A Whole World in a Puzzle

If you want to be a good teacher or a good learner, come sit on my living room carpet for awhile.

Sit with my boys and I, and do a jigsaw puzzle. I guarantee it will teach you more about learning than any lecture, any textbook, and possibly any degree.

A jigsaw puzzle distills teaching and learning to its very essence.

Scaffolding
As kids learn, they need the appropriate levels of assistance. If you help too much, you're taking the learning away from them. If you don't help enough, kids may grow bored or frustrated (the ol' "flight or fight" thing). It takes skill and a careful eye to determine the appropriate level of scaffolding.

Today, as Owen worked on the fifty-piece dinosaur puzzle, I could see his brow furrow. His jaw set in frustration. He threw a piece over his shoulder and yelled, "This puzzle doesn't work!"

I gave him a minute, and then subtly found the pieces that made the Tyrannosaurus Rex. "Hey, buddy, why don't you work on these pieces?" He pieced the T-Rex together, and smiled with pride.

We did this again and again until the puzzle was complete.

Differentiate
Two-year-old Joel worked on the puzzle at the same time as his big brother. While Owen was at a point that he could piece scenes together, Joel was not yet there. I differentiated my teaching to fit his learning needs.

I found a few pieces that linked together, and sat next to Joel, as he experimented with the shapes and dimensions. Because I held my tongue and my hands, he surprised me by linking all three pieces together without any help at all.

Encourage Meta-cognition
After the puzzle was complete, Owen and I talked about our thinking process. We unpacked our thinking, and determined a few strategies that helped us be successful:

1) We figured out that straight-edges go on the outside edges.
2) We looked for like colors and patterns.
3) We did little bits when the big bits seemed like too much.
4) We asked for help when we needed it.

As Owen and I talked, I stated, "See how you can do hard things?" and "I like how you worked to meet your goals." I was trying to develop his sense of self-efficacy. Things in life aren't always going to be easy; having strategies when things get tough can be the difference between confidence and defeat.

Know when to Fold 'Em
As the boys looked at the puzzle with pride, Owen said, "Let's do it again!"

We tore it down, and two pieces in, Owen turned to me and said, "I want to play dump trucks."

And we did just that.

Thanks for tolerating my know-it-all post today. Lest you be too impressed or annoyed with me, let me also share that I flipped out over rice cake dust on my coffee table. I am no Jaime Escalate.

Tales from Middle School: Memoir Monday

I taught middle school English for almost ten years, a fact that leads people to say, "I could never do that," or "You must be really, really, really patient."

I think a lot of people could teach middle school. If you think poop is funny, you're 90% of the way there. If you know who Ke$ha is, give yourself another five percentage points. Finally, if you're impervious to the Eye Roll of Complete Disgust, a move perfected by many an 8th grade Queen Bee, you've earned 100%.

I am not trying to say that teaching middle school is easy, but I found success doing the following:
1) Knowing my subject
2) Teaching it actively
3) Caring about my students
4) Caring about my students
5) Caring about my students

Most middle school kids don't give a rat's ass about the semi-colon or Sylvia Plath (hell, most people, PERIOD, don't care about that stuff.) However, if you take the time to know students' names, their interests, their favorite band/skater/actor/professional wrestler, they will meet you partway. (Disclaimer: I have had plenty of students who did not meet me partway....but more often than not, I did.)

Once you have that relationship, you find the patience, or at least you find a lot to laugh about.

One time, I was asked to cover a  male teacher's PE class because he was delayed. I walked into the gym, and faced twenty-five thirteen-year-old boys holding basketballs.

I played basketball in middle school, so I thought I would attempt to teach three-point shooting. They were all fidgeting, bouncing the basketballs, mumbling to themselves. One boy would periodically start popping and locking (this was six years ago, not 1981). In an attempt to get their attention, I said, "Okay, boys, put your balls on the floor."

And, having gift wrapped this statement and delivered it to their doorstep, EVERY BOY sat down at exactly the same moment. On the floor.

Balls on the floor. Get it?

I could do many things. I could have yelled. Written referrals. Told the regular teacher. Lectured.

Instead, I laughed. I laughed until I cried. I laughed so much my stomach hurt the next day.

Finally, I said, "Um, basketballs, that is," and we went on with our day, everybody smiling.

I'm not patient. I'm not magical. I just recognize that kids are funny, and that middle school is hard enough already without being chewed out for doing something really, really brilliant.

We all learned something that day. Those boys are probably doing flash mobs on YouTube now. And me? I learned to always say, "basketball" or "baseball" when working with these odd little adolescent creatures.

Join Travis as he fishes for stories on Memoir Monday.

A Beautiful Soul

Rule #1 of teaching: Make friends with the custodians.

I was thinking about this golden rule, because I heard some sad news yesterday. Miguel M, a former co-worker of mine from Arizona, passed on two weeks ago, after a prolonged battle with cancer. He was a delightful man, and yet another reason why Orange Grove Middle School remains a special place in my memory.

Miguel was the head custodian. He could fix or clean pretty much anything. He put up with all of my shenanigans, even when it involved extra-dirty chalkboards or  constantly evolving seating arrangements. He had an easy laugh, and an ever-present grin.

Miguel had a giving heart. He served in the military in some function. He had children who were quite successful, and he worked hard to support their endeavors. He coached after-school sports, including flag football, and his passion, soccer. He found the kids who were right on the perimeter, and subtly mentored them, giving them tasks, or letting them drive The Gator across the athletic fields.

One morning, I saw a kid throw a bag of chips on the floor. I asked him to pick it up, and reminded him that the janitors shouldn't have to clean up after him. He sneered and said, "Isn't that their job?"

I replied, "Would you say that to Coach Moreno's face?"

The bravado dropped from his face, as he realized that "the help" had cheered him from the sidelines, helped him with his kick, and had probably paid more attention to him than his workaholic parents. "No," he mumbled, and picked up the bag.

I won't say that I was close buddies with Miguel, but I will say that his whole presence taught me to work hard, care about people, and enjoy doing both.

One of my favorite memories of Miguel came when I took a part-time job after school as the Community Schools director. It was my job to keep all the after-school clubs running and help close the building each evening. I was always there until 6:00, so I saw more of Miguel and his crew then some.

One evening, I heard raucous Tejano music blasting from the cafeteria. I walked over, and saw Miguel and another custodian mopping the floors. They danced as they mopped, talking in Spanish over the horns and accordions. I waved, and Miguel waved his hand, beckoning me to join in the dance. I shook my head and smiled, letting him enjoy his moment.

What a beautiful soul.

I feel like I want to do something, so let's try this: For every comment made about this posting (either on this blog, or on Facebook), I will donate $2 to the American Cancer Society. Let's do some good for Miguel.

Creating Supermen

When I was editing a dissertation awhile back, I learned that self efficacy is defined as: "the belief in one's general capacity to handle tasks." The dissertation discussed the role of school administrators and their feelings of self-efficacy in the face of the local and federal testing mandates. For all two of you that care, most administrators felt an increased sense of self-efficacy when they were empowered to make plans specific to their building's needs, as opposed to "one size fits all" fixes. My thinking is that anybody who would choose to be an administrator to begin with has got to have a healthy sense of self-efficacy.

Now that most of you are yawning, let be attempt to save this sinking ship of a post...(Note to self: avoid posts that begin with the phrase, "When I was editing a dissertation...")

I've always had a healthy sense of self-efficacy. I grew up with good schools, loving parents, excellent health, and few barriers (socio-economic, etc); as a result, I think I can meet most challenges. That's another thing I learned while editing the dissertation (ugh, there I go again!); high self-efficacy causes people to meet their goals more consistently, which causes high self-efficacy. It's a reinforcing loop.

Motherhood has challenged my sense of self-efficacy at times. Like I've discussed in earlier posts, I'm still working on ways to meet the boys' needs---how to set boundaries and provide attention, knowing when to expect independence and when to give support, figuring out how to be present without being a martyr. At times, I have never been more frustrated in my life, and keep in mind that I've taught middle school.

Yet, despite the frustrations, I always wake up the next day knowing that I can do it, that I can take anything and everything thrown at me. I wish I could bottle the choices, words, actions, and prayers of my parents and slip it into Joel's bottle and Owen's macaroni and cheese. They created two kids with strong senses of self-efficacy. I know that I must do the same.

Just last night, I felt like Superwoman. I was making a double portion of Shepherd's Pie (one for us, one from my friend that just had a baby boy.) The meat was browning, the potatoes boiling. Owen was playing with water in the sink while Joel bounced happily in his Jump-A-Roo. It was a house of cards; If Owen decided to spray me with the nozzle or Joel felt the need to scoot around the living room, all could be lost. Yet, miraculously, everything was done, and everybody was happy. I even had time to put lipstick on. Hear me roar!

And again, this morning: Joel was sleeping, and Owen and I went upstairs. Months ago (like, before Joel was born), Owen picked at his wallpaper border during "naptime," ruining the cute airplane themed-nursery we had carefully designed before his birth. (FYI--Joel's "nursery" is a crib in the guest room. Pity the second-born). So, today, I finally finished stripping the remaining wallpaper off the walls. It's tedious work, but as I scraped and sprayed, Owen pretended to be sailing in a makeshift boat (a box). I scraped, we talked, and everybody, once again, was happy.

It's moments like this, where everything falls into place and things follow a gentle, natural rhythm that I know that I am doing the right thing at the right time. I know that I have the capacity, the ability to thrive.

Now, parents who have older kids, tell me: How do I give the boys this most precious and lasting gift?

School Days

It's February. The air is brisk, the trees are bare, and it's preschool enrollment time. We've been to two open houses in the last two days in the attempt to find the best preschool for Owen.

I selected these schools because my friends with older children recommended them. More importantly, I selected these schools because they are close to the magic triangle of my life: gym-library-Starbucks. If I am going to have two mornings a week with only one kiddo, than you better believe I will indulge at least one, if not all, of these pleasures.

Both schools are plenty nice---colorful, comfortable, and staffed by caring, child-centered individuals. One is a co-op, meaning that it costs less, and in exchange parents are expected to be part of the program---cleaning, being "Parent of the Day," making snack, etc. The other program is affiliated with one of the local Catholic parishes, and seems to be a little more academic. Owen would thrive in either place.

I'm inclined to do the Catholic one, because I think that the more moral/spiritual edification my darling gets, the better. Additionally, I like that it meets on Tuesdays and Thursdays, (instead of Thursday and Friday--goodbye long weekends!).

Now, I just need to hope that there's a place for Owen. Parishioners and siblings of students get first dibs. There are only twelve spots. I just have to trust that O will end up where he's supposed to be.

One thing that was odd about the open house experience was being The Parent. I'm very accustomed to being The Teacher. I can soothe, pander, explain, assert needs, or lay it on the line. Some parents require a bit of flattery. Others respect candor. Some are on your side. Some want to pick a fight. Some have been so burned by their own schooling that just walking through the door of the building makes them feel small and helpless. Others just want to be heard. All of the parents, in their own way, love their kids and want to help.

And now, just like that, I'm The Parent. I don't know if I made an impression on the teachers at all as I asked questions about curriculum, management, expectations, scheduling. My goal is that I want to help when needed, go away when its best, and to work with his teachers to shape Owen into the person he deserves to be.

It's a strange shift, being The Parent. Although I've been a teacher my entire adult life, I think Owen's education will be my education, too. I'm ready to learn.

Persistant Voices

So, today in church the pastor was talking about using your talents and gifts for the good of others. This hit me at just the right time because I've been thinking about the future a lot recently, and what I'm going to be When I Grow Up.

The idea of being a teacher again leaves me cold. I liked it, and I'm good at it, but I'm just not excited about it. I'm not sure if this is because my attention is temporarily diverted by the boys, or if my passion for teaching has just fizzled out. I confess, I was already looking out the door when I was pregnant with Owen, and I transitioned to stay-at-home-mothering without any major hiccups.

Yes, I do teach at the community college two nights a week. And honestly, even that isn't getting me too excited. It's hard to believe that thesis statements and parenthetical citation isn't getting my motor running, but there it is...

This puts me in a bit of a quandary because there are a limited number of things that I am good at. I'm quite good at chit-chatting with strangers at the park. I can really clean a sink, so that it is shiny and smells vaguely of lavender. I do a great job of selecting books from the library. People aren't going to pay me the salary I desire, plus benefits, to do such things.

I know I can teach; I know I can write. I know I can teach about writing. I know I can write about teaching. I know that I've suddenly channelled Dr. Seuss, please forgive me.

If I teach, I cannot resent the job, or else I will resent my students, who will in turn resent me. That's no good. If I return to the classroom, I need to return with my passion and standards intact, or else I should just go home.

I really feel like I want to be a writer. I Just. Don't. Know. How. This blog, while fun, is not going to make my fortune. So, what is? How am I going to do this?

I believe that when random things keep happening, they are not random. In the past month, through a variety of people, events, circumstances, and encounters, I've heard the same message: "Serve God. Use your talents when you are asked." So, again, I'm sitting here, wondering, "How?"

Does anybody out there know? I'm still looking. I'll tell you the answers someday, when I am All Grown Up.

Occupational Hazards

When I taught English in Tucson, a girl was hired maybe two years after I arrived. She was, and for all I know, still is "quirky." She wore the hipster uniform of black, clunky glasses, clogs, striped tights, and cardigans (this was several years ago, granted). Whatever she taught, be it To Kill a Mockingbird, thesis statements, prepositional phrases, or propaganda, it always, always tied back to memorable episodes of Scooby Doo. When I met her, I instantly assumed that she would be a hit with the students. I was wrong.

I say this with no trace of smugness. Being hated, for long or short bursts of time, is an occupational hazard of teaching middle school. There was one student, (I still remember her name, but will not share it), that hated me with an intensity I've never encountered before or since. She sneered at me, whispered comments about me, dropped off her homework with a derisive huff, and told any teacher that would tolerate it that she "Was going to get [her] father to get Ms. Mohrman fired." (PS--That's me, pre-marriage).

So, whatever. At the time, it bothered me a little. Okay, way too much. "Why doesn't she liiiiiikkkkkkee me? " I would whine to then-boyfriend Paul. In my defense, it was my second year teaching. I was twenty-three years old. My skin was pretty thin. You could see the veins and internal organs through it. I mean, it was thin.

Life moved on, her father didn't get me fired, and we eventually drifted to our different stations in life. In January 2008, Paul and I returned to Tucson, after a four year hiatus. We stayed with friends, Paul ran a marathon, Owen saw cactus, we were warm. It was great.

One afternoon, we were at this sandwich place, Baggins. We were eating our sandwiches, and enjoying the complimentary chocolate chip cookies, when the former student walked in. She must have been in her first or second year of college, but her distinctive features (cough, nose, cough) gave her away. I know she saw me, too, because she looked me in the eye, gasped, and turned to her friend and loudly announced, "We need to go. There's something that smeelllllls in here!"

Really. I wish I was making this up.

So, again---being detested is simply part of the job when you choose to work with adolescents. Most of my students liked me, and I certainly enjoyed their company, too. I think I was a good teacher, with my own blind spots and areas to grow.

Which is why I'm not smug, thinking about the hipster teacher. She had a soft voice, an intense fear of germs, and a honest fear that the kids pounced upon, shredding her like a pride of lions on the African Savanna. But, she asked for help, took advantage of opportunities, showed up each day, and earned their attention, if not their respect. I wonder if she's still teaching, and if so, if she likes it. Is each day another adventure on the Mystery Machine or are her plans still thwarted by those meddling kids?

Odds and Ends Section
* I started this post planning to talk about my recent obsession with hand washing and hand sanitizer, which is what made me think of hipster teacher. This is what came out. Isn't the brain funny?
*Confession Time: I listen to music that has bad words in it when it's just Joel in the car. It's not like his mind is being shaped and formed at an astonishing rate or anything. Why shouldn't a five month old be exposed to the poetic stylings of Ol' Dirty Bastard?
*Owen has taken to saying things like, "Mommy, I have something important to tell you!" or "Mommy, stop doing that. It's time to listen to Owen!" With a set-up like that, it must be important right? No. Once I have his full attention, he usually says things like, "Fleagul."
*My girlfriends and I talk about the three doctors at our pediatric practice the way that the young folks talk about Lauren, Audrina, and Spencer on MTV's The Hills
*I've felt like the Grinch, removing the decorations during Owen's nap times to avoid potential meltdowns. He came downstairs after a nap, rubbing his sleepy eyes, and cried, "What happened to the ornaments?" I tell him that Santa came while he was sleeping, and took all the ornaments away to clean them. He pondered this, then said, "Santa better not take my easel!"

Making this the longest post ever: Gratuitous Pictures!





This is from the infamous Tucson trip.
The giraffe attempted to French-kiss Owen.
See me smiling. "Go on, honey. Touch the filthy
animal with the eight foot long tongue."

Editing

I'm taking a break from editing my friend's dissertation. I'm so impressed with people that use their minds all day long. I've never had a job where I had to sit at a desk and think think think. It's exhausting.

Don't get me wrong. When I was a teacher, I had to think---How do I craft this lesson? What can I do to help Child X move ahead when Child Z is still five steps behind? Is there a homoerotic subtext between Romeo and Mercutio? But, it was an easy thinking. So much of teaching is just instinct---you know what needs to be done, and you do it.

At least it was that way for me. But editing somebody else's work---holding another person's baby in my cold, unflinching hands, is a responsibility I don't take lightly. If I don't do my job, then the writing will not do the job it's meant to do.

And it all come back to parenting. Each day, I'm editing Owen and Joel's life. I'm deleting the behaviors I don't care for---such as Owen's need to bark orders at me: "Mommy--Get Milk NOW!!" I'm writing in the margins, "More--expand!" when Owen is telling a story about the imaginary fish he caught in the bathtub. When Owen has a moment of clarity, "Christmas IS Jesus's birthday," I'm scrawling, "This is fantastic," adding smiley faces and exclamation points.

Joel's composition is a little easier and a little harder. I find that my most frequent comment is "Unclear." Is he squawking because he is exhausted or really happy? It's a fine line with this one. However, I'm already starting to write new things...a "good job" when he rolls over, and a "Me too!" when we find something mutually amusing. I'm looking forward to the day when Joel inspires exclamation points and gold stars all of his own.