On Living One Life Well

The other day Avery told me should would like to sign up for jazz, gymnastics, soccer, softball, Taekwando, track, Girl Scouts and drama club.  It coincided with some thoughts that have been rolling around in my brain lately.  Thoughts that trouble me, confuse me, excite me, humble me… 

            I could be so many things.  I could live so many places.  I could read so many books.  I could binge watch so many TV series.  But ultimately, we have to make decisions  - and those decisions forge paths.  So many lives to live within this one life that we get.  We like to think of  the world as two side by side roads as described by Frost when really life is more like a road map of LA with more exits and entrances than we can count.  The single path we ultimately walk comes down to decisions that we make.  Some of these decisions are really not as big of a deal as we make them out to be…  Do I paint our room blue or green?  Which new restaurant should I try out this weekend in Columbia?  Sometimes the stakes are higher – like which restaurants do I eat at during my two days in New Orleans?  Which friends do I surround myself with to become the best person I can be?  Do we stay here forever?  In Columbia?  In these jobs?  In this house?            

            I think of past decision points that shaped me.  Do I go to MU or a private college in Chicago?  Do I enroll in the Fellows program?  Do I finish my PhD program?  Do we have a third child?  Which building do I teach at?  Are we savers or spenders?  Where do we send our kids to daycare?  To school?  And then those decision points which change us that we don’t get control over – the move to a new state at age 12…  the jobs I got and didn’t get…  the boy I gave my number to who did call the next day…   Every day decisions are made about us and around us that also steer us – decisions that happen to us. 

            Sometimes I feel like I am walking around in this big choose your own adventure book – but instead of 150 pages there is an infinite number of pages and paths.  And we can’t really go back and see what would have happened if we turned to page 29 instead of 42.  Sometimes I get overwhelmed by what any given decision prohibits.  My regret is never for the past but for potentially unrealized futures.  Sometimes I am saddened by the sheer number of experiences I won’t get.  I get angry at myself for the risks I refuse to take.  Even my reading list can make me sad in moments of reflection.  Every new opportunity embraced means millions of opportunities denied.            

            I often think of life as a buffet.  I want to taste as many things as possible during my relatively short time on Earth.  But Avery’s request to do so many activities made me wonder if less experiences really meant richer experiences.  Maybe less decisions and less choice and less doing and less change will make us happier in the long run.  If we are to suck the marrow out of life as Thoreau suggested we might need less on our plate to taste.  Instead of focusing on the forks in the road (or the millions of forks in the road) maybe we should just enjoy the current path beneath our feet.  Perhaps haphazardness is better.  Less control could be more. Turn only when we really feel like turning – and enjoy the adventure when someone else changes our course. 

            So many lives to live within this life and yet only one - better live it well.  

On Being A Mom Who Teaches and a Teacher Who Moms

When I was pregnant with Avery one of my professors looked me in the eye and said, “You will never teach the same way again.  Every child in your room will become someone else’s child to you.”  Since then I have been struck with how teaching shaped my parenting and how parenting shaped my teaching.  I’ve spent too much time trying to decide if I was a better parent or teacher because of my dual roles.  Lately I’ve been realizing that like all things in life, I am not better or worse because of the competing forces that shape me, I just am.  The intricate connectedness of all of our experiences can’t be denied.  However, I do think it worthwhile to share how I am different at home and in the classroom because of my time in each place, and you can decide who suffers and benefits J.  Off the top of my head here are some of the ways teaching has made me the mom I am:

Fearing the Praise Sandwich

I can always tell when a child of mine is about to get a teacher critique.  It always comes with high praise - out of the ordinary tail feather fluffing.  I read it and feel the smile spread across my face only to have it knocked off by the line that inevitably follows.  I find myself saying. “I know this game… just tell me what my kid did wrong.  I promise they’ll get in trouble, and I know you still love them even though they are in trouble.”  Every time I experience the rise and fall I think, “I should have seen that coming.  I got the praise sandwich lesson too during my class on communicating with parents.”  This “knows too much about schooling” phenomenon sneaks into other aspects as well.  Sometimes I pick the kids up from school and they casually mention something like, “We took the STAR test today”  and instead of, “that’s nice honey,”  I say, “oh – what’s your grade level equivalent and percentile rank?”  When they say they have no idea I start wondering what password I have to use to access district wide STAR scores and who might do that for me.  When they tell me so-and-so gets smiley faces at the end of the day I wonder how long the implementation of his behavior plan has been in effect and if it came after a functional behavior analysis.  No wonder teachers sometimes dread having teacher’s kids in class J

Parent Empathy

When I took Avery to her first daycare center (vs. in home) I had to fill out a lengthy health inventory and have it notarized.  The only thing really out of the ordinary was that she was allergic to sunscreen (miraculously she has since mostly outgrown this).  Now, when I say allergic to sunscreen I am not talking about a minor skin irritation due to a slight sensitivity to lotion.  I am talking a full blown head to toe hives outbreak that emerged if she came into contact with the chemical in sunscreens as diagnosed by our best local dermatologist after a summer of trying every sunscreen base on the market.  I made this allergy VERY clear on the piece of paper that had to be NOTARIZED, brought her personal Zinc Oxide to school, and had a conversation with her teachers about using it.  When I came home from work at 6:00 PM just two days into her preschool tenure and saw little red welts all over my precious first born’s skin I could not be held responsible for the words that came out of my mouth.  To this day I thank my lucky stars that the center was closed before Mama Bear saw what they had done to my little girl.  Had I been able to call that evening the conversation would have been very different than it was after a night spent collecting my thoughts so I could be firm but kind as I explained that this could NEVER happen again.  Now when parents barge into the office looking for blood I try to remember those little welts and the week it took them to go away that time. 

On a related note, break room food prepared by PTA volunteers has never tasted so good.  I know the energy that goes into preparing a snack for teachers.  I know that the ingredients are often bought on the way to a softball game and prepped late at night after little ones are all tucked into bed.  I also know that these same crazy nights are sometimes the reason permission slips get lost or homework gets turned in late.  I called a dad once and almost crumpled when he said, “I know I should be more on top of things, but I have three kids in school.”  It was a glimpse into my future reality.  I already suck at just two Friday folders…  I also know what it does to an evening when you have to go back to school for an event.  I try not to judge families who can’t make it happen. 

Dreaded Playdates

It occurred to me this year that my daughters rarely get invited to playdates.  This concerned me for a while until I realized how rarely we facilitate playdates.  I think that with a two teacher home by the time a weekend rolls around the last thing we want to do is have to potentially manage the behavior of anyone else’s child.  When we do have kids over I fear we are the mean parents because we cannot separate expected school behavior from home behavior.  (Sephus and I already find ourselves having to stop ourselves from disciplining children at Bonkers, around the pool on vacation or playing in the streets.)  It just feels like our job to correct any negative behaviors that might eventually lead to trouble in school.  We probably need to do a better job of letting kids be kids on the weekend.  After all, we are very different at home than we are at our “9-5s.”  We find ourselves surrounding ourselves with the children of fellow teachers who are willing to “process” through any situations that arise during play after delivering the appropriate consequence.  My goal is to get better at this so send some friends our way!  (This seems like the appropriate time to mention how much it must suck being the kid of a teacher… “I can see you are having a hard time regulating your emotions right now…  why don’t you sit in that chair until you are ready to speak to me in a voice that sounds like mine.”)    

Desire for Mediation

As a middle school teacher I spend roughly 99.5% of some days dealing with children who are mad at each other.  I always get the whole of the story from child A and then another version from child B.  We then ask them to consider how the other person might frame the story eventually working towards sitting down at a table together to tell those versions face to face with the eventual goal of getting at something resembling the truth and an apology from both sides.  Sometimes friendships can be mended and sometimes we talk about how we have to be kind to everyone though we don’t have to be friends with everyone.  When one of my girls comes home upset with a friend I find myself desperate to sit down with the other child. “What role did you play in this situation?  What role did my child play?  How can we make sure this doesn’t happen again?”  It drives me CRAZY not getting the whole story after hearing stories all day. 

We Don’t Do School at Home (But We Do…)

I always joke that we don’t do school at home.  My positive reason is that I trust the school system to do it’s job.  I know that the K-1 teachers are experts at teaching kids to read.  They have training and curriculum meant to do just that.  Why would I take time out of my day to put flashcards in front of my young reader’s face when there is an entire building dedicated to teaching letters and sounds to her? We will never drill math at home or fill out summer workbooks.  School has a purpose and I expect it will fulfill that purpose.  This is the reason that sounds good, the real reason is probably closer to the fact that “teaching” is the last thing I want to do after 3PM.  That being said, we can’t help but be teachers.  If our child notices that the leaves are turning green they better be ready for a lengthy description of the process of photosynthesis.  If they ask how the president was elected they better be ready to hear about the Electoral College.  I don’t care if they are only four years old… Again, poor teacher’s kids…   

My Loss of Patience/Presence of Love  

Sometimes after a day of other people’s kids not listening to a word I say, the last thing I can handle is my own child not following a simple direction.  Sometimes I unload a day’s worth of frustration on one kid who won’t pick up her shoes after dinner.  I know it’s not fair, but it’s our reality.  After listening to a 7^th grade stumble over word after word in a reading passage it’s hard to stay enthusiastic about a kindergarten reader who doesn’t want any help pronouncing words in Pinkalicious.  When I feel guilty about the energy other people’s kids zap from my own kids, I try to remember that my career is the only reason I know to say, “well what word would make sense there… or do you know any words that start with the Wh sound that would fit in this sentence…  does the picture help you make a guess?”  My training to help other people’s kids inevitably helps my own kids as well.

At the core of all my interactions, with my school kids or my biological kids is a deep and desperate longing for them to be the best people they can possibly be.  I have been moved to tears in these attempts weekly since I had my own children.  My capacity for empathy towards little humans has quadrupled.  The importance of their success has grown immeasurably.  After all, my student’s success shapes my child’s future.     

This post has been rolling around in my head for years.  There is so much more to say on the topic and so much more to learn on it.  But for the sake of maintaining at least a few readers, I’ll quit for now.  I would love to hear how your job has made you the parent you are.

Happy Teacher’s Appreciation Week and Happy Mother’s Day   

On Thinking Back 10 Years

                                              Remembering... 

Though he is old enough to walk, I lift him to rest on my hip so I can feel his spindly legs around me.  His limbs are so thin, and I like how tight they can wrap around my waist.  His arms circle my neck so that his cheek has to rest against mine; his tan skin is so smooth.  My wet ponytail drips on his wrist.  Once we both have a good grip we begin our descent downstairs.  When the summer days get too long or too hot we head here – to our universe.  The lack of windows and the presence of artificial light make this place feel magical - or at least out of the realm of normal space and time.  My mom has taken special care to build this place for us, and we can escape for hours to play contentedly.  The cement walls and floors have been painted what I think is called gunmetal blue.  We head to the square of carpet to the right of the stairs and I place him on his seat.  This carpet marks my place.  One wall it touches is lined with my Holly Hobbie kitchen and the other my dry erase board.  Jason, my older brother, owns the other side filled with Rambo and He-Man toys.  He used to run around like he was Indiana Jones, and when he got hungry, he would stop off at my kitchen for dinner, but Jason is ten now and spends most days with the other neighborhood boys.  I think for a minute how lucky I am to be in the middle so I can touch both of them.   Jason, Danielle and Jon.  We are linked like a chain.  But this summer, it is Jon and I who fill the space between swimming and dinner in the calm, cool of this basement.  Always a pleaser, he lets me pick again.  We play school, of course, and I can only think to show him the math I have just been taught.  So at four he laughs while learning his times tables and some division.  He runs to the dry erase board, scribbles the answer almost without thinking, and turns to flash his characteristic smile.  I am proud of how smart he is and take the credit. 

********

            The first thing I notice is the smell.  I have been in several hospitals over the last three years, but none have smelled like this.  It can hardly be described.  The best I can do is say it smells new, fake and like plastic – maybe like when you open a new inner-tube though this time no joy accompanies this scent.  Sometimes, in between visits, I catch a whiff of this thing in the air, and I wonder where it comes from.  Can the nose recreate a sensation like eyes can envision a memory?  When I am teaching, and find peace for a moment, the smell will come again, and my heart is back in the ICU waiting for visiting hours so my body can join.

            There is much plastic in this room, and it is constantly new, all to fight infection, one of several things that threaten his life.  Synthetic skin covers his legs and back, sections of his arm and face.  Two plastic bags hang between his legs because his body cannot handle the simplest of functions.  I wash my hands, put on plastic gloves, and wrap a yellow, also plastic, gown around the front of my body.  It ties at the neck.  A new gown for every visitor, each time they go in, and the nurses say they have had a lot more wash to do since Jon came to stay.

            The next thing I notice is the noise.  A million machines beep and signal to the nurses that my little brother needs their attention.  Our first week here I have not yet learned what all the sounds mean and can be easily alarmed by something as simple as bottle of liquid in his feeding tube needing to be changed.  I learn to check the machines before I really look at him.  To the right of his bed is the respirator.  It measures every breath he is given.  One pause in the normal pattern they have created for him and the machine will ring out like a game in an arcade.  The rooms that surround him send out the same tune, and they come together to form some sort of sick symphony.  No rooms seem to make as much noise as his though, and we soon know he is in worse condition than most they see here. 

            The right also holds the bottle of food that will nourish him for many weeks.  It requires a tube that goes into his nose and through his stomach.  I think of how he would just die if he knew they were injecting him with 5,000 calories a day after all the work he did to get thin again. 

            The left of the bed is a jungle of wires and wheeled machines, each feeding him a different medicine.  Above those wires is the TV screen that delivers information to the nurses and keeps my dad awake all night.  Suddenly I can know my brother’s blood oxygen level, pulse, blood pressure and temperature every second of the day.  I whip out my cell phone and start calculating – what does 39.4 degrees Celsius mean?  103 degrees.  I am worried.  Temperature is a sign of infection.  The nurses tell us he is fine.  They don’t worry until 106.  Calm down, they say.  It isn’t my job to watch the machines.  Just visit with him.

            The temperature in the room is overwhelming.  A heat lamp lies above his bed because the loss of skin on 66% of his body keeps him from regulating his own temperature.  He sweats and then he shivers.  They wrap him in cool blankets and then lower the heat lamp, back and forth, trying to find the perfect balance. 

            I walk close to him.  His eyes are sealed shut with yellow salve.  He is wrapped almost head to toe like a mummy.  But it’s him.  His breathing sounds like it did when we used to fall asleep together in my bed.  If I didn’t stop him he would keep me up all night, so I would always promise him a quarter if he could make it to the morning without talking before I did.  I lean down close to him to whisper.

  Guess what Jon.  You’re winning.          

********

We sit in a dark bar near campus with antique and varied chairs.  A strange crew has joined together just before closing time, but Jon could talk to anyone.  At this point, he is sitting near two girls I work with, flirting in his own special way.  They shower him with attention, partially because he is so charming and partially because his little brother status makes him safe and easy.  One of my friends thinks it will be funny to read his tarot cards.  We do this every so often when we have been drinking, and we figure it’s worth a good laugh.  Jon volunteers to go first.  She lays the cards out by the candles on the round tables.  I have never been here before, and there is something surreal about the lighting and eclectic crowd that has gathered.  The first and second line of cards are typical and make sense.  Jon’s learns what he wants to do in life won’t earn him any money, and he is going to be creatively unfulfilled – makes sense for this musician soon to be turned engineer.  Then the last row… “I don’t even want to read these to you.  Tarot cards are stupid.” 

“Aww… just tell me.”

“Okay – but really – these things are fake and people can get really hung up on them.”

 She hesitates… “This is like the worst card you can get – it says death or destruction is coming for you and people your age.” 

“Oh… thanks a lot.  Way to brighten my day.”  Jon laughs it off as my family has been taught to do.  “Who wants another beer?”

Later Jon goes off by himself to sit at a yellow, arch backed, short chair by a tiny table with a lamp on it.  I decide to go join him. 

“That kind of messed with my head.”

“Yeah – me too.”

“Maybe it’s not such a big deal – like maybe it’s just that they’re going to start the draft again.  That would definitely suck but not on such a personal level.”

“Yeah, but you graduate in 7 weeks.  You could be drafted,” I tease.

We laugh at the thought of Jon working for President Bush.  We try to top each other with amusing possibilities for the doom he is in store for and then we join the rest of our party at the large table.  We blend in with the carefree crowd, but I know it will take both of us a little longer to fall asleep tonight.   

*********

My parents told me he started walking, but I haven’t been able to see it yet, so I am really excited that it’s Saturday, and I do not have to go to school.  I have a friend with me, and we walk down the hallway preparing to meet him.  His professor, Dr. WU, who shows up more often that you would expect, is gripping onto to his 18 month old to keep him from running around.  Together we wait to witness Jon’s first steps. 

We are gathered in the hallway that is normally off limit to visitors.  It connects the ICU to the rooms of torture especially reserved for burn patients.  The end of the hallway houses the chlorine baths where Jon spends most of his mornings.  In here they slough away his dead skin so new skin can grow through.  I think the reward of learning to walk will be bringing himself into this hell instead of being wheeled in.  Heavy doors separate the patients and nurses from the fans and spectators.  A loud swish- and the doors open automatically revealing Jon twenty yards away.

I am not prepared for the sight.  I cannot help but think of the scene in Silence of the Lambs where Hannibal is being transported on an upright stretcher with a mask around his face.  Many people are involved to orchestrate this walk.  A nurse is needed to hold the leather belt that has been cinched around his waist in case he falls.  Another carries the portable green oxygen tank that is attached to a breathing mask that goes over his tracheotomy.  Someone else pushes the cart full of plastic bags filling his body with morphine, fluid, antibiotics and other substances he cannot live without.  He leans his weight on a walker.  His face is so perfectly round from the fluids that he looks unreal.  His skin is tight and smooth as though he has been inflated like a water balloon just at capacity.  Tones of green and yellow accompanied with dark under eye circles give an aura of sickness – and he looks wonderful. 

No one can peer into this moment and be unmoved.  One nurse yells that the professor has a baby back here, but he won’t move.  Tears fill his eyes as he yells, “Hi Jon!”   Jon shuffles ever so slowly, and as he approaches us the nurses tell him he can stop if he wants.  He shakes his head no and whispers further.  As we are inches away the corners of his mouth begin to curl  – and slowly, ever so slowly, he begins to smile.   

On the Single Best Way to Parent...

            I am kind of embarrassed to share this on such a public forum…  I am afraid you will be shocked I could have committed the act I am about to describe.  I hardly remember the me that did this, but I did…  and yesterday the memory of it flashed before my eyes in vivid clarity.  I once bit a button off our green velvet recliner and spit it at my dad (well really just tried to because although I could unlodge the string that tied the button to the couch the string and button still remained attached to some innards I could not see).  It was in a fit of total 7^th grade rage and hysterics.  I recalled this memory while watching a beloved colleague’s escalating argument with her typically angelic daughter unfold before my eyes (well really ears because it happened on the phone).  Seeing her daughter yell over a t-shirt gave me a glimpse into my future but also to my past.  The recollection of said button incident brought me an intense sense of internal peace as I realized that act did not make me stop loving my dad – nor him me.  In fact, to this day he remains one of my favorite people in the world despite committing atrocities such as not letting me spend the night at a boy/girl party when I was an 11^th grader.  That decision led to me lying across his back seat and crying passionately for the 20 minutes it took him to drive me to Imo’s as my consolation only to have me refuse to enter the restaurant.  Somehow I forgave him for denying my pleas to activate the pager my crush gave me to use if my dad would just get me a service plan.  This inner peace yesterday left me ready to confidently enter the teen years with my daughters - the years when I start ruining their life on a regular basis instead of just occasionally.  I hope to remember that no matter the fight how I love my children so much and that they love me no matter what comes out of our mouths… literally L 

            Many people think of dads as protectors in the papa bear sense.  They think of dads who can fix anything that breaks with the right tool or dads who will sit on porches with shot guns to scare away robbers and boys or anything else that might threaten the family.  Any walk through the card store will show you what the love of a father is “supposed” to look and feel like.  As I have aged I realize the protection I feel from my father is a much softer protection.  It is more like a soft invisible shield that has blanketed me in every action and every aspect of my life as I have walked this Earth.  It is the protection that comes from knowing truly unconditional love and total adoration.  It is his pride in me that became my pride in myself and allowed me to always walk with my head high, to speak my mind and to take risks. 

When I was in tenth grade my teacher asked me to bring some paperwork home to my dad.  I forgot to.  Organization was never my strong suit.  This forgetfulness led to a rare phone call home.  The teacher reported that my dad said he was disappointed in me.  I came home and let my dad have it because I felt like my teacher was like my boss and I would never berate my dad to his boss.  My dad became very upset with the teacher’s relay of their conversation.  He explained that although I should have brought those papers home that he did not and never would use the word disappointed to describe any of his children.  This was a very conscious decision he had made and committed to that I had never known about, but it made sense.  It described why I was so taken aback when I thought he had used the word. 

Of all the emotions my dad has conveyed to us over the years (and if you know him you know there have been a lot) disappointment was never one of them.  His love is total.  His acceptance is total.  His adoration is total.  I never had to doubt that.  I never will.  I consider it the greatest parenting he ever gave us.  It’s so simple really.  It’s should be so easy and yet it can be so hard.  When little versions of you walk around it can be so easy to see their imperfections because it’s a self-critique at its source.  But if we can learn to love ourselves completely and our children accordingly that can be the greatest gift we can give.  That will be the parenting decision that matters more than any other.  It will help us survive the words and objects that fly during the most tumultuous days of adolescence.  

On Being Thankful - A Poem of Thanksgiving inspired by Karen Hesse

I just finished reading Out of the Dust by Karen Hesse with my middle school students.  If you have not yet read it, do yourself a favor and check it out over break.  It is written for young adults but I find so much wisdom in it about hope and perseverance.  I read it for the first time 15 years ago before really having had to persevere much and loved it then.  Now I love it even more and still cry at the end (even after reading it with kids for the 5th class period in a row.)  Near the end of the book the main character shares a poem of Thanksgiving called Thanksgiving List.  Using her model, I decided to write my own to remind myself how lucky I am in the hustle, bustle and stress of the most wonderful time of the year:

Thanksgiving List by Danielle Johnson

  

Baby skin, the laughter of girls, the bell

ringing,

the smell of lemongrass

and freshly baked cookies,

co-workers like family, the flowers picked by little hands,

sun shining on the sand,

the ocean so

massive, so full of

peace and adventure,

the faces on cards

that fill our mailbox.

Seph’s strength,

and his loyalty,

and his patience.

Brothers.

Shelter when it snows,

parents loving me like I’m still a child,

needing protection and spoiling,

the rare days when I get eight hours of uninterrupted sleep,

the heartfelt notes from will be teachers so thankful and full of promise,

the sound of breathing,

my car (or house or desk) staying clean

for more than one day,

the smell of cold,

of wide awake,

of calm returning to our evenings.

The walk I hope

to take across the stage this spring,

the students with so much energy, so full of life

my friends

of understanding, of full social calendars, of companionship.

And the daughters at the center, my lessons, my heart

My shout into the future

My tribute to my past. 

And because I think it would be super fun to read all of your lists, I will potentially break all copyright laws and share the original as a model.  Send me yours if you are so inclined:) 

Thanksgiving List from

Out of the Dust by Karen Hesse

Prairie birds, the whistle of gophers, the wind

blowing,

the smell of grass

and spicy earth,

friends like Mad Dog, the cattle down in the river,

water washing over hooves,

the sky so

big, so full of

shifting clouds,

the cloud shadows creeping

over the fields,

Daddy’s Smile,

and his laugh,

and his songs,

Louise,

food without dust,

Daddy seeing to Ma’s piano,

newly cleaned and tuned,

the days when my hands don’t hurt at all,

the thank-you note from Lucille in Moline, Kansas,

the sound of rain,

Daddy’s hole staying full of water

as the windmill turns,

the smell of green,

of damp earth,

of hope returning to our farm.

The poppies set to

bloom on Ma and Franklin’s grave,

the morning with the whole day waiting, full of promise,

the night

of quiet, of no expectation, of rest.

And the certainty of home, the one I live in,

and the one

that lives in me.   

On Growing Up Instead of Old

I turned 36 this past September.  It didn't bother me.  Getting older never really has, but it's getting harder to deny that I officially have entered adulthood.  And in adulthood time seems to spend itself exponentially faster.  

I thought about this last week while staring at a co-worker at a district meeting.  This coworker turns 40 this year. His first year was my first year.  Our children are less than 4 months apart and currently 2nd grade classmates.  Ten years ago I helped throw his 30th birthday.  Two weeks ago we started plans for his 40^th.  When I first met him he still wore a large gold band on his finger, and I hadn’t even met my would be husband. As I stared at his hair peppered with increasingly more gray I felt like I was looking at a mirror. I began questioning my comfort with aging. 

            Then I stared around the room.  Catty corner from me were two teachers I once mentored who went on to become teachers of the year.  A few tables over were teachers I knew first as students.  Downstairs was a colleague I adopted when he was new to Oakland who now sits in an office that makes him my boss.  At my table were people who I watched become wives and then mothers.  There were people who sent kids off to college who once walked the halls of our junior high.  There were people who knew the pain of divorce and the comfort of healing. 

            I thought about what these same people had watched me go through.  They made me laugh after my miscarriage.  They cleaned for me when I lost my mother-in-law.  They brought food to the hospital so we could eat during our ICU vigil.  They filled my fridge when I brought new babies home.  They covered for me so I could pursue new degrees.  As I stared at these people two thoughts came to mind.  First, if you love, truly love the people you work with like they are family then you know the blessing my work community is to me.  Second, there was no denying it.  I wasn’t as young as I was when I first met these people.  Then I started to wonder if this bothers me. 

            It occurred to me after brief reflection that these people I was surrounded by have watched me grow up.  And I have watched them grow up.  They saw me go from someone who constantly worried about what people thought to someone who knew that you can’t blossom without getting in a few people’s way.  They saw me go from someone who loved a good story to someone who understood which secrets really are.  They saw me go from someone always on the defense to someone who could step back and see the role I played in conflict.  They saw me try to become someone who talks less and listens more.  They saw me grow up not grow old.  I think I can live with growing older because growing older really means growing up continuously if you see the lessons around every corner and the richness life has constantly in store for those who embrace it.  Up is a word with inherently positive connotation – old is not.  I hope those I surround myself with will keep helping me grow up. 

            This reflection came full circle for me last night when a college professor of mine shared a memoir written by Dr. Lucy Stanovick as she battled cancer.  He read a paragraph out loud, and I heard her voice.  (Writing is a gift.)  I wanted so desperately to talk to her.  She was a true coach to me.  We could sit face to face and share teaching struggles, and she heard me without judging or fixing.  She put her struggles out there for me as well.  I remember sitting with her for hours outside of Val Garton’s house while we watched her daughter as Val underwent cancer surgery years before Lucy knew she would follow a similar fate.  These two women played such a role in making me the adult I am today.  I miss them.  As I laid in bed I realized that I get to be them now for many new teachers.  This is a blessing, but it doesn’t make me stop needing them or people like them.  We can’t grow up without people who ask the right questions, offer the right amount of pause, and who love us fiercely.  I want to continue my upward journey in the trip called life by making sure I get as much as I give from those I encounter.  This requires a childlike need of others.  This requires admittance that we can learn from anyone because we don't know everything yet.  We simply aren’t old enough to.  If all goes well, 36 isn’t even a half point.  I’m not old at all, and I have a lot of growing up left to do.