What My Depression Feels Like

Depression first revisits like a sternly helpful Auntie, encouraging me to take that afternoon nap because I work hard and there's no harm and the housework will wait. At the same time she admonishes me like so many Internet articles to take stock of my gratitudes and acknowledge so many others who are enduring real, life-threatening challenges. 

And so I rise, and I do.  

It works, for a while.  I celebrate surges of energy and well-being which bring warm golden filters to minutes and hours.  I ascribe malaise and exhaustion to so many long work days, typical for this time of year. And then I'm crying, which is hardly notable because I'm a crier since forever; I cry more when I'm premenstrual, so that's a convenient correlation.  But I get teary because three stressors in a row, and because you ask me how I'm doing, and because you give me a hug.  And then I'm crying when I'm alone and I'm crying in the car and the shower and I'm crying for no reason other than the fact that depression has made its turn into more than a state of mind; it has invaded my body like an all-over ache. 

I don't even want wine.  I don't want cheese or chocolate.

Depression becomes a drone with x-ray vision that hovers over my household, taking inventory of every drawer and closet and cupboard, asking why I own so many things and asking when I will take charge of them, and then asking how I can possibly manage the abstract stuff when I hardly have control of all that is material.  Depression points out that my children will inherit and have to clean out these drawers.  Depression wonders if I'm a hoarder, and Depression thinks it's an appropriate question to ask.  I have to agree.

Depression probes my heart like an MRI and knows I'm distracted and distant and impatient and counts the times I've let my children down, cataloging missed opportunities and sharp words. Depression, with its sidekick Anxiety, wakes me up at 2 or 3 AM and interrogates me.

Depression is a pit in my stomach and a lump in my throat and dry red eyes after so much sobbing. At some point no platitudes, no encouragement nor reassurance, no reminders of all I have, no pep talks, no faith, and no ultimata can lift my limbs or change the tide of overwhelm which presses on my chest and immobilizes me.  This is the advent of the breaking point, the nervous breakdown if you will, the hysteria, the really hot mess, the point at which something has to happen and it's not going to be talk therapy or yoga or a nice long walk or run.  It's not coffee with a friend or a massage or girls' night out.  

I recall the last time I felt this way, almost four years ago when I had an infant.  I watch in admiration and relief as my capable now-toddler dresses herself and straps herself into her carseat.  She exerts so much effort I don't presently have.  I remember that my previous self, shortly after feeling like I presently do, left work in the middle of a very normal day to go crawl into bed because I Just Could Not Even.  I Just Could Not Even be too proud to walk away from my job, and into bed.  Crawling into bed was all I could do.  

So I know this is a pivotal point, that to continue on is to go deeper down, and I'm afraid. Something has to happen, and instead of ignoring my sister's call, I answer, and I cry unabashedly.  I know what's next after that, and my father is on the phone.  That he takes charge is reassuring but my dependency on him in this moment is also panic inducing. Someday my children might feel this way and need me, too, is painful to imagine.

Depression means every simple kindness brings an overwhelming rush of gratitude, like I feel for the doctor who calls me back after I hang up on the weekend office voicemail message.  

Her voice is calm and reassuring and patient.  

She asks me if I am feeling sad.  Yes.

She asks if I am feeling hopeless.  Yes.

I explain that I had a significant post-partum depression almost four years ago and that I am struggling again.

She asks if I am having thoughts of harming myself.  "Not serious," I share.  But I want to disappear, I admit to myself.  She will call in a prescription, the medication that was once the flashlight to guide me through darkest parts of the tunnel.  

Depression is a sea that temporarily parts with the tangible relief of enacting a solution.

I want the medication to work before I take it, but it doesn't.  My whole day and every part feels like too much, and we've got stuff to do, soccer games and lunch and drives on the freeway back and forth.  I rally.  Depression points to the parents on the sidelines, normal people chatting about normal things, not choking back tears, not hiding behind sunglasses and afraid to answer, "How are you?"  I observe them all, remembering a time as a child when I had the flu and couldn't remember what my body felt like when it didn't ache.  

Depression and Anxiety love way-too early mornings, buzzing me awake with scrolling to-do lists and dread.  My limbs tingle, my heart pounds, and my stomach reacts to each new reminder like a loop or turn on a roller coaster.  I count backward from 100.  Too quickly.  By twos, then.  I breathe.  I want to stay in bed.  I imagine calling in sick.  I weigh the costs and benefits.  

I always get up.  But I force it.  

Depression yields to busy work days.  I act like Capable Me, surprising myself, responding attentively and ticking through tasks.  Stopping to analyze my head and body invites panic, so I persevere.  I avoid enumerating the rituals I must tend to at home, where my bed beckons:  pick up children.  Make dinner.  Clean kitchen.  Run baths.  Read books.  Ask questions.  Be present.  

Each day I feel a few more solid moments, a little more normalcy.  I want the medicine to work so badly I might be willing it to, but I'll accept a placebo effect, and I feel like the hazy filter applied in different degrees to my Instagram photos is relegated more and more to the edges.  Medication provides the energy for next phases of healing: therapy and exercise and other healthy practices which get sidelined during duress.  

I went off my medication without incident about a year and a half ago, after two-and-a-half years of prescription since my post-partum depression settled in.  I could blame that depression on hormones, while oddly grateful for that experience which deepened my empathy for those who suffer mental illness.

Now a deeper acknowledgment, a recognition of various symptoms and signs over the past year, and a surrender to my own reality and fragility: 

I struggle with mental illness.  

Maybe someday I will refer to that struggle in past tense, but I no longer view that as an admirable goal.  I simply don't want to feel as I have, to live on the outskirts of deep despondence, and I am grateful for defenses and offenses against it.  

Grateful for moments of joy and bliss.  Grateful for tools to more ably face life's sadnesses and struggles.  

Nine Months

9 Months Old (young!)

She's officially been out of the womb longer than she was in.  And this month, she's on the go, crawling across the floor as of Sunday morning.  We need a gate on those stairs, stat!

When she's not bonking her head during one of her mobile adventures, Tootsie is blowing raspberries, showing off her two little razor-sharp teeth (and using them to gnaw on puffs, strawberries, Mum-Mums, her toes, and family members), lunging at her dog, practicing syllables (dadadada), and perfecting her role as soccer fan.  At her developmental check she was deemed right on target. Go Tootsie!

But no, she doesn't sleep through the night.  We call that a parenting fail.  Okay, okay:  One particular parent's fail.

One early morning this month before meeting her babysitter I brought our little rascal into the school library and asked our friend the librarian to hold her as I visited the restroom.  I returned to find her being passed around among staff members and students, who were taking pictures with her on their phones and competing for her company.  One of the older teenage boys was especially tender with her, resting his head on hers and breathing in her baby scent.

Her ready smiles and willingness to be held by strangers make her a great ambassador and her tagging along renders my work enterprises (cheering at lacrosse games, walking precincts for the bond election, attending superintendent's meetings) much more joyful.  Sometimes where my Work Life and Mom Life intersect is stressful, and sometimes it helps me feel better about both.  That morning, watching our baby connect with my students, I felt more connected to both them and her.

Her sisters still find that sun rises and sets on Tootsie; in fact, when there are occasions I whisk her off with me early in the morning and return with her late, they admittedly pine for her all day.

So much love.  *Blissful sigh*

Control

I think it's safe to say that I've been feeling out of control. Since, say, January 11 or so, perhaps.  As a strategy to exert control over the things that seem to be spinning, I will make a tidy little controlled list of all the factors contributing to my feeling of general entropy:

1.  New baby.

2.  New baby, born far away and early, necessitating a six-week stay away from home in Boston.

3.  A new home I moved back into a month ago, where un-unpacked boxes remained piled in many rooms upon my return.

4.  A new job, which I haven't even tried out yet.

5.  A new lifestyle and new roles and challenges at home.

6.  New childcare arrangements to be made, new routines and logistics to figure out.

7.  New bills:  diapers, medical, daycare.

My brain wakes up at 5AM and starts cycling through things I feel I need to get ahead of...and I am awake, though my baby is sleeping and I don't need to practice getting up for work, making bottles and lunches, pumping, taking a shower, breastfeeding...yet.

So I should relax.

I started seeing a therapist/counselor/wise woman.  For the first time.  It's pretty great, though I do a lot of crying.  I cry because I know I am going to talk about stuff.  I cry out of relief.

I mean, if you know me at all, you know I cry.  But the last couple of months have really exercised my tear ducts.  I'm looking forward to a dry spell sometime soon, as long as it doesn't mean I'm not feeling anything.

This week my counselor suggested I take my list of things stressing me out and take care of the things I can control.  Childcare arrangements, for example.  It's such a simple strategy:  list the stressors, start managing them.  But I was busy wallowing in the stressors, letting them quicksand me into overwhelm.

Most of my anxiety is about going back to work.  And most of my anxiety about going back to work has to do with the logistics of getting everyone where they need to be, on time, and doing it right (not driving a starving, sobbing baby and two sisters to piano practice in rush-hour traffic, for example).  I worry about having enough time for everyone, and for my job and the people I serve in my job.

I worry a little about this job, of principal, which I haven't done yet.  And it's not exactly waiting for me...wheels are turning, stories are unfolding, other people are capably leading, and decisions are being made.  My first day of school as new principal will be a midstream day for others.  I'll be behind.  By the nature of my late start, I'll be a meddler; I'll fumble; I'll step on toes.  I'll duplicate and omit and not know what others already know.  I'll wonder if I'm being helpful.  I'll hope I'm still worthy.

It's going to be interesting.

What is also going to be interesting is the journey of the next month, as I try to drown out the white noise of what I've convinced myself needs to be done, and focus on the essentials:  my people.  Myself.    Things are already less fuzzy.  My stomach hurts less.  The nervous energy is dissipating.  My appetite is returning.

Tootsie is helping by sleeping well at night, getting up only once in the middle of the last two nights.  So I'm less tired too.

Deep breaths.

Tide Tables

Today when I picked the girls up from school I paused to watch the Safety Patrol's outgoing 5th graders train the new 4th graders, carrying out their street corner duties with enthusiasm.  I listened to Big Sis bemoan the impending retirement of two of her beloved teachers, with only days left in her school year.  Summer means awesome renewal but also transitions in family routines.  I'm feeling the bittersweetness of the changing of guards and trying not to be fearful of and resistant to change.

I have deep sadness that my "Work Husband," our principal, is moving on to a new professional challenge.  We took our jobs together seven years ago, both fresh in our positions, and built an enduring trust in each other and culture we believe in at our school.  I've learned so much about leadership and ethics and personhood from him.  It's hard to imagine making decisions without his wise counsel.  

It was inevitable that he, or I, would move on to another professional challenge someday.  Sometimes big change rolls around when changes were already afoot and on the horizon, when the fog of overwhelm is visible just over the peninsula. Sometimes we have options; sometimes waves are bound to wash overhead and it's left to dive under or be knocked down. 

I've got some thinking to do.

New Year's Tribute: Mammom

In keeping with my New Year's tradition of honoring someone who makes my life and work possible  (see previous year's posts here and here), I pay homage this year to my mother. 

I've mentioned some ways my mother is amazing in the past, including descriptions of how she modeled Doing the Right Thing when I was young and nurtured my own development as a mother. 

My mother is the touchstone of our large family; while she forgot her Facebook password and reads versus sends email, she talks to nearly all of her children by telephone during our morning or evening commutes each day.  It's apparent we all want to talk to Mom, a lot.

I have benefited enormously from living close to my parents, and my mother has assisted in the raising of our children from the start.  She was in their delivery rooms, at the hospital with us when Big Sis had surgery, and since the girls were young, watched them at least once a week for special Mammom Days.  She used to bring my infants to me at work so I could breastfeed them in the middle of the day; now she picks them up from school, takes them to the library,  oversees homework, and teaches them to play jacks and construct paper airplanes.  She attends their games and recitals and award ceremonies. 

My babies and their cousins have been guests at my mom's coffees with friends, in strollers on her walks, and in her grocery carts at the commissary. 

My mother reassures me at every turn.  This is normal, she reminds me.  You will get through this, she encourages.  You are not a terrible mom, she shakes her head.  She anticipates my own anxiety and works to alleviate it.  What can I do? she asks. 

She pays attention.  She knows my husband's habits and passions, saving her kitchen compost for his gardens and lauding his attentive fathering of our girls.  She listens to Big Sis and Little Sis and gently clues me in when an adjustment might be made here or there. 

She supports my decisions and endeavors, even when they're made with more heart than head, even when I doubt myself. 

She reminds me that she loves me, that she's proud of me, that she believes in me. 

She helped me develop self esteem, and she helps me sustain it.

In her I have a model for marriage, for retirement, for empty nesting, for grandparenting.  At the twilight of her career as a nurse, she embraced new habits and friends, joined the gym, and established new weekly traditions with my dad.  She dedicates herself to her children and grandchildren but ensures time for herself and husband. 

Thank you, Mom, for your role in my personhood, womanhood, wifehood, careerhood, and motherhood. 

I love you. 

This Week

1.  This week was the beginning of 1st and 4th grades and my third week of my 20th year as an educator.  That's a whole generation's worth of my career alone!  No wonder so many former students are having babies.

2.  First day of school:

3.  First week of coaching under-8 girls' soccer with my buddy from 5th grade; once upon a time we were on a recreational team together.  We were both nervous (now...not sure about then).  We learned that most of our players are afraid of being hit in the stomach by the ball and many of them like chocolate.  And we may have a few handballs this season.  Fun, however, is guaranteed.

4.  Each family member took turns having a little meltdown this week, each for our own reasons and in our own ways.  Big Sis was stung by two bees on Monday and was sure she'd forgotten how to do math.  I wondered how I'd manage it all (see #3).  Little Sis was overtired.  Husband reminded himself no one fully prepared him for the adventures of parenting.

None of this was surprising.

5.  Another week of eating on the run, on the fly, and poorly.  Don't get me started on packing school lunches (hint:  I barely got started.  But I hear school lunch is healthier than ever!).

6.  A week of appreciating family, particularly my mother, who picks the girls up from school on Thursdays and had them dressed in soccer gear and ready for practice when I arrived at the field.  The same mother without whose help I'd wonder even more how I manage it all.

7.  Another week of piling papers on the dining room table.  Good thing we didn't need it (see #5).

8.  Another week of feeling guilty for whining about the heat (but...it's...hot.  Super hot for here).

9.  First week of homework...

10.  First home football game and high school dance ("Crazy in the Corridor") tonight.  Hoping the evening ends without "Intervention in the Office."

Me and Myself: A Discussion.

In this post:  Me, taking on Myself.  Who has not been, uh, Myself, lately.

Me:  Dude, you hardly slept last night.  Athletes are busy competing and winning medals in various events in London and here on the home front you are kicking tail in self-denigration.  Which is not a congratulations, by the way. Winning a medal in self-flagellation would not make Me feel better about you, because that would only mean that you are excelling at annoying Me, which is...annoying.  Seriously.  I want Myself back.

Myself:  Yep, that's the bummer about being in a state of negative self-appraisal--it is like a dog chasing its own tail.  I feel like a jerk for feeling like a jerk.

Me:  These are not productive thoughts at 1:30 AM.  I need some sleep, yo.

Myself:  I was making a list of all the things I told Big Sis we would do "later," and feeling guilty about them.  I haven't fixed her bracelet.  I haven't planted seeds, like she asked a week ago.  I didn't get the hot glue gun out this morning so she could add one more thing to her fairy house...

Me:  Ok, look.  You read two unhelpful pieces of literature last night before you went to bed and lost all perspective.

Myself:  Hey, those were two very helpful, insightful, well-written pieces...

Me:  Not at night!

Myself:  Okay, you're right, not at night...(why is that, anyway??). But now it's night, and I want to keep reading Cheryl Strayed's memoir, Wild, even if it makes me cry and worry about my mother, and everyone else's mother, dying.

Me:  I am really hoping all these mortality fears are a phase, because, yikes.

Myself:  Cheryl Strayed writes, consoling herself after the death of her mother, "Nothing bad could happen to me, I thought.  The worst already had." But see, this was before she had kids, because there's that whole world of worry she hadn't yet anticipated...

Me:  Your kids are fine, if not a little anxious...Hey!  What a coincidence!

Myself:  Are you saying I am projecting my anxiety?  Making the girls worried or stressed?  Should I be worried about that?

Me:  You already are.  GAHHHHHHHHHHH.  Would it help if I reminded you that there are people with tangible, right-now worries who don't have the luxury of imagining dire scenarios?

Myself:  I talk to Myself about that all the time.  Go ahead and join the peanut gallery.

Me:  Can you channel some Buddhism here and let go of the things over which you have no control?

Myself:  I am good at that on airplanes.  But when I am driving...That's why I am also worrying about the quality of my relationships.  I have more control over those.

Me:  Okay, so you read an interview with Gabor Mate in The Sun, who reminds you that parenting is not "about techniques.  Parenting is about a relationship."  Don't go crazy cataloging all the things you're not doing for and with the girls; enjoy them.  Practice being more present, more patient.

Myself:  Okay.  I am trying.  I hate it when I'm shrill.  And controlling.

Me:  So do I.

Myself:  Really?  Am I that bad?

Me:  Stop it.  Right now.

Myself:  Sigh.

Me:  Give yourself a big break!  You tell others to do that all the time!  What is it with you this summer?

Myself:  I'm not sure.  On the bright side, I think feeling like this helps me have more empathy for others experiencing a funk.

Me:  I think you need to go back to work.

Myself:  Isn't that sad?

Me:  I don't think so.  I think you have balance when your esteem is fed by the relationships you nurture and work you do at your job, along with being a present parent and partner.  I think it's harder for you--for some reason--to have all your eggs in the family basket.

Myself:  I am far more critical of myself as a parent.

Me:  I don't think you're alone in that.  And I think everyone benefits from having an external form of building pride and faith and belief in oneself.  Which doesn't have to be work outside the home, per se, for everyone.

Myself:  Running isn't enough for me.

Me:  Nope, and that's okay.  It's one outlet--or inlet--but you need those interactions working at school provides.

Myself:  Nevertheless, I fantasize about not working.

Me:  Of course.  But truly, you'd love to work part-time.

Myself:  And then I feel a little selfish, or spoiled.  There are so many women in this world whose work--and I mean work!  Hauling water, etc.--is never done, and then I think I am having an American, first-world crisis of conscience.

Me:  Well, you are a product of your own society/community and its demands.  And beating yourself up for feeling this way isn't helpful.  Seeking out the sources of these feelings, and then making adjustments in lifestyle and approach is a more productive strategy than wringing your hands and wondering what the heck is wrong with you.

Myself:  Talking about it and writing about it is therapeutic.   I told a friend recently that I'd like to feel "more awe and less fear."  I've been there; I want it back.

Me:  Simplify, sister.

Myself:  I am working on it.

Me:  Good.  So...can we sleep tonight, maybe?

Myself:  After the Olympics :).

Wardrobe Malfunction

In my role as Vice Principal, I am the enforcer of the Dress Code.  We have a fairly standard policy:  no hats, no clothing advertising alcohol or drugs, no "gang attire," no undergarments showing, no shorts or skirts shorter than fingertip length, no straps less than 1" wide, no stirrup pants.

Kidding about the stirrup pants. But they were, along with elastic-waist pants of any sort, forbidden from the country club site of a wedding we attended recently (Haters! Why you gotta pick on the stirrup pants all the time?).

Regulating outfits isn't the part of my role I relish. It's uncomfortable and arguably arbitrary any way you slice it. Calling teenagers on their excessive cleavage? Bleerrrggggh. Negotiating what constitutes fingertip length with disproportionately long-armed teens? It's like debating the definition of "dessert" with my kindergartner. And Target, American Eagle Outfitters, and Abercrombie? Thanks a ton for selling shorts that are more appropriately categorized as denim bikinis. You are not helping.

But despite the cringe-worthy moments and occasional necessity of reminding students that they are more to us than what they wear, there are moments of levity related to the dress code and other policies, too.

Before they became freshmen on our campus four years ago, two eighth-grade girls scheduled an appointment with the principal and me to discuss our new closed-campus lunch policy for freshmen.  Despite their professional and respectful approach, valid arguments, and natural charm, we maintained our position. And became fans of these spunky young women. 

Over the course of the next year, they added a third ally and occasionally ate lunch with us outside, lightheartedly bemoaning their captivity and the lack of maturity among their male counterparts.  We bonded over cafeteria salads and social critique, watching the boys chase one another around the quad and cliques form, dissolve, and evolve. 

Alas, sophomore year came and so did their freedom and our conversations were more often quick hellos and goodbyes between classes and as they left campus to eat lunch at a local restaurant or friend's house. 

But on their last day of school as seniors, the trio of now-grown, still confident and hilarious young ladies made a lunch date with us.  So we reminisced.  I asked if the boys had matured by now.  They rolled their eyes.

We praised their gumption, and all they had accomplished.  They praised our approachability.  And our principal's use of slang, such as "swag."  And then, my fashion sense.

??

I was flattered, and also flustered.

"Thank you!" I exclaimed.  "Except..."  I looked at my administrative partner and back at the girls.  "There was this one day when I wore...well, clogs and socks.  Umm...with capri pants."

The girls looked at one another.  "Yeah, we remember that day."

A few days later, a card and gift bag appeared on my desk, with a pad of paper inside:

Oh, how I laughed.  So perfect for me, fashion "maven" and the Keeper of the Dress Code.

Note: stirrup pants warrant a citation. Clogs, socks, and capris do not.

Frighty Fer Contemplates a Leap

It's Leap Day, so we're going to discuss leaping!  Unless you have a child prone to leaping off the roof, you ought to run out and buy Mélanie Watt's children's book, Scaredy Squirrel.  Grab a copy even if you don't have kids at all, because it will crack you up and remind you not to get too comfortable or fearful or change-repellent. 

Scaredy Squirrel is  paralyzed by fear of what lies beyond his familiar tree-world (for example, germs, tarantulas, sharks, and Green Martians), so he rarely ventures forth, with a routine typified by "Wake up. Eat a nut. Look at view. Eat a nut. Look at view. Eat a nut. Look at view. Go to Sleep." He keeps his emergency kit, stocked with sardines, bug spray, a hard hat, and parachute, close by.  He formulates an emergency plan with the following steps:  "Panic.  Run.  Get kit.  Put on kit.  Consult Exit Plan.  Exit tree (if there is absolutely, definitely, truly no other option)." 

It's easy to relate to Scaredy Squirrel and his longing for sameness, safety, and simplicity. As a family we can appreciate the comfortable predictability of Wake up. Make lunches. Eat oatmeal. Get dressed. Go to school and work. Come home. Make dinner. Eat Dinner. Do homework. Engage bedtime routine. Go to sleep. Throw in a few piano lessons, squabbles, dinners out or with friends, playdates, meetings, colds or allergies, and family outings, and we've got just about as much adventure as we can handle most of the time. Our life insurance policies and some extra flashlights and water bottles squirreled away in our dilapidated garage provide an additional sense of security. 

The more we maintain routine, though, the more the notion of Unexpected Occurrences keeps me awake at night.  Not taking risks can feel like a habit that needs breaking.  

Tonight I listened to author Dave Eggers speak at a local college's Writers' Symposium, and he touched on our human fear of the unknown.  He referred to What is the What, an autobiography/novel he wrote with Sudanese Lost Boy Valentino Achak Deng, and the legend of the "what."  According to Dinka creation myth, God created men and women and then offered them material sustenance in the form of cattle or the vague promise of "the what," or, what God has in store.  The Dinka chose cattle, and with it all the ramifications of reliance on tangible "knowns," including drought and famine.  The Dinka come to regret their reluctance to opt for the "what," which afforded other tribes the gifts of ingenuity, invention, and resourcefulness. Like Pandora's box and the forbidden fruit, the "what" represents human passion and possibilities: the good, bad, and ugly.

But the unknowns are scary, and they drive us to prefer even unsavory knowns.  Eggers went on to describe a scene from his novel You Shall Know Our Velocity, in which one of the main characters, on a global journey with a friend, recalls his anxiety in the still quiet atop the Atlas Mountains as compared with how he felt running through the dangerous alleys below: 

You know, though, the worst thing was being on top of that mountain, and having the thought that I wanted to be back below, being chased through those streets...while up on that mountain listening to nothing, waiting and hearing nothing, and getting cold, I wanted to be back down in those alleys. I wanted something to happen so my choices would be fewer, so my map would have a route straight through, in red. I wanted limitations, boundaries, to ease the burden, because the agony, Jack, when we were up there in the dark, was in the silence! All I ever wanted was to know what to do.

Eggers recognizes a human preference for the daily struggle over confrontation with the big questions.  We add to our emergency kits, practice playing dead, worry about what we know we should worry about, and focus on keeping our tree-worlds safe and predictable.  When a possible change doesn't come to fruition, I can even find myself exulting in the relief of choices being fewer.

Last summer, we stood by in admiration and bit of mourning when my brother and his wife and four children moved out of our neighborhood and to the US Virgin Islands for a new job and lifestyle.  These days I often feel like a distant relative of the young woman who up and moved to Africa to teach for year.  But it's Leap Year, and it's time to consider some change.

Scaredy Squirrel, like my brother, finds reason to jump from his familiar abode in the climax of our book.  Scaredy is without his emergency kit and fails to enact crucial components of his emergency plan.  Nevertheless, it's that unexpected plunge from his faithful nut tree which allows him to discover that he is...a FLYING SQUIRREL!  Still he finds it necessary to play dead for a good two hours afterwards to let his new reality sink in.  It turns out even good, exciting change can be stunning. 

In the end, Scaredy Squirrel's routine is revised to include a daily "jump into the unknown." 

So this is my Leap Year resolution: to embrace the plunge, icy and breathtaking and terrifying as it may be.

How will you leap this year?

New Year's Tribute: My Husband

In the spirit of artists honoring the role of their patrons in the form of a New Year's gift, I offer my annual New Year's Tribute to a man who has made my life's work possible:  my husband. 

Being a working parent is difficult.  Being a parent and a self is difficult.  Being a working parent and a self and a partner and friend is also difficult, but my husband takes it all in stride.  He makes those roles easier for me to balance, too.

When I met my mate and we decided to marry, we didn't forecast how our careers would mesh; we didn't consider the logistics of raising children.  We were in love, and the rest would work itself out.  We had a teacher's salary and a sailing coach's pay, yet we felt rich.  We'd already bought a house, hey!

And what do you know, the rest has worked itself out, in large part because of my husband's patience, clear eyes, and can-do attitude.  We didn't know then I'd become a vice principal shortly after giving birth to our second daughter, and I'd trade weekend grading for Friday night football games and weeknight meetings.  Husband's weekends coaching regattas mean he's often away, but our work lives mesh well; though we often pass the kids like batons in a frenzied relay, more often than not, we eat dinner as a family.   What's the best part of your day? we ask one another.  This, I say.  Having this. 

My husband's gift to us is uncomplicating things--or not complicating them in the first place.  For every sense of overwhelm I conjure or fall prey to, Husband walks into the house with a happy sigh and smile to remind me it's all good.  "We need to not worry," he suggests.  "We need to have fun," he reminds me. 

And there's the confidence I have that he's behind me no matter what.  I could quit my job, run for President, or move us to Africa, and he'd have few queries before he got with the new program.  He never questions my need to go running, attend Book Club, fly off for a writing retreat, see friends, take a break.  All that, and he even sets the coffee maker each evening, makes breakfast and wrangles the girls through their morning routine, attends doctors' appointments, and vacuums while I am out jogging. 

Thank you, honey, for making not only the day-to-days but the dreams possible, too.  I sense the winds of change blowing in 2012, but feel good knowing you'll make it all seem easy, somehow.

Race to Nowhere: On Choosing a Route and Destination

I wrote last week about my thoughts on homework's role in education in response to our community's showing of the documentary film Race to Nowhere.  Tonight, Big Sis's homework was some simple experiments with weight distribution--trying to pick up an object with heels against the wall, and determining if her body was more stable standing or sitting.  Her assignment was fun and easy but encouraged deeper thought and some "Aha!"s.  It didn't require glitter or popsicle sticks or a parent's master's degree:  that's what I'm talking about. 

But the film Race to Nowhere is about more than homework; it argues that "the whole culture needs to revise what is important and what is not."  So this week I explore the role of families in helping kids define What Is Important, and how our schools can support healthy options.

Posted on the bulletin board at Little Sis's preschool is an article titled "Want to Get Your Kids into College?  Let Them Play."  The article's authors, an early childhood teacher and professor of medicine and sociology at Harvard,  allude to a study which shows that more opportunities for imaginative play in early childhood (particularly in groups) yield greater chances of success in school and beyond.  Make-believe activities support the development of self-regulation, and self-regulating individuals are less likely to drop out, commit crimes, and abuse substances.  It turns out that our daughter's preschool, with its multi-age classroom and fairly unstructured curriculum, allows ample opportunity for free playtime. 

Big Sis attended this neighborhood preschool too, which I confess we chose primarily for reasons of convenience and because relatives' and friends' children were happily enrolled there too.  But on Big Sis's first day of kindergarten, when she placed her backpack over the chair at her tidy new desk, sat quietly on her designated square on the mat, and brought home her first official homework, I was grateful for her preschool in all its free-flowingness.  On that first day of kindergarten I could see the remainder of my daughter's life stretching before her, with playtime coming second to All The Important Work She Had to Accomplish. 

At various times I had my concerns about the fact that our daughters' preschool didn't emphasize learning letters, numbers, and sounds.  Some neighbors opted to enroll their children in more academic preschools.  Our kids stayed, though, and not because we thought our preschool was "the best," or even "better"  than others nearby.  Our daughters, while different in many ways, have in common that they're hardwired for traditional public school:  content to sit still and focus on one activity for relatively long periods. My daughters could benefit from a less structured learning environment in preschool.  In a similar setting, we can appreciate that different children might be bored or stressed.  The key is understanding the needs of your own child. 

Race to Nowhere suggests that our current system of schooling, with its perceived emphasis on test scores, GPAs, athletic scholarships, competitions, and college acceptances, is sapping the souls of our students and we've got to fix it.  But many of us educators and/or parents derived a common conclusion from the film:  what's most important in navigating the stresses of school is knowing your own child, and how his strengths and challenges will be enriched or exacerbated by choices you help him make.  The more that schooling is viewed as an individualized journey advancing each student's unique interests and goals, the less it can be characterized as a "race."  If winning is getting into Harvard, most of us are going to lose.  If winning is developing into self-sustaining, contributing, and satisfied members of society, most of us can win.  Redefining achievement and success in our culture has to be part of the dialogue.  And families can begin with how they talk to their children.

A mother in the film acknowledges that "even though we know better, we push (our children).  I want them to have choices."  Choices aren't a prize at the end of teenagehood; children should be guided in making wise and meaningful choices for themselves all along.  Tiger Mom Amy Chua's children are likely to have the choices of "top" colleges--she has pushed them to excel academically and musically--but they aren't permitted to choose their own extracurricular activities nor an instrument besides piano or violin to practice.  There's got to be a happy medium between allowing one's child to choose to do nothing and prescribing one's child's interests--and scheduling his time--for him.  Knowing your child means understanding if you are parent to a child who pushes himself (even too hard) or to a child who needs encouragement to stretch himself.  You adjust accordingly, for the sake of your individual child's health and well being. 

It has occurred to me, as I cook dinner and set the table while my daughter does her homework, that we might shift the focus of our pushing and pressure to our children's acquisition of independent living skills, and spend more time teaching them to make a meal, assume responsibility for their belongings and environment, and interact politely and assertively with others.

As parents we also have to acknowledge that we're the consumers in the system we decry.  It's easy to claim we have no choices:  "Everyone is playing year-round soccer; if my son doesn't, he won't make the team," "Our daughter has to take an SAT prep course or she can't compete with her peers," and "If we don't start ballet now, she'll never have a career as a dancer..." 

Reflexive sign-ups result in students who are overscheduled and overburdened with AP courses and activities that may be inappropriate for them, or just...pointless.  When the passion for soccer wanes, when the SAT scores don't rise, when the ballerina wants to draw pictures at home instead, it's time to reconsider how we're spending our time (and money).  The race is to nowhere when a child--and her family--can't meaningfully link who she is with what she's doing and where she's supposedly heading.  How sad to look back at hours of time on a soccer field (working with a team, strengthening one's body, negotiating success and failure) and determine it was all a waste if there's no college athletic scholarship awarded.  How sad to look back at experiences in advanced high school courses (critically analyzing topics, pushing the limits of one's cognitive skills, negotiating time and demanding studies) and determine it was all a waste if there's no Ivy League college acceptance. 

How sad to recall one's former teacher asking, "You did all that work to go to an Ivy League college and all you want to be is a teacher?"

Childhood and its experiences aren't means to an end; they are stages in a human's development.  Throughout childhood children develop their abilities to identify and choose meaningful activities and pursuits, manage stress, balance work and play, build skills, advocate for and support themselves, and collaborate and coexist, with the guidance of their families and schools.  And therefore we owe it to our children--and this society--to recognize, embrace, and nurture the gifts of individual children and their application to becoming satisfied and self-sufficient adults.  

We're surrounded by friends, family members, and neighbors who pursued individual paths and defined success in a variety of ways, but we often forget about them when we dream for and then design traditional routes to success for our own children.  As individuals we value the artisans, technicians, inventors, mechanics, chefs, assistants, landscapers, and builders whose work we appreciate and admire.  We will value them more as a society when families increasingly validate their children's diverse dreams and schools offer more programs and electives to nurture interests and talents in those areas. 

Race to Nowhere focuses in part on a family whose thirteen-year-old daughter ended her life, ostensibly as a result of the pressures of performing in school and a disappointing math grade.  When I shared with my seven-year-old that I watched a movie about a girl who hurt herself after she did poorly on a test, my daughter nodded.  "I understand, Mommy!  When I got 'basic' on a test, I slapped myself in the face."  Jaws  dropped and my husband and I were stunned for a moment.  This will be the first year our daughter takes state tests, and there is pressure on schools and teachers--and, oops, students--to perform.  In our family we quickly activated Operation Do Your Best and Do Not Stress.  Schools, too, with the support of the state and the media (responsible for reminding us how unfavorably Americans compare to other countries' students), need to put testing in its proper place, and use scores as diagnostic tools to support students needing development of basic skills. 

Perspective is what we can offer our children as they navigate the choices and pressures of school and activities.  Neither we nor our kids are expected to "do and achieve everything," and if we work under that assumption we ought to take a good luck at who is responsible for setting those expectations:  most often, ourselves. 
Few of us, I suspect, pursue in adulthood the activities which "got us into" college and our current careers (heck, I'm not even working in the area of my college major).  For most of us, those sports and activities have been replaced by joyful pursuits for which we require little recognition:  gardening, cooking, photography, travel, reading, writing, sewing, fishing, collecting, entertaining, yoga, hiking.  Shouldn't our children have opportunities to invest in activities for which they may not receive "credit" but may achieve personal fulfillment? 

Let's teach our children to be who they are, versus enlist them in an army of aspiring varsity athletes and 4.0s.  We need club founders and joiners and community volunteers and quiet artists and "average joes" who draw people to them.  There have to be times, while our children are safe in our nests but growing their wings, for quitting, for starting over, for failing, for obsessing, for taking risks and time-outs.  For dusting off and bouncing back.  For taking roads less traveled by or hanging in the slow lane.   

Our daughters have both said yes to dance class and no to Little League this spring. We're disappointed; we love balmy evenings at the ball fields. We want our daughters to catch and throw. And there's the possibility of discovering a daughter's innate talent or love for the sport. 

But we're listening to them this season.  I need to remember to sign them up for dance; for now, we're enjoying the free time.

New Year's Tribute: WWKD

Last new year I wrote a tribute to my sister-in-law after I learned New Year's gifts from artists to their patrons were meant to honor the role benefactors played in making artists' work possible.

I quote myself from last year in asserting that anyone could credit someone with making his/her current life's work possible, if not easier. In my case, there are many people I could thank for allowing me to raise a family and pursue the career that has felt just about right at each turn and trajectory.

This year, I am honoring the principal to my vice-ness, K.  We are in the midst of our fifth year together as high school administrators, and I owe him the sharp turn I took down this path, as well as how relatively un-bumpy the road has been. 

When you work closely with someone who is unfailingly honest and who has high ethical standards, it shapes how you work and view the world and relationships.  While I consider myself an ethical person, I won't ever know what I would be like if I learned to be a school administrator under anyone else.  I just know that I am very fortunate to have his model. 

In school leadership, and perhaps in other leadership roles as well, it's easy to succumb to the path of least resistance, paved by passive aggression, white lies, and deferred maintenance.  Poor school leaders enable poor school teachers, and inconsistent enforcement of policies and standards breeds lack of trust among students, staff, and parents.  It takes guts, and some heartache, to do the right thing.  I've learned this along the way through challenging circumstances, but the ultimate responsibility--the hardest conversations, calls, and decisions--fall to the principal. 

I've joked that I often ask myself (particularly when I can't simply walk through the doors adjoining our offices and directly consult him) WWKD?  But in fact, I am perfectly sincere.  At the back of my first-year vice principal notebook I kept a page of lessons I learned from my principal, partner, and "work husband."

Among them:

1.    You tell the truth because the truth is bigger than you are.  The alternative, lying or failing to confront the issue, is seductive because it's less painful for you, and seems easier on the other person.  But the job is not about you nor the other person; it's about 1100 students and their best interests.  Don't save yourself; do right by them. 

2.  Don't use a convenient excuse in exchange for the truth.  Sometimes we are "saved" from having to deal with a situation because it changes or circumstances arise to smokescreen the real issue.  People deserve the straight scoop, even if it has become irrelevant.

3.  Letting frustrations fester is unhealthy for the entire community.  As someone uncomfortable with confrontation, directly addressing people who offend me or going back to people with feedback after the fact is not a natural impulse.  But I have watched relationships on our campus grow in a culture of honesty--in which I can tell you I feel disrespected by your response or behavior and at the same time communicate to you the importance of our relationship to me.  Done properly, confronting true feelings defuses rather than breeds conflict. 

4.  Consistency.  "We hang our hats on consistency," my principal says, and there is probably no approach more important.  Students, parents, and staff need to know there are no "back-room deals" nor special favors.  We've built a compendium of past practices and precedents, and consult them when there are judgments to make.  Foolish consistency, however, prevents an organization from evolving and progressing.  At times, we've changed our minds, reconsidered, and slowed down.  Ultimately, you listen to your people, and you listen to your heart.

5.  Trust, Value, and Respect.  These are the values underpinning relationships on our campus--the triad my principal invokes often.  There is trust among colleagues to make good decisions in the best interests of our students and school community; the work of staff members is valued; respect is implicit.  Our staff members are unusually close to our student body, and the trust and respect we have in and for students (and vice versa) affords them rare opportunities and makes our school a safer place. 

6.  Be True to Your School.  Blind loyalty is no good.  But when you have built an organization upon a foundation of honesty, consistency, trust, value, and respect, then you have a community in which members go to bat for one another, advocate for one another, and refuse to throw one another under the bus.  Our leader models this by putting our high school's needs first, always.  It's a tremendous responsibility.  When bad things happen, though, we know how to take care of one another. 

Finally, I am fortunate to work with someone who views me as his friend, as his family, and as his administrative partner, despite the difference in our titles.  We are both raising small children, and there's no question of where both our priorities should lie.  He and I have shared the responsibilities of supervising games, dances, and performances in a way that has made the demands of a stressful job manageable, in a way that has allowed for some balance--for us to coach our children's Little League and soccer teams, and to drop our kiddoes off at school some mornings. 

He understands that I cry when I am tired or frustrated; his sense of humor and love of a good prank have lightened dark days; he has encouraged me to invest in and grow my personal and professional selves. 

I have great awe and admiration for the demands--on heart and soul--of being a high school principal; I don't know that I will ever be ready or willing to shoulder them myself.  But I do know that I have a philosophical foundation and tools to take with me wherever I go.  Thank you, K.

Sticks and Stones

Before I became a vice principal, conflict made me extremely uncomfortable.  One of the times I remember feeling most scared in my whole life was at the roller rink when I was in fourth grade.  A fight broke out near the bathrooms and I cowered in a stall for a very long time. After that, I meekly tiptoed away from shouting, arguing, and confrontation.  I married a non-yeller on purpose. 

The first time an angry parent directed her furor at me the vice principal, I cried.  I am an easy crier, I will admit, but you might have cried too under these circumstances.  Some blows are low, below the belt, and some barely skim the top of your head.  This one cut deep.  But I can look back now and be grateful for the experience.  Under similar circumstances these days, I would hang tough. 

Part of my job is dealing with people.  I don't love that verb, "dealing"--it's like "tolerance"--not quite all the way to being real with other humans.  Most of my job, thankfully, is about "supporting," "guiding," "assisting," "empowering," and "reassuring."  Nevertheless, I have to deal with some people from time to time.  I am happy to report that most of them are strangers.  This is reassuring because if we can at least count on the people who know one another to respect one another...that's good.  That's a start. 

Last night a college sophomore tried to fight me.  I don't think I am exaggerating here, because he also nearly got into a fight with an innocent parent spectator at last night's championship game.  He was an alumnus and fan from The Other Team, The Rival Team.  The Team We Love to Hate. 

This contest goes back so far I sheepishly compare it to the Yale-Harvard rivalry:  one in which we ultimately (secretly, inwardly) concede grudging respect for the other institution.  There's a reason we go up against one another, and it's that we're both awesome at the same things, which are academics, and that particular sport which fuels the rivalry. 

So here we were at the championship game.  Expecting rain and dressing like someone almost on vacation, I sported fleece in our school's color, sweats, and a black wool hat acquired circa 1991.  The final game is an annual event between our high schools, so we could expect light-hearted taunting from either side.  Anticipating such, our Athletic Director and I positioned ourselves in the student cheering section. This year our crowd came somewhat subdued--no students in full green body paint, no signs taunting the refs or the private-school fans from the other side. 

But about one minute into the game a rival fan started taking on our section.  He wasn't outrageous, just obnoxious, turning to our students to comment loudly on every play.  When he began heckling our coach, though, I decided he could use a little intervention. 

"Hey, how about focusing on cheering for your team, and leave our coach alone?  This is going to be a great game, and we all want to enjoy it." 

He quickly stood up and over me, exerting his rights as a fan to say and do whatever he liked.  Who was I, anyway?  I didn't assert my office; I wasn't his vice principal, after all, and I am not, conveniently, Vice Principal of the World (frankly, I don't think my heart could take it; my hat is off to cops who deal with anonymous irrational people on a daily basis).  The Athletic Director and I plunked ourselves down at the edge of our section, right across the narrow aisle from our rivals and his seat, while he got a talking-to from an official.  We were now practically sitting next to each other, he and I, much to his chagrin. 

He continued to challenge our crowd, but it wasn't until he took me on personally that he earned his partial ejection.  While talking to my neighbor, I absentmindedly gave a few claps after a call against our side.  He stood above me me to ridicule my mistake, asking me if I understood what a five-yard penalty was, and was I stupid, etc.  I just shook my head ruefully and noted that his attention was misdirected and that he was making a fool of himself.  He didn't stop berating me; I had to tell him to back up and take his hands off of me at one point.  A league official finally intervened and removed him to an area behind the players. 

Our students, I am proud to say, had stayed classy, refusing to take his bait while his team continued to score against us.  I was able to sit quietly for the remainder of the game, taking deep breaths to compose myself and noting that my heartrate and blood pressure were coming down from the tenth floor.  It's scary when someone big gets in your face.  Someone college-sophomore-athlete big. 

When the game was over, he came back through our crowd en route to the exit.  He attempted to rile up one of our alums as he passed and I interceded just in time, urging him to move along.  He was none too happy to see me, offering a few more shots, including his parting one, "Get a new hat."  I should have responded with, "Next time wear a jacket that doesn't have your name on the sleeve, Genius."  I refrained.  Also, I thought of that snappy comeback later. 

We made sure our fans exited without incident, but he did not--he caused a near-fight in the parent section when he started swinging after someone accidentally jostled him.  He had to be escorted out by a cadre of friends and family members.

The Athletic Director and I congratulated and consoled our disappointed second-place players as we handed out medals and wished them a restful break.  One of the coaches came over to thank us.

Appraising my hat, he grinned.  "Thanks for your support tonight, Paddington!"

Moral of this story:  when friends and foes alike agree on the hat, I think it needs to go.  And it's definitely not worth fighting over.

List: September is the Month...

1. ...when blog post seedlings, normally regularly tended to and watered, instead sprout, and then dry up due to neglect.

2. ...when "sleeping in" till 7:00 all summer makes waking up at 5:30 hurt real bad.

3. ...when summer and fall converge, and the simultaneous holding-onto-summer and cringing-at-the-onslaught-of-fall causes us whiplash as well as over scheduling. Because (waaaaah) we still want to sail and swim and ride the roller coaster after school, but we've got homework and soccer practice and meetings cramping our style.

4. ...when I forget to pay the bills. We are also happen to be refinancing our house, which means I am forgetting to sign important financial documents.

5. ...when I lose touch with friends. And with my husband. And with my keys, my cell phone, and my mind.

6. ...when I begin longing for cooler weather, shorter days, and Halloween decorations in neighbors' yards.

7. ...when the sight of Christmas decorations stresses me out.

8. ...when I spend Friday nights at the football field.

9. ...when I run for exercise less, and run ragged more.

10. ...when I "try to remember the kind of September/When life was slow and oh, so mellow"?

Yeah, I think I can't remember that.

Buoyancy

It is our first day of school with our teachers; students come on Wednesday. I am thinking about all the new teachers opening classroom doors and greeting students for the first time. My sister-in-law is one of them! I am thinking about how our state's budget crisis is affecting how we all do our jobs, and about how the pressure of accountability and student achievement increases nonetheless.

Today's post is the text of a keynote address I delivered several years ago--while I was still teaching--to a group of teachers concluding their beginning teacher induction program. It's about accountability for one's own success, and the power of reflective practice.

When I was a young child living on the East Coast my parents would take my brother and me to Tanglewood in Massachusetts for outdoor symphony concerts under the stars. I remember watching the famous Arthur Fiedler conducting the Pops. I was mystified by conductors. It seemed to me that they controlled a hundred musicians with a baton. I thought that it was the waving of that baton that inspired the actual notes and melody. I longed to be a conductor, to see what kind of music would result from the command of my amateur hands.

On the first day of school, on my first day of teaching, I felt like a conductor, for when I asked my students to sit and please listen to me, they did. I was astonished at their distracted obedience and was tempted to ask them to stand, and sit, over and over again. They were giving me power I hadn’t earned yet. Teaching is one of those jobs that constantly asks you to assess the fine line between power and utter powerlessness. It would not be long before I remembered wistfully the day my students sat when I asked them to.

I am here to talk with you about reflective practice and the value of looking critically at your students, yourselves, and what you do. So I thought about you, “graduating” from “beginning-teacher-hood” and moving on to “you should know perfectly well what you’re doing now,” and I thought about myself in my first year of teaching. It was 1993. I taught middle school science in inner-city Washington, D.C. through the Teach for America program, and therefore without the benefit of a teaching credential or any long-term formalized training.

I am quite sure that I was advised by someone in those early days and months to keep a teaching journal, so I could record triumphs as well as frustrations and learn from my mistakes. Of course, that didn’t happen. All I could muster in terms of reflection and record-keeping was a gridded teacher’s plan book. In one column I would write the plan for each day of the week, and in the next columns, I would jot quick notes about what we’d managed to cover in each period, because it was never the same from class to class. I pulled out that plan book to prepare for my talk today because I remembered that as the students would leave class, I used to draw a face for each period—smiley if class went well, frowny if things had gone awry, with notes about which parents to call. There were a lot of frown faces in those days. And in retrospect, I realize that this was my first form of data collection.


I’d like to share with you a couple of the anecdotes:

Wednesday, September 15, 8th period: “They talked, I yelled.”
Monday, September 27, 8th period: “Had to treat them like babies again.”
Wednesday, September 29, 1st period: “Like a cliché. Paper flying across the room. Something needs to change.”
Tuesday, October 5, 8th period: Frown face with hair spiking out: “Nightmare. Tears popped out.”
Tuesday, November 2, 7th period: “Detention for the whole class.”
Tuesday, November 9, 8th period: “I lost it, everyone fighting with each other, Tonya shoved me.”
Wednesday, November 17, 8th period: “The usual hell.”
My favorites: Monday, December 6, while I was at a meeting and had a sub for 2nd period: “Lollipops stolen. Gradebook erased.”
Then Tuesday’s entry: “Discover grades erased off computer, too.”
Wednesday, January 26, 8th period: “Total chaos.”
Tuesday, February 15th, 8th period: “Ricky threatened my life, and my nonexistent car.”
Tuesday, March 1, 2nd period: “gave teary, impassioned speech about humility.”

And the inevitable, “I hate my job” in mid-March.

I laughed as I read those entries from long ago, and marveled at the fact that I am still a teacher. What I haven't read to you, though, and what are also included in that plan book, are the small successes, like “Armando tried today—he really tried!” and, “Had a good talk with Terika,” and, “Successful lab; kids excited to learn more about buoyancy.” There’s a definite trend toward more smiley faces by the end of the year.

The thing is, only I and those students really know what happened in that classroom that year. I am certain they learned something about science, as well as about kindness and optimism and hope, which we all demonstrated by showing up at that school day after day. But I have no proof of this. We are isolated as teachers, believing in what we do and thinking we know what’s good to teach and what really works with kids. Unfortunately, though, that’s not good enough. We need to prove that what we do and that how we do it produces results. For our job is not to entertain children or to control them. Nor is it to make them believe what we believe. We must demonstrate that our students have developed, progressed, and grown in skills, knowledge, and the ability to think critically while under our tutelage. This is what we’re paid for. Data collection and reflection are ways for us to own our curriculum and instructional strategies—for us to show that what we do is making a difference.

You are often being studied and assessed and your students’ data analyzed without anyone truly observing or understanding what happens in your classroom. And if we are not careful, this data, in the form of grades, SAT-9 results and reading scores, will be all that is used to judge us and our students. We know that those numbers do not represent a complete picture. So as teachers, we need to increasingly stand behind our own numbers. This means choosing data to study in your own classroom.


For example, I suspect that students in my AP Literature class became more avid independent readers this year. In order to show this, I have asked my 12th graders to list the outside reading they’ve done which was inspired by required reading for class or recommendations made by me or other students. I can then compare this to the ways in which students characterized themselves as readers at the beginning of the year.

Data collection takes many forms. When you give a quiz, do you analyze the items to determine which questions are most frequently missed? What could you do with this information? Will you reteach something? What is this quiz really about or for, anyway?

Often we teach concepts without knowing if it’s necessary to do so. Getting together with other teachers and analyzing students’ papers for trends can often be informative. You might find that students have mastered the use of semicolons. You might find they’re not capitalizing properly. You may find that they are consistently missing the more complicated fractions problems. The point is, your teaching is then informed by data. And when you compare later outcomes to that first set of papers, you can prove that something happened.

We all have favorite lessons or units that our students love and we think “work.” But we need to examine the benefit of these lessons—how can we defend them with measurable outcomes? That term, measurable outcome, is one we’re growing to resent when it is applied from the outside. As consumers, though, we expect it, when we pay for the Weight Watcher’s program, or hire a plumber or stockbroker. And our students’ parents expect measurable outcomes from us.

Data collection allows us to reflect on what we do. And even if you are not in the habit of analyzing data, you are forced to reflect, because students represent a gigantic mirror—in them we find our flaws, our triumphs, pimples we hadn’t noticed yet, etc. I remember, from that fateful first year, when Tonya, particularly frustrated with me and my class, walked out in the middle. But before she left, she turned on her heel and told me, “Miss Moore, you are a chicken-legged bitch.” My students were horrified, agape. Angry students had called me a bitch before, but never “chicken-legged.” Meanwhile, I was seeing myself in a whole new light: I’ll take chicken legs, I thought. Much better than thunder thighs!

Teaching is a give-and-take, a dance, as I mentioned before, between power and powerlessness. But reflection involves abdicating some power. Because absolute power means essentially that you are always right, and the students, if they don’t do well, are the ones who are wrong. The truth lies somewhere in the middle. You must be willing to examine the effect you have on students—qualitative and quantitative—to truly improve as a teacher. Last year for my teacher research group I planned to study editing and revision practices in my Creative Writing class for seniors. It was to be purely scientific. I would study the students’ writing behavior and look for ways to challenge them. It became clear, however, that in my first year teaching at the high school level, I had some behaviors of my own worth examining—strategies and assumptions and attitudes that were not working with older students. Last year was a crucial year for me to study myself qualitatively as a human working with other humans.

Reflection—whether it’s done in a teaching journal, in a group of other teachers, or actively in your own head--means celebrating your and your students’ successes, and from the failures, looking for new ways to succeed. You can tell by the look on a student’s face when you’ve hurt his feelings with something you said; reflecting is thinking about the ways in which you respond to students. You know when your students have all performed poorly on an assessment; reflection is considering why, and what you can do about it.

Leaving the clutches of an induction program means you are pretty much left to your own devices to be good teachers. I would admonish you to humble yourselves. Never assume you have it all figured out. And if you do, have the data to prove it. Model reflection for your students as you ask them, too, to consider their strengths and weaknesses. The classroom is a place of learning for both students and teachers. And as I ultimately learned, conductors may wield the baton, but they need a cooperative orchestra to make beautiful music.

In the Saddle

I started School Year 2010-11 this morning after a glorious Sunday of kayaking, sailing, and sunning with family and good friends. And whaddya know? I got compliments on my hair and my glow today, so I recommend waiting days to wash your hair and getting sandy and salty. The next day, when you shower, you will be FRESH. And people will notice.

Of course, some of that glow may be attributable to my grin and Look At Me! I Am Back At Work and I Am Happy About It! You Betcha! Not Bummed At All To Give Up The Slip 'n' Slide and Fairy Houses!

But I fell right into registration, working the line for the last names starting with C and D. I greeted old students and new, enjoying the look on incoming freshman faces when I introduced myself as "your Vice Principal!"

The summer may have felt short, but lots can happen in a few weeks. Kids grow taller. Bad habits become problems. Problems find solutions. Water flows under bridges. Families shift and students let us know they're moving away.

I've had my family only as the locus of any concerns for the past month or so. Going back to work means opening up a World of Worry for Others.

The transition back to work always feels a little overwhelming. I'm off long enough to fully embrace the routine of Home With Kids, and long enough to forget I Somehow Manage when I return. I get up extra early for the first few days; set out my clothes the night before; make lists. My bum still needs time to settle in the saddle. It won't be long, though, till I drop the reins and become Look Ma; No Hands!

I just need my work groove back.

I've talked to other educators about the identity crises which come at the beginning and end of summers off. But I think most of us would agree this gig is worth the funky falling-off points.

Be My Thrill

I've done a great job of not mourning the days and weeks of my summer rolling by and instead, have existed largely in the moment. Most of those delicious moments (and a few hair-tearing ones) in the presence of my daughters.

It has been a wonderful summer. And I am so lucky to have one.

But today I felt the blues slip in, the Back-to-Work-Soon Blues. The kind that hinder my ability to enjoy my last week off. I'm fighting them mightily, and we'll start here, with a Weepies song.

One of the more magical days of July was a family trip to Lilith Fair, where we camped out in a shady spot and played Uno between sets by artists the likes of Kitten (she wears knee pads for a reason), Marie Digby (check her cover of "Umbrella"), Miranda Lambert, Brandi Carlile, A Fine Frenzy, and, of course, Sarah MacLachlan. We scored cotton candy, expensive beers, free tampons, and upgraded seats to an amazing and undersold show.

But best of all, I fulfilled a dream to bring my daughters to a music festival.

The Weepies played late-afternoon, charming as always. The single off their new album seems part love song for a small child ("I miss all of the joy you kill/but I love you still") and mostly lover-love song ("Be my what...my everything but/my little hot slut"), and I will simply add it to my repertoire of Weepies' "Happy In Love" songs.

Enjoy!