Here I go with my first Slice of Life blog post. It’s funny because I consider myself a storyteller, and I’m a blogger, so this shouldn’t be hard. But. I find I’m daunted.  I just read a funny blog.  Well written, perfectly modulated in tone and length.  And it was funny.  

My story is supposed to be funny. Just to give you context and a goal.  

We have two cats: a male (10 years old) and a female (4+ years old).  They have a very unique relationship.  When we first got Thea (pronounced Tia), Cecil was an excellent big brother, and he protected her from the wrath of our alpha female Scout (who we sadly had to put down over a year ago).  He protected her, and he taught her the lay of the land.  He showed her where the treats were; he showed her how to let us know if we let the food or water bowls go unfilled for too long.  In case you’re interested, the technique is to rub up against us, meow, and then make us follow them to the bowls.  

The best thing he showed her though, was the basket of toys.  He would go to the basket of cat toys and pull one out, play with it, then make sure he left it for her.  He would bring her toys until he saw her play with them.  

Cats are nocturnal, and I have long thought that we had the noisiest cats ever.  I’ve been assured that there are a lot of noisy cats (my insomniac friend Kris has told me some funny stories about not being able to sleep at her friends’ house because of the antics of the cats).  So, one night the cats were making a racket like I’d never heard before.  Both my husband and I kept waking up.  We never got up to see what they were up to.  We just kept dozing back to sleep.  The next morning, we saw what the racket was about.  

Every single cat toy was out of the basket and strewn about the entire main floor of our house.  The basket was on its side, rolled far from its spot on the hearth.  Backstory here:  we have no kids.  

We have cats.  

The cats have a lot of toys.  

Literally, every cat toy had been played with.  Every single toy was strewn about from near the basket, through the kitchen and bathroom and into the downstairs den. But most of them were still relatively together like a deck of cards dropped for a game of 52 pickup.

Thea, then a kitten, sat proudly next to one of the stuffed birds, as if she single-handedly had killed it.  

Cecil, the tutor and instigator, looked at us with guilt.  He slunked away from the mess, but not too far. He kept his eye on his protege.  When he heard our tones of laughter and delight, he stretched and came back out.  He even gave a stuffed mouse a shove, letting us know he was complicit in the midnight kitty party.  





Goal: Introduce the SOL to my students for more authentic writing and sharing.
Gratitude: Cats that make me laugh.


For my students (who I ask to self-evaluate everything they do):  Here is my self-evaluation:  I tried to use sentence fluency (especially the use of short and incomplete sentences) and short paragraphs to make the story have more of an impact.  I did not spend a lot of time revising it.  Most of my revisions were on the sentence fluency.  If I took more time on it, I would try to also revise the word choice.  I’m sure I could have used different words for better impact.  I did struggle to write this story as funny stories are hard to write. I usually tell funny stories and use my tone of voice and gestures.  I have another story I’m working on, but I do think I’d like to get back to this and see how much I can make it better.  

I went back about three hours after my initial drafting and revising and added more paragraphs (to break it up and slow it down more as I would if I were orally telling the story). I also added that simile with the 52 pickup card game. I’m not sure if I like it, but I do think it adds a needed picture.

Of course,  I would benefit from some feedback.  

Further note:  please note I did not self-evaluate with a grade.  I self-evaluated how I worked, what I worked on, and what I could do better.  

P.S. My photo re-enecactment was a big success.  Thea played with just about every toy.  The funniest thing to me is how she plays with that big orange ball that I think is a dog toy left here from a dogsitting stint.  





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I’ve been thinking more and more about grades and how they get in the way with authentic, passionate learning. I’ve been fortunate these past few months to have conversations with educators who are a heck of a lot smarter than I am. I felt a window to share my thoughts, and I did.  

I’m also fortunate to be connected to amazing teachers, including my online Professional Learning Networks.  

My first question to two district coaches was about grades and “accountability.” I put that in quotes because so many educators use that word to draw a line in the sand with what students need to do.  That word has always made me feel uncomfortable.

I don’t mean we don’t all need to be accountable for what we commit to doing. As a teacher, I’m accountable for making sure my students learn and are safe (physcially and emotionally).  I also believe I’m accountable for making sure they’re happy and love learning.

That’s really all I care about.  If I’m going to be honest.  I want my students to love learning.  There are a lot of educational practices that get in the way of every student loving learning.  I’m getting more and more confident in stopping all educational practices that get in the way of that.

So, I was particulary pleased to read the thought process of these teacher bloggers whom I follow.  Three teachers talk is an amazing blog by teachers who are constantly self-reflective.  In this particular blog, the author, Shana Karnes, writes about how she learned not to attach a grade to free reading. She was afraid that no grades would make some kids not read, and she was right.  But then she realized that her priorities were not in order.  Grades and logs got in the way of what she really wanted, to foster the love of reading.  Yup.

I was so honored when they asked me to be a guest blogger a few years ago.  This is the blog I shared.  I made a lot more online connections with like-minded educators from that experience.  All of these connections keep me learning!  

This blog really sealed the deal on my opening up more about my beliefs.  I have been following Shana Karnes for a long time. I loved her honesty and self-reflection in this post. She makes me wish I blogged a long time ago, as in twenty years ago. It’s so hard to think about my process, given I’ve been teaching for 25 years.  I love reading her blog.  

So, here is my attempt to backtrack and show my own learning.  These are things I have not done in years or have never done in the spirit of creating life-long learners:

• Reading logs/journals
  
• Parent sign-off sheets for reading
  
• Any accountabiltiy for reading minutes/pages
  
• Any accountability for reading levels/lexiles
  

All of those things do not help humans want to read.  They might force grade-driven students to read, or they may give us something to measure, but is that our goal?  

It’s not my goal.  I write a lot about writing and mentor texts. That’s the relationship I want to encourage.

Anytime educators pull out the word “accountability,” I feel like they’re looking for ways to categorize learning and students.

This might sound loosey-goosey. My classroom has clear and high level expectations.  But I believe in giving students the structure they need with the choice that is vital.  They are held accountable to learn.  And I help them support their claims for what that means.
    


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It takes a lot for me to take a book from a student. I can probably count on one hand how many books I’ve taken from students in the past twenty-five years. Taking a book from a student is tantamount to saying, “stop reading,” and that is abhorrent to me.

But I took a book from a student yesterday.  Nearly every day, Preston asks me if he can “just finish this chapter?!” before he settles into the daily question.  Given the routine of the class, that usually works fine.  It’s a workshop, and there is always time for reading and writing.  

He approached me yesterday and asked if I’d help him get caught up at lunch. “I’m about a week behind on the fire-ups”.  I gave him that look.  “Really,” I said. “You want me to give up my lunch because you keep making the wrong choices?”  He hung his head.  I told him I’d be happy to help him at lunch if he got right to today’s question.  His next sentence put me over the edge.  “I’ll just have my parents help me.”

That’s when I decided I had to help him make better choices.  I took his book, which he’d opened back up.  “Nope, I ask you every day if you’re making the right choice, and you tell me you are.  I’m going to help you.”  So, I walked away with his book, and I told him I’d give it back to him when he got today’s question thoroughly answered.

A student behind him looked at me and said, “You’re suffocating him.”

I gave her a nod of agreement and a look of dismay.

A little backstory. I was talking to a district coach a few months ago about our classroom procedures.  We talked about the student-led workshop. We talked about how often students ask…”Can I…”, and we answer with “Is this going to help you to do that?”  Most often, the answer is yes.  

So, I’d been saying yes to this student, but he wasn’t being completly honest about if that reading was going to help him.

Or, maybe he was. Maybe he’s okay with having to make up a bunch of work because he got the joy of liivng in his book.  

Today, he came in, sat down, opening his computer, and he tapped his book.  “I’m using restraint.”  

“Good.” I said.

So, I do wonder how he feels about his choice.  I’m assuming he realized he went too far.

I read a great quote from an educator on Twitter.  ““We must all suffer one of two things: the pain of discipline or the pain of regret.” -Jim Rohn. I’m assuming he learned both of these things.

Preston just approached me and said, “I did learn a lesson! I should start with answering the question.”

Gratitude: Students who love reading
Goal: Keeping the best practice to fuel that flame, so I don’t suffocate any students.

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Finished up parent conferences last night. I love conferences, the deeper glimpse into my student’s lives.  The chance to hear the perspectives of my students and their parents.  It is so elucidating.  

I also love to hear how happy my students are, and they seem pretty darned happy.
They love their classes, and there is a beautiful balance of that.  Most of them have favorite classes, and it’s balanced.  I’m so lucky to teach with passionate, caring, gifted teachers.  The balance of what we bring to our students is an almost ideal.  

I woke up early, the day after conferences, my mind whirling with possibilities.  I’d heard how much students loved language arts, and why.  They loved the freedom of choice.  My teaching partner, Emily, and I have been talking about this.  

Today’s big question had students reading the bullets in my last blog and identifying which statement I’d made about what what Emily and I see on a daily basis that fits them best as a learner. As always, our hope for our big questions is to learn a lot from them.  We did.  You can see some responses here.

One of the best moments was when I walked by a student who was on his writing document. I leaned down and asked him if he’d done the fire-up(opening question) yet. He smiled and said no.  I smiled back at him and directed him to look at my blog.  I told him I could help him with his answer because I already knew it.  I pointed to this bullet:

• Not answering the daily question because they want to write.

He got an even bigger smile and sheepishly maneuvered over to his daily work document to quickly answer the question so he could get back to writing.

As Emily and I dive more deeply into this personalized learning atmosphere, we keep opening up to more and more freedoms.  That student who was “off task” was engaging in something pretty darned important. He was writing.  And this is a student who had never liked to write before he got to choose.

And then another student answered the question briefly, and he began to work on a science project. I asked him why he was working on science.  He got teary and said he needed to get his grade up. This is a student we’ve been helping a lot lately because he’d gotten himself into a hole.

So, I jumped on his document and wrote this:
To student:  So, your answer today should be this:

• Answering the daily question quickly so they can research another topic they care about.  

And your research today is science.  

I gave him permission to do his science work during language arts class.  Why not.  I’m going to mix up that old metaphor.  Give a kid an inch, and he’ll give you a mile.  I watched him after I wrote to him on his document.  He sat staring at his document not working on it and not working on his science.  I walked up to him and quietly asked him what he needed, what I could do to help.  He said, “I’m re-reading all of my work so I can add to it and make it better.”  His tears were long gone, and so was his need to work on science.


So, my reflection is about how we really just need to pay attention to our students’ needs. We have 30+ souls a day in each class.  They all have their lives.  

And we don’t know what they’re going through in their lives.  At best, their lives are full and confusing.  At worst...well, they’re bad.  And every kid is a person who thinks differently, thinks differently from others, and thinks differently from us.  

And every day is different.

What we learned, reading their responses, is what we mostly expected: they are all different and have different needs.  They want to do well, and they want to learn.  

I’m a teacher and an adult. I have one major responsibilty, and that is to help my students with whatever they need, as much as I can.

I believe that letting a student finish their science during language arts is okay, maybe more than okay..  I believe that  letting my second language learner skip the fire-up question so he can write his novel is better than okay.  

As I was circulating around the room today,I watched one of my students on her laptop, scrolling through pictures of cupcakes.  This is my student who bakes every night and brings us all treats daily.  I spoke to her, softly, asking her what she was doing.  She got flustered and switched over to her poetry tab. I waved her off, essentially telling her that I knew what she was doing.  She was exploring her authentic interest.

She was red-faced, embarrased, and I pulled her aside.  I asked her if she had ever considered writing a baking blog.  I watched her face, her mouth opening and closing like a guppy.  She said “I never thought of that.”  She procedeed to brighten and lighten.  Then, she physically jumped.  

Every time I pull a student aside, for any reason, and they get nervous, it makes me sad.  Students should feel like a teacher wants to talk to them for good, not bad.  I watched her friend when I pulled her aside.  Her friend watched on, worried.  I pulled a face at her, and she smiled sheepishly.  But she continued to watch, and when my student went back to her desk, alive with the possibilities of the blog, they whispered together, both smiling, then settling into their own work.  

During conferences the other night, I talked to a student who was worried because he couldn’t settle into writing, though he’d had many ideas and had been excited about them. I told him I had a theory about why he often sat, staring into space.  I asked him if he just couldn’t stop daydreaming.  He admitted that that’s exactly what he was doing. So, I repeated a common mantra.  “Write your thoughts down. Instead of sitting and thinking. Sit and write.”  He liked the idea.  I have said the same words to him many times, but this time he heard them (and listened, or understood, or decided to try it since his mother was sitting next to him….).

He asked me to read what he’d written, to see if he was doing what I suggested...to see if he was doing “okay”.  I read three pages of his hopes, dreams, aspirations, and fears.  It was amazing.  What made it even more amazing was that he shared the document with his family, including his grandparents.  And I read their replies to him, their encouragement, and his response to them.  I got choked up at the beauty of the glimpse into his mind and heart and family.

And that is why I love my job.  I get to be humbled and learn every single day.  

Yesterday, one of my teammates and I approached a student who was making too much noise in the classroom.  She got to him before I did, and I watched her softly talking to him about his behavior and how it affected others.  She reminded me how important it is to stay soft, to be gentle.  I’m so lucky to teach with such amazing peoople who I learn from daily.

And I’ve written this before.  Being surrounded by so much humanity has bouyed me during difficult times, sustained me, and kept me focused on love and learning, not sadness and fear.

Today is the 6th anniversary of our first of three visits to the doctors and the hospital, and tomorrow is the 6th anniversary of when Danny was hospitalized, when we were told he probably wouldn’t survive.

Last night, Danny and I were sharing stories about students.  Good ones, sad ones, amazing humbling ones, and funny ones.  I shared all the ones I’ve shared here.  And then, we both stopped and looked at each other, sharing an understanding.  We both got teary, and we said, almost simultaneously, that our lives are impacted so greatly by the humanity of what we do. And our focus during this difficult, reflective time, has been mostly not on us and what we went through, but on others.  And for that, we are so grateful.  

Gratitude: Pretty much everything. Teaching in an amazing community with fantastic teachers. Neighbors, family, friends.  Danny.


Goal: as my sister-in-law says, “keep looking through the windshield and not the rear-view mirror”.

Happy Holidays!  I've had a lot churning inside for the past few months. As usual, I wrote a few blogs and abandoned them to google heaven. They were too much about the nuts and bolts of pedagogy, and I have realized I need to just speak my heart.

On Friday before break, the faculty played the 8th grade boys in the annual basketball game.  The boys have won once (twice according to some sources who refute a score from 15+ years ago) in the past 22 years. Danny is an amazing athlete, and I love watching him play in this game.  

This year, as I watched him, for the first time in five years, I wasn't afraid.  I wasn't sitting with my knuckles in my mouth, worried someone would elbow him in his fragile frame.  I wasn't worried he'd list to the left and fall.

I watched him play, and I watched what has changed.  He plays once a year, and so he doesn't know how to play defense without his left arm.  He told me the next day how he needs to step to the left so he is defending with his arm.

I'd seen that.  I'd watched him play a game that wasn't his.  

So, instead of being afraid, I sat and watched who he is now.  I had a moment of sadness.
  
I don't do that much.  I was told on February 11th, 2011 that he would die.  I was told that for weeks and months, that he probably wouldn't survive.  So, I have lived in gratitude that he lived.  I haven't thought about what he lost.

But Fridayy morning, watching him play a game with new rules, for the first time, I felt sad for what he lost.

Then, of course, within seconds, I realized the luxury of that thought.  

Danny and I are so fortunate, and we know that.  We have so much.  I'm humbled by him.  When I asked him how the game went, he said he had fun, but that he would have liked to have made that 3-pointer.  That was the first game he's played in that he didn't score.  

And he was okay about that.  And I was more than okay to realize I went from fear to sadness to gratitude.  Yes, he isn't the same physical being.  But how luciky are we?  Everyone changes.  Everyone grows older.  We all must face realities that aren't easy.

But how lucky am I that I'm married to a man who faces life with humility and courage.  

That same day, I opened up dozens of cards from my students.  They were sweet, thoughtful, grateful.  At the end of the day, students were in my room for the afternoon social.  I had six boys, and they said, casually, how great of a basketball player Mr. Cribby was.  They saw what I missed.  They saw him steal the ball, turn it over, grab it, throw it.  They saw all of what he did, what he could do.

Their eyes were wide with respect.  These kids only know Mr. Cribby with one arm.  They saw a great basketball player.  A great role model.

I'll tell Danny about this blog once I post it.  

Be well, everyone.

Gratitude: perspective.
Goals: perspective.