SLICE #24

Court again.

I arrive around 10 

for the 10:30 docket time.

The boys do not arrive until 10:28. 

The walk across the courtroom with their sister.

I have not seen them for two weeks.

They do not make eye contact.

They look thin and I wonder

what they have been eating.

Both boys need haircuts.

The judge calls our case numbers.

There are three.

One for each of the boys.

One for their sister. 

I sit on one side of the podium.

The boys sit on the other.

The judge tells me that I can decide

whether they should come home.

Now. Or in 30 days. Or sixty. Or 90.

Or six months or a year.

I want them to come home right now. 

Today.

I want to feed them.

I want to send them for hair cuts.

I want to hold them 

in my arms and comfort away

all the hurt of the past few weeks.

Instead I draw a deep breath.

Wipe away a tear.

I still have not heard apologies.

I know, despite what they say

that they are still smoking.

Pretty much every day.

Neither has a full time job.

I feel like I need to say something.

"When I adopted you in 2003

I say, "It was forever.

And it is still forever.

But I am not willing to live with addicts."

And so I say, "90 days."

Kadeem protests.

"I was living with her before.

And now we are basically homeless."

I wonder what is happening with his father.

Later I hear rumors that Isaiah 

is living with an older brother.

The judge does not blink. 

"Ninety days," she says firmly.

Isaiah says nothing.

Accepts his fate.

The boys' sister does not want to see me again. Ever.

She just wants to stay in touch with her brothers.

And that is fine with me.

I sit alone as the clerk finishes copying the paperwork.

The boys are across the courtroom.

Then I head to the car.

Crying.

When I get back to school

I call the boys.

I am not supposed

to have any contact

but I cannot stand it.

I need to tell them 

I love them.

Sometimes love is way too hard.

SLICE #18

Friday night and I am exhausted
It has been a long long week.
Days spent committing
educational malpractice
in seventy or eighty or ninety minute units.
A couple of late afternoon
and evening meetings.
A night teaching
for the ELA department.

And then evenings
missing my boys.
Wondering whether they have found jobs.
Or joined the military.
What they are eating.
If they have gotten hair cuts.
How much they are smoking.
Whether they miss me.
And know
that I will always
consider myself
their mom.

I want to sit on the porch
and watch the sun go down.
Drink a glass of wine
(which I never do alone)
Maybe read for a little while.
Watch a little basketball
Then go to bed. Early.
And sleep for about twenty hours straight.

Instead
I walk the dog
to the neighborhood grocery
buy a couple of diet cokes
and some oatmeal cookies
then head home
and turn on my computer.
I have papers to read
and a powerpoint to prepare.
I have to teach tomorrow morning
and my students deserve
far more
than I have to give
right now.

SLICE OF LIFE

I'm participating in the Slice of Life at Two Writing Teachers this month. 

Every day, for the month of March, 

I will be capturing a slice of my life.

I'm on a borrowed PC computer while my Apple is in the shop. 

I can't figure out how to download the SLICE graphic on this computer.

Last year she wowed the sixth grade with her creative hair styles. I couldn't wait to get to school on Mondays and see what new design was shaved into C's hair, or what new color scheme was featured.

And she plays basketball, but her favorite sport is soccer. This year she petitioned the head of the DPS athletic department to see if she could play on the boys' team  because she feels like she needs more opportunities to practice and her family doesn't have the money for her to play on a competitive team, even though she would probably do really well.

And she has a killer voice and is a lead in our school Mariachi band.

Last May, she told me she was most proud of having perfect attendance, because in fifth grade she had not taken school seriously, and she had worked really hard to do better in sixth.

But today, she is falling apart.

Fifteen minutes before the beginning of Blessed Event, Unit One. We are in pre-test mode, all of the middle schoolers have been sorted and are in their testing rooms, but materials have not been distributed and doors have not been closed. Kids are finishing their sausage biscuits and starting to wipe off their desks when I arrive in the classroom. The social studies teacher greets me with a slight nod and I follow his eyes to C's desk, where a small crowd has gathered.

C is in tears.

I walk over to her desk.

"You doing ok?"

C nods, but I can tell she is not.

"You want to take a walk?"

She follows me out into the hall, where I attempt to find a quiet corner. It's not easy this morning with all 120 middle schoolers taking a bathroom break before the test.

"What's going on?" I ask.

C doesn't respond.

"Are you sick?" She shakes her head no.

"Did something happen before school this morning?"

No again.

"Here at school?" She shakes her head yes.

"With someone in class?"

No.

"Someone in the other seventh grade?"

Yes.

"A girl?"

No.

"A boy?"

Another yes.

"You want to talk about it?"

She does. The story comes out in a rush. She liked a boy. She won't tell me his name, but I have seen them on the playground, hanging out in the adolescent version of parallel play. A really nice kid. Smart. Respectful. A fellow athlete.  But now soccer season is starting and she wants to concentrate. She broke up with him. His feelings were hurt. He said something mean about her. Called her a name. He is supposed to be her friend. Friends don't say mean things about each other. Her shoulders shake with silent tears.

We are interrupted twice during the story. L, the biggest guy in the seventh grade, comes up the stairs. He sees her crying, and wraps his arms around her in  a bear hug. Then R comes out of his eighth grade classroom, all energy, bouncing from one side of the hall to the other in his usual pinball ekfashion. He is on his way to the drinking fountain, but stops when he sees C crying. "You want me to beat someone up for you? Just tell me. I can take care of it." He is only half kidding.

I ask if she wants help solving it. She doesn't. She wants to talk to him herself. I tell her that there are people who can help if she needs us. Me. The principal or assistant principal. The male teacher. Our fabulous school social worker.

She wants to handle it.She doesn't need any help.  She will do it at lunch recess.

My boss walks by, eyebrows raisedWe are now at five minutes until test time. I wonder, as upset if she is, if we should pull her and have her do a makeup. I ask what she wants to do.

"I can take it," she says, drawing in a deep breath and squaring her shoulders. "I just need a drink of water."

I ask if she is sure. She is.

She heads down the hall for the fountain. I head back into the middle school classroom, wondering whether she will really be able to pull herself together, knowing that sometime within the space of the next two minutes, C must switch from total emotional mode, into total academic.

There are so many layers to life in school. So many stories that test scores don't tell.

I just wish people really knew what we do every day.

SLICE #10

I'm participating in the Slice of Life at Two Writing Teachers this month. 

Every day, for the month of March, 

I will be capturing a slice of my life.

I'm on a borrowed PC computer while my Apple is in the shop. 

I can't figure out how to download the SLICE graphic on this computer.

I am a literacy coach.
I help teachers refine their craft.
Most of the time I love my job.
I love planning with teachers.
I love modeling lessons.
I love watching lessons and giving feedback.
I love gathering resources.
I love being a sounding board,
a safe place for teachers to think aloud.
I love being there to celebrate the successes
and to help pick up the pieces
on the hard days.

But there are parts of my job I really do not like.
Take yesterday, for example.
I walked into a classroom.
Students were just finishing a shared writing lesson.
They had done a science experiment.
The kids were so, so, so excited.
Couldn't wait to explain to me what they were doing.

The lesson was almost over
and the teacher was collecting writing journals.
One little guy had drawn his picture
then written in green crayon.
He was supposed to write in pencil.
The teacher was not happy.
She made him change his card
(a practice which I totally DESPISE
and would eliminate if I could)
She ripped the page out of his notebook.
Made him write it again.
 I watched his face.
A flash of confusion.
A shaking lip.
Delight turned to sorrow.
And I knew that little guy
had learned a lesson
he would never forget.

And then I asked
if I could pick up my kids.
It was not my regular time.
We are in the middle of PARCC
Everything is topsy turvy.
And the teacher said,
in a voice loud enough
for the whole class to hear
"Sure.
Take them.
They can't do this writing anyway."
I am not sure any of my four
were paying attention.
But if they were
they learned a lesson.
I cannot unteach.

I do not like confrontation.
It's really hard for me.
But this morning
I will go into that teacher
we will exchange pleasantries
I will ask about her sweet,
dark-eyed toddler
who will go to kindergarten
in a few short years.

And then we will have a hard conversation
 I will probably frame it in the context
of the things I would not want said
to my own boys.
I will explain to her
 that the lessons
those kids learned yesterday
are not lessons
I ever want my kids
or anyone else's to learn.
I will remind her
How damaging words can be
How we write in wet cement
every. single. day.

It will be a hard conversation.
She will probably be embarrassed.
She might get mad.
And this relationship
which is often tenuous
will be even more so
for a few days
or a few weeks

But I cannot live with myself
If I do not have this conversation.

Some days
I do not like my job.

SLICE OF LIFE #4- A KINKO'S GIRL WANNA BE

When I grow up (or retire, whichever happens first) I want to be a Kinko's girl.
Ok, so they don't actually call them Kinko's in my part of the world any more, but you know what I mean, right? One of those people who works at the copy places. I have lots of experience.

Take yesterday, for example.

It is 4:30 in the afternoon. Our school gets out at 3. It is starting to snow. Lots of people are leaving to try to avoid rush hour.

But not me.

I am standing at the office counter. With one of my teacher friends. We have spent two weeks designing a magazine for a Civil War unit that he is starting today.

Our finished product is beautiful. I think the kids are going to love doing the research in this way.

All that was left was the copying.

We just needed to figure out how to print out the 24 page magazine. With the pages in order. And no pages upside down or backwards.

But not to fear. Because I am Kinko's girl wanna be.

My friend does some final proofreading while I figure out the logistics. I have made lots of pamphlets and magazines before. This particular magazine, though, seems a teeny bit complicated because we want it to have a landscape layout, so kids can compare charts, etc, from the north and the south, by having one on the top and one on the bottom.

As I think about it, it seems like unless we lay it out right, half of the pages could potentially turn out upside down.

But not to fear, because I am a Kinko's wanna be.

I grab six pieces of paper ,  old fax transmittal reports out of the recycle bin.  I fold them in half. Number the pages. Realize that when I take them apart, I still won't know where the tops have to be. I go back through the pages and write the word "top" on the top of each of the 24 pages.

My friend is ready. We head to the copy machine. But not the little copy machine I usually use.

This is a big project. I want the big Kahuna. The office copy machine. It makes the best copies. And it makes them faster.

I lay my mockup on the counter. I am a Kinko's wanna be. I know how to do this.

My friend looks a little dubious, but I assure him I know what I am doing.

"Hand me the front and back cover," I say authoritatively. I feel a little like a surgeon. Scalpel please.

My friend hands me the pages I request. And then the next two.

I attempt to make them back to back. One side is upside down.

My friend again looks a little doubtful. "It's ok," I assure him. "I can figure this out."

I turn the pages around. This time I get it right.

Our booklet has 24 pages. We have four done.

I start again. Consult my template. Copy two 8x11's. Make one 11X17. Consult my template. Copy two more 8X11's. Copy the two 11 X 17's back to back. Lay them on top of the last back to back 11 X 17. Repeat.

I am going strong until someone interrupts me to ask a question. And then I get a little confused and want to copy out of the finished pile.

"I think we already did that one," my friend says. I consult my template. Check the pile. He is right.

I try again. Copy two more pages. Am momentarily confused when I realize that someone has sent another job to the printer, and someone's behavior report is now included in our Civil War magazine. We have to back up and recopy those four pages.

Finally we have all 24 pages transferred to six back-to-back 11X 17's.

"I didn't think we could do it," says my friend.

I give him a teeny stink eye. How could he doubt me-- a Kinko's girl wanna be?

I make a trial copy of the document. I want to fold it and make sure all the pages are right side up. They are. I lay the document on the printer and prepare to copy fifty Civil War magazines.

I discover that the machine is almost out of toner. I know how to change the toner, or at least I think I do, but I don't have the key to that cupboard. Fortunately, the secretary is just leaving. She is used to my projects and rolls her eyes. I promise Starbucks if she will help me. She  would have helped anyway, but the Starbucks is a nice incentive, especially when it's after five and she is trying to leave to go pick up her baby.

We start to copy. Our machine is not as fancy as Kinko's  and we don't have the automatic fold and staple feature.

I direct my friend where to the long handled stapler.

The machine starts to copy.

He comes back with it, but it is empty, and we don't know where the staples could be.

We decide we can probably use a regular stapler. Not ideal, but we can make it work. Kinko's people have to be a little flexible.

The machine keeps copying.  I start pulling the copies off, one magazine at a time.

"I'll fold," I say. "You staple." (Kinko's people have to have that take charge attitude."

Thirty minutes later, the machine is on the last magazine. Three more pages and it runs out of paper. I hunt down a package of 11X17 paper.  I refill Tray 4. Hit start again. Unjam the machine when it pulls the first page crookedly.

And then we are done. Or almost done. There is one page sitting on the counter. It is the middle page. Somehow it got left out.

"I'll just let the kids help me find it," says my friend. I cannot live with this. Kinko's people have to produce high quality finished products. They do not leave out pages. I begin opening magazines to see if they have a middle page.

"The kids can do this, Carol," protests my friend.

I persevere. Halfway through the stack I find the magazine with the missing pages. Find a staple puller outer.  Take the magazine apart. Insert the missing page. Restaple.

And then we are done. Fifty Civil War magazines. Ready to use.

"I didn't think we could really do this," says my friend.

I give him the stink eye again. After all, I am a Kinko's wanna be.

Now if I could just get the code to make color copies…

A MONTH STUCK IN STUPID

I've spent the last month stuck in stupid.

Take today, for example.

I drove the 130 mile roundtrip to Colorado Springs to see my mom.

On the way back I stopped on the south end of Denver to see a dear friend.

She is working in Hong Kong right now, but her old golden retriever is having some health issues and so she came home for a few days.

I sat down on the floor next to Buddy and loved on him for a little while.There is nothing sweeter in the whole world than a old, white-faced golden.

I visited with Laura and her husband and then got up to leave.

Laura walked me to the door.

We hugged goodbye. It's hard having a piece of my heart so, so, so far away.

And I drove the 30 or so minutes to my home in the north side of the city.

A full night ahead. A dog to walk. Slices to read. Bills to pay. Papers to grade. Laundry.

I drove up to my house. Got out of the car. Reached into the back seat and realized I had forgotten my coat at L's house.

Which wouldn't have been a big deal except that my driver's license and debit card were in the pocket.

And that was a problem.

I called L. Her husband offered to meet me halfway but it was cold. And I knew they had had a long weekend with the dog.

And so I turned around and drove thirty minutes back to her house.

Thirty minutes home.

I still had a full night ahead. Dog to walk. Slices to read. Bills to pay. Papers to grade. Laundry.

It really has been a month stuck in stupid.

SLICE #28- A LITTLE DISHEARTENED

I pass the signs out at the weekly faculty meeting.

There's a space at the top for the name. Underneath that, it says, "Over Spring Break, I am reading ________________." I want teachers to fill out the posters and hang them in the hall by their classrooms. I want our students to see their teachers as readers. I want us to model the idea that readers have ongoing plans.

I don't have any trouble thinking of titles for my own sign. First,  I'm hoping to finish BOOK THIEF (I have had 75 pages to go since the weekend my mom had her medical issues). I also want to finish Cynthia Lord's newest, HALF A CHANCE, which I started last weekend. And I want to read BEHOLDING BEE, which has been overdue at the library for about two weeks now. Oh, and my book club is meeting on Wednesday, and I am supposed to read Sue Monk Kidd's INVENTION OF WINGS. And I should read TANGERINE, because the 7th graders at school will be reading that book when we get back from spring break. As far as professional reading, I've got Diane Ravitch's REIGN OF ERROR and Chris Lehman and Kate Robert's FALLING IN LOVE WITH CLOSE READING. That's seven books I want to read in the next nine days. I wonder how I will ever find time to clean my house, grade papers, or do my taxes.

I am surprised, then, when most of the people on my staff have trouble thinking of something they will read. In fact, less than half the teachers on my staff plan to read a book over Spring Vacation. Two are new moms and wonder whether they can count the board books they will read to their little ones. Several others mention newspapers or magazines. A few more say they might read a professional book or article.They fill out the posters half-heartedly. And only half actually get hung up, even after I put out an email thanking people for hanging them.

I leave the meeting feeling more than a little disheartened.

How can we ask kids to read for 20 or 30 minutes a night,  if we don't commit to that same measly twenty minutes ourselves?

How can people recommend books to kids or run a successful readers' workshop if they aren't reading?

And maybe most importantly, how are we ever going to help kids become readers if we don't see the value of reading in our own lives?

Slice #25- Such a privilege

I meet A in the cafeteria the first week of school.  She is new at our school, doesn't have lunch money and some of her seventh grade peers are concerned. They wonder if I can help her get some lunch. As she eats in the almost empty cafeteria, we chat. I learn that A's mom is in jail, that she is living with an older sister and a toddler nephew, that she is interested in coming to school to see friends, but thinks reading and math are boring.

Over the last six months we've become friends, and she drops by to say hello on a pretty regular basis. Today, I run into her in math class. The class is supposed to be doing a math lab on the computer, but A's best friend, J, is providing a floor show, much to the first year teacher's chagrin. A is sitting beside her, not really participating in the comic chaos, but not getting the math lab done either. I kneel down beside her.

"What's going on?" I say, tapping the computer screen.

"I don't know how to do this," A says.

I'm a little surprised. A is a bright girl and this activity, having to do with dividing positive and negative numbers,  seems relatively simple.

"Yes, you do," J suspends her show and interrupts, glancing at the screen, where the problem -54/6 is displayed. "It's -9."

The computer deems J and A's work "Brilliant" and then advances to the next problem.

"-42/-7, that's 6," says J authoritatively. "Very good," says the computer, and the screen advances again to -30/5. J solves that one too, and then several more after that.

A reaches for the pad of post-it notes in my hand and writes me a note. "I don't know how to divide."

I am surprised. A is a bright girl and we have a great math teacher. I write a note back.

"You don't know how to divide, or you don't know how to divide positive and negative numbers?"

A writes again. "I don't know how to divide at all."

I take another post-it note. "Would you like someone to teach you?"

This time she has a one word note. "YES!"

Another note from me, "Would you like me to teach you to divide?"

And another one worder from A, "Yes!"

Another pink sticky note: It won't take us that long. You know how to multiply?"

A: Yeah."

Another sticky note: Well, then, division will be easy-peasy lemon squeezy. It's just the opposite of multiplication.

A looks at me doubtfully and writes another note. "OK."

I slide another note across the table. "So when do you want to start?"

A writes again. "I don't know. I 'll ask my mom."

I think about the rest of this week and write, "The week after vacation would probably work better for me. I can do Tuesdays, Thursdays, or Fridays if you want."

This time A nods. Our conversation is over and she turns her attention back to her friends.

I'm so glad I walked through that classroom this afternoon. So glad I had a pad of sticky notes in my hand. So glad I get the privilege of caring for kids like A every single day.

Teaching. It really is the best job in the world.

SLICE #20- More parenting from afar. A dog?!!!???

Wednesday morning.

We are in the middle of state testing. I have proctored my assigned math session and then a makeup test and now I have about five minutes to throw down my sandwich before I head outside for lunch duty.

I check my phone and discover four messages from my son.

I immediately assume the worst. I just talked to him the night before. And he usually doesn't want to talk to me all that often. I wonder if there has been an accident or an arrest.

I glance at the clock and call him back.

"Do you have a minute?"

Uh-oh. That's not usually good question. Has he failed a test? Dropped out of school? Been in an accident?

"Sure. What's going on?"

"Well, um, K (Son #2, who is visiting Son #1 for his spring vacation) was outside and he saw this lady playing with her dog and he asked if he could pet it and um…"

Again my mind immediately jumps to worse case scenario. What could have happened with a dog? A dog bite? Son #2 was bitten by a dog? 

"And um, the lady said she didn't want it and K could have it and he told her he didn't want it, but she was just going to let it run loose and so we brought it inside, so it would be safe, and it's here now."

"A dog? A dog is at your apartment? What kind of dog?"

"A pit bull and boxer mix. It's a girl. Her name is Sheba."

Anyone who knows me at all knows I am a total dog lover. I have two, a food-crazed black lab and my mom's white malti-poo, who seems to be a permanent house guest.

"You need to get rid of it Zay. You can't have a pet in the apartment without paying a deposit. I can't pay a deposit and you don't have any money."

"I don't want to get rid of it. She's been here for two days. I thought you liked dogs."

"I do like dogs. I like dogs a lot. But you can't have one in the apartment."

"Lots of people have them in the apartment. I see them all the time."

"But they have probably paid the deposit. And I can't do that. And you don't have a job."

"I thought you would think it was a good thing. We were trying to help this dog so she didn't get run over. And you like dogs."

"I do like dogs, sweetie. But you can't have one in your apartment. You need to give it back or take it to the pound." 

"But I want to keep her."

"You have to walk dogs, and feed them, and take them to the vet. And you don't have a yard. So you have to take it out. A lot."

"I'll do that. It will teach me responsibility."

"You can't have a dog in your apartment."

"But I want to keep her…"

I look up at the clock and realize I am five minutes late to recess duty. "Sweetie, I have to go. You can't have a dog until you can pay for it. Period. I love you."

"I want to keep her. And I'm not a Christian."

What? How did not having a dog connect to not being a Christian????

"You are a Christian. You made that decision ten years ago and once you've made it, there's not going back. You might not be a follower, but you are a Christian. And now I have to go. I will talk to you later. Bye. Love you."

I hang up before he can add any more to this dog ownership turned theological discussion and sprint outside to middle school recess duty. I stand there trying to collect my thoughts.

A dog???? He never even was really excited about our dogs.
                       
A dog would be a good companion for him living all alone in that apartment.

He isn't allowed to have a dog. And the pet deposit is outrageous. Like $500.

But it would be good for him to have a friend. You love the companionship.

A dog??? It would probably not be housebroken and I would have to pay for new carpet.

Maybe he would take care of it. Maybe the responsibility would be good for him.

A dog? It would probably chew up the cupboards and I would have to pay for them. 

But they thought they were doing a good thing by taking the dog in. You always wanted to raise compassionate, caring sons. 

Yeah, but not a dog. Not in the apartment. It would get sick and I would have to pay for it.

Later, as I drive home from work, I talk again, to both my son and his brother. I explain my bottom line- dogs are a commitment, a financial responsibility. We would have to pay a deposit. He would have to buy food. Most weeks he can barely feed himself on what I give him and I don't have any more. The dog would need shots. It might get sick and he couldn't pay for it.  And dogs are a time commitment- they have to be fed. Walked. Loved. Taken outside.  Often.

He explains again that they found it. Wanted to help. Thought they were doing a good thing. He would like the companionship. And he didn't have a dad. And he needs practice. And he can practice religion his own way. And. And. And. And…

And the outcome of our conversation is the same. He wants a dog. I love dogs and do not think it's a good idea for him right now, at least partly because I can't afford to help him pay for it.  We hang up with the issue unresolved.

And I wonder if there will ever be a day that this parenting stuff is easy. In my next life, I think I will just do dogs.

SLICE OF LIFE #1/31

Saturday morning. The alarm goes off at 4:30. I drive two hours through snow and fog to see my mom. She is in the hospital recovering from emergency brain surgery. Has spent the last week on the rehab floor.

I am still trying to get used to this new mom. Two weeks ago I went to visit her in Colorado Springs. She wanted to go to Target. And, like always,  I had to hurry to keep up with my almost eighty-year-old mother.

Two days after that, I got a call that she had collapsed. Was in the emergency room. Needed a shunt installed in her brain.  And now she's learning to get around again. She still doesn't have very good balance, so she's using a walker.

On Thursday,  she will be released from the hospital. But not to the patio home where she has lived for the past twenty years since my dad died. Instead, she will be heading to a an assisted living facility.

So today I spent time with my mom. I went with her to occupational therapy. I sat with her while she ate warmed over French toast after occupational therapy. Went and got her coffee from the Starbucks in the hospital lobby. Talked about dismantling her home as she prepares to move from a 3000-square-foot patio home into an 1100-square-foot, two-bedroom apartment. We talked about who would take the Christmas decorations. The patio furniture and grill. Twenty years of books.

Then my sisters arrived and we went to look at the facility they have selected. It's very nice. A dining room/restaurant where my mom can eat meals as often as she wants. A movie theater. Craft room. Swimming pool. Gym. Beauty parlor. Gift shop. Lots of activities. The apartment is sunny and light. It has lots of storage space. An alert button in every room.

I think my mom will like the new place. I think she'll be less lonely than she has been for the past few years. And it will be safer, should she fall and need help.

At the same time, my heart is really heavy tonight. Somehow, until this month, my mom has never seemed old.

And now she does.

SLICE OF LIFE

I've discovered yet another missing page in the parenting manual.

My eighteen-year-old graduated.
Not in the traditional way, with "Pomp and Circumstance"
and caps and gowns and pictures and parties. 
Instead, he went to summer school.
Then we met in the principal's office.
And he graduated.
Not pretty.
But he finished.

And now?
Well, he is just kind of on hold.
You see, last October,
he made one of those stupid
no-frontal-lobe
teenager mistakes.
That all of us pray our kids won't make.

But he did.

And we have been dealing
with the legal ramifications
for ten looong months.
We go back to court on Thursday.
For the umpteenth time.
And the issue might be resolved.
Except it was supposed to be resolved
in late March
and it's still going on.
So much for a speedy trial.

He could get probation.
He could have to take classes.
In which case he would need to stay here
for the next six months or a year.
He could get deferred probation.
Or credit for time already served.
In which case he could possibly go to college.
Or maybe the military.

In the mean time,
we are stuck in what feels
kind of like the outer circles of Dante's inferno.

He finished school in late June.
I suggested, as I have been for quite a while,
that it might be wise to get a job
so he would have money
to help pay his expenses
and for an occasional movie
or pair of shoes.
He could always quit
after the court stuff is resolved.

He hasn't done that.
He hasn't done much of anything, actually.

And so he hangs out
Waiting for court on Thursday.
Working out with a quarterback coach
tossing a ball
Watching his friends
who are preparing
to head off to college.
Making messes in the kitchen.
Fighting with me
about money
that I am not willing to give him
because I think he should get a job.

He still dreams of playing college football.
He's definitely good enough. 
Might go to a school in Arizona
because the QB coach
knows someone down there.

In case that doesn't work out
he has applied for schools in Denver
He might go to Metro for the first year.
And if that doesn't work out
he might go to a community college
just to get his grades up
and then head out in January.

He talks about being a senator
or a brain surgeon
or a lawyer
or maybe a music producer. 
He has talked about joining the Air Force
or maybe the Navy.
He doesn't really have any idea
what he wants.

And me?
Mostly I just try to stay out of his way
because I am the person
he is convinced is responsible
for all of his woes
and because if I am not around
he can't ask for money.
I am trying
to keep my mouth closed
unless he asks for my opinion
to be tough enough
that he will want to leave the nest
and move toward adulthood
but gentle enough
that he will know he can come back
for visits anyway.

I thumb through the parenting manual.
I can find the chapter about helping your kid pack for college.
I can find the chapter about what to do
when your kid's dreams don't match yours.

But this chapter?

It's missing from my parenting manual.

SLICE OF LIFE

What counts as a conversation at our house.

"Hello," says Son #2 as he strides through the door about 6:10.

He heads straight for the kitchen, grabs what, in my most families,

would be a family-sized bag of Cool Ranch Doritos.

In our house it's a serving.

Or sometimes a half a serving.

"I made ribs," I say.

That's code for,

"Please do not an entire six or eight serving bag of doritos right now."

Son #2 puts the bag of Doritos back on top of the refrigerator.

"They ready?" he says, turning on heel.

"About another half hour, I got home late."

Son grabs the Doritoes again and heads for his room.

I stand in the hall doorway.

"So tell me about the practice," I say.

He has been invited to play on a new 7 on 7 team.

Another mom has told me they will practice for a month,

then go to Los Angeles for a tournament over spring break.

"When do you leave?"

"I don't know," he says.

"But we're flying."

Ka-ching.

"And you need new running shoes?" I ask.

(That info from his really favorite way of corresponding- texting in the middle of my workday).

"Yeah," he says,

"I need bigger ones."

Bigger?

Bigger than a size 16?

Ka-ching, ka-ching.

"Who was there?"

I ask, the mom in me hungry for details.

"I don't know," he says,

"just the usual."

I am still wishing for more details. I name a few names to see if I can get him to respond.

Taylor? Jason? Shahid?

(My mom's heart twinging just a little because Son #1,

headed to junior college to play football in the fall,

is no longer considered a high school player

and is no longer eligible.

The usual has always included the two of them).

"I don't know," he says,

pushing the door shut with his toe.

"How much longer until dinner is ready?"

SLICE OF LIFE

A super busy day…

Determined that my students would have fun…

Would be allowed to be nine and ten year olds

on Valentine's Day,

despite the fact

that we are three weeks

from our state's "blessed event"

and have lots and lots and lots to learn.

And so I get up early,

Type up my lesson plans-

Make sure I can justify

every single thing we do

educationally.

Skills-

Idioms with

Amy K. Rosenthal's new book,

PLANT A KISS,

Reading--

no problem,

nothing better for getting better at reading

than flat out reading.

we will just read

and read

and read

a little more.

Math-

Probability, graphing, adding fractions,

All using conversation hearts…

Valentine envelopes,

Hmmm,

I know,

the great symmetry contest,

how many lines of symmetry can you create

in the design for your valentine bag?

Writing

Write a valentine letter

choose three reasons you love that person,

elaborate with details or an anecdote.

Edit with an adult,

write a final draft,

then make a card

with a border around the perimeter

(perimeter- did you get that one more math lesson thrown in?)

My kids hit the door running--

they have brought chips and cookies and cards---

they are so excited

and we have fun,

big fun,

all day long.

But we learn too.

And there are parents

and little brothers and sisters

and snacks, snacks, and more snacks

Our friends from the autism classroom

join our party for a little while

my kids scoot over,

make room at their tables

share cards

and snacks

and kindness.

We are close to the end of our party

When S's mom

and toddler sister come in

Mom apologizes for being late

She has just gotten off work

had to wake up the little sister

I find a juice box and a heart shaped cookie.

Bend over to give it to the toddler.

Try using my Spanish

on this not quite awake three-year-old.

I feel X standing beside me.

Know her mom has been out of town.

Think she needs a hug,

I reach for her

And she leans close.

"Ms. W."

she says seriously,

"I just thought you should know…"

I am expecting to hear about

our wonderful day

All she has learned.

How much fun we have had.

But X has another message,

"I just thought you should know,

when you bend over,

the top of your underwear shows.

And it's pink."

Yep, sweetie, it sure is.

My underwear

is definitely pink.

Hot pink

if you want to be exact.

Happy Valentine's Day

from the teacher

with the hot pink underwear.

SLICE OF LIFE

The first weekend in February.

One of my favorites of the year.

Our state reading conference.

I have been attending

since the year I started teaching.

When I slept on the floor

in my teacher mother's hotel room.

Thirty years later

I have been to at least 25

CCIRA conferences.

And the night before

I am as excited

as a child

waiting for Santa Claus.

I love CCIRA.

That time of getting my bucket refilled.

Richard Arlington

"Only one out of every 24 fifth grade teachers

reads aloud to kids.

Kids need read aloud."

Franki Sibberson.

"We need to rethink our images of reading

to include our digital lives."

Donalyn Miller.

"I have a goal that every one of my students

will read 40 novels.

Last year the child who read the fewest read 18.

But the year before he only read two."

Penny Kittle,

sharing title after title after title,

as I jot madly,

wishing that we lived in New Hampshire

and my sons could have Penny

for their high school

English teacher.

And Sharon Taberski,

"Most of the time when kids don't comprehend

it's not an issue of strategy instruction

it's an issue of background knowledge.

When we take content instruction

out of the picture

we make reading

even harder for kids

from homes with low SES."

I love the speakers.

Love getting my bucket refilled.

My theory confirmed

And stretched

and reshaped.

I love hearing from these speakers.

Remembering what I believe

Remembering why I do

what I do

Tweaking my theory

and rethinking what I will do Monday morning.

I love

the informal hallway

professional development

just as much.

The two minute conversation in the bookstore

with a stranger

"Have you read OPENING MINDS? It's a must have…"

The hugs from CCIRA friends that I see once a year.

"How are your boys?

I saw the article in the paper.

I remember when…"

Glasses of wine

and dinners

and teaching stories

and titles shared.

"If your kids have finished WIMPY KID

Try THE NERDS.

"What do YOU do when…"

"This is how I'm keeping track of the data…"

It is four weeks

until my state's blessed event

and I am struggling

to believe in myself

as a teacher.

I am struggling

to believe

in my kids

as readers

and writers

and thinkers.

I am so thankful

to have had

this weekend

of renewal.

A YIKES SLICE OF LIFE

Sunday afternoon. Tired of being in the company of people who have an opinion about everything and feel the need to share it (aka teenagers!), I escape to the Tattered Cover to work on my CCIRA presentation about using picture books with older students. Before I enter, I tell myself I can only buy one book. Just one. I have just paid off Christmas, Son #1 has a birthday this week, and now, on top of everything else, I have to buy a new car. "Only one book," I say to myself firmly, as I push open the door of the bookstore, notebook in hand.

My intentions really are good. I am only going to buy one book. I think it will be Kadir Nelson's HEART AND SOUL, but on the way down the stairs to the children's department, I spy Shane Evans' MARCH ON and scoop that up. I loved THE UNDERGROUND and have heard good things about this one. I plant myself in a chair next to a rotating display of New York Times book winners. There I find HEART AND SOUL, but also A NATION'S HOPE: THE STORY OF JOE LOUIS, written by Matt DeLa Pena and illustrated by Kadir Nelson. Now I have a stack of three. "Only one book," I tell myself. "I am only buying one book." Sadly, I return MARCH ON and NATION'S HOPE to the display.

As I put them back, I notice OLIVIA'S BIRDS: SAVING THE GULF. We are working on an ecosystems unit now in science, and this book looks perfect. As I leaf through it, I discover it has been written by an eleven-year-old girl. My students are in the middle of illustrating their own picture books, and this book would be perfect. "Only one book," I tell myself, but my resolve is weakening, and somehow, OLIVIA'S BIRDS makes its way into my stack. I look at a few more books, but manage to refrain from adding GRANDPA GREEN, MIGRANT, PASSING THE MUSIC DOWN, WHERE'S WALRUS, and A BALL FOR DAISY to my stack.

I make my way into the room where children's books are housed. On the way in, I peruse the books chosen by Tattered Cover employees. I leaf through STAR OF FEAR, STAR OF HOPE, a gorgeous Holocaust picture book. "Only two books," I tell myself. "You are only buying two books. If you want this one, you have to put OLIVIA or Kadir back." I move on to nonfiction.

There I discover two amazing new books about the Titanic. Stories of a cruise liner sinking off the coast of Italy have filled the news all weekend, and I know my kids would love TITANIC SINKS by Brian Denenberg and EXPLORE TITANIC by Peter Chrisp and Somchith Vongprachanh. I imagine handing these to Cameron and Taylor. Oh my gosh. They would love them. "Only two books," I remind myself. "You are only buying two books." I remember that I have an Amazon card at home and move on.

I stop for a second to look at novels and spy Christopher Paul Curtis' THE MIGHTY MISS MALONE. Twitter has been abuzz about this book all weekend. Everyone is talking about how great it is. I have just finished GABBY and need something new to read tonight. My resolve wavers again. "Maybe I can do three," I think. "Three is not that many." I add it to my pile.

From there I move to the picture book section. I am sitting on the couch looking at books that I am absolutely not buying, I am just reading the titles, when I overhear a woman talking to the clerk. Her daughter is having a baby. She is leaving for Ohio and wants some paperbacks to take to the older siblings of the new baby. I know just the book-- BOSS BABY by Marla Frazee. Then I remember that Raul's mom is having her baby this weekend. We need a book to celebrate. Even though I have loved BOSS BABY for over a year, I do not own it. I add it to my stack. It will be a perfect read aloud on Tuesday morning.

"I gotta get out of here," I think to myself. "This is getting way too expensive." On the way out of the children's department, I see the newest edition of poetry by DPS children. I have the other three. I really need this one too. My stack of five books is teetering a little as I walk up the stairs to the cashier.

A Sunday afternoon at Tattered Cover. I really was just going to buy one book…

SLICE OF LIFE

I'm playing around with my blog.

What, if anything, do I want it to become?

For the next couple of weeks, I hope,

I'm going to experiment with some different things.

Today's challenge is Slice of Life.

I did that last year, but only in March,

when you "slice" away every day.

Some people have continued every Tuesday.

But not me.

Today I am starting again.

My word for 2012 is "Savor."

I want to savor every minute

especially with my guys

who will be gone way, way, way too soon.

On Sunday

I started.

Sunday we went to the Broncos game.

I'm a long time Bronco fan

but I have only actually been to three games

because tickets are super expensive.

And I am a single mom

trying to feed and clothe two ginormous

teenage boys.

But this week we actually got to go.

Brian Dawkins, one of the Bronco players,

gives an award every week

to a high school player who has overcome adversity.

My boys won the award

And so we got to go to the game.

Actually, not only did we get to go to the game,

we got preseason passes

to go down on the field

and watch the pre game warm up

right there

where we could see the players' fancy cleats

and head phones

and watch them stretch out

and then we had amazing seats,

eight rows from the field,

on the twenty yard line,

right by where the players came out onto the field

and in close proximity

(to my boys' delight)

to the Bronco cheerleaders

and then afterwards,

we got to go into the family waiting area

and meet Brian Dawkins

and the boys got to talk to him for almost half an hour.

Now my life with teenagers

is always a little lumpy and bumpy.

The game was on Sunday, January 1st,

And Saturday night was New Year's Eve.

And of course the boys had to go out with their friends.

And of course they didn't sleep much. If at all.

So they were a teeny bit grumpy.

And it was pretty cold.

Although not nearly as cold as it could have been.

And of course even though I said dress in layers

and even made several suggestions

as to what the layers might include

no one wanted to dress in layers

or help carry the blankets

I lugged all over the stadium.

Note: One child did actually use a blanket

after I had watched goosebumps form on his neck

for an entire half.

And of course there was one Kansas City fan

sitting right in front of us

who had altered his #15 jersey

so it said T-Blow

and he had evidently had partaken of some adult beverages

and spent the entire first half

arguing with another young gentleman

sitting directly behind us

who had also evidently partaken of adult beverages

and the guest relations guy

had to come several times

and tell them to stop

arguing with each other.

And of course the boys

didn't want anyone to know

they were with

the short chubby lady

lugging the blankets

and at one point

after the game

but before we met Brian Dawkins

I completely lost them

In a sea of 75,068 people

and had to resort to text messages

to track them down

so I could give them their passes

and we could go down on the field

to meet Brian.

And of course one son got mad at me

because I laughed

because a really cute little g

four year old fashionista

wearing a white fur coat

and a mini skirt

and leggings

and black boots

was totally smitten with my son

and followed him around the player waiting area

standing directly in front of him

and craning her neck

to gaze adoringly into his eyes

for about ten minutes.

And of course after

we had an amazing conversation with Brian Dawkins

and he said

"Do you take good care of your mom?'

The boys left me

to walk the half mile back to the car

by myself

in a pretty questionable part of town

in the dark

because they were cold

and wanted to jog

and I couldn't go as fast as them

partly because they are in much better shape

but also because I was still lugging the blankets.

But I ignored all of the above.

And just concentrated

on savoring.

Because my boys

are

wonderful

and amazing

and they are going to be gone soon

and I will miss them.

SLICE OF LIFE- THE FINISH LINE

March 31st.

The Slice of Life Challenge is over.

And I did it. Or almost did it.

I wrote 31 posts.

But I didn't technically totally do it,

because I skipped one day

and wrote two posts another day.

But I almost did it.

I wrote approximately nine posts about life at school.

I wrote approximately fifteen posts about being a mom to teenagers,

or about specific conversations I had had with my teenagers.

I wrote two posts about our dogs.

I wrote approximately four posts about life in general.

I wonder, does the fact that I wrote more about parenting teenagers

than I did about school, mean anything?

Does the fact that I wrote more about Son #1 than Son #2 mean anything?

I loved writing every day.

I loved opening my email and seeing that someone had commented.

Tonight, I loved reading back through the slices

And remembering stuff that I had kind of already forgotten.

And I wonder if I could keep slicing all by myself

To save for the boys.

And I wondered why I had not written more for them sooner

because I know there is a lot I have forgotten.

I loved reading other people's slices

and getting to know people around the world.

I loved seeing all of the different genres people tried

and seeing how different authors crafted their work.

I loved hearing the stories of other people's lives.

If I had it to do over again--

I'd be a better commenter.

I did try to comment on three posts every day.

And most days, more than half, I made it.

But if I were going to do it again,

I think I would choose two Slicers to follow consistently

And then vary the third one from day to day.

And I wish I could have figured out a better way

to respond to people's comments.

If there was one thing I would change about Slice of Life

I wish we would have one day, the very first day,

where we wrote slices about ourselves--

who we were, where we lived, our jobs.

Some people had that on their blog,

but some people I wanted to know better.

Thanks, Ruth, for pulling all of us together.

Thanks, Slicers, for committing to writing every day, or almost every day.

Thanks Commenters, for responding with grace and sensitivity and kindness.

It was a terrific month of writing!

SLICE 31- SO GOOD TO SEE THIS GUY

At 1:00, Son #1 stalks out of the bedroom, where he has been playing video games with brother and friend. "Will you take me to work out with R at 2?" he asks, in a voice that is more than a little demanding.

Despite the ugly voice, I am thrilled. This is the guy I know. The one who connects with football friends every chance he gets. The one who love, love, loves to work out.

"Sure, buddy. Where is he working out?" I ask.

"With some trainer," says my son, "It's a speed camp. You have to pay."

An hour or so later, I sit with another mom, watching him run up a hill. It's a steep hill. They run the hill. Rest a few seconds. Trot back down. Run up backwards. Rest a few seconds. Trot back down. Over and over and over again. One kid throws up in the gutter.

For the first two or three heats, my guy is at the front of the pack. After that he drops farther back. Even so, he is carrying himself in the way that I usually see only on the football field. Big. Confident. Shoulders squared. Light on his feet.

Afterwards, he talks to the coach, who calls him Big Man. He smiles, big enough so that I can see his dimple. His eyes sparkle. He asks if he can go two or three times a week to work out with R and this coach.

We have had a rough couple of months- hating school and not wanting to go. His dreams have seemed far away. Almost unreachable.

Today, it was so good to see this guy.

Today, it was so good to hope.

SLICE #29- TOO QUIET HERE

I have lived alone for the majority of my adult life. I had a roommate for the first three or four years after I graduated from college, and then one year during my doctoral program, but aside from that, I have pretty much always lived alone.

In 2003, I adopted my boys, and my life changed almost overnight. I went from quiet evenings, Lean Cuisine, walks at the park with a dog or two, to, hmm, I don't want to say chaos, but it definitely was a lot noisier and busier. And I liked it. A lot.

For the most part, my boys are kind of homebodies. They are much more apt to have friends over here than go to someone else's house for a night or weekend. I like it that way. I like having kids around. I like the noise- the pounding up and down the stairs for food, the rap songs they compose on Garage Band, and the laughter. I like knowing where my kids are and what they are doing.

Tonight, though, both boys are across town at a friend's house. Aside from the dogs racing madly in and out, the house feels really, really quiet. I'm watching the CU game. And reading. And doing laundry.

But it's really quiet. And I don't like it. Not one little bit.

SLICE #28- A VISIT WITH AN OLD FRIEND

"Where are you going?" asked my son, as I headed out the door this afternoon.

"To see a friend," I shouted over my shoulder. "I'll be back in a little while."

It was the truth, kind of anyway. I was going to see a friend. OK, a friend I had never met. But a friend who I had known through her books for a long, long time.

Lois Lowry was reading at the Tattered Cover) this afternoon, and so I made the sixty mile round trip, through rush hour traffic, to see my old friend.

Lowry has a new book, BLESS THIS MOUSE, that has just come out in the last few weeks. She talked first about the origin of this story. Lowry was at her summer home in Maine sitting at the dining room table writing when a little mouse scurried out from his hiding place. Unlike most mice, however, he was not afraid of Lowry, or her dog either. He sat in the middle of the room, and even allowed the author and her dog to approach and touch him. Lowry said that finally she scooped him up in her hand, said, "I think you will be much happier outside," and took him out into the yard, where she released him. When she came back into the house, she opened a new file on her computer, and started the story that became BLESS THIS MOUSE. The book only took her three weeks to write.

Lowry talked a little about the characters in the book, especially Hildegarde, the Mouse Mistress and Roderick, her not so smart friend. An author, said Lowry, must first make her reader care about her characters, and then she must create a problem that leaves the reader worrying about them. Hildegarde and Roderick live in a church, along with 218 other mice. The Feast of Saint Francis is fast approaching. On this day, the parishioners and townsfolk bring their pets to be blessed. The mice hate this day because they know the church will be filled with cats. Lowry read several scenes; one was a conversation between Roderick and Hildegarde that would be perfect for teaching kids how authors use conversation to reveal characters. In the other scene, Hildegarde, wearing a green gumdrop hat tied with a gold cord from the priest's garments, decides that the mice need to receive the blessing of Saint Francis.

Lowry also talked a little about her process. She said she typically starts with a character and a quest. She sometimes, but not always, knows how the story will end. She never outlines, because that makes the writing boring for her.

She also talked a little about her current project. Lowry is writing the fourth book in the Giver series. The main characters in this book are Gabriel and his birth mother. Lowry described it as a long book, she said about 450 pages, which will come out next spring, if she gets home and gets it written.

So far my spring vacation has been more work than fun, lots of appointments, and chores, and cleaning. It was really nice, then, to spend this chilly Monday night with an old friend…