We were building a story. I say we, but the second graders were doing the heavy lifting. I will never tire of building stories with kids. Did you know they have the best ideas?
Our character was an ice cream cone, and he was having trouble. He kept melting in the summer! What he wanted most in the world was to be an Olympic swimmer, and he knew he had to find a vacation place somewhere on an iceberg so he could practice swimming without melting.
So good, right?
Things weren’t going very well for sprinkles — that was his name — sprinkles. First he forgot his plane ticket and luggage, then his flight was delayed. On the plane he ran into his arch -nemesis, Hot Chocolate and while he was running away, part of his cone broke off.
I’m telling you these details, not so you can steal this idea from the 2nd-graders and make millions of dollars in the picture book industry, but so you can understand why I was so excited about the kids’ ideas.
For each element of the story, kids turned and talked, and then we took a few ideas, and I picked one to go in the story. Or sometimes the ideas were all so good so we combined them all together. (Now the part where Sprinkles needs a vacation to an iceberg to practice swimming might make a little more sense to you.)
Each time I took ideas from the class, I would exclaim how it was, “so good!”
And it wasn’t a lie, or even a stretch. These ideas were so very good.
Maybe I should take the idea and make millions of dollars in the picture book industry. (No joke, I would love to publish an anthology of all the books classes have written. They are so good. So. Good.)
One second-grader was thrilled that his idea was picked for the class story. He was so excited, he interrupted my next sentence to point at himself, and raise his eyebrows very high.
“That great idea was from the birthday boy. Me.” He said.
“Well, that’s great!” I said, “Thank you.”
I started to go to the next part of our story.
“Well, aren’t you going to wish me a happy birthday?” He asked me, incredulous that I missed that part of the exchange. Of course I did, right away!
Finally we continued building our Sprinkles story, and I sent the kids off to make their own ending. But I was left thinking about that boy and his unabashed plea for celebration.
What would happen if we took a little of that energy and took it out for ourselves whenever we need to be celebrated?
Seems like a pretty good way to build your own story.
My holiday is over Pushing snooze Just makes me a loser It doesn’t make the clock stop
My daughter is insisting on leaving So cruel- She’s going back to stupid school Whatever, I’m proud but allowed to miss her already Damnit
The shade in my family room hates me I guarantee – it sticks every time I try to close it I hate it too So there
I couldn’t figure out who would be knocking so late and so weirdly at my door But it was my ice maker finally making ice cubes after all these years! or actually just one tiny sliver of ice then no more shocking.
The dog barked loudly for so long Now I don’t know if a car parked someone walked by a deer ran through my yard or a serial killer snuck up He’s probably still waiting for me Crouched nearby
A second grader took a break from working on his Top Ten Memories in writing the other day. He walked over to me to tell me about the time his dog ate chocolate with raisins. His eyes like saucers as he was telling me this important story. I shook my head with concern – scrunching my face with worry.
“She’s still alive though,” he reassured me.
“Phew!”
I asked him how his writing was going – seeing he only had a handful of memories written so far.
He smiled wide.
“I have a few written down. Now, all I gotta do, is —finish!” He said, walking back to his notebook that was waiting for him on the rug.
I’ve decided that is my new writing slogan: Now, all I gotta do, is —finish!
The slice I hadn’t started? Now, all I gotta do is finish. The sample writing I have almost ready to send out? Now, all I gotta do is finish. My book, started in small pieces? Now, all I gotta do is finish.
Actually, this slogan can work for all of life, I think.
The present wrapping that I haven’t started? Now, all I gotta do is finish. My laundry sitting in the washer for the past couple hours? Now, all I gotta do is finish. In the beginning stages of healing from betrayal? Now, all I gotta do is finish.
A Christmas tree is not just a Christmas tree It’s all the Christmas trees
It’s my childhood trees — A blur of colored lights favorite ornaments that spark imagination
It’s that one time my parents got a short tree a short tree! and put it on a table I was heartbroken
A Christmas tree is my grandma’s trees always in the same corner of her big house wrapped with big lights as we all gathered well before we all scattered
It’s my dance class trees- full of magical ornaments We’d take turns dance up to the tree, choose an ornament to dance as the ballerina was easy, but have you ever danced like a candy cane would dance? those ornaments, that tree, that studio, that teacher — those memories live in a tainted haze now this tends to happen when 35 years later your dance teacher’s daughter has an affair with your husband Still. I do love the memory of that last dance class before Christmas
It’s been awhile since I’ve danced as an ornament – but I’ve unpacked them a lot in a flood of memories Mostly good —
Last year I packed away the 2 snow people in a hot cocoa packet from the year I was married But I still thought about it when we decorated this year
Lights make the tree anyway Like clothes make the man Lights and memories
A Christmas tree is little kids clip, clip, clipping the tree wrapping off branches falling the brittle Christmas tree poking us as we spun lights off and needles covered our 100 year-old wood floors bare branches by the curb shoving a tree out the window Well past January My youngest sobbing, screaming, “I want Christmas! It’s not over!” Heartbroken
My tree is artificial now pre-lit pieces snapped together by teenagers The bottom lights broken by the new kitten But it shines like all the trees
I sit by the tree in the soft glow of all the Christmas trees, lights, ornaments, memories and the thoughts of heartbreak too
After a doctor’s appointment, you stop for a little treat. A drink, lunch to bring back to school, something.
I don’t know if you have this tradition, or where this tradition started. I do know that when I was little, I’d always get grape gum after the doctor — the kind that has some sort of grape flavored juice that gushes out when you chew the gum.
So today after his appointment, I took my youngest to grab a snack. Dr. Pepper Zero Sugar was the choice drink. Now this makes so much more sense, I think. Doctor appointment equals Dr. Pepper!
Apparently, according to my almost 13-year-old, Dr. Pepper Zero Sugar is the best Dr. Pepper there is. I’m not sure John Green agrees, but I’ll let the opinion stand.
As we walked out of the store, I realized that we could have easily picked up a drink for my older son as well. I had told him we couldn’t when I dropped him off at school this morning, but why?
“I feel bad!” I said to E. “It would have been easy to grab an extra bottle of Dr. Pepper for your brother.”
E and I quickly discussed — the line was long now, and we really needed to get back to school.
“It’s okay,” we both said to each other as we crossed the parking lot. We reminded ourselves that it’s the person who has to go to the doctor’s appointment who gets the special treat. It was fine.
E said, “It’s just our empathy talking. It’s actually okay to not get him one.”
“Plus,” I added, “It’s not our job to make other people happy.”
E looked at me, raised his eyebrows and said, “Well, you might have taken it a little too far there.”
I had to try to explain. “It’s true. It’s not our job to take care of other people. (Aside from how I take care of you and your brother and your sister. That actually is my job.)”
I think I got a sigh from him as we got into the car.
It’s hard to explain this concept to your child, who it actually is your job to take care of!
But, maybe teaching it to my kids will help me get it straight in my own empathetic soul.
It’s not my job to make you happy. It’s not my job to take care of you. My needs are just as important as yours.
Say it with me, friends.
It’s not my job to make you happy. It’s not my job to take care of you. My needs are just as important as yours.
Snow falls outside of classroom windows Kids yell, “Snow!” Teachers say, “Yep. It’s snowing.” “Does snow have anything to do with math?”
My classroom didn’t have windows Can you believe it? Somehow we always knew when there was snow Somehow kids still yelled, “Snow!” Did they sense it through the tiny window in our door? Did they hear the snow silence outside?
Now it must be that soft blanketing (definitely not just the forecasted dusting) Or the sound of boots squeaking down the hall That transports me to All my classroom winters The snows of classrooms’ past. . . The good old days
For a minute I wonder If I wander the halls Could I find a class to interrupt? We could write snow poems on paper snowflakes as the snow falls outside of classroom windows
You know when you go vote but since you lost your mail-in-ballot you need a provisional one?
No? Well, you definitely have your life more together than me.
The polling place was pretty slow when I went, which sucks — but also, it made it less embarrassing that I had to keep walking back and forth in front of all the poll-workers as they got me situated with the provisional ballot.
You know how you feel old when the poll worker says, “It’s been steady, but we need some young people to come in here.”
I said, “Wait. Don’t I count?” And I laughed at my own expense as she told me “If you’re under 35 you do!”
They really make you work for those provisional ballots. I feel like I wrote my address down like 16 times.
Fine, it was two. Two times.
As I finished voting the poll worker said, “Oh! Ona! I know your mom. I worked with her on campus years ago.”
Cool connection.
“Your mom is a very eclectic person,” she added. “And her sister! The artist. I bet you’re just like them.”
I mean she isn’t wrong.
You know how you feel young when poll worker says, “Actually, I babysat you once!”
I can’t remember the last time anyone babysat me. . . So I guess that actually also makes me feel old. But also young?
Voting is cool, and everyone should do it. But my favorite part of it all was when the poll worker looked at me and added, “you were a really cool kid to babysit.”
So there. You are hearing it here first. If nothing else, I was a really cool kid to babysit.
The boys are home early from their dad’s. Thats not the surprise. Neither is their wrestling that starts almost immediately.
It’s a little surprising that they stop when I ask them to, but they also start right up again in the kitchen this time.
I am a little startled to hear the shattering of a wine glass in the sink. But I do live with two teenage boys, and I do enjoy a glass of wine some nights.
Some nights.
We stare at each other for a bit. The silence a few beats longer than usual as I collect my thoughts, take deep breaths and implore them with my eyes to stop the fooling around. No, I’m not exactly sure what parenting technique this is. But it’s been a long week and it’s only Tuesday so it’s all I got, I guess.
“Your shenanigans has got to stop!” I say sternly as I pick up the shards of glass. I mean, what would you say? Plus, I love that word. Shenanigans. I keep going as I start to clean up the shards of glass. “Please unload the dishwasher.”
For some reason this daily request is always a surprise to them. A shock actually. They look at me with utter disappointment.
“I liked it better when you weren’t talking,” A teenager says.
Someone picks up a Halloween cup from the counter refill their water, and is about to take a drink when I realize I hear something in their glass.
“I thought that was ice,” he says. “I almost gulped down that broken glass.”
Suddenly I notice that our new faucet is leaking from right above the nozzle
So weird.
We try to tighten it, but we loosen it instead so the hose gets sucked all the way into the faucet and disappears.
Surprise!
E feels bad and wants to fix it. I want to call the plumber. Well, really I want to call my dad, but he’s out of town and very busy. I think briefly about how I’m supposed to YouTube things like this. That’s what strong single moms do these days, you know.
But in a rare moment of clarity, I realize that I don’t have the brain space to start plumbing projects.
I call the plumber and as it rings and rings, H comes in the kitchen, opens the cabinet under the sink.
“Please don’t mess with it,” I say, imagining two teenagers unscrewing pipes and water shooting out everywhere.
Of course, the plumber doesn’t pick up so I leave a voicemail, struggling to figure out how to explain the situation. What are the real words for this nozzle and this hose, and the long part of the fixture?
“So my faucet was leaking and I tried to tighten it but the hose just…” I get out. Then the hose is pushed up into the faucet, and it just hangs there.
“Actually, my son just got it while I was explaining this. So, um. . . If it doesn’t work, I’ll call you back! Goodbye!”
H looks at me and sighs. “That’s why you don’t call someone before you ask me to fix it, mom.”
And, he’s not wrong. Lessons learned, right?
Ask for the help around you, trust your kids, and always — I mean always make sure you have more than one wine glass.
When I walk into second-grade, I’m happy to see that the guest teacher is not only one I know and love, but one I used to request when I was a classroom teacher. I had hoped it would be her!
“My dream has come true! It’s you!” I tell her.
“Ms. Gabriel! You’re here!” A girl says with a big smile, and I feel loved. Then she adds, “I knew it would be close to recess when you got here!”
The students clean up from reading and join me on the carpet for some phonics routines.
I’m not lying when I remind the class that I am just learning phonics, and the routines too. I mean, you should see how many times I have to text one of the other Instructional Coaches about this stuff.
Is gi_ the same as gi without the line after it? Sounds like Jump? How do I know what the spelling focus is for each word in the spelling focus routine?
I make sticky notes to myself at the bottom of pages to remind myself of the sounds for the sound spelling review, because my brain has just never worked this way.
When I started teaching, decades ago, I used to have to ask my lovely para to remind me about long vowels vs. short.
So basically the fact that I can now do any of this is a miracle.
Why does the spelling card for ring say that “ng” can be spelled with _n_? The substitute teacher and I quickly discuss. Isn’t it always a short vowel, n, then a g or k?
Stamp is an interesting word to blend. You really have to dig into vowel sounds with that one.
The second-graders are wonderful though. Great critics. I’ve asked them to rate me at the end of each routine: Thumbs up, thumbs sideways, thumbs down.
They give me way more thumbs up than I deserve. But, I’ll take it
Before we started I told them I found stickers while I cleaned out my basement this weekend. I wasn’t sure they’d care. But, wow. Second-graders really love stickers. I don’t know why I had forgotten that. . .
“What do you think you need to do to earn a sticker?” I asked them, knowing full well there was no way I wasn’t going to give them all a sticker.
“Be good?” One of them said.
“Well, you are all good!” I said
“Pay attention!” Someone offered
“Participate!” Another student said.
“Those are all great ideas,” I told them. “But really there’s one big thing. You are going to have to have to help me practice these phonics routines!”
They were all in for that, especially the one student sitting right in front. Last week when I came in to do these routines for the first time, he said to me, “I’m going to be a phonics teacher one day.”
This time he sneaks it in again. In between a routine, after a thumbs up check, I tell them they are the ones that really deserved the double thumbs up for such amazing reading. I hear him, very quietly say, “Yea. I’m ready to be a phonics professor.”
At some point I ask the students how they got so good at this.
“We’ve been doing it for three years!” They say, like they are some sort of commercial for a vertical articulated curriculum.
We finish the routines, (something I always feel like I deserve a sticker for, to be honest!) so it’s sticker time!
They chose without argument, taking turns.
They sweetly ask if they can put their stickers on their hand, their backpack, their lunchbox, their chrome book, their water bottle.
I advise them that paper would be the best place, or on a notebook – because they might fall off otherwise.
The guest teacher says, “Ms. Gabriel’s been doing this a long time. I’d take her advice.”
One of the last kids to choose a sticker asks if he can take the little sticker on the side of sticker sheet – a tiny rectangle with, I don’t know, the item number printed on it.
“Sure…” I say.
“Does this count as a sticker?” He asks.
“If you want it to,” I say.
“Okay!” He says and walks away with that teeny tiny rectangle.
The class is outside, and if you walked by the classroom you would hear me and the guest teacher sounding out words, discussing why it’s so hard to sound out anything that has an an or am.
On a Thought 