks, observing them and making note of their progress, areas of weakness, and areas where they needed to be challenged. After ensuring all students were safely dismissed, I spent at least 1-2 hours each day reviewing student data and tweaking lesson plans, grading papers, conferencing with other teachers, returning parent phone calls and emails, doing research for tools to make my lessons more engaging...and on and on.
When I left at 4:30 or 5 most days, I picked up my child from daycare, where he had spent a solid ten hours in someone else's care. I then went home to resume my other job as mother until his bedtime at 8 p.m. Most days I tried to be patient enough and present enough, and most days I failed.
At 8 p.m. most nights, I resumed my role as homemaker and wife, making dinner so that my husband and I could sit down for a few uninterrupted moments together. After cleaning up dinner, I started, switched out, or folded laundry while watching a little TV before a never-early-enough bedtime. Oftentimes I also sat with my laptop, grading papers, entering grades, responding to parent emails, or creating lessons.
On my days off, I caught up on all the things I couldn't possibly keep track of during the week.
In the fall of 2015, when my first child was two and I was seven months pregnant with the second, I began to question how I could continue with this overwhelming existence once a second child entered the mix. I stayed awake at night doing lots and lots of math in my head. I figured up the cost of childcare for two children, which would be about a third of my salary. I realized that I could no longer justify working fifty-hour work weeks, spending ten hours away from my kids every weekday, just so I could pay someone else to be with them. I could no longer justify being incapable of being present for them during the off times.
In January 2016, I gave birth to my second child. During my twelve weeks of maternity leave I struggled with the decision I was contemplating. As exhausted as I was, and as much as I want to be a good mother and do right by my kids, I love teaching. I am truly, passionately, divinely called to teach. It is in my heart and my blood, and even on the hardest of days, I never questioned the purpose to which my life had been called.
But I had to make a choice between the J-O-B of teaching, and the J-O-B of being a momma, wife, and homemaker. In the end there really was no choice for me.
I quit. I quit trying to balance a ridiculously overwhelming set of expectations placed on my head as a teacher with the ridiculously overwhelming job of being a mom. And let's be honest. Most moms are the ones doing all the additional work outside of just being a parent and working full time. Laundry, cleaning, errands, meals, etc. etc. etc. And no offense to the husbands. I know you try and help. But it's just a natural truth that women are the caretakers and the control freaks, and most often these responsibilities fall to us. (Or we rip them out of the hands of whoever tries to load the dishwasher the wrong way.)
So I quit. I quit a J-O-B that I had loved and lived for fourteen years, because the teacher-mom dual existence was too much to ask of any one human being.
Kudos to those of you mommas who somehow hold your heads above water as you teach and inspire other people's kids, and then come home and find the strength to love and nurture your own. To those of you who balance a fifty-hour work week with game schedules, dance practices and recitals, family dinners for your people...and who somehow keep your people in clean underwear throughout the week. Kudos to you who could do what I could not. I hope the teaching profession finds a way someday to repay you for your many sacrifices.
Stay tuned for The J-O-B Part II: The Not-So-Stay-At-Home-Mom
Wednesday, October 26, 2016
Thursday, August 4, 2016
#Perspective
As the school year draws near, I can picture all my teacher friends busily working away in classrooms with no a/c, purging things they didn't use last year even as they cart in the new supplies bought at the latest Teacher's Tools sale, hanging bulletin boards and rearranging desks. And y'all, I am jealous.
After fourteen years of teaching, eleven of which were spent in the same classroom, I resigned to stay at home with my sweet babies for a short time. The decision was made based on a host of reasons: the growing demands placed on teachers, the length of my days bleeding into difficult evenings with a toddler who I had to leave in childcare for 10+ hours a day, the coming of a new baby, the anticipated cost of childcare for two children instead of just one, which stood in glaring contrast to the salary that never seemed quite enough for the time I was spending with other mommas' babies. Add to all that the time required to pump for a nursing baby, a husband who works twelve-hour days 5-6 days a week, and on and on, and this momma just wasn't able to uphold the supermom persona.
I know beyond the shadow of a doubt that I made the right decision for myself and my family. I know that my children and husband will be blessed by my presence in our home, and I know that not for one second will I ever regret the time...the precious, precious time...with my babies.
However, for a teacher whose heart is all tied up in knots of passion for the education of children, there are moments of every day when I feel melancholy over the decision I've made. I truly and deeply love what I do with a passion that is only matched by my passion for my own children.
So, for all you teachers our there who are rolling your eyes as you sit through yet another staff development day when you have SO...MUCH...TO...DO...I gift you with this list of things I'm already missing about being a teacher. Nothing like a role change to put things in perspective.
1) I miss my teacher friends. I have complained more than once over the years about the henhouse that is a school. Teaching in a building full of women is hard. It is drama-filled, gossip-filled, and sometimes more than a tomgirl can take. But oh girls, what I would give right now for a whispered conversation in the hallway, a bitch session behind a closed door, a one hour lunch with like-minded peers...even just one moment with my cackling, ridiculous, amazing teacher friends. High schoolish gossip and drama aside, you will never find support, love, fellowship, and plain old female greatness the likes of which you find within the walls of a school. (And there's also a greatness to be found in the very few men who are brave enough to grace those same halls with their presence and tolerate the estrogen levels in the air.)
2) I miss putting together my classroom. Sweaty hours spent in a musty classroom...oh how I miss thee. One of my favorite things about teaching is getting to start over every year. Transitioning my classroom from a blank canvas to a purposeful learning environment is one of my greatest prides. And no teacher can deny the euphoria brought on by an hour or few in a teacher supply store. Stacking bins or Sharpies, anyone???
3) I miss professional development days. I know, I know, you're all rolling your eyes at me...and the presenter to whom you're supposed to be attending as you read my blog. I know. You know it already. You've heard it before. You have SO MANY OTHER THINGS that need your attention and time right now! But girls, there is an emptiness in me as I think of you walking into that common area (most likely the library) for the first day back, and you hug each other's necks, chat about your summer travels, and show pictures of your babies. Embrace that time, and remember that even though you know it already, you've heard it before, and you have so many other things to do, much of the purpose is in the fellowship.
4) I miss the kids. Of course, the greatness of being at home with my own sweet babes far outweighs time spent with anyone else's kids. However, I already have a rapport with my own kids, and they have to love me. But as a teacher, every year for fourteen years, one of my favorite things has been finding fun ways to build rapport with a brand new group of kids. Learning their names, their quirks, their individual learning needs, their families, their hobbies, trying to reach those kids who don't want to be reached...those are the things that have kept me passionately engaged in the same position for eleven years.
5) I miss meetings. I know, you're thinking What Ever TF, she is so full of shit. But seriously, I almost cried at my last meeting at the end of the school year. Because no matter how many times I've complained about a meeting consuming the time I could have spent planning or grading papers, it was time spent in the presence of other great teachers, upon whom I was blessed to sharpen myself. I will miss those precious moments of intellectual stimulation. And the snacks. I'll also miss the snacks.
6) I miss lesson plans. During my time at home, I'll be blessed to teach music part time, and I'm thankful that lessons are provided for me, because frankly, I'm just tired. However, there is almost nothing that makes me feel more accomplished as an educator than creating an amazing, engaging, differentiated lesson to accompany whatever skill needs to be taught. Seriously, if you can make 'main idea' fun, you're pretty awesome.
Now, in the spirit of fairness and keeping it real, these are some things I will NOT miss. I will NOT miss grading papers, administering standardized tests, analyzing standardized testing data, tutoring kids based on standardized testing data to improve areas of weakness rather than enriching areas of strength, 10+ hour days, feeling incapable of balance, watching kids get away with a bunch of ridiculousness without penalty, having limited ownership of my time.
I will NOT miss those things.
But being a public school classroom teacher...THAT I will miss.
After fourteen years of teaching, eleven of which were spent in the same classroom, I resigned to stay at home with my sweet babies for a short time. The decision was made based on a host of reasons: the growing demands placed on teachers, the length of my days bleeding into difficult evenings with a toddler who I had to leave in childcare for 10+ hours a day, the coming of a new baby, the anticipated cost of childcare for two children instead of just one, which stood in glaring contrast to the salary that never seemed quite enough for the time I was spending with other mommas' babies. Add to all that the time required to pump for a nursing baby, a husband who works twelve-hour days 5-6 days a week, and on and on, and this momma just wasn't able to uphold the supermom persona.
I know beyond the shadow of a doubt that I made the right decision for myself and my family. I know that my children and husband will be blessed by my presence in our home, and I know that not for one second will I ever regret the time...the precious, precious time...with my babies.
However, for a teacher whose heart is all tied up in knots of passion for the education of children, there are moments of every day when I feel melancholy over the decision I've made. I truly and deeply love what I do with a passion that is only matched by my passion for my own children.
So, for all you teachers our there who are rolling your eyes as you sit through yet another staff development day when you have SO...MUCH...TO...DO...I gift you with this list of things I'm already missing about being a teacher. Nothing like a role change to put things in perspective.
1) I miss my teacher friends. I have complained more than once over the years about the henhouse that is a school. Teaching in a building full of women is hard. It is drama-filled, gossip-filled, and sometimes more than a tomgirl can take. But oh girls, what I would give right now for a whispered conversation in the hallway, a bitch session behind a closed door, a one hour lunch with like-minded peers...even just one moment with my cackling, ridiculous, amazing teacher friends. High schoolish gossip and drama aside, you will never find support, love, fellowship, and plain old female greatness the likes of which you find within the walls of a school. (And there's also a greatness to be found in the very few men who are brave enough to grace those same halls with their presence and tolerate the estrogen levels in the air.)
2) I miss putting together my classroom. Sweaty hours spent in a musty classroom...oh how I miss thee. One of my favorite things about teaching is getting to start over every year. Transitioning my classroom from a blank canvas to a purposeful learning environment is one of my greatest prides. And no teacher can deny the euphoria brought on by an hour or few in a teacher supply store. Stacking bins or Sharpies, anyone???
3) I miss professional development days. I know, I know, you're all rolling your eyes at me...and the presenter to whom you're supposed to be attending as you read my blog. I know. You know it already. You've heard it before. You have SO MANY OTHER THINGS that need your attention and time right now! But girls, there is an emptiness in me as I think of you walking into that common area (most likely the library) for the first day back, and you hug each other's necks, chat about your summer travels, and show pictures of your babies. Embrace that time, and remember that even though you know it already, you've heard it before, and you have so many other things to do, much of the purpose is in the fellowship.
4) I miss the kids. Of course, the greatness of being at home with my own sweet babes far outweighs time spent with anyone else's kids. However, I already have a rapport with my own kids, and they have to love me. But as a teacher, every year for fourteen years, one of my favorite things has been finding fun ways to build rapport with a brand new group of kids. Learning their names, their quirks, their individual learning needs, their families, their hobbies, trying to reach those kids who don't want to be reached...those are the things that have kept me passionately engaged in the same position for eleven years.
5) I miss meetings. I know, you're thinking What Ever TF, she is so full of shit. But seriously, I almost cried at my last meeting at the end of the school year. Because no matter how many times I've complained about a meeting consuming the time I could have spent planning or grading papers, it was time spent in the presence of other great teachers, upon whom I was blessed to sharpen myself. I will miss those precious moments of intellectual stimulation. And the snacks. I'll also miss the snacks.
6) I miss lesson plans. During my time at home, I'll be blessed to teach music part time, and I'm thankful that lessons are provided for me, because frankly, I'm just tired. However, there is almost nothing that makes me feel more accomplished as an educator than creating an amazing, engaging, differentiated lesson to accompany whatever skill needs to be taught. Seriously, if you can make 'main idea' fun, you're pretty awesome.
Now, in the spirit of fairness and keeping it real, these are some things I will NOT miss. I will NOT miss grading papers, administering standardized tests, analyzing standardized testing data, tutoring kids based on standardized testing data to improve areas of weakness rather than enriching areas of strength, 10+ hour days, feeling incapable of balance, watching kids get away with a bunch of ridiculousness without penalty, having limited ownership of my time.
I will NOT miss those things.
But being a public school classroom teacher...THAT I will miss.
Saturday, May 7, 2016
MIL
Despite all the horror stories I've heard about the dreaded mother-in-law, I ended up with the best one out there. Conversations I have about her with coworkers or friends usually involve the other party saying, "You're so lucky," and me responding, "I know." But on the rare occasions when I hear someone else say they have the best one, I correct them, because they're wrong.
In the eight years I've known my MIL, she has become my friend, confidante, and constant source of support. There are many reasons for which I love my MIL, AKA Glenda, AKA Gigi, AKA Mom, but here are just a few.
- She gave birth to my hubby and best friend, and the one without whom I would not have made my two beautiful babies.
- She raised said hubby, despite many attempts on his part to derail her efforts, to be a loving man with a big heart.
- She passed down her sense of humor, which remains one of the things I love most about my man.
- Her laugh is contagious, though sometimes embarrassingly loud. (Just kidding, Mom. I said that because you always apologize for being too loud.)
- She loves my children like they were her very own, except she has much more patience than their own mother can muster most days.
- She listens to me, probably more than she had ever hoped to listen to anyone in her life.
- She makes great cake.
- She loves animals like no one I've ever known.
- She loves holistic things as much as I do, and it's paradoxical because she also loves fast food as much as I do.
- She thinks I'm funny. A must if you have to spend as much time with me as she does.
- She is giving of time, spirit, energy, forgiveness, grace, love and compassion.
I consider myself double-blessed because I got a wonderful mom to start with, but I inherited a second one when I married Brad.
Thanks, Mom. We love you.
Momma
In the years before I began school, Momma endured what must have been no less than torture as she cared for two children by herself most days of the week while my father was working as a pilot. With a husband who works in the restaurant industry, I often have a toddler and an infant under my solo care for long days and even longer evenings. I now understand that parenting on your own (especially during the witching hours) is not for the faint of heart, and I apologize for the many ways in which we must have made her want to lose her mind.
During my elementary school years, Momma drove me to school every day and was there to pick me up when the final bell rang. She woke before me each morning, made me breakfast, packed me a lunch, and helped me gather my belongings, taking care not to let me forget anything. She never once dropped me off late. She was my Girl Scout troop leader, and she took me to piano lessons and made me practice in the evenings. When I'd fumble and get frustrated, she'd call to me from the kitchen to slow down, listening carefully even as she cooked our dinner. She modeled a love of reading that eventually led me to my chosen career path. She made a well-balanced dinner for us every night. At the time I wished we could eat more fast food, but now I respect and admire her for the true mountain that dinnertime was to climb every...single...night.
Through middle and high school she comforted me through hundreds of migraine headaches. For eight hour stretches, she'd gently rub my forehead and hold my hair back while I was violently ill, and she'd rub my back while I cried. When I woke after finally sleeping, she'd be ready with chicken noodle soup and Sprite, or whatever else sounded good.
During my high school years, Momma drove me to all of my track and cross country meets and cheered me on at the finish line. She'd take me to Arby's on the way home because Jamocha shakes were my favorite thing. Then she navigated her way through my bad choices in boys and friends, dealt with me sneaking around, shutting her out, and generally being awful and worrisome to her. I try not to have regrets, but the way I acted during this phase of my life is one thing I'd take back in a heartbeat. Momma is an angel for putting up with high school Amy. I'm pretty sure my sister was awful too, so she's an angel for putting up with high school Kimberly too.
After high school, she supported me through college and endured many a frantic phone call about things her melodramatic daughter wasn't yet equipped to handle. ("Momma they HAVE to let me out of this dorm room! My roommate is a STRIPPER!") After college, she continued to support me when I made one bad decision after another, and even in my married-with-children years, she sends me flowers every year on the first day of school, and she packs me a doggie bag after every family dinner.
All my life, my momma has fed me, clothed me, and nourished me both physically and emotionally. She has picked me up when I've been down, taken care of me when I've been sick or hurt, and supported me even when she might not have agreed with my choices. Until I had my own children, I didn't really understand what a mother's love truly meant. Now that I have my own children, I know that I'll never truly comprehend the ways in which she has loved me, and I'll never fully appreciate the sacrifices she's made in the name of that love.
Love you, Momma. Thank you.
Saturday, September 5, 2015
The Teacher-Mommy Paradox
We recently placed our precious, almost-not-a-baby-anymore in childcare for the first time. Our son Tyler is two years old, and I'm a teacher who is blessed to be at home with him during summer vacations and holiday breaks. Outside of that, he has received the most incredible home care ever from my mother-in-law, AKA Gigi, for the last two years. So it's fair to say that at the very least, my bar when it comes to childcare is set pretty high.
Even so, I never realized just how hard it would be to entrust my child to the care of a stranger.
As a veteran teacher with 14 years of experience bringing clingy helicopter parents back down to earth and fending off anxious mama bears, I was determined not to be that mom. I would not send needy emails, I would not cry when I dropped my kid off on the first day (or the 10 days after that...), I would not question the teacher's actions, and I would fully and completely trust that my son's needs were being met while he was away from me each day.
Then, on the night before his first day of school, I found myself clicking away at an email to the teacher. I wanted her to know that Tyler had been at home with Gigi and Mommy for two years, just in case he had any trouble adjusting. And just in case she needed help understanding his toddler speak, I translated a few words for her. Oh, and I needed to let her know that we've been working on 'time out' as a consequence. And... What was supposed to be a quick one-liner turned into a 30 minute dissertation about my son's strengths and weaknesses, suggestions for interventions should he not comply with the teacher's wishes, a list of favorite things that make him happy, and on, and on, and on. I even went back and apologized in the first paragraph and promised not to ever send her an email that long again.
I tried to justify my actions to myself, but really it was just my way of coping with the fact that I felt like I was abandoning my child by sending him to school. The first drop off was tearful, but I left feeling fairly confident that Tyler was in good hands.
Then, when I arrived to pick him up on the second day of school, I could hear the raised voice of one of the teachers through the two closed doors that led to the classroom. I walked in and quickly scanned the room, and this is what I saw:
We left, and I cried all the way home because I kept seeing my sweet boy in the rearview mirror, his eyes all red and swollen, and I could hear the whimpery breath-catching that happens after you've had a really long, hard cry. I felt like a terrible mother who had let her child down and left him in the care of someone who didn't care about his needs.
I couldn't help but wonder about this teacher. Why wasn't she comforting either child? Why did I walk in to find her raising her voice at them in frustration, rather than on her knees holding them in her arms? And why was she using sarcasm with two year olds? Of course they're playing in the sink - they're two and they've never had a sink at eye level before!
And then I had to take a moment and say to myself, "You have no idea what happened in that classroom before you walked in."
Maybe she had tried everything to comfort them. Maybe they had been crying nonstop for over an hour and she was about to lose her ever-loving mind. Maybe just before I walked in, one of them hit or pushed her in frustration, as I know my child has done to me before. Or maybe, just maybe, she has enough experience to know when toddlers need to be held, and when they need a firm voice to tell them to get a grip. At the end of the day, I have no way of knowing what transpired before I walked in. The only things I know for sure are that Tyler's school has a stellar reputation, and that I've heard only rave reviews from every friend whose child has attended.
This was the moment when the teacher-mommy paradox became my new reality. While I could reason through the teacher's point of view and feel fully confident that she was more than capable of handling her responsibilities without my quick-scan-of-the-room assessments, I was also now looking through the lense of a mother who has a responsibility to protect a tiny human being who can't protect himself.
Years ago, before kids were even on my radar, the most insulting thing someone could say to me as a teacher was, "Oh, you just can't understand because you don't have kids." I hated this oversimplification of my abilities. As an experienced educator who had clocked more hours of 'experience' with kids than any single one of my friends who were mothers, I felt that it was possible for me to understand.
But now I know with certainty that it is truly impossible to understand the feelings, hopes, fears, desires, judgements, or motives of a mother whose only priority is to protect her baby. I know that until you have children of your own, you cannot understand what it means to love something so much it hurts. I thought I understood this through my love for my husband, but it is a different feeling entirely, because you are responsible for your child in a way you will never be responsible for anyone else. And even when you're not responsible, say for the tears rolling down your child's cheeks, you feel like you are.
So here are my takeaways:
To the teachers: Be patient with parents. They love their children so much it hurts, so much that they sometimes cry just watching them sleep. Be kind to the hearts of mamas and daddies by taking good care of their children. Remember that the most important thing in the world to them is that their children are happy and loved. And don't forget to affirm their belief that their child is the most amazing human being ever created. It really hurts a mama's heart when someone else doesn't recognize her baby's greatness.
To the mamas and daddies: Be patient with teachers. Respect the neverending training that is required of them, and feel confident that they are well-equipped to meet your child's individual needs. Remember that just like you, the teacher wants what is best for your child. Remember that there is no way for you to know what happened when you weren't in the room, and you can't always count on your child to tell you.
To the childless: Be patient with those who tell you that you can't understand unless you have children. They're right. If you plan to have children, just wait. Someday you'll understand. And if you don't plan to have children, just try to put yourself in the shoes of those who do. You can't, but try anyways.
For two years, I knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that my child's needs were being met and that his greatness was recognized by the one who cared for him while I spent my days with other people's children. I knew that when he was upset, Gigi held and comforted him. And when I came home each day, she told me how wonderful and perfect he was and how much she enjoyed her day with him.
Three weeks into the school year, I have seen my child cry on his way into or out of school more days than I've seen him smile, and neither of his teachers has told me anything that makes me think they recognize his greatness. The thing is, I know that he's happy during the day when I'm not able to see it, because I hear the excitement in his voice when he talks about 'cool. And I know the teachers have to think he's wonderful even if they don't say it, because I know for a fact that he is.
The teacher-mommy paradox is a tricky one. My hope is that it has opened my eyes in ways that will help make me both a better teacher and mother. I hope this year that parents will feel confident that their children's needs are being met during the 8 hours they spend with me. I hope I'll remember to affirm my students' greatness to their parents. And I hope that I'll parent my child in a way that makes him great in the eyes of his teachers.
Even so, I never realized just how hard it would be to entrust my child to the care of a stranger.
As a veteran teacher with 14 years of experience bringing clingy helicopter parents back down to earth and fending off anxious mama bears, I was determined not to be that mom. I would not send needy emails, I would not cry when I dropped my kid off on the first day (or the 10 days after that...), I would not question the teacher's actions, and I would fully and completely trust that my son's needs were being met while he was away from me each day.
Then, on the night before his first day of school, I found myself clicking away at an email to the teacher. I wanted her to know that Tyler had been at home with Gigi and Mommy for two years, just in case he had any trouble adjusting. And just in case she needed help understanding his toddler speak, I translated a few words for her. Oh, and I needed to let her know that we've been working on 'time out' as a consequence. And... What was supposed to be a quick one-liner turned into a 30 minute dissertation about my son's strengths and weaknesses, suggestions for interventions should he not comply with the teacher's wishes, a list of favorite things that make him happy, and on, and on, and on. I even went back and apologized in the first paragraph and promised not to ever send her an email that long again.
I tried to justify my actions to myself, but really it was just my way of coping with the fact that I felt like I was abandoning my child by sending him to school. The first drop off was tearful, but I left feeling fairly confident that Tyler was in good hands.
Then, when I arrived to pick him up on the second day of school, I could hear the raised voice of one of the teachers through the two closed doors that led to the classroom. I walked in and quickly scanned the room, and this is what I saw:
- One child had completely lost his composure. He was banging on the gate that divides the room as though he were trying to escape from prison, calling for his mommy, snot and tears pouring down his face.
- My child was crying and following the teacher around, seemingly in need of comfort.
- The teacher's frustration was made obvious by her body language and tone of voice with the children.
- The teacher was not attempting to comfort either upset child.
We left, and I cried all the way home because I kept seeing my sweet boy in the rearview mirror, his eyes all red and swollen, and I could hear the whimpery breath-catching that happens after you've had a really long, hard cry. I felt like a terrible mother who had let her child down and left him in the care of someone who didn't care about his needs.
I couldn't help but wonder about this teacher. Why wasn't she comforting either child? Why did I walk in to find her raising her voice at them in frustration, rather than on her knees holding them in her arms? And why was she using sarcasm with two year olds? Of course they're playing in the sink - they're two and they've never had a sink at eye level before!
And then I had to take a moment and say to myself, "You have no idea what happened in that classroom before you walked in."
Maybe she had tried everything to comfort them. Maybe they had been crying nonstop for over an hour and she was about to lose her ever-loving mind. Maybe just before I walked in, one of them hit or pushed her in frustration, as I know my child has done to me before. Or maybe, just maybe, she has enough experience to know when toddlers need to be held, and when they need a firm voice to tell them to get a grip. At the end of the day, I have no way of knowing what transpired before I walked in. The only things I know for sure are that Tyler's school has a stellar reputation, and that I've heard only rave reviews from every friend whose child has attended.
This was the moment when the teacher-mommy paradox became my new reality. While I could reason through the teacher's point of view and feel fully confident that she was more than capable of handling her responsibilities without my quick-scan-of-the-room assessments, I was also now looking through the lense of a mother who has a responsibility to protect a tiny human being who can't protect himself.
Years ago, before kids were even on my radar, the most insulting thing someone could say to me as a teacher was, "Oh, you just can't understand because you don't have kids." I hated this oversimplification of my abilities. As an experienced educator who had clocked more hours of 'experience' with kids than any single one of my friends who were mothers, I felt that it was possible for me to understand.
But now I know with certainty that it is truly impossible to understand the feelings, hopes, fears, desires, judgements, or motives of a mother whose only priority is to protect her baby. I know that until you have children of your own, you cannot understand what it means to love something so much it hurts. I thought I understood this through my love for my husband, but it is a different feeling entirely, because you are responsible for your child in a way you will never be responsible for anyone else. And even when you're not responsible, say for the tears rolling down your child's cheeks, you feel like you are.
So here are my takeaways:
To the teachers: Be patient with parents. They love their children so much it hurts, so much that they sometimes cry just watching them sleep. Be kind to the hearts of mamas and daddies by taking good care of their children. Remember that the most important thing in the world to them is that their children are happy and loved. And don't forget to affirm their belief that their child is the most amazing human being ever created. It really hurts a mama's heart when someone else doesn't recognize her baby's greatness.
To the mamas and daddies: Be patient with teachers. Respect the neverending training that is required of them, and feel confident that they are well-equipped to meet your child's individual needs. Remember that just like you, the teacher wants what is best for your child. Remember that there is no way for you to know what happened when you weren't in the room, and you can't always count on your child to tell you.
To the childless: Be patient with those who tell you that you can't understand unless you have children. They're right. If you plan to have children, just wait. Someday you'll understand. And if you don't plan to have children, just try to put yourself in the shoes of those who do. You can't, but try anyways.
For two years, I knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that my child's needs were being met and that his greatness was recognized by the one who cared for him while I spent my days with other people's children. I knew that when he was upset, Gigi held and comforted him. And when I came home each day, she told me how wonderful and perfect he was and how much she enjoyed her day with him.
Three weeks into the school year, I have seen my child cry on his way into or out of school more days than I've seen him smile, and neither of his teachers has told me anything that makes me think they recognize his greatness. The thing is, I know that he's happy during the day when I'm not able to see it, because I hear the excitement in his voice when he talks about 'cool. And I know the teachers have to think he's wonderful even if they don't say it, because I know for a fact that he is.
The teacher-mommy paradox is a tricky one. My hope is that it has opened my eyes in ways that will help make me both a better teacher and mother. I hope this year that parents will feel confident that their children's needs are being met during the 8 hours they spend with me. I hope I'll remember to affirm my students' greatness to their parents. And I hope that I'll parent my child in a way that makes him great in the eyes of his teachers.
Saturday, October 11, 2014
Good Grief
Grief and I, we do not get along. He is an unwelcome visitor who barges into my happiest of moments, and poops on my party. I'm over him, and am considering hiring a body guard to punch him in the face the next time he comes near me.
Everyone knows the expected stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining (where I spend most of my time), depression, and acceptance. I consider myself to be somewhat of a genius when it comes to self-awareness and introspective analysis. So it's annoyingly accurate to say that this unrelenting beast has effectively debunked everything I thought I knew about myself.
One of the craziest things about it to me, is that everyone who experiences grief, no matter how very different their circumstances, will swim through the same stages and emotions. Though each stage might vary in the degree of intensity for each person, the stages are, alas, the same.
For me, grief feels like an unmerry-go-round, and I can't seem to stop the ride.
Before I met Grief, my merry-go-round looked a little like this:
Happiness...trial...strength...perseverance...happiness. Done and done. I was a strong girl who overcame whatever obstacles stood in my path with grace, spirit, fortitude, and a smile.
My life now looks a little like this: Normalcy...anger...sadness...guilt...normalcy...anger...sadness...guilt...normalcy...anger... I think the movie Groundhogs Day would be a great analogy for my grief process, but I never watched the movie all the way through because the never-ending repetitive cycle stressed me out too badly to see it through to the end. I have always loved irony. That's ironic.
Also throw in the occasional shame that comes with people potentially realizing that I'm not as strong as I once was, and feelings of inadequacy at dealing with life. I now feel like a bumbling moron who stumbles through each day thinking, "Will this be a normal day, or a sad day, or a guilt-ridden day???" Most days, I'm at least a little pissed that I don't know which kind of day it will be. I'm a wee bit of a control freak, so this lack of control over my emotional state does not work for me.
Let it be said that I experience MANY moments of happiness during the course of each day, due to my loving husband, best baby ever, and fantastic network of loving family and friends. I am very aware of the many blessings that adorn my life!
But most days I still feel guilty. I feel guilty that I'm even still working through the grief process. I think I should be over it by now. I feel guilty that I'm struggling even though I only suffered one mid-term miscarriage, versus girls who suffer multiple miscarriages, who carry to term but deliver babies who don't survive, or who lose live babies/children. I feel guilty that I am jealous of those girls who got to give birth to and hold their babies, no matter the circumstances that ensued. I feel guilty that I can't seem to get it together and be normal. I feel guilty because I'm pretty certain I killed my baby, whether through too much negative energy and worry, or not taking good enough care of my body. (And this last statement, I recognize, is completely irrational. I have Grief to thank for that newfound personality trait.)
Some days I feel like I am absolutely losing my mind. I think by now my hormones have surely regulated themselves, so any feelings of insanity must just be a visit from Grief. He is a rude visitor, who shows up unannounced and stays just long enough to throw off my plans for the day, but not long enough to allow us to settle our differences.
I'm suffering the most lately with seeing pregnant girls who look to be as pregnant as I should be now, or those who are at the same point in their pregnancy as I was when I miscarried. I'm feeling hopeful that once the delivery date passes, I will feel some closure and readiness to move on. I do not hold tightly to this hope.
I miss my baby, and I rub my belly sometimes (especially when I cry), wishing that s/he was still in there. I regret wholeheartedly not asking for the testing that would have revealed the gender of my angel baby, and I battle daily with reliving the moment when I turned it down. I would very much like to be able to call my baby by name, but am unable to assign a name to a baby who does not have a boy or girl 'face'. I also wish we would have done the testing so that I might have some peace of mind about the irrational statement above. Even if it had identified that I was at fault, at least I'd know.
Again, I don't intend to forever dwell in this place, but I share my words in hopes that someone else who struggles might feel support from me. This space in the universe that I consume after having lost a baby is a very lonely space, and one that I think isn't easy for everyone to understand, even those who've suffered a similar loss. Some are able to just move on, and I'm envious of those who are. For those who aren't, I hope my words will serve as an offering of love and support.
I never used to be a regretful, pessimistic, cynical person. But then I met Grief. I've been trying to break up with him, because I don't like who I am with him, but it seems he's not so easy to shake.
Happy me is still in there, and I'm making every effort to share her with the world every day, but this is my struggle. Good grief!
Everyone knows the expected stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining (where I spend most of my time), depression, and acceptance. I consider myself to be somewhat of a genius when it comes to self-awareness and introspective analysis. So it's annoyingly accurate to say that this unrelenting beast has effectively debunked everything I thought I knew about myself.
One of the craziest things about it to me, is that everyone who experiences grief, no matter how very different their circumstances, will swim through the same stages and emotions. Though each stage might vary in the degree of intensity for each person, the stages are, alas, the same.
For me, grief feels like an unmerry-go-round, and I can't seem to stop the ride.
Before I met Grief, my merry-go-round looked a little like this:
Happiness...trial...strength...perseverance...happiness. Done and done. I was a strong girl who overcame whatever obstacles stood in my path with grace, spirit, fortitude, and a smile.
My life now looks a little like this: Normalcy...anger...sadness...guilt...normalcy...anger...sadness...guilt...normalcy...anger... I think the movie Groundhogs Day would be a great analogy for my grief process, but I never watched the movie all the way through because the never-ending repetitive cycle stressed me out too badly to see it through to the end. I have always loved irony. That's ironic.
Also throw in the occasional shame that comes with people potentially realizing that I'm not as strong as I once was, and feelings of inadequacy at dealing with life. I now feel like a bumbling moron who stumbles through each day thinking, "Will this be a normal day, or a sad day, or a guilt-ridden day???" Most days, I'm at least a little pissed that I don't know which kind of day it will be. I'm a wee bit of a control freak, so this lack of control over my emotional state does not work for me.
Let it be said that I experience MANY moments of happiness during the course of each day, due to my loving husband, best baby ever, and fantastic network of loving family and friends. I am very aware of the many blessings that adorn my life!
But most days I still feel guilty. I feel guilty that I'm even still working through the grief process. I think I should be over it by now. I feel guilty that I'm struggling even though I only suffered one mid-term miscarriage, versus girls who suffer multiple miscarriages, who carry to term but deliver babies who don't survive, or who lose live babies/children. I feel guilty that I am jealous of those girls who got to give birth to and hold their babies, no matter the circumstances that ensued. I feel guilty that I can't seem to get it together and be normal. I feel guilty because I'm pretty certain I killed my baby, whether through too much negative energy and worry, or not taking good enough care of my body. (And this last statement, I recognize, is completely irrational. I have Grief to thank for that newfound personality trait.)
Some days I feel like I am absolutely losing my mind. I think by now my hormones have surely regulated themselves, so any feelings of insanity must just be a visit from Grief. He is a rude visitor, who shows up unannounced and stays just long enough to throw off my plans for the day, but not long enough to allow us to settle our differences.
I'm suffering the most lately with seeing pregnant girls who look to be as pregnant as I should be now, or those who are at the same point in their pregnancy as I was when I miscarried. I'm feeling hopeful that once the delivery date passes, I will feel some closure and readiness to move on. I do not hold tightly to this hope.
I miss my baby, and I rub my belly sometimes (especially when I cry), wishing that s/he was still in there. I regret wholeheartedly not asking for the testing that would have revealed the gender of my angel baby, and I battle daily with reliving the moment when I turned it down. I would very much like to be able to call my baby by name, but am unable to assign a name to a baby who does not have a boy or girl 'face'. I also wish we would have done the testing so that I might have some peace of mind about the irrational statement above. Even if it had identified that I was at fault, at least I'd know.
Again, I don't intend to forever dwell in this place, but I share my words in hopes that someone else who struggles might feel support from me. This space in the universe that I consume after having lost a baby is a very lonely space, and one that I think isn't easy for everyone to understand, even those who've suffered a similar loss. Some are able to just move on, and I'm envious of those who are. For those who aren't, I hope my words will serve as an offering of love and support.
I never used to be a regretful, pessimistic, cynical person. But then I met Grief. I've been trying to break up with him, because I don't like who I am with him, but it seems he's not so easy to shake.
Happy me is still in there, and I'm making every effort to share her with the world every day, but this is my struggle. Good grief!
Saturday, August 9, 2014
A Father's Love
In the carefree days of my childhood, before the time of seatbelt laws and child safety seats, I used to ride around in the front seat of the pickup with my daddy, willy nilly. Daddy would take me to the driving range or to his best friend's house to hit golf balls; to the hardware store to pick up materials for things I helped him build in the garage; to the nursery to pick up plants that I helped him put in the ground. These moments with my daddy are some of my favorite childhood memories.
When we did our trips around town, we always took our trusty companion, Cutie. She was the best dog I've had to this day (don't tell Deuce), and the one my dad still says was his 'best friend'. She lived in our backyard, but would dutifully sit on the mat by the back door on the cold nights when we'd let her inside. She was a traveler, visiting her former owners' home on the nights when the rain or hail would come, but then returning the next morning after the storms had passed. She once traveled from Dooley street in Grapevine to the median of I635 before being rescued by a stranger. She would eat anything, so we fed her like a pig, emptying our plates into her doggie bowl after dinner each night. She once even survived an encounter with rat poison.
This dog was special, a mixed breed of Alaskan Husky and poodle, and I loved her with all my heart. Daddy once caught me allowing her to lick me in the mouth, and asked disgustedly, "Amy, why would you do that?" My response: "Because I love her Daddy." She was my baby, my best friend, my constant companion.
One of our favorite things to do with Cutie was to ride with her on the front seat of the pickup with us. I'd sit in the middle so she could put her head out the window, and we would laugh as her little paws tried their best to keep her stabilized, jumping back and forth between the dash and the windowsill.
One day, as we drove down a back road, we discovered it was even funnier to watch her try to stay in place if Daddy swerved just a tiny bit. So there we were, windows down, Daddy giving the steering wheel just a little tug here and there, and Cutie's paws were just dancing on the dash, sliding back and forth as she tried her best to stay in place. One final tug, and the next thing I knew, Cutie had flown right out the passenger window. I screamed and looked at Daddy, who brought the pickup to a screeching halt. Neither one of us moved for the briefest of moments, sure that we were about to find our favorite living being dead on the road behind us. As the pickup doors creaked open, we stepped tentatively out, afraid of what we'd find, only to see Cutie shaking herself off and running towards us, her little tail just wagging away. I truly think she was excited about the adventure she'd just undertaken.
Now if you ask Daddy, he will tell you that as long as he lives, he'll never forget the look on my face when Cutie flew out the window. He says I looked at him like he'd just killed my best friend, and he had never before and has never since felt so guilty. But the view from my seat was different, and the look I'll never forget as long as I live, is the one of guilt and hurt upon my father's face. The look he gave me spoke a thousand words of remorse, regret, apology and love. The look he had on his face said he wished he hadn't caused me pain, and that he'd give his very life to take that pain away.
As I've worked through this journey of grief in the two months since our unborn baby died, I've struggled with my relationship with God, and I've often felt a disconnected inability to identify the emotions I feel when I try and fail to pray, or to explain why when I try to sing, I cry instead. I've tried yelling at God, crying to God, praying to God, and ignoring God. None of it has changed the way I feel, and the hurt hasn't gone away.
But the other day, as I tried to think how God might be reacting to all my accusations and attempts to ignore Him, I remembered this moment with my Daddy. I think, probably, that this image that is burned so clearly in my memory, the look of guilt and sadness and pain on my Daddy's face, is probably what God's face looks like as He looks down upon me these days. My Daddy told me on the night that we lost the baby, "I hate to see my baby sad." I think that's how God feels when we experience pain and loss. He too, wishes we didn't have to experience pain, and would give (and has given) his very life to take it away.
(I don't intend for this blog to become focused only on grief or faith, but I do hope that sharing my grief journey and struggles in faith might in some way help anyone who has experienced or is experiencing a similar journey or struggle.)
When we did our trips around town, we always took our trusty companion, Cutie. She was the best dog I've had to this day (don't tell Deuce), and the one my dad still says was his 'best friend'. She lived in our backyard, but would dutifully sit on the mat by the back door on the cold nights when we'd let her inside. She was a traveler, visiting her former owners' home on the nights when the rain or hail would come, but then returning the next morning after the storms had passed. She once traveled from Dooley street in Grapevine to the median of I635 before being rescued by a stranger. She would eat anything, so we fed her like a pig, emptying our plates into her doggie bowl after dinner each night. She once even survived an encounter with rat poison.
This dog was special, a mixed breed of Alaskan Husky and poodle, and I loved her with all my heart. Daddy once caught me allowing her to lick me in the mouth, and asked disgustedly, "Amy, why would you do that?" My response: "Because I love her Daddy." She was my baby, my best friend, my constant companion.
One of our favorite things to do with Cutie was to ride with her on the front seat of the pickup with us. I'd sit in the middle so she could put her head out the window, and we would laugh as her little paws tried their best to keep her stabilized, jumping back and forth between the dash and the windowsill.
One day, as we drove down a back road, we discovered it was even funnier to watch her try to stay in place if Daddy swerved just a tiny bit. So there we were, windows down, Daddy giving the steering wheel just a little tug here and there, and Cutie's paws were just dancing on the dash, sliding back and forth as she tried her best to stay in place. One final tug, and the next thing I knew, Cutie had flown right out the passenger window. I screamed and looked at Daddy, who brought the pickup to a screeching halt. Neither one of us moved for the briefest of moments, sure that we were about to find our favorite living being dead on the road behind us. As the pickup doors creaked open, we stepped tentatively out, afraid of what we'd find, only to see Cutie shaking herself off and running towards us, her little tail just wagging away. I truly think she was excited about the adventure she'd just undertaken.
Now if you ask Daddy, he will tell you that as long as he lives, he'll never forget the look on my face when Cutie flew out the window. He says I looked at him like he'd just killed my best friend, and he had never before and has never since felt so guilty. But the view from my seat was different, and the look I'll never forget as long as I live, is the one of guilt and hurt upon my father's face. The look he gave me spoke a thousand words of remorse, regret, apology and love. The look he had on his face said he wished he hadn't caused me pain, and that he'd give his very life to take that pain away.
As I've worked through this journey of grief in the two months since our unborn baby died, I've struggled with my relationship with God, and I've often felt a disconnected inability to identify the emotions I feel when I try and fail to pray, or to explain why when I try to sing, I cry instead. I've tried yelling at God, crying to God, praying to God, and ignoring God. None of it has changed the way I feel, and the hurt hasn't gone away.
But the other day, as I tried to think how God might be reacting to all my accusations and attempts to ignore Him, I remembered this moment with my Daddy. I think, probably, that this image that is burned so clearly in my memory, the look of guilt and sadness and pain on my Daddy's face, is probably what God's face looks like as He looks down upon me these days. My Daddy told me on the night that we lost the baby, "I hate to see my baby sad." I think that's how God feels when we experience pain and loss. He too, wishes we didn't have to experience pain, and would give (and has given) his very life to take it away.
(I don't intend for this blog to become focused only on grief or faith, but I do hope that sharing my grief journey and struggles in faith might in some way help anyone who has experienced or is experiencing a similar journey or struggle.)
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