The End of Our Adventure

A proud Kinley displays her President's Award on the last day of school.

I had been dreading and looking forward to this day, all at the same time. The last day of school meant the end of my time as Kinley's classroom teacher, and it meant the end of feeling torn about my job as a teacher and my role as a mom.  It meant the end of Kinley's time in elementary school and the end of my waiting to award her the Principal's Award.  But dread it or not, there it was.

I had come up with a rather idyllic idea of what the day would be like.  I had thought we would spend the entire day smiling at each other, giving hugs and knowing glances, relishing our last day as daughter-student and mommy-teacher.  We would shed a few tears when I made my speech about her during the awards program.  We would take some pictures together.  We would walk down the hallway one last time together during the traditional 5th grade walk, trying to hold it together as the entire student body looked on.

My vision did not include a fight before we ever got to school that morning.  But alas.  Since she didn't know she was getting any awards, she didn't know that my vision included her dressed in a cute little award-getting outfit.  When I told her at breakfast that I thought she should change out of her jean shorts and T-shirt, she got mad and stormed out of the room, muttering under her breath.

Her snit continued for the rest of the morning, including the drive to school (which in my vision was supposed to be a time for mutual quiet reflection on two years of a mostly wonderful experience, preferably with a few, I-love-you-Mommys and I'm-going-to-miss-you-so-much-next-year-Mommys thrown in for good measure). 

So much for my vision.

I met with my colleagues before school and whined about my broken dream, and in the meantime, Kinley must have decided to get over it.  By the time school started at 9:15, all was well again.

At Mayflower Mill we give out Principal's Awards each term to students who exhibit respect and responsibility, and Kinley had received this award in the past from other teachers.  But I had been hesitant to give her this award for fear that others would think I was showing favoritism to my daughter.  During her first year with me I had come up with a solution.  I would give her this most-coveted award on the last day of her 5th grade year.  I would make a speech explaining why I had waited so long, and we'd both cry and hug each other and the whole room would erupt in spontaneous applause and think, "How sweet!  Poor Kinley survived and so did Gina.  Hasn't this been lovely after all?  Wasn't this truly the best choice?"  It would be perfect.

And actually, it went pretty much that way.  There were a few moments of trepidation when my principal declared to the teachers that speeches before awards should be cut so that our awards convocation wouldn't go over the allotted time.  But I decided that she would probably look the other way if I made my little speech, and besides, I had my dream to think about.  The audience was supposed to be applauding and smiling and thinking about how sweet it all was, not being mad at me for disobeying my principal's orders.

You can see for yourself how it went here.

As it turned out, BOTH kids were awarded the Principal's Award on the last day!  Knox got his for growing the most in reading.

And the Principal's Award wasn't all!  Kinley also received the President's Award for scoring at least one Pass+ in ISTEP+ and maintaining a 3.5 GPA in 4th and 5th grade.  Another total surprise to all of us was the PE Award from Mr. Z!  I was so proud of her.

Kinley walks up to get her President's Award from Mrs. Higgins.

At the end of the day, just before the 5th grade walk, I snapped a picture of Kinley and all of her 5th grade classmates.  What a great group of kids.  

Just before the 5th graders took their last walk down the hallway to the bus, Kinley stood in the middle of her classmates, most of whom will be with her next year at Southwestern Middle School.

Then came the 5th grade walk.  Each year all the 5th grade teachers walk down the hallway with their students, so I huddled up with mine as usual.  But this time, one of those kids was my own.

I led my 5th graders down the hallway with Kinley close behind.

As the buses departed and the crowds dispersed, I had a brainstorm!  I wanted a picture of Kinley with all of her teachers from her years at Mayflower Mill.  And lucky for me, they were all standing nearby!

 

(From left to right)  Mrs. Metzger (K), Mrs. Rooze (2nd grade), me (4th and 5th grades), Mrs Higgins (principal), Mrs. Harshbarger (3rd grade), Mr. Zinselmeier (PE), Kinley, Mrs. Garrett (1st grade), Mrs. Perry (art), and Mrs. Baber (computer lab)

And that's it.  The day may not have started as I had planned, but it ended up even better with Kinley surrounded by the people who shaped her into the person she is today.  Dedicated teachers who guided her and advised her and comforted her and disciplined her and loved her.  Dear friends who helped to keep me sane throughout these two years.

And I'm so very grateful.

The Best Part

My class poses for a shot at the Indiana Dunes National Lakeshore.

One of the best things about being a mom and a teacher to my daughter at the same time is that I get to go on every field trip with her for two years. And my favorite field trip of the two year cycle is our overnight Winter Survival program at the Dunes Learning Center (DLC) within the Indiana Dunes National Lakeshore.  We visited in February, and the staff at DLC didn't disappoint.

Afterward as the bus rambled south, I listened to the conversations of 9-and-10-year-olds who were trying desperately not to fall asleep.  The two days with 45 kids had left me exhausted, too.  Kinley sat next to me on the seat reading quietly, and I was trying to conquer the mountain of grading I'd hauled with me.

Kinley reads her book on the return bus trip.

In our family we have a tradition.  After each family trip or special day, we debrief with some reflective conversation.  It usually starts with Josh asking, "So what was your favorite part of the trip?"  Whether we've just returned from spying leopards and elephants on safari in Sri Lanka or from a morning at the circus, we always take the time to share what we loved about the experience.  And this day was no different.  Only this time, it was Kinley who started the conversation.

"Mommy, what was your favorite part of the field trip?"  I looked up from the paper I was grading.  I really wasn't ready for this conversation; I was in the middle of grading writing, and I needed to focus.  Lafayette was drawing ever closer, and my three-hour block of time for grading was slipping away. But I capped my blue marker and put the papers on the seat beside me, choosing to give Kinley my attention.

"Well," I answered, buying myself some time to switch gears, "let me think."  There were so many wonderful things to choose from - singing campfire songs and making s'mores, watching the intense conversation as the kids were trying to make sparks with a flint and steel, flapping my arms with my class as we imitated the mating ritual of the sandhill crane during the Migration Game.  Finally, I replied, "I really enjoyed the three-hour hike in the snow.  I always learn something on those from the staff, and this year we got to learn more about the historic homesteads located inside of the park.  I was also really proud of our class for earning a gold in the food waste challenge."

Making sparks with a flint and steel is hard!



Kinley serves up pasta for lunch.



Kinley and her friends tried to be less wasteful at meals.  For some, that meant barely eating anything.

The food waste challenge really is one of my favorite parts of camp.  Students are served meals family-style at camp, so they have more control over their portion sizes than they do at school.  I make a big deal about taking only what you'll actually consume - a concept that most kids don't have to adhere to at home or at school.  Don't like to drink the milk out of your cereal bowl?  Then eat it dry because milk left in the bowl is food waste.  Not sure if you'll like black bean soup?  Then take only a spoonful at first to try it and get more if you like it.  Never tried sweet potato fries?  Take one and split it with a friend to sample it.  For four meals, we try to focus on not wasting food.  You'd be shocked at what a new and challenging concept this is for kids.  So our gold medal for zero food waste is truly a treasure to me.

Kinley listened intently as I gave my answer and looked at me expectantly as I finished.  But my ungraded papers sitting on the seat beside me looked at me expectantly, too.  I knew that Proper Boyd Procedure (and common courtesy) meant that it was now my turn to ask her what her favorite part had been, but Lafayette loomed ever nearer while my time to grade grew ever shorter.

So I sighed and reluctantly asked, "What was your favorite part, honey?" 

I expected her to say that she loved playing in the deep, wet snow with her friends, making snow balls as big as boulders. 



I expected her to say that her favorite part was hanging out in the cabin, laughing with her friends. 



I expected her to say that getting chosen to play Demeter in the mythology play was the highlight of the trip.

I did NOT expect her to say this.  "My favorite part was being with you, Mommy."

Wow.  My eyes filled with tears as I reached over the stack of now-forgotten papers on the seat and wrapped my arms around her.  My little girl.  My student.

And I realized that, of course, she was my favorite part of the trip, too.  It wasn't the hiking or the campfire or the food waste challenge that mattered.  It was this extraordinary gift that I've been given - to see my daughter learn, grow, and change at school for two solid years.  To be an active, daily part of that.  To BE with her.  That's the best part.  No contest.

Beware! The Behavior Modifying Teacher Is On The Prowl

Fourteen.  One ten and four ones. 2 x 7.  14.  That's how many times Kinley came up to my desk to talk to me on Wednesday. FOURTEEN!  I know because I made a little tally mark in my lesson plan book each time.

Ever since we came back to school from Christmas break, I had noticed that Kinley was spending an unreasonable amount of time getting out of her seat and crossing the room to tell me in hushed tones about the most recent development in her book or the way so-and-so was not really reading during reading time or how this little spot back here in her throat was kind of hurting. 

It was driving me nutso.  And something had to be done.

Now, if this had been a problem with a regular student, I would have immediately gone into Behavior Modifying Teacher Mode.  I would have taken careful notes about the subject of each conversation with the child and then tallied the number of times in a day the child came up to my desk unbidden. Then, I would have gone to the supply closet and gotten out my little tub of green Bingo chips.  I would have called the clearly-desperate-for-attention-and-obviously-not-getting-it-at-home student up to my desk and would have spoken with him or her about the need to stay on task.  I would have shown the child my tally marks and then I would have told the child that fourteen trips to my desk was really too much. I would have given the child 5 Bingo chips to use the next day to spend for 5 (and only 5) private audiences with the Queen (that would be me).  Each private conversation would cost a chip, hopefully resulting in nine fewer one-on-one meetings with this child.

I would have informed the child that he or she could earn 20 Boyd Bucks the next day if fewer than the 5 Bingo chips were cashed in.  Then I would have sat back and patted myself on the back for having implemented yet another successful behavior modification intervention.

But this wasn't just any child.  It was MY child.  My child who gets plenty of attention at home, thank you very much.  And from her teacher, no less!

So instead, I called Kinley up to my desk at the end of the day (private conversation number 15 of the day)and showed her the fourteen little marks.  As I told her what the marks represented, I could see her cheeks begin to flush.  She shrank back from me a little as I asked her to multiply 14 by 27(the number of student in my class).  As I asked her what she thought it would be like for me to have 14 x 27 individual conversations with students in a single day, I could see her eyes start to fill with tears.

Did this stop me?  No.  I soldiered on in Behavior Modifying Mommy/Teacher Mode.  (Note:  If she had told me what 14 x 27 was after doing it in her head with mental math, I might have been more sympathetic and given up.)

But as it was, I laid out for her all the things that are a part of my job that I can't accomplish while listening to Kinley's Daily List of Observations, Injustices, Ailments, and General Miscellany.  I told her that (without the help of green Bingo chips) I expected her to reduce her number of trips to my desk the next day by at least half, and then I sent her on her way.  Back to her desk.  Away from my much-needed personal space.

I looked up a few minutes later to see her sitting on the floor under her desk sobbing, knees pulled up to her chest, arms wrapped tightly around herself, rocking back and forth in a stupor.  It was pitiful.  And it almost made me regret my words.  Almost.

Mostly it just made me roll my eyes at her melodrama and look forward to the next day when surely she would take my words to heart.  Which she did. 

She only came up five times on Thursday.  And five is a huge improvement over fourteen.  Especially without the aid Bingo chips.  Which just goes to show....something, I'm sure. I'll let you know when I figure it out.

Kinley Blows the Whistle

Last night at the dinner table, I had one of those moments that would make the Golden Apple Award selection committee want to change their minds about me.  Kinley was reading as she ate, frantically trying to finish her assigned book so that she could earn the right to use one of the 15 NookColors I have for my class, when she informed me that the book I had assigned to her was "not appropriate for kids her age."

Oh brother.

Last school year I wrote a Public Schools Foundation of Tippecanoe County grant for $3615 to buy 15 NookColor ereaders for my classroom.  These ereaders would allow my students to read books on their own levels, and I hoped that the new technology would renew their excitement about reading. 

Last Tuesday, I announced to the class that it was time to begin using the Nooks.  The students would first need to finish the books they were currently reading and take the Accelerated Reader tests on their books.  Then they would be assigned paperback books to read that fit their specific Guided Reading levels. 

The Guided Reading system levels books from A to Z so that children can read books that are a "good fit" for their abilities in comprehension and vocabulary.  I spent several weeks at the beginning of the year testing each child individually for independent reading level, and I used this information to help the children find "good fit" books from my shelves.  My students fall in the Q-Z range, with the class average being about a V.  (V is roughly equivalent to 6th grade level.)

We would track how long it took for the children to read their assigned books and calculate the number of pages read per day.  Once finished with the paperbacks, the children were required to take the AR tests.  After they had completed all of these things, they would be rewarded with NookColors to use. 

Kinley is reading at a level Y, as are several other students in the class.  She and two other kids were ready to be assigned leveled books, so I went to my shelves to help them choose.  They all chose a Newbery-winning book titled A Corner of the Universe.  I hadn't read this book, but I knew that the winners of the Newbery medal are dependably high-quality literature.  I checked the books out to them and sent them off to begin reading.



So imagine my horror at the dinner table when Kinley begins to detail the "inapprpriate parts" of the book.  "First," she said, "there is a suicide.  One of the characters hangs himself."

"Well, that's not pleasant, but it could be worse," I thought.

"And also, Mom, there's the word B-O-S-O-M-S!"

Oh brother.  Here we go.  "Let me see the book," I said, reaching across the table.  She quickly flipped to the most offending section and triumphantly handed over the book.  Sure enough, it got worse.  One character walks into his love interest's room while she is, um, occupied with someone else.  Shirts are unbuttoned.  Bedclothes are disheveled.

An awkward silence followed, both in the book and at our dinner table.

"See?" Kinley says accusingly.  "I see," I admit. 

While Kinley is gloating over the fact that her teacher, her mother, has assigned such filth for her to read, all I can think about is the two other boys (one a 4th grader!) who were also assigned this book.  What would their parents think?  What would they think?  Oh brother.

So today at school, I lie in wait for the 4th grade boy to get to school.  As soon as he arrives, I accost him and practically rip the book from his innocent little fingers.  "Um, this book isn't really appropriate for you, so I'm going to help you find a new one today," I say with a look that negates the casual tone of my speech.

"Oh, good," he said.  "I hadn't gotten very far, and I didn't really like it anyway."  Whew!  One crisis averted!

When boy #2 arrives, the response is different.  He had finished the book the night before, in record time.  Oh brother.  I would have to go and talk to his mom, a paraprofessional at our school, during lunch.

She ended up taking it really well, and even gave me a hard time about assigning her son a NookColor with a floral cover.  Whew!  A second crisis averted.

Now I just have to make sure Kinley keeps this to herself so the Golden Apple Committee never gets wind of it.  And maybe I'll hide my award, just in case.

Year Two Begins!

Another year has begun, and the kids who were fourth graders in my class last year are this year’s fifth graders.  Since my class consists of half 5^th graders who’ve already had me for a year and half 4^th graders coming in for the first time, I depend on my 5^th graders to help the new students learn my expectations.  But there are many summers that I worry about whether or not they’ll be able to rise to the occasion.  Usually an amazing transformation takes place over summer vacation, and last year’s silly, unsure followers become this year’s serious, confident leaders.

And, of course, this year my daughter is one of those leaders.  Our first day of school in August this year marked the beginning of our second year together as mother/teacher and daughter/student in a public school classroom.  To add to the fun, my son Knox has started kindergarten, so I get to have a single school year with both my children at school with me each day.



As I said in one summer post, I had been looking forward to paying my students for their summer work.  Kinley had accomplished very little in spite of her myriad of cultural experiences, and I couldn’t wait to make a point to her by passing out piles of Boyd Bucks to the kids who’d worked diligently all summer writing book summaries and journal entries, solving math problems and working on cursive handwriting.  I had daydreamed about passing out the money for weeks, slowly and deliberately calling student names and totals.  In my mind, it would go something like this.

“Justin – nine hundred Boyd Bucks!  How wonderful!  Way to go!  Kaycee – three thousand Boyd Bucks!  My goodness!  Weren’t you a busy beaver?  And you’re only a fourth grader!  And your mom isn’t even the teacher!  Abbey – eight hundred dollars!  Nice job, especially for someone moving in from the regular classroom!  Xander – twelve hundred Boyd Bucks!  My, my, my!  And I heard that your mom didn’t even have to yell at you once all summer to get your work done!  Geoffrey – two thousand Boyd Bucks!  And look at your thorough math work here!  No skipping steps for you!  All of your work is neatly shown! 

And now, who’s next?  Oh, yes.  It’s time for my daughter, Kinley Boyd.  Let’s see Kinley, how much have you earned?  You visited all the best museums of London, the National Gallery, the Victoria and Albert, the British Museum, the National Portrait Gallery, the Museum of Natural History…TWICE.  So surely you must have written up summaries of each of those to earn a hundred Boyd Bucks each.   And then, of course, surely you finished your math workbook since your mom hauled the dadgum thing across the Atlantic for you!  Let’s see.  What did you get?  Two hundred Boyd Bucks. Really?  Is that all?  You must be terribly embarrassed that all these kids who DIDN’T have their teacher with them all summer long still managed to complete so many activities!  I TOLD YOU SO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! (Insert evil laughter here.)”

It didn’t go quite as I had imagined, though.  As it turned out, Kinley wasn’t alone in her underachievement.  One incoming 4^th grader took it all very seriously and earned a whopping $1,200, but most kids who brought in work had completed enough activities to earn only $400-$600.  Kinley really did earn only $200, but several of my 27 students had nothing to show for the summer.   And so (to my chagrin) Kinley actually seemed relatively conscientious.

Shoot.  There went my, “I told you so.”

Josh Takes Responsibility for His Daughter's Education

Every year since I've been teaching the High Ability class at Mayflower Mill, I've had to deal with students who take extended vacations during the school year.  I've had students who've jetted off to Costa Rica for two weeks, students who've gone on cruises that didn't even begin until school had already started after Christmas break, and students who simply couldn't take their annual week-long trip to Orlando any time except smack in the middle of October. 

Our school system has a policy that allows this as long as the parents are willing to write a letter stating that during the time that the students will be missing school, the parents will take responsibility for their child's education.  Of course, the child is expected to make up any missed work, but that's pretty much all it takes to get a week or two off of school, scot-free.

It's always a real pain for me when my students miss class since so much of what we do can't be replicated at home or made up with extra homework.  It's hard to have a class discussion about whether or not Sal in the novel Walk Two Moons is a reliable narrator while on the airplane with your family on the way to Disney World.  So I end up having either to decide that the student can skip the missed assignments altogether or having to write new assignments that can be done by the student without my instruction or their classmates' input to use as a sounding board.

And then, of course, I have to grade it all.  Yuck.

I've always thought of parents who exercise their right to take their kids on mid-school-year vacations as just a teensy bit irresponsible. Just what kind of message are these people sending to their kids about the importance of school attendance?

Well, this year, I became one of those parents.

Josh was given the opportunity to teach in Purdue's study abroad program in London, England, this summer, and our whole family decided to tag along.  Since the program in London started on May 18 and our school wasn't over until May 27 for students, we had initially planned for Josh to go over without us.  Kinley, Knox, and I would follow on June 1.

But then Josh and I (with some encouragement from my assistant principal) decided to give Kinley an early tenth birthday gift – a ticket to fly over with her daddy instead of waiting until the end of the school year.

We wrote the requisite I-take-responsibility-for-my-child's-education letter, which is kind of ironically redundant since she was already being taught every day in a public school by her mother.  Now that I think of it, maybe our letter should have been more of a I-hereby-relinquish-the-responsibility-for-my-daughter's-education-and-pass-the-baton-on-to-my-husband type letter.

At any rate, Kinley was heading to London.  She'd miss field day, the traditional 5^th grade walk, and our end-of-year pizza party and auction.  But she would trade those activities for learning to deal with a new currency, visiting two Welsh UNESCO World Heritage Sites, straddling the Prime Meridian in Greenwich, watching Wicked from the front row of the Victoria Palace Theater in London's famous West End, and getting a new stamp in her already impressively-decorated passport two weeks early. 

It was a good trade.  Even if it was a little bit irresponsible.

And besides, it wasn't a mid-school-year trip to Disney.

Josh Gets His Way or Mrs. Boyd Sets a Dangerous Precedent

Our school corporation has Parent-Teacher Conferences twice a year, once in October and again in March.  One of the first pronouncements I made upon learning that Kinley would be in my class was that I refused to hold a parent conference for her.  Conferences, while incredibly beneficial, are draining.  So if Josh wanted to know details about Kinley's performance in the classroom, he could ask me at home.  (Actually, I'm adamant that Kinley show him her graded papers and homework herself, without my prodding.  After all, none of the other students have me at home constantly nagging them to keep their parents informed.)

I held firm in October in spite of Josh's playful chastising.  "I'm going to call that principal and tell her that my child's teacher flatly refused to meet with me," he joked. 

I replied, "You absolutely should.  The nerve of that wretched teacher to deny a father his right to discuss his child's progress!  It's a disgrace to the profession."

But he never made that call, and I got away with having to schedule one fewer conference.

When March rolled around, I didn't even think about it this time.  Scheduling a slot for Josh to meet with me was simply not on my radar.  Not going to happen.  No way.  Why even discuss it?

But I was outsmarted.  Josh came to pick Kinley up after school on Thursday the week of conferences since hanging around school for four extra hours while I met with other students' parents wasn't her idea of a good time.  He waltzed in and cavalierly asked, "What time is my conference, Mrs. Boyd?"

The next day, my colleague Andrea told me that I should have responded, "I would love to meet with you, Mr. Boyd, but I see you haven't arranged for childcare for your four year old.  You'll have to make other arrangements since we can't have your son running willy-nilly around the classroom while I try to discuss your daughter's strengths and weaknesses." 

Too bad my wits weren't at their quickest that day.  Instead I just snapped,  "You want a conference?  Fine.  Your slot is now.  Sit down, Mr. Boyd."

He proceeded to back track, noting my annoyed tone and no doubt anticipating that I would hold this against him for who knows how long.  "I was just kidding!" he said.  "You don't have to!"

"No way.  Sit down.  I'm sick and tired of your giving me a hard time about this over and over, and you won't hush until I do it. So sit down."

He sat, and I spewed forth edu-babble about online assessments, Accelerated Reader scores, individual reading strategy goals, and projected ISTEP+ scores for the fifteen minutes allotted to other normal parents.  The whole time, Kinley sat wide-eyed while Knox drew on the white board.

At the end of my spiel, I said, "Well, Mr. Boyd, do you have any questions?"  Undaunted, he leaned over into the personal space of his child's 4th grade teacher, and laid on a big, fat, sloppy kiss.  "I've been wanting to do that all year!" he said, incredibly pleased with himself.

Kinley, no longer wide-eyed but now, instead, snarling, just said, "Gross.  That was TOTALLY inappropriate." 

She's probably right, but her teacher kinda liked it.

The Bad, the Ugly, and the Uglier

Well, it happened.  The day that I had just about decided was never going to arrive swept in and took me by complete surprise.  Which day? 

The day that I considered calling it quits and putting Kinley back into a regular 4th grade classroom. 

And the precipitating event means that Kinley is in the biggest trouble of her life.

I've been avoiding blogging about this whole thing for several weeks (note the absence of any posts in February) because it's been so difficult personally and professionally.  But then I find myself avoiding blogging about other things that have happened since then, just because I feel like I need to tell this story first.  So here it is.  The bad, the ugly, and the uglier.

I got an email from the parent of a little girl in my class on a recent Friday morning.  The parent was understandably upset about something that had happened in my class the day before while a substitute teacher was in my room.  Unfortunately, Kinley was at the center of the whole thing.

It seems that Kinley and the little girl were having trouble getting along.  I knew that this had been a bit of a problem for a couple of weeks since Kinley had come to me in class one day to tell me that the little girl was "whispering about her at the lunch table."  Knowing that girls can be mean but also knowing that I have daughter who tends to be, um, a bit dramatic, I told her that she needed to go straight to the little girl's desk and ask what she should do to help things get better.  She reluctantly went, and I didn't think another thing about it.

Until that fateful Friday.

I read the email in horror as the parent detailed what had happened.  Kinley had been standing in line with the little girl and some other children.  A little boy (we'll call him Franklin) began pestering the little girl by trying to step on her feet. 

Now this may come as a shock to you if you haven't been in an elementary classroom in several years, but I'll let you in on a secret.  Kids pick at each other for no apparent reason.  Franklin is not a bad child.  He's not even an annoying child.  He was just bored.  And he had the misfortune of being bored and getting into the middle of something that grew to be a much bigger deal.

As Franklin was pestering the little girl, my daughter, my firstborn, my favorite student, flesh of my flesh and bone of my bone, said - in a tone that could not be mistaken as just boredom or pestering - "Get her, Franklin!  Kick her in the shins!"

And that's just bad.  Here's the ugly.

The little girl then said, "Franklin, you'd better stop or you're going to get into trouble."  And MY CHILD says - cue ominous music here - "No you won't.  My mom's the teacher, and I'll tell her not to get you in trouble."

Yeah.  Just reread that one a couple of times.  I told you it was ugly.

I was stunned at the email I was reading.  But at the same time, I feared that it was true.  I immediately forwarded the message to my principal with, "Read and come see me ASAP!" in the subject line.  I was out of my league, and I wanted to be absolutely transparent in this whole process.  As you all know by now, my biggest fear is that other parents of children in my class will feel their children are treated unfairly because of Kinley.

While waiting for Mrs. Fitzgerald, my principal, to appear at my door, I decided to do a little investigating.  I called poor Franklin into the hallway.  The pallor that his face took on when I asked him to give me details about the day before was all I needed. Imagine how much courage it took for this little boy to tell his teacher that her daughter had indeed done exactly what she had been accused of doing!  He tried to make it sound better than it actually was until I recounted the events from the email.  He reluctantly admitted that Kinley had said exactly those words.  He was terrified.  I gave him a hug, told him he had nothing to be afraid of, and sent him back into the room.

I was near tears when Mrs, Fitzgerald showed up moments later to tell me how I should handle the situation.  She was just certain that Kinley was innocent and that the little girl had exaggerated.  I told her about what Franklin had said and begged her to handle the whole thing.  Bless her heart, she agreed.

Kinley was called to the principal's office for disciplinary action for the first time in her life while I regained control of my sobs in the hallway outside my classroom.

Kinley came back several minutes later with red, blotchy eyes that matched mine and an obvious sniffle.  Mrs. Fitzgerald called me out into the hallway again to tell me that she had fined Kinley and had read her the riot act.  She also told her to apologize to the little girl.  I thanked her and also apologized for my child's actions.  I also asked her to email the little girl's parents to let them know that Kinley had been punished.  (I know.  I'm a coward.  I own it.)

In my opinion, Kinley had gotten off relatively easily at school.  So at home, Josh and I chose to levy some serious and hopefully meaningful punishments.  We reminded Kinley that as a Christian she is to be a reflection of Christ.  We told her that she had not been a positive reflection and that we wanted her to understand how God felt about our words to others.  To help her learn and remember, she was going to lose TV and electronics for a minimum of two weeks during which time she was to learn five Bible verses related to harsh words (Colossians 4:6, Psalms 19:14, Ephesians 4:29, James 1:19-20, and Colossians 3:12-13).  She also had to write a letter to be mailed to the little girl apologizing for her actions.  Finally, she would be required to pray for her relationship with the little girl each night during our family devotionals until things got better.

And, of course, we told her that if she EVER did or said something that used her relationship to me as a weapon or bargaining chip again, she would be moved back into a regular classroom with no discussion.

The next week at school was tense, but I felt we were reaching a new normal.  Kinley and the little girl were a bit strained, but I assumed that was normal and that our fervent prayers for their relationship would aid in the healing process. At home, Kinley had begun to draw pictures for the little girl and to talk about how she was trying to include her in conversations and recess activities.  Josh and I were actually pleasantly surprised by the sincerity Kinley showed when reaching out to make ammends.  But the uglier part was yet to come.

The following Monday, seven school days after the incident, I got the news that the little girl was leaving my class.  Her parents decided that placement my High Ability classroom (which is optional in our school system) was not working for their daughter, and they pulled her out without saying goodbye.  She didn't even clean out her desk.  She just didn't come back.

Kinley, of course, asked if it was her fault.  To be fair, the parents had been unhappy with a few of my classroom policies and the incident with Kinley had been the last nail in the coffin. But Kinley was really worried.  I did my best to reassure her without shying away from the serious nature of what she had done.

But I haven't stopped worrying about it.  And it's not getting any prettier.

A Misstep in our Mother-Daughter Dance

It's been a whole semester since Kinley and I started this little dance that has us spending each and every school day together.  And, generally, our dance has been surprisingly graceful.  Most of the time we waltz through our day hardly even realizing that our situation is unusual.  As was evident in my last post, though, we have experienced the occasional stumble. Here's another example.

I should have known better.  I should have listened to the little voice in the back of my head whispering, "Don't do it!"  I should have just put her to bed.

But I didn't.  I let her stay up until 9:30 to watch Dancing with the Stars.  And then I paid for it the next day in class.

Kinley and I have a deal that she can sleep in my bed whenever her daddy is out of town.  Since Josh was in San Francisco that night, I had a 9-year-old snuggle partner for the evening.  When she turned on the TV at 8:15, I didn't give it a thought since she never watches network TV in the evenings.  It didn't occur to me that she'd actually find something we'd both want to see.  It's not like we'd been watching the entire season of DWTS.  Heck, we'd never even seen a single episode in its entirety!

So when she stopped surfing on channel 6 and we both got sucked in, I wasn't that worried.  But then we REALLY got sucked in, and she convinced me to let her stay up to see the end of the episode.  I mean, who can resist sparkly dresses and Jennifer Grey's new nose, right?

And so there I was the next day.  Stuck in a classroom with 22 kids staring uncomfortably at my daughter who was weeping hysterically at the injustice of life as a student in her mother's classroom.  She'd had to pay a 20 Boyd Buck fine for forgetting to put her completed homework papers in the basket and another 10 Boyd Buck fine for forgetting to put her name on both papers. 

And that $30 was apparently more than she could handle on only 9 1/2 hours of sleep.  The poor Homework Checkers who'd had to collect her fines were huddling in a corner, apparently afraid that I might blame them for making my daughter fall to pieces before 9:30AM.

Thanks a lot, Jennifer Grey.

A Surprising Mean Streak

My classroom runs well.  This is due, almost entirely, to my mini-economy system which ensures that each child in my class has some degree of responsibility for management-type tasks that need to be done daily.  Changing bulletin boards, checking homework, running errands, stacking chairs, erasing blackboards, vacuuming up messes, watering plants, passing out supplies.  Each child earns a salary of Boyd Bucks which can be spent in a classroom store or at our end-of-the-year auction.  The kids learn responsibility, and I have time to focus on more important things like teaching my students how to add and subtract fractions with unlike denominators.  Or checking Facebook. 

Just kidding. 

Mostly.

Anyway, one of the jobs in my class is the Remote Controller.  This person gets to keep the TV/DVD/VCR remote in his or her desk and is responsible for turning the TV on and off each day for morning announcements.  Announcements usually start at about 9:05 each day, and this semester my Remote Controller has a bit of a tardiness issue.  In case the Remote Controller is late or absent, it is the job of the Substitute to get the remote from the Remote Controller's desk and turn on the TV.  And, as you know from reading my second post of the year, Kinley is the Substitute.

When Kinley was in kindergarten, there was a little girl on the playground who – how do I say this tactfully? – drove Kinley nuts.  Kinley complained about being antagonized by this child all that year. 

So when Kinley found out that The Antagonizer was going to be in her class this year, she wasn't very excited.  And, The Antagonizer is also our Remote Controller.  (From this point forward, we shall refer to this child as RC.  That's for Remote Controller in case you're confused.)

Recently, Kinley has had to turn on the TV several times because RC has been late.  But then, because RC usually comes in before announcements are over, a sort of power play ensued because Kinley wanted to finish the job she'd started.  One day, I even had to speak to RC because she had jerked the remote from Kinley's hand when she came in and saw Kinley doing her job.

So imagine my surprise when the other day I tell Kinley to turn on the TV (since RC is late again) and I witness my daughter turn equally nasty.  During announcements RC arrives at the doorway, tardy once more.  She politely stays put during the "Mayflower Mill Pledge", and I see Kinley turn and look at her.  At this point announcements end.  I expect Kinley to put down the remote and walk back to her desk, allowing RC to finish the job and turn off the TV.  But no.  She looks directly at RC, turns of the TV, and then turns and smiles a VERY deliberate, nasty smile at RC before sashaying back across the room to her desk. 

I was stunned!  I had just witnessed my daughter antagonizing The Antagonizer! 

So I marched right over to her desk, squatted down beside her and said, "I can't believe what you just did!  Pay a 10 Boyd Buck fine RIGHT NOW!  That was just MEAN.  Nothing but MEAN."  And I stalked away.

Of course she started sobbing, but that was fine with me.  Give some people a little responsibility and they act like dictators.  And the last thing I need is a Substitute with a mean streak and ambitions of being Class President.  Et tu, Kinley?

I may not be able to "knock" the meanness out of other people's kids, but I certainly can my own.  Or at least I can bankrupt her.

THE Movie

It happened.  We had to show THE movie.  THE movie that all TSC elementary schools are required to show to 4^th graders.  THE movie about it.

No.  Not that it.  The other it.  The one that only happens to girls.

"Just Around the Corner."  That's the name of THE movie.  It's all about how your body is going to start changing and things that girls need to know about are going to start happening.  I've seen it every year for 10 years.  But never with my own daughter in the room staring slack-jawed.

It's not like she doesn't know any of the information.  (We don't even close bathroom doors at our house.)  It's just that she's never had to hear it from a talking head surrounded by 50 of her closest girlfriends.  And her mother.  And her mother's colleagues.

Bless her heart.

Every year around this time we teachers segregate the boys and girls into two different classrooms and show THE movies.  They both have the same title, but there's a different one for boys and girls.  Older siblings who've already been through 4^th grade have warned younger ones, so word gets around the classroom that, as one older brother told his younger sister, "You're gonna need a barf bag, Maddie, 'cause that movie's GROSS."

Kinley was dreading it, but she watched from her desk without giggling (since I'd threatened the girls in my class within an inch of their lives).  Then afterwards, the school nurse passed out slips of paper to every girl.  "If you all write down something, even if it's just your name," she explained, "no one will know who has really written a question and you won't have to be embarrassed to ask something that you really want to know about."

I saw Kinley start to write furiously.  And it was all I could do not to peek at her slip when I walked around the room picking them up from the girls, but I somehow managed to restrain myself.  The nurse answered the questions with kindness and patience, and then the girls were sent back to their classrooms.

That afternoon, as we were driving home, I gingerly broached the subject. 

            Me:  What did you think of the movie today?

            Kinley:  The nurse didn't answer all of the questions.

            Me:  I know.  Some of them were similar to others that had already been asked and she told you that some of them were more appropriate to be asked in private.  Did she answer yours?

            Kinley: Yeah.

            Me (trying to sound nonchalant):  Oh.  What did you ask?

            Kinley:  Are you gonna post it on your blog?

           
             Shoot.  Busted.

           
            Me:  Well, do you have any other questions?
            Kinley:  No, not really.  The nurse said we could talk to our parents about this.  Does Daddy really know about all this stuff?

            Me:  Yes, he does.

            Kinley:  Really?  How?

            Me:  Well, he probably had to watch movies about it, too.    And, he's been married to me             for a long time.  So if you have any questions, you can always ask him, too.

            Kinley:  Oh.

Who knew that after watching THE movie, the realization that her daddy is in the loop about female pubescence would be the most significant revelation of the day?  Well, at least she got through it without a barf bag.

Challenger and Challenges

Our class recently took a field trip to the Brownsburg Challenger Center in Brownsburg, Indiana.  This amazing facility leads school and civic groups in simulated space missions to develop teamwork and communication skills.  Before we go, the students learn about NASA missions (my step-father even comes in and talks about his years working for NASA on all of the Apollo missions), about the moon, and about the tragedy after which the center is named.  They learn about the jobs that will be avalaible to them on the mission and about the skills those jobs require.  Each child gets to work half of the day in the "Spacecraft" and half of the day in "Mission Control."  It's one of the top two learning experiences outside the classroom that my students have during their two years in my class, and I've been taking students there since my first year as the teacher of the Gifted and Talented class.

But I'd never done it as a parent of one of the participants before.

A few years ago when I took my class of 4th and 5th graders, one of my students was working alone in the clean room of the spacecraft.  This glass-enclosed room inside the spacecraft is where the students on the REMOTE team construct and "launch" a lunar probe.  Since the probe is sensitive, the REMOTE officers must wear protective gear and work in isolation from the rest of the class.  That particular year I had a very small class, and so one student was working on the probe in the clean room by herself.  She had a counterpart in Mission Control, and they were to communicate via headsets.  The problem began when the student in the clean room didn't notice the first direction on the flip chart:  "Put on your headset."  The poor girl wandered around inside the clean room aimlessly for 10 minutes wondering what to do next, eventually bursting into tears before Commander Krebs of the Challenger Center staff stepped in and reminded her to read her flip chart directions carefully.

Now, it was bad enough that the child was frustrated and that the other REM officer in Mission Control was trying fruitlessly to communicate with his Spacecraft counterpart over the headset.  But to make matters even worse, the parent of the child in the Spacecraft was standing outside the glass doors crying, too!  The poor mom was having a terrible time watching her frustrated, teary daughter, knowing that she couldn't intervene and come to her rescue.  I remember thinking, "Great day in the morning.  It's just a simulation!  Your kid is going to have to learn to be independent sometime!  Quit stepping in every time she has to think for herself!"

And now, several years later, here I was in a similar position.  Only this time, I'm the teacher as well as the parent.

Kinley was on the MEDICAL team and began her day in Mission Control.  I usually float back and forth during the day between the two rooms, observing my students and interacting with the parents who are watching from the back of the rooms.  But I had promised Kinley that I would hang out in the room where she was working.  When Commander Santner of the Challenger Center gave the instructions to, "Pick up your manuals and begin," Kinley sat there looking clueless.  She was looking around the room, checking out what everyone else was doing, and chewing her fingers (a habit she gets from her father).

I stared in disbelief.  "You've GOT to be kidding me," I thought.  "What is she DOING?  Why isn't she getting started?  Doesn't she realize that the MEDICAL team in the Spacecraft is waiting to receive instructions from her?  Didn't she hear the instructions from the Mission Commander?  Is she just going to sit there making me look bad all day???"

Half and hour before, when our class first arrived, Commander Santner had taken all of my 10 parent chaperones on a tour of the facility.  She had told them very specifically NOT to intervene during the mission, even if they saw the children struggling.  Learning to make decisions and take action while under stress is a valuable lesson, and at some point during the day, the kids would probably not know what to do.  But Commander Santner assured the parents that with communication and teamwork, the kids would be able to meet their goals and "Return to the Moon".

I knew this, so I knew I couldn't say anything to push Kinley in the right direction.  So I did the natural, logical thing and started sending mental vibes across the room.  "Pick up the manual.  Pick up the manual.  PICK UP THE STINKING MANUAL!!!"

Nothing.  Just more daydreaming and finger chewing.

So then I tried the "Teacher Proximity/Parent Evil Eye" combo.  Maybe if I stood near her and glared, she'd figure out that she needed to be taking this more seriously.

Instead, she smiled at me and waved wildly. 

Finally, Commander Santner noticed that the MEDICAL team wasn't yet illuminated on the mission status board, indicating that no action had yet been taken by the MED officer in Mission Control.  As she walked toward Kinley to help her get with the program, I decided I should probably spend the rest of the morning in the Spacecraft, far removed from my daughter's cluelessness.

In the end, Kinley finally instructed the MED team in the Spacecraft to begin scanning each officer's "radiation exposure badges" and then to begin "visual response tests."  She finished her shift in Mission Control and then got to work a shift in the Spacecraft (while I retreated to Mission Control). 

Our "Return to the Moon" ended in success.

But the next time I take my class, I'll have much more sympathy for the teary mom outside the clean room.

                                          Comander Santner intervenes after my "Vibe-Sending"
                                           and "Teacher Proximity/Parent Evil Eye" attempts fail.

                                          Kinley and her classmates enter the Spacecraft through
                                          the airlock.

                                          Commander Krebs helps Kinley figure out what she's
                                          supposed to be doing in the Spacecraft (and later gives
                                          me the you've-got-to-let-her-figure-it-out-on-her-own
                                          speech.)  I LOVE this woman!

                                          Kinley checks the COM officer's radiation exposure
                                          in the Spacecraft.

                                      The class debriefs after a successful "Return to the Moon."

"Am I your favorite student?"

Last night as I was making dinner, Kinley was sitting at the kitchen counter.  As I was stuffing basil (homegrown!) under the skin of the chicken (local, organic from Thistle Byre Farm!), Kinley asked, "Mom, am I your favorite student?"

Oh dear.  I had already spent countless hours preparing my answer to this question for wary fellow parents who might be concerned that I would cut Kinley an undue amount of slack in the classroom or offer her extra homework help after school.  (My first line of defense, by the way, is to share this blog!)  I hadn't even thought about the possibility that SHE might be the first to ask this question at all!

Other potential questions, however, I was prepared to handle.

Her:  "What's going to be on the economics test tomorrow?"
Me:  "Check your notes."

Her:  "Why are you so much harder on me?"
Me:  "I know that you know the rules and have the capacity to follow them.  Plus, I expect you to be an example to others."

Her:  "What did Maddie make on her test?"
Me:  "None of your beeswax."

But this one?  Geesh.

As the long silence that blanketed our kitchen grew even thicker, I thought about our first 19 days of school.  I thought about how she'd already cried in class three times.  About how she had been so goofy, so giggly,  so annoyingly nine years old when she made a group presentation for Junior Achievement.  About how when asked at Morning Meeting what she'd do to bring peace to the world, she'd replied, "Marry a President."  About how she got so frustrated when she couldn't immediately figure out how much 100 hundreds is, but then pushed herself on her own after school to figure out 10,000 hundreds.  About how she wrote "I love you, Mom," at the top of her spelling paper.  About how her favorite mornings are Tuesdays and Thursdays because she gets to ride to school with me.

And I turned to her and said, "Yes, Kinley.  Yes you are."

Meet the Teacher Night at Mayflower Mill Elementary

Tonight was "Meet the Teacher Night" at my daughter's school, but it certainly wasn't the first time she had met her teacher.  Of the 24 students in her 4th/5th combined class, she is the only one who has known the teacher since the moment of her birth.  Her teacher is me.  Her mother.

When I found out in June of 2009 that Kinley had been accepted into the 2nd/3rd Gifted and Talented class, I was a little stunned.  She hadn't been accepted at the end of 1st grade, and then, at the end of 2nd grade, she was scheduled to be in a regular 3rd grade class.  When the call came informing me that she had been moved into the GT class, I didn't know how to react.  I had already made my peace with her placement and had decided that God knew best.  And now, I was not only going to have to face the changes of having a child in an accelerated class, but I was going to have to prepare to be her teacher for the two years following 3rd grade since there is only one 4/5 GT class at our school.  And I teach it.

I quickly started thinking of options.  A)  We could decline.  Her 2nd grade year had been great, and I was confident in the skills of the teachers in the regular classrooms at Mayflower.  B)  We could accept but move her to the GT class at another elementary in our school corporation.  C)  I could move to teach another GT class at another school in our corporation.  D)  We could *gulp* accept, and I could be her teacher for 4th and 5th grades.

After much reassurance by my principal, we went with option D.  I immediately began asking for prayers from my friends, usually accompanied with an eye-roll and lots of sarcasm.  I should have been more sincere.

It wasn't until this summer that I began to pray in earnest for God to guide me through this process.  I know that my dear mother-in-law has been praying for the situation, too, and the results of those prayers have been evident over the last two weeks.

While tonight was the official parent meeting at school, classes actually began last Tuesday.  That was the day that Kinley requested that we take her traditional "first day of school" picture together this year.  I choked back tears as she skipped ahead of me to pose in front of our house with her bookbag.  I was so touched that she would think of marking our first day as teacher/student this way.  As we perfected our pose she whispered, "I am so excited about today, but I'm going to try to act just like every other student."  The tears now refused to be stifled.  Day 1, and I'm already crying.

The first day went really well.  Kinley chose a seat across the room from my desk.  (Actually, she first chose the desk closest to me until I explained that those seats were usually reserved for students who needed my attention most.)  She excitedly shared about her day with her daddy when we got home, and I retold him the highlights from my perspective after she went to bed.

Day 2 started with student presentations.  Each child was to bring in three items --small enough to fit in a lunch sack -- that represent themselves.  Josh had helped Kinley choose her items since I felt strongly that she shouldn't get extra help from her teacher on assignments.  So during her presentation, when she pulled out her items, I was curious to hear her explain how they related to her personality.  When, at the end of her presentation, her classmates began to ask her questions about her world travels, I was so filled with pride to hear her intelligent, well-thought-out answers that I started to CRY!  This was certainly an unexpected consequence!  This year was going to be full of surprises.

So tonight when I made my traditional parent-night speech, I shouldn't have been surprised when my daughter was one of the first to raise her hand with a question.  And afterwards, when her daddy critiqued my spiel (granted, I asked for his opinion), it should have seemed normal.  But it doesn't.  Not yet anyway.