TMI

I have lost my mind.

I was quite confident I had it, knew where it was, used it on a regular basis. But at this juncture in my life, our household consensus is comprised of three teenage girls. Majority rules -- whoever made up that saying obviously lost their mind as well --  and therefore this mama's brainpower is worth diddly squat.

I don't know how to choose appropriate clothing  anymore, because anything I suggest on Target shopping trips is OH-MY-GOSH-THE-UGLIEST-THING-EVER. Bathing suits, shorts, tops, dresses. Doesn't matter. I can't pick 'em like I used to, I guess. 

My ability to maneuver a grocery store is also shot. We NEVER have anything in the house to eat. I could even drag them with me, bribing them with a trip to the Starbucks counter at Kroger. They get to pick out what they want from every section, just so I'll be sure I didn't miss something on the list. No matter. The next day as lunch time comes around, I hear the haunting phrase, "we have NOTHING to eat in this house." Wow, I must have forgotten to lock the doors as well, because obviously the homeless people down the street have found their way in and raided our pantry. Hate that.

With my remaining brain power -- remember, I am dumb as a door knob -- I'm going to form a support group called TMI, which will stand for Teen Moms Incompetent. We'll meet once a week to share stories of how our teen sons and daughters are pointing out our deficiencies with brutal honesty -- what we often call tough love. Others who have survived temporary mind loss will be there to show us the way and remind us that in most cases, teen mom brains find their way home.

Here's how I envision a meeting going.
TMI member 1: Yesterday I picked up my daughter from cheer and she hugged everyone on the sidewalk before getting in my car. They all waved and smiled. One even made eye contact and said bye to me personally!
Other moms: Awwww!
TMI member 1: Right? So I'm thinking, yay! She had a great day and she's going to tell me all about it in the car. This is going to be such a happy moment! Then she gets in the car, straps on her seatbelt, and I said, "So looks like you had a great day!" Immediately, her face contorts and she asks me if I'm kidding. Didn't I see  how Amy (not her real name) gave her a dirty look and Morgan didn't wave goodbye, she just stood there? It was a horrible day. So I asked her what happened and she says, "Nothing." She gets on her phone and starts typing away about something. But it was nothing.
TMI member 2: Hi my name is Janice and I'm a TMI survivor.
TMI group: Hi Janice.
TMI member 2: Ma'am, I understand your plight. Unfortunately, teenagers have a type of x-ray vision that allows them to see, or appear to see, things that adults cannot conceive. The best thing to do is to practice nodding and saying, "Oh, that's too bad." Don't ever make the mistake of saying, "I understand," because that will set off a series of triggers in the teenage brain that could cause a lengthy argument.

At this point the group practices nodding and saying, "Oh, that's too bad." Practice as a group, then with a partner.

TMI member 3: Hi I'm Pam.
TMI group: Hi Pam.
TMI member 3: I'd just like to share something about my daughter that's been happening recently. She and I have a show we watch together every night after our family dinner. She helps me clean up and then before I know it, she's calling me to the living room and saves a seat for me on the couch. I just love this time together!
Me: How old is your dear angel?
TMI member 3: She's 10.
TMI group groans, giggles, whispers.
Me: Hon, you're looking for the Tween Moms group. They're at the church across the street.
TMI member 3 apologizes, quickly gathers her purse and scurries for the door. One mom hollers, "We'll see you in a few years!"

TMI alumni member: Ladies, remember that in most cases your mind WILL return to normal. Your teenagers will not be teenagers forever and they will eventually regain their memories of the things we do for them. In many cases, they will start to call you every day, ask you to visit them as adults and even come back to live in our hometown so they can be close to you. Until then, you should decrease all verbal reasoning tactics with your teens and  increase your wine intake.

Thank God for my alumni members who share these nuggets of survival. Yesterday a friend was in the office with her grown daughter. Her daughter confirmed what my friend said: They do come back to you, sometimes they even apologize for the way they acted, and they might even become your friend.

In the meantime, if you're the mom who hasn't yet lost her mind, who doesn't have an eye-roller, a huffer or a complainer just hold on to that little nugget of love for a while. If I hear your anecdote on the wrong day, I might request you for a group transfer.

Snow Globe Moments

Have you ever counted the seconds it takes for the snow to fall inside a snow globe once it is shaken, stirred, and returned right-side up? Not long. Twenty, maybe 30 seconds before the last little flake of white lands on a tiny painted surface and it's time to shake it again. No matter, for watching each piece fall in slow motion is mesmerizing, magical and peaceful.

My snow-globe moment wasn't found in New York watching the Rockettes Holiday Spectacular. Nor was I at one of those drive-through nativity scenes or attending a children's Christmas play. Nope. For 15 glorious minutes this evening, my teenage daughters and I decorated our Christmas tree.

How in the world did I get them away from phones, music, homework, Snapchat and Netflix binges, you ask? Rather than film a YouTube how-to video, I have created a step-by-step plan I like to call "Tinsel and Teens: How to Turn Back Time."

Before your cheeks turn Santa-Claus cherry-red with excitement, keep this in mind: The magic is temporary. Research has proven teen attention span on any given activity is 30 minutes, max.  Also, capturing these moments with photography is at your own risk. At the sight of a flash, your teens may run as fast as Tinkerbell fleeing from Captain Hook.

The first step is to plant the idea in their heads at least two hours prior to when the decorating is to take place. Feeding your subject first is absolutely mandatory. For example, tonight I cooked a full four-course meal AND offered fast food. Whatever you want! I said.  Burgers from Braums? Sure! Starbucks afterwards? Let's get a Grande!

Any preset rules of a sit-down, family dinner are strictly off the table. Subjects must be allowed to eat in front of the TV. Tonight we had to complete the current episode of 90210: the post-millenium version (bye-bye, Brandon and Dillon). And as one of my teens tried to sneak up the stairs, I reminded her of my hesitant "yes" to a midweek, school-night concert. In Dallas. (That's another blog post altogether).

After your half-grown children are in place, carefully unload the boxes of tinsel, lights and shiny ball ornaments. If they put on a holiday playlist like Pentatonix Holiday Album, do not squeal with delight. Keep calm. DO NOT sing along. If you have to turn and sip -- err, guzzle -- your glass of wine, do whatever it takes to act like this is an ordinary activity, and you are down wid' it. Chill, yo.  Stay cool when one of them holds up a Tinkerbell ornament and recalls a memory. Whatever you do, don't cry. One tear and they'll run like rats from a trap, never to be seen again.

When one of the teens begins traveling around the tree with a string of lights, and the other one is snapping pictures, then and only then may you pause, never allowing them to see what you see: Images of chubby hands stretching high to hang ornaments from evergreen branches. Memories of Santa photo opps, candy-colored velvet dresses and wish lists for dolls and toys.

Following these steps, you may, for mere seconds (okay maybe minutes), enjoy a breath-taking,  slow-motion mini-movie, complete with surround sound Christmas music and scenes from the past. Perhaps one will decide it's her turn to put the star on the tree and climb up the ladder while you hold it tight. Finally, don't breathe. Enjoy until the last tiny flake falls, and whatever you do, refrain from sharing it on Instagram, Facebook or (gasp!) a blog.

Oops.
Merry Christmas.

30 Minutes

Last week, my prayer mentor  ... okay, she's my counselor ... challenged me to take 20 minutes during my work day to pray. My physical response to her idea was like that of a child being told he was going to get a shot at the doctor's office -- eyes bugging, body tensing, fists balled, head vehemently shaking in a defiant negative answer.

To justify my body language, I started in on a list of top-10 reasons why I can barely eat lunch, let alone donate 30 minutes to Jesus. Actually, I told her my lunch break was only 20 minutes, which sounds much more desperate, until she questioned the legality of allowing a teacher such a short lunch period.

"Well," I said, "We get a half hour, but by the time I drop the kids off at the cafeteria, check my box in the workroom, make copies, check my e-mails and walk all the way to the far corner of Oklahoma where my room is, I really only have 10 minutes."

She didn't flinch. She didn't even offer a bless-your-heart or a poor-thing.

I continued with my war on time by explaining what happens when I walk down the hall. I get stopped by other teachers to meet for "just a quick sec" or I remember that I have to call a parent, check e-mails, finalize our e-newsletter, grade papers of the five students who forgot to turn in the quiz the day before, and find which of the school's three copy machines might be working. Then and ONLY then would I allow myself a handful of nuts and a bottle of water before time to report for cafeteria duty.

She just clarified. "So you get 30 minutes for lunch."

"Ummm, yeah."

Why was this such a big deal for me? I truly felt my chest tighten and my mind whirl into defense mode. Nope. There was no way I could take time to walk outside, listen to a sermon, pray or even  ... GASP! read the Bible during the work day.  How would I get everything done? I began questioning my career choice, thinking I should have been a defense lawyer instead, when she suggested that if I give that time to the Lord, I would actually get it back.

"Just try it for two weeks," she said.

 Once I let down my guard and realized she was trying to help me, much like God does, I began to soften to the idea like butter on hot bread. Come Tuesday, I was all set at 12 sharp, walking head-down and avoiding eye contact in the hallway. Sure enough, another teacher reminded me it was a co-worker's birthday and we were all eating lunch together in the classroom.
"Be right there!" I announced. I don't want anyone to know that I'm pre-menopausal and I forget EVERYTHING.

So then comes Wednesday. Right before lunch, I checked my e-mail "speedy quick" and clicked on the one from the principal, begging us to take a "minute" to read her weekly newsletter.

Thirty minutes later, feeling inadequate after reading all the cute quotes and viewing fabulous pictures and posts and Pinterest pins on the fabulous things other fabulous teachers are doing, I laid my head down on the keyboard and prayed. It was more of a begging, really. "Jesus, take the wheel!" I cried.

Tomorrow is Thursday. So I'm taking my Tupperware, sneaking out the side door to my car and keeping my promise to her, to God and to my students.

Dear students, I promise to pray for you daily. I'm going to pray for the first five on the roster diligently and daily for six weeks, then switch to the next five. When I've reached 20, I'll start over again.

I promise I will listen to what you ask me, even if it's not relevant to what I'm teaching. I never want you to feel stupid for asking a question. You are good, you are kind, you are important. Yes, you.

I promise if I need to reprimand you, I will make it discreet and individual. You will never be publicly humiliated unless you earn it 100 percent.

If you ask me to get you a book, I will search high and low to find it for you, no matter the cost. If your love for reading grows while you're with me, then I have succeeded as a teacher.

I will be honest with you when you are wrong, and praise you with the enthusiasm of a high school cheerleader when you are right. (You know I will, 'cause you've seen me do it. Don't think I won't.)

Your parents will know about all the wonderful things you do, because I will tell them and take pictures of you doing it. Just because you're in fourth grade, doesn't mean you shouldn't feel famous once in a while.

I will teach you everything I can, so that when the time comes for you to know something, you'll already know that you know it. You won't worry because no matter what grades or numbers or letters are stamped on your test, I will still love you, because you are my babies for the year.

Finally, I promise to practice the Speer Pledge with you. I can't claim it. Once upon a time when my own children were in second grade, their dear teacher led them through this saying just before the bell rang.  They came home happy every day. So I'll say it with you.
"I am special and unique. There is only one me. I will be the best I can be. I will respect myself and others. The world will be a better place because of my life."
Yes, it will.

Grand Theft Auto

"They're stealing my car! Wade, they're stealing my car!"

I yelled this like a quarterback's mom at a football game as I watched my car being backed out of my driveway just two weeks ago. Creepy thing was, I was being watched as well.

We had just returned from a family dinner at Joe T-Garcias on a beautiful, balmy July Thursday night. Wade and I had our Hispanic babies in tow -- okay they're 10- and 12-year old girls, but I think of them as our children -- and they were staying to spend the night. I sent them upstairs and remembered a few things I left in my car. I walked outside, popped the trunk, retrieved a bag, and came back inside.

Two minutes later, I was making my way up the stairs to our window-framed landing when I saw the glow of red lights on the driveway below. Why were police lights in my driveway? I wondered. I looked out and saw two black males standing in front of the car as one driver backed it down the driveway. Even in my shock, I was able to take a mental picture of one of the boys.

CRASH! In his haste to commit Grand Theft Auto, the driver ran into the brick stoop that frames our side staircase. I guess he'd been taught that if you're going to do something, you may as well do it right, so he kept going, slowing down only to pick up the white male who stood at our curb as guard post.

Upon hearing my holler, my crimestopper husband leapt from the couch where he was resting his tired, bare feet. This is important to note because he ran outside like our Jack Russell Terrier chases after cats. Wade began to scream choice expletives at the criminals, waving his finger gun and tearing the pads of his toes on the hard, tarred street.  The boys were well on their way down Elizabeth and turned left at the 8th Avenue light, disappearing with my car.

Angeles, seasoned in watching crimes being committed, grabbed my phone and thrust it toward me. "Here Mrs. Speer! Call the police!"

I called. They came. We looked outside and realized the boys had rifled through my husband's unlocked car first, found a key fob and realized they hit the jackpot when it started my car (also unlocked). I also learned later on our neighborhood Facebook page they had started their spree two hours earlier, going through other unlocked cars for stolen treasures.  I was so pumped on adrenaline that I went into full crimestopper mode, nearly tearing the report from the policeman's hand as I eagerly completed a full, written description of the perpetrator. I was also excited to use the word "perpetrator" in an official form, shortening it to "perp" in my discussion with the police officer. I'm sure he was impressed. Or not.

Our next late-night interruption came two days later in the form of a phone call. The police found the car and it was ready for pick up at a towing yard in Euless. No church for us Sunday morning. I felt like we were going to pick up a lost dog from the pound as we drove up to the office. "Can I see my car now?" I begged the man behind the window. "Sure!" he answered, just after I dropped nearly $300 to get it out. Ouch.

What we saw next nearly made me physically ill. As I opened the door to my little Kia Sorento, a wave of stale smoke nearly knocked me to the coliche-covered ground. The criminals left handcuffs, random phone charging cords, Wendy's french fries, and a bag of clothing in case a change of clothes became necessary. Also left on the floor was Jesus' green card -- not the same likeness as my Lord and Savior -- and a Big Red soda. Finally, they even used my favorite lipstick to create artwork on one of the headrests. The artist even signed his work, "Kobe."

Getting in my violated vehicle made my skin crawl, so dear husband drove it away while I followed him in his car.

Thanks to the FWPD and our wonderful neighborhood officer, Sergio Gualdarrama, we uncovered a few more details about the incident (I say "we" because I felt like an empowered citizen now and I was determined to get 'em.) Little did I know that the perps had been arrested -- all four of them. The driver was only 15 -- just a year older than my twin daughters -- and the other three already held criminal records for armed robbery. The officer also informed me they had already processed the vehicle by the time I picked it up. In other words, the police removed the big ticket items the boys had stolen, including guns (yes, guns in my car) and left the residual goods inside.

It makes me distressed to think that when the 15 year old hopped in the drivers' seat that night, he would take a turn that would forever change the course of his life. Maybe he had a chance. Maybe he was a good athlete or excelled in math or science. Now he'll have Grand Theft Auto on his permanent record. I hope when he returns from his vacation in juvey that he'll find a new group of friends and start over.

My little lost Kia is in the car hospital, recovering from the scrapes and bruises to the tune of $8,000 (thank God for insurance). Our house has a broken limb, which we'll fix eventually.
I'll end this story with its moral, something policemen every preach on a daily basis. DON'T LEAVE ANYTHING OF VALUE IN YOUR CAR (especially a key fob) and LOCK IT EVERYWHERE YOU GO.

Post Dismissal Brain Malfunction

A blog about school days may seem anti-climactic now that the doors are closed for the
summer. But it is only today I can reflect on what actually happens to my brain during the
academic year on a daily basis.

When the dismissal bell rings and the last student leaves at 3 p.m. so does my ability to
formulate complex sentences. I can't remember words like "pencil," "website," "classroom,"
or even my name. In an effort to recapture the lost vocabulary, I stare into space, as if the word
is going to come soaring at me from above and pop into my head. Instead, my head
resembles the brown rim at the bottom of a coffee cup at day's end. Nothing there, empty, sad,
sticky.

It's really bad when a parent stops me in the hallway to ask a question after a day of instruction.
Here's what it sounds like:
Parent: "Hi, Do you know what happened to Susie's benchmark test results from the fall
and if her grade has improved for this 6 weeks' progress report?" It's February.
Me. "Ummm ...yes. She. Did. Good. Ummm."

So then I start snapping my fingers as if high level vocabulary words will magically appear in my head, like Cinderella's fairy godmother with her dress. Alas, I appear as if I'm
musically challenged and looking for a lost rhythm with my snapping.

Parent: "Do you know what skills she's struggling with in reading?"
At this point, academically challenging words like "author's purpose" or
"fluency level" have left me like a plane bound for Cancun.
Me: Hold up the imaginary phone in my hand, nod and mumble, "Conference tomorrow?"

This is largely because for a full seven hours... and I'm talking FULL, a teacher says things like
"Stop. Pick that up. Please. Get out your journal. Yes. Bubble in your mouth. Raise your hand.
Fabulous answer. Not exactly, but good try. Put away the fidget spinner. This is your warning.
Where is your permission slip? Get your finger out of your nose, please. Put some hand
sanitizer on it, you'll be fine. Stop drumming on the desk. Please. THE FIDGET SPINNER IS MINE FOR THE REST OF THE YEAR AND ALL ETERNITY!"

I feel especially sorry for my own children when I come home and they ask what we're having
for dinner. "Ummm," I answer, snapping for the magic to happen. "The yellow stuff, box,
cheese. Meat. "
My daughters look at me with that special teenage gaze. So loving and helpful.
"You mean mac and cheese with meatballs?" they answer.
"YES!" I jump and point emphatically, like a winner on Family Feud.

When will the words return? I wonder. I try to revive my brain cells with an adult beverage
or two, which only results in more staring, snapping and silence. Not effective.
Maybe this summer I'll develop a series of post-dismissal communication queue cards.
When I have after-school meetings or parent conferences, I can just point to cards that read,
"Your student is struggling with long-division skills but excels in spelling words with
-ing endings." Or "I agree; small group instruction allows for differentiation among all students."
Genius, right? Just as long as I make those cards before 3 in the afternoon.
Otherwise, they'll read much like talk show queue cards. APPLAUSE. LAUGH. NOD.
COMMERCIAL BREAK IN 3-2-1.

Unexpected Joy

I wrote this last October and just found it under my drafts, waiting anxiously to be published. So 8 months later, summer's here and so is this blog.

Little brown faces with candy corns painted on cheeks. Sticky hands carrying monster-sized, sugar topped cupcakes with Boo! scribed in loopy chocolate writing. Sneakers thrown askance next to a line leading up the bouncy house slide. Hip hop music pumping in the background. Such was the setting for the annual Fall Festival held at Cavile Community Center, smack in the heart of Stop Six.

Tonight, there was no place I would have rather been. Since last week, I'd been looking forward tthis day, for no other particular reason than I hoped to see a few familiar faces since I taught in the neighborhood just two years ago and had volunteered at the festival with my church small group last year.

Well, I take that back. It had been a really crappy day. I was late to school, my amazing lesson plans were thrown out the window with the uncooperative technology, and one of my students had a meltdown because I wouldn't let him watch YouTube  (as if that were ever an option in my classroom), all before noon. I usually regroup during my teeny-tiny lunch break, but due to new district initiatives, I spent my quiet time revamping our weekly newsletter and recreating data spreadsheets for data I am behind on collecting. My poor little lunch sat in my mini-fridge all alone, waiting for me to retrieve it. And sat. And sat.

So when time came and the bell rang, I was eager to get out the door, scoop up my family and head to the center of the Fort Worth East Side projects. Sounds crazy, I know. But I was so ready to love on these kiddos and watch them laugh, run, play in a land where their little lives are nothing but full-on war, day in and day out. I know, because I lived it with them as their teacher for two years.

We arrived at our station, the bouncy slide, and little shoeless bodies were lined up, ready to climb up and slide down. I surveyed the small concrete area that had become a sugary wonderland for these kiddos, all thanks to the people at my church who organize the fall festival every year. You'd have thought I was pulling up to grandma's house when I nearly jumped out of the car, dragging my twin girls behind, looking for familiar faces. There my husband, here a couple from our small group, there another friend from church. And then my heart party started.

Eye contact with a wide-eyed little girl eating an apple. She looked at me and then toward the ground, still walking my way. "Hey Adrianna! Remember me?" I put my arm around her and asked her how she was doing in school. Another familiar face arrived. "You Mrs. Speer? You look different?" More inquiries as to grades and living situation. My conversations dominoed, one former student after another, hugs and shared cupcakes and "what have you been reading lately?" I have to admit, my volunteering wasn't as much working a booth as it was working the crowd, and my loving all over those kiddos was filling my heart so abundantly that it began to overflow.

Then one little girl, Janascia, told me another former student, Mikayla, was also at the festival. She grabbed my arm and walked me toward her. "Mikayla!" She yelled. As the girl's puppy dog-painted face turned to meet mine, we both squealed and hugged each other. "What are you doing here?" She said. Another few girls encircled us and we started talking about other teachers, easy classes and students who had moved.

I asked Mikayla what kind of grades she was making.
"I'm makin' A's, B's and F's," she stated.
"F's!" I said. "When you were in my class you were a straight A student.What's up with that?"
"That's 'cause you was my teacher. You were my best teacher ever!"

I'll tell you what. I may not ever make Teacher of the Year. I'm doing good to stay afloat, and most days I feel like I'm drowning in paperwork, progress reports, plans and people-pleasing. Many days I look at the piles of papers I haven't graded, the boards I haven't cutesified (I made up that word), and the students I failed to love on during the day and wonder why I do this to myself. Lord knows it ain't the money. My husband knows its not all the free time I'll have on the weekends. But the kids-- this kid -- are the solitary reason I spend 50 hours a week trying to reach just one of them. Because every once in a while, I'll reach out into a sea of hands, and one of them, like Mikayla, will reach her tiny brown hand out and grasp onto mine for dear life. I went there tonight to love on warstruck kids, but I left in tears of undeserved joy. Thank you, Mikayla.

A Most Important Question

Many years have gone by since I opened a gift on Christmas Eve. As kids, my brother and I used to rush our parents out of the evening church service so we could get home and carefully choose one colorfully wrapped package from under the tree.

This Christmas Eve, I was presented with a gift so precious I found myself temporarily speechless. It was one of those gifts where you want to say, “Oh, you shouldn’t have!” or “You didn’t need to do that!” to the giver.  

The old tradition was unearthed in the form of two little girls we’ve “adopted” into our family. Angela is a former student who stole a piece of my heart. We started taking Christmas gifts to her and her four siblings a few years back, and now they are a regular part of our lives. Part of that regularness is taking them to the grand Christmas Eve service with my parents at First United Methodist Church in Fort Worth. Dressed in their prettiest clothes, Angela and her little sister, Mary, sit snugly between all of us on the pew as we sing Christmas hymns, take communion and light candles in the darkness singing “Silent Night.”

During the service, I received my first gift: watching a child learn to follow the words in a hymnal for the first time. I held the red book for Mary, tracking my finger along the words as her tiny voice sang “Hark the Herald Angels Sing.” I began to look around, like when you see your child take those first steps and wonder if anyone else is there to witness the moment.

Gift number two came in the form of a question. The little girls were busily studying the service program, asking why some of the words were in bold (people speak) and others were not (pastor speaks). Then Angela looked up and whispered, “What is a manger?” I had to suck in my breath to hold back the tears. During my awkward silence, I reflected back on my 11 years as a mom and my six years as a teacher. I have never been asked such a simple but meaningful question; I mean, we all assume our children have been saturated with the story of Christ enough to know what all of it means, from the bed of hay to the heavenly host.  What do I say? Then I felt the hands of Jesus on my shoulders because that’s the only way I could find any words of wisdom.

 “A manger is like a barn,” I explained. “When Jesus was born, there was no place for his mother to have the baby, so she had to give birth to Him in a barn with animals all around.”

Another Christmas classic was next in the program, which gave me time to gather myself and hope that my words didn’t completely confuse the poor child. This time, I just listened to their voices and watched as their little brown eyes moved around the church from the organ pipes to the brightly lit garland and the rows of poinsettias garnishing the front railings.

When the service was over and we made the slow walk into the lobby, God shone a spotlight on my final gift. There next to the doors was a large nativity scene, complete with real hay. I grabbed the girls and led them toward the scene, waiting impatiently for a family to take their Christmas photo in front of it and move along. (If you were that family, I apologize for staring at you and nudging you out of the way, but this was a God thing).

 “This is a manger,” I explained, pointing out baby Jesus, Joseph, Mary and the wise men. They listened as if I was sharing a great secret when I told about the wise men who traveled a long way to see this important baby and all they had to lead them there was a star.

Now on more than one account, Angela has left me stunned and breathless by her simple and profound observations, both written and spoken. Again, on this Christmas Eve, God used her as a messenger. She pointed to the brassy star at the apex of the manger and said, “That was the star they followed – the star God gave them from heaven.”

“Yes, Angela,” I said, “God showed them the way with a star.”

I have truly seen the magic of Christmas through a child’s eyes. It is not a cliché or a myth, but exists in the curious hearts of humble children who live in a tiny apartment smaller than a manger. Now I know what awestruck wonder feels like.

Jesus, you shouldn’t have, but boy am I glad you did.

Why Am I Surprised?

You'd think I won the lottery. Or maybe I received a huge raise or an all-expense paid two-week vacation because of how darned giddy I am right now. I've pumped my fist with an ecstatic "YES!" and just completed a happy dance in the kitchen. 

I'm ecstatic, friends, because I have seen God answer a prayer as clear as day, and it happened in my dining room while I was eating chicken spaghetti with a small group of friends. To those who see miracles every day, you can roll your eyes all you like. But my heart is pumping as if I've been in a spin class for an hour, and I haven't even had any caffeine ... at least for the past 6 hours.

Many of you know for the last two years I have taught at one of the lowest-performing, highest-poverty level schools in our city, in our district. I have never seen needy defined as much as I did on a daily basis. My students were starving -- physically, mentally and emotionally and academically. 

I adopted the "starfish" philosophy and called in my friends and my church to recognize this tiny school, hidden behind the broken down cars and the dilapidated fences in East Fort Worth. For two years, I told sob stories to those more fortunate in hopes that my school and the students within its walls would be recognized as a place in DIRE need of help. 

Then one week this summer, a light poured out like a pitcher over a small community where survival skills are key. Christ Chapel Bible Church decided to take their successful Kids Camp (VBS) to the 'hood. For a week, church members and children took their fears, their Bibles and their hearts to recreate a happy, joyful, fun place where they could learn about Christ and be loved in a safe place. One guess which neighborhood they visited. 

So tonight, several couples in our Bible study came to our house to meet after a summer hiatus. We all caught up, dined, talked about kids and relayed busy schedules to one another. Then one of the women began to tell me about the week she and her family spent serving God in Stop Six. Where I taught. With my sweet, needy babies. They ALL showed up! As I began to roll call my students' names one by one, my friend would say, "Yes, she was there" or "Yes, he comes every week."

Wait ... every week?

The Kids Camp didn't end after one week. Nope. A small group of volunteers at Christ Chapel have committed themselves to an hour a week, taking these kids out of the constant chaos where they search for peace. They giggle, they sing, they touch Bibles. They eat as much pizza as they want. 

My heart was floating up out of my chest and into my throat as my friend showed me pictures of my babies (that's what teachers call their students, FYI). Tears brimmed for at least a half hour as the couple told me of one student who now comes to church with them and has even been to their home. They even have a nickname for her. That's what you do for people you love.

One more thing. The woman told me that every week at church, my former student asks, "When am I going to see her?" 

She's asking for me. A student who gave me grief, made me question my ability to teach, took every ounce of my attention, love and energy every day. A student who was the subject of my "you won't believe what happened today" stories I vented to friends. And she still was asking for me. 

I don't know why I'm surprised. God answers prayers all the time. Some of them right away, others in ways we don't expect and mostly not in our time frame. But this one opened up like the curtains on stage of a Broadway musical. I am giving Him a standing ovation. 

IN CASE YOU HAVE NEVER SEEN ONE, LOOK NOW. This is, by definition, an answered prayer. All God's people say Amen.

How I Whipped the Nay Nay

"If you can't beat 'em, join 'em."

Soldiers say it. Parents relent to it. And every teacher at some point in their career refers to this phrase. Now before anyone goes judgin', I am not referring to this phrase in the literal sense. I have not attempted nor do I wish to beat anyone. Those who have any experience with trying to be yourself in a situation or get your way, and then finally succumbing to  "The heck with it" will be able to relate to the use of aforementioned phrase.

And so it goes that we had a pep rally today in preparation for the big state standardized test that occurs next week. (My own opinions of this test will be released in another blog, lest I digress). Two of our fantastic assistants put together an agenda that included cheerleaders, chants and signs all in an effort to get these kids PUMPED about sitting in a classroom for 4 hours in which they can't move, sneeze, sleep, slump, speak or breathe loudly.

"Who wants to join the teacher dance-off?" My assistant friend announced at the staff meeting. My alter ego who thinks I'm an amazing hip-hop dancer made me raise my hand and before I knew it, I had signed up.

The next thing I know I'm on stage with four elementary students and five other teachers for a practice session. So there's the African-American population.
And there's me.
Doin' the Whip and the Nay Nay.

What's that, you say? Here's an entertaining activity for those who are truly wondering. Google "Whip and Nay Nay" and watch it. Then insert my face into one of the girls dancing (the one who isn't very good). How 'bout it?

Yep. I even practiced at home to the embarrassment of my daughters who begged me not to do it. "Mom, stop doing that! You can't do that on a stage!" they pleaded.

But my mind was made up. I thought, if I can teach in these trenches and survive, last another year without a  sabbatical (read: visit to the funny farm), then by golly, I can do the Whip and the Nay Nay.

Thankfully, I had a 6th-grader in front of me who could "hit it" (read: showed advanced skills at these dances) and I mirrored her moves, pretending in my head that I looked just like her. It also helped that I put on sunglasses, which added to the logical theory that if they can't see my eyes, then I can't see them and they're not there and it didn't happen. Makes sense, huh?

Oh I forgot to mention that after the Whip and the Nay  Nay, there was the Stanky Leg, Break-Yo-Leg, the Superman and.... wait for it ... The Drop.
Yeah, I didn't drop. It hurt my knees to watch, so I decided to listen to my body that was screaming "HEY --ELL NO!" I modified to the partial bend and called it good.

I was sweating like an oldie, but man, I began to feel a part of this staff after two years. And the best part was, after we took our bow -- "We out!" -- and I rejoined my students, their eyes were beaming like I was some kind of celebrity they'd never met. They saw a new side of me and we connected on an entirely different level. Their level.

One student made me so happy I almost cried. She told me I wasn't just good up on stage, I was really great. And I don't think she said it to try for an A in class.

Whip, Nay Nay, sporting a do-rag, rapping, whatever it takes. This is so cliche' but if you told me five years ago I'd be doing what I did today, I'd have admitted you to the funny farm.

We out.

Good Morning

"Yo, get up niggah!"
He pushes your shoulder and you roll over into something wet on the sheets below you. Little brother peed in the bed again. Oh well, it'll dry.
You didn't sleep much because your brother played Grand Theft Auto 2 on X-box til  midnight and you share the room and the twin mattress. Mama and her boyfriend in the next room were up yelling and you heard a couple of smacks, so you know he hit her. Again. But now the only sound is the repeating theme song from Grand Theft Auto. The only light is the glow from the TV.

You peel your body from the twin-size mattress on the floor and hope that mama did laundry yesterday. You've already worn that blue shirt two days in a row. Lucky you, brother's shirt fits you and it's clean, cause he didn't go to school yesterday. You grab the shirt, crumpled but clean, from the pile on the floor and start to slip it over your head when brother comes back into the dark, cramped, stale room.

"That's my shirt!" he yells and grabs it from your head.
"I got it first. I need a clean shirt!" You reply back. Even though he's younger, he's bigger, and he rips the shirt from your body, smacking your head so hard it knocks you to the carpet. You can't let that happen so you ball your hand into a fist and pop him in the face. Arms, legs, hands entangle. Then a huge hand stings your face out of nowhere.
"What the f___ you doin'?" The large man, mama's latest boyfriend, favors everyone else over you. And she's asleep, so you have no armor to shield you. Big sister is still sleeping  -- she doesn't go to school 'til 9 -- and mama is out. Out sleeping or out of the house, who knows. You've faced his early morning wrath before and choose to concede rather than the physical alternative. "Here. Suck this," You say as you throw the shirt to your brother and grab the only other uniform top you have -- the one spattered with stains from two days of school lunch. You are lucky again, because it's cold outside and you can wear your big jacket all day, even in class.

"Now get out the house, I'm tryin' to sleep. Go on." Boyfriend man pushes you and little brother toward the door and his voice gets louder as he's pushing. You're at the front door when you realize your homework is on the kitchen table and your backpack and coat are still in your room. You got cold last night and used it for a blanket.
"Wait I gotta get ..."
"DON'T YOU TELL ME TO WAIT, BOY." He's in your face now. "I've heard enough of yo' lip. You get to school. Now go!" He slams the door.
You feel the heat from tears welling in your eyes, but you cannot let them drop from your lids. He can't see you cry. Not again.
Little brother was able to sneak his jacket from the couch during the procession to the door, but you're outside with nothing.
"Hurry up, we gon' miss breakfast!" Brother starts running down the sidewalk towards school. You're out the door with a stained shirt, no coat, no homework. Again.

When you get to school and line up to go to class, Ja'Kendrick points out the orangey-red stains on your shirt. "Man, you stank!"
"Shut up fool, at least I don't f--- my mother," you reply back. Ja'Kendrick pushes you, but you've learned to go to the back of the line when someone messes with you, which is most of the time.
Your teacher stands at the door and you wait to shake her hand. "Good morning!" She sings. "I'm so happy to see you ..."
----
This is a mix of truth and fiction. Truth: I'm the happy teacher who stands at the door.
Fiction: The names have been changed.
Truth: I feign to remember  almost every morning what these students have gone through before they come to see me at 7:45 a.m.
No wonder they are angry and rigid like cold winter trees when they shake my hand.

Guess What Week it is?

IF ONLY  I could get the folks who make the lovably annoying camel commercial to come over the loudspeaker at my school tomorrow and announce, "Guess WHAT DAY IT IIIIS? Hey, Mikemikemikemike. Guess what day it is? It's Your Birthdayyyyy yeah!"

Okay maybe I'm too old for that.

But I think the older we get, the longer we are allowed to stretch our celebrations (sans the stretch marks) from a 24-hour period to a 7-day series of cheers and hugs and e-mails and lunches and extended naps away from the children. Yes, we women love our birthday weeks.

I was merely in the consideration stage of all the things I wanted to do for my week. Hadn't even planned anything other than taking off a half-day (sorry little darlings, but putting students' names on the board and sending them to the principal because "Johnny" said he was going to beat "Suzie's" ass if she talked about his mama one more time is not my idea of a happy birthday. )

But the plans started rollin' in and let me tell you, I started celebrating on Friday with ...
wait for it ... an invitation to see JEN HATMAKER SPEAK IN REAL LIVE PERSON! One of my dearest friends ever knew how much I loved this amazing Christian author/blogger/woman/speaker and invited me to a dinner at her church where JH was the keynote. Unlike last time I "thought" I met JH in the women's locker room at a spa -- nope, wasn't her -- I was really only about 50 feet away from her. We even had a question/answer session and I was the double dipper. I couldn't help it! I asked two questions and then was able to worship with some amazing women before hearing JH speak wisdom about the Christmas story. Wise men have nothin' on this woman. I'm just sayin.'

Then Saturday the Horned Frogs made an extra special effort to win their final game of the year in my honor of turning forty-something. Thanks guys! See you in Atlanta for New Year's. Roses are overrated.

Sunday I received Gift No. 3 and I was still two days away. Our church offers an amazing Christmas Cantata every year and it's all I can do not to don my tacky Christmas sweater for the event. Picture a full choir and orchestra wearing red and black, children's choir, bell choir, packed house, all singing Christmas carols in unison. Hallelujiah! They don't even print words in the program because HELLO! Who doesn't know the words to Silent Night and O Little Town? Okay, they do have the words up on the big screen for those who need to peek. But I am a sucker for Christmas music. My heart absolutely explodes with the Holy Spirit and the awesomeness of our glorious King of Kings. My toes are tapping just thinking of it!

Today, birthday eve: My sweet, sweet, prayer warrior friend at school comes into my classroom this morning with a cake and a gift. And the cake has my name on it! This woman can make anyone smile and feel loved, and she certainly did that for me today.
Bonus gift:After she left, my students inquired about my birthday. One young man asked, "How old will you be Ms. Speer, 28?"

Bless you my child. You will receive an honorary A. All year long. In every subject.

Then I had another friend actually wish me a "Happy Birthday Eve." How great is that?

I'm making record of these birthday week events only to reflect that I have received more than I ever could put on a list, and it's not even my birthday yet. There's so much to be thankful for. The only things I could on paper (aside from a really great bottle of wine, if you're asking specifics) are:

•  hugs from my children
•  kisses from my husband 
• the love of my parents
• the grace and mercy of my Savior
• my students -- smiles on their faces and hope in their hearts
•  the constant smiles, laughter and support with which my friends surround me like a fleece Snuggie. 

Love y'all.

Timely Blessing

The  blessing is coming just in time.

For the last month, our church small group members have been working to provide Blessing Bags for the students at my school. First we were challenged by our pastor to volunteer as a group somewhere in the community. Next, we determined the students in my school were certainly deserving of our time, money and anything we could provide for them. Finally, we came up with a list of foods and toiletries to purchase at a local superstore.

Other groups helped us to stuff 80 bags with boxes of macaroni and cheese, ramen noodles, spaghetti sauce, cleaning supplies and other basics that are staples in my own kitchen. Items always on my pantry shelves. They're not fancy delicacies, but things that are easy and inexpensive enough to replenish on a weekly basis, or whenever we're running low.

The students at my school get free breakfast and lunch. Here's how the early morning meal works: Students come into class at 7:40 and get their breakfast and milk out of insulated, red pouches. Sometimes it's waffles in a bag, cereal in a box, ham and egg sandwiches or muffins. After the 8:00 morning announcements, breakfast is over. The pouches are put outside in the hallway for cafeteria staff to remove and teaching begins.

On Friday, one of my students -- we'll call him Tyrone -- asks if he can have a few extra pancakes on a stick -- the menu item of the morning. School rules say that after breakfast is over, all the remaining food has to be disposed and students are not allowed extras. I reminded my little friend of these rules and he was none too happy. The principal happened to walk by as he and I were having this discussion, so I wrote a note to her and gave it to Tyrone. "If she says yes, then I'll let you keep one to eat for lunch," I said.

I took this route simply because I knew he wouldn't stop with me until he got what he wanted. This little guy is street smart and only listens to the highest authority possible. With me, he has extremely selective listening. I was almost sure the principal would say no, he would have to abide, and I could go on with my lesson.

I was surprised when he came back into the classroom with the little note and the word "yes" circled in black pen. So I gave him the plastic-wrapped pancake on a stick and told him where to keep it until lunch time.

A few minutes later, my principal walked by to check on my classroom and I questioned the note. She pulled me aside to tell me that there was no food in the boy's home, and he was stockpiling food in anticipation of a long night of hunger pains. All this from a small 8-year-old boy who was seasoned in evenings without dinner. Needless to say, I felt awful, not only for doubting him, but also for knowing that my pantry is overflowing with cans and boxes and bags of food ... so much that often I don't even use it until the expiration date comes and goes.

So when the members of my small group come to my school this week and deliver Blessing Bags for each student in our grade level, I will praise God that "enough" is being provided for these small survivors. He always provides just in time.

Back to School Jitters

School starts back in one week and I am jittery. Nervous. Twitchy and antsy.

But it's not because of the students who will walk in the classroom already taller than me. Nor is it because of the inevitable fights I'll have to break up (again, with students towering a head over mine).

I'm not even worried about the moms who will come up to the school and tell me it's my job to handle the discipline of their child, and "I don't care if she flipped somebody off. They probably deserved it." (Yeah, that really happened, but I'll elaborate in another post.)

No, I'm worried to death about my bladder. After a school year of holding it all day or calling for assistance in room 302 so I can run down to the teacher's lounge at breakneck speed and then wait for the one women's restroom to be unoccupied, my bladder was more excited about the summer than I was. It's motto was "free to be me and pee." Our relationship blossomed over the break, because anytime said bladder sent the signal that it needed a little attention, I always responded within 30 seconds.
This summer I was free at all times to drop what I was doing, announce "Excuse me, I'm going to the restroom" like I was Mr. Roarke on Fantasy Island, and take care of business. It was thrilling at first, but then I think my bladder became a little too demanding in the relationship.

For the past month here's what's been happening. I'm sitting at the computer, or having a cocktail with friends and like hummingbird to nectar WHAM! I have to go RIGHT THEN. Sometimes I wait until an appropriate lull in the conversation or a commercial break, but as soon as I stand up I am walking like my knees are connected, pigeon-toed and holding my breath to the ladies room. I'm sorry bladder, I'm not trying to make you wait but give a girl a little time!

Like right now, I am writing this and my leg is bouncing up as if I'm playing horsey with an imaginary toddler. No matter that this may be an award-winning post, or I might give other teachers some common ground on which to stand so they don't feel alone. No, Mr. B has no mercy. As soon as I stand from this chair, my family best clear a path because I will  knock down any obstacles between here and the restroom.

But I'm writing this for you, fellow teachers; what are we to do? Come a week from now, I may amidst a riveting lesson about prefixes and suffixes. I am really concerned that just as I get to the meaning of  "dis-", my bladder signals "ALERT ALERT!" and all the assistants are in the other hallway (probably relieving all the other teachers with this back-to-school condition).

I am apologizing now to my school and other students, who I constantly remind ALL DAY LONG not to run in the hallway. If Mr. B calls, I will be running in the hallway.

I will most likely leave my students in the classroom to avoid embarrassment.

I will do the unthinkable and use the student restroom if the single-stall teacher's lounge ladies room is occupied/occupado.

If an assistant does not come, I may yell "EMERGENCY IN ROOM 302!" on the walkie talkie.

I will enroll in bladder therapy to work out our most-certainly strained relationship.

I may have to meet with my teacher team to devise a tag-team-pee system. (Seriously not kidding about this one.)
I will not, however, purchase Depends. Sorry Mr. B, I am always in control of my students, and I will certainly be in control of you.
Remember friends, to achieve it you have to believe it.

Tidal Waves

Sometimes children can make you laugh or cry, depending on the day, moment, time of the month, etc. Yesterday, my tears were a-flowin'.

Last week, all five of my children attended  or served at our church's VBS. It was an amazing week, being able to love on and share the gospel with thousands (not exaggerating) of little people. One thing I learned through the entire week was the ability to move slowly. Those of you who know me are thinking this is not possible for my little legs. I walk down the hallway at school like I'm in a speed-walking competition (either that or I always have to go to the bathroom). But when I was working on braiding bracelets with these munchkins, God slowed me down and showed me patience. Even when we left camp each day, I didn't rush to the car. I didn't speed down the highway to get on to the next activity. I sauntered, perused, dragged and strolled as I asked my chickadees what they learned at camp -- to which they replied, "About Jesus, mom!" with the "duhhh!" tone of voice. Good enough for me.

When I take the focus off myself and put it on others, God starts rockin' in my life.

So get this.

On Monday, I picked up one of my former students and her sister from their apartment to come over and play with the kids. Amy and her sister Melody had been to our house before. These were probably the only two "playdates" they had in their little lives. They were amazed with everything; trampoline, computer, blender -- yes the blender. They made health shakes. Not sure what was in 'em, but I tasted a little chocolate, so I chugged mine down.

The first sign of God working in our lives that day was how generous my own daughters were, as they know how little Amy and Melody have. Caroline gave one of her favorite stuffed animals to Melody (so that's 250-1 = 249 left. Anyone need some stuffed animals?) Casey made a bracelet for Amy and gave her a bathing suit. That's not me, that's God, folks.

After dinner we took the girls home to their two-bedroom apartment on the far East side where three adults and six children live. Try to picture that one in your head and see if you don't get a little claustrophobic. My daughters and I walked the girls in and cooed over the new 3-month old baby, as Amy translated how much fun all the kids had at our house. Then mom asked Amy to translate something to me.

She asked what church we attended, and I told her, giving her information about the service times and children's programs. But I soon realized she was asking for another reason.
Another message in Spanish, and then Amy translated again. "Ms. Speer, I don't know how to say in Spanish, but when you have a baby, you go to the church and someone stands up for the baby to get baptized by the preacher."

"Like a godmother or godfather?" I clarified.

"Yes a godmother. My mom wants you to be the baby's godmother."

Much of the reason I am writing this blog is that I cannot tell this story without weeping. God led me to care for this sweet family in the small ways I could  ... Christmas presents, clothes and blankets when they needed it, some extra notebook paper or books to take home. This little girl will be something some day because she truly understood the value of education. She wrote songs and poems about it, and studied harder than any student I've ever taught. So when she confirmed the word "godmother," a wave of God's never-ending, abundant blessing washed over me like a tidal wave. I cried all the way home as I tried to explain to my daughters -- who were kinda freaked at the sight of their sobbing mother -- that I felt so undeserving of God's gift, and he was using us to reach out to this sweet family.

Yesterday's lesson from the Lord: When we give a little, we receive more from Him than we could ever imagine.

Thanks for reading. Now I'm going to walk slowly to the kitchen and casually make lunch.  Did I mention that I LOVE SUMMER?

Summer Checklist

IT'S HERE! Fellow teachers,  please join me in a loud "Hallelujiah" and can I get an "AMEN!" The first day of our ever-dwindling but nevertheless still existent summer break is officially here. My mom called yesterday to tell me she could hear my sigh of relief all the way across Tarrant County.
Now don't get me wrong readers. I love teaching. It makes my heart sing when a student finally spells a word correctly, or can recount the summary of a story, or writes a sentence without a single mistake.

I love seeing my students smile when they tell me about a book they really enjoyed reading.

I love the sound of the pencil sharpener  --- whoops. That's the sound I hate the most. Will someone PLEASE invent a silent electric pencil sharpener? If I get near an espresso machine (which sounds all too similar to a pencil sharpener) this summer, I might break out into hives or have a small seizure. So don't invite me out for espresso, please.

In case you were wondering what teachers do in the summer, here's a sampling of my agenda:

• Sleep until 10 (I made it until 10:30 this morning! Kids were at their grandparents' house, so that always helps).
• Watch  Ellen, Judge Judy, Flip This House, reruns of Modern Family, everything on Food Network, Yyanla Fix My Life and anything else the clicker lands upon ... DURING THE DAY.
• Go to the pool and lay there. Just lay. Lay and read. Then lay. Then swim. Then more laying. Or is it lying? I think it's lying, but that would be telling a fib. So I am not lying that I will be laying. 
• Swing on the front porch with my kids. If you see us, stop by and have a glass of wine. If it's before noon, I'll add a little orange juice and we'll call it a morning sunshine spritzer. 
• Crafting and doing projects around the new house. My darling husband has no idea what he might see on a daily basis when he arrives home from work. Wall painting, distressed furniture, rearranged photographs ... just take a look at my Pinterest boards and you'll understand this girl means business. I'm also going to try all those different hair ideas like the boho braid or the messy updo with a headband. There's no need to comment if you see me with 20 braids twirled around my scalp. It will change tomorrow.
• Reading books, starting with all the ones that are stacked up on my bedside table wondering when or if they'll ever be opened. Hang in there, paperbacks and Kindle "wish listers" --- I'm a comin'!
• My favorite summer past-time: pretending to be a stay-at-home mom. I am soooo good at this! I take the kids on mini-field trips, get oil changes in the middle of the day, answer e-mails on a daily basis (rather than weekly), have lunch with friends, set up play dates; I'm just giddy thinking about it! 

No longer do I have to wait until 5:30 p.m. to rush through Kroger picking up more laundry detergent, Lunchables or last-minute supplies for a school project. Gone are the days of Sunday night grocery shopping; I can load the kids up and take a trip to Target at 1:30 on a Tuesday. I can now sit down on the couch before, during, or even after the 9 o'clock evening hour, nary a paper to grade on my lap. GREATNESS!

I am truly praising the Lord right now. Thank you Jesus! 

Here's a tip for those of you who see me shining in the summer sun during this glorious break: Mention summer staff development or  the word "August" and I will run you over with my car, push you in the pool or call you at 5 a.m. and hang up. 

Happy Summer everyone!

I've Got Something to Tell You

If all teachers had a dime for every time their name was announced, shouted or whined on any given day, we would never need to beg our government for more money because we would be filthy rich. Since my last name is one syllable, the call of my children sounds much like one of those jungle birds -- "CaCAW! CaCAW! CaCAW! CAA CAWWWWWWW!"
Of course I ignore them, because I am behavior-management savvy (in my own mind) and they know I will not answer them until they raise their hands.

Since I am not an octopus or three-headed snake, I cannot attend to all the darlings' needs at once. So I created a bucket in my classroom labeled "I've Got Something to Tell You!" It has slips of paper next to it, and any time a student just can't wait to tell me something or needs to disclose some news discreetly, he or she can write it on the paper and drop it in the bucket. I check it at the end of the day and usually write back.

Sometimes the notes say things like "You're the best teacher!" (Naturally). Other times the sentiments are more heartfelt, such as "I wish I could read."

Get your tissues out. This next story sounds like a Hallmark card but I swear it happened.

One of my female students, we'll name her Sarah, is of the larger size for her age. She wears the same faded, blue jacket on her body and the same grumpy, lackadaisical look on her face each day. I often get over-cheery when I greet her each morning, just to see if she'll actually smile or even laugh at my cheerleader-like efforts. Anything.

So about two months ago, I was going through the bucket and pulled out a paper, folded into fourths. I opened it in the solace of my post-schoolday classroom (ahhhhh, what a nice sound) and read these words. "I hate myself and I am ugly." 

The next day when Sarah's class lined up for the teacher handshake, I asked her to stand aside until everyone came in so I could speak to her. The other students quietly went to work on their morning problem of the day, working like busy bees ... oh wait, I'm dreaming. The other students were going nutso in the classroom, but I was determined to have a quiet moment with this wounded warrior.
I told her I read her note, and that I wanted her to know something.

"You are beautiful. You are smart. And you are loved." I said. "Now I don't know who told you that you are ugly, but they're wrong. I'm your teacher and you need to listen to me."

I told her to repeat those three statements, which she did. Then as each day went on, I continued to pull her aside every few days and ask her, "Sarah, what are you?"

She would repeat, "I am beautiful, I am smart and I am loved." Often she would say it just to appease me or just so I'd let her go sit at her desk. But she always knew the answer to my question.

Then today, which was just an ordinary Tuesday with 6 weeks of school to go (HALLELUJAH SING THE ANGELS OF THE LORD), I checked the bucket again.
Inside was a paper, folded into fourths.

I opened it, and read these words:
"I am beautiful. I am smart and I am loved. Love, Sarah."

And that's why I am a teacher.

16 Stitches

Today was a testing day at our school, and it's a trying time for students who, when asked to sit quietly for 30 minutes while others complete their test, react as if you are asking them to swallow a live cockroach. So when we up the ante to a 4-hour stretch, you can imagine the resistance.

One of my struggling readers was … well, struggling. She was at question number 3. Fear not, I thought to myself, because I have a bag full of pep talks sure to make any sulker turn into a swagger, turn any Debbie Downer into a Polly Positive, any Doubting Thomas … okay you get the picture. I can  sell these kids on most anything.

First thing I do is kneel and get on her level. (Any good teacher knows this). Then I lower my voice and turn on my calm, sweet Kindergarten teacher voice, which sounds kind of like Yoga instructor voice without all the swirly breath lingo. Then I gently touch her back because I know this student enough to know that appropriate touch is "OK" with her.
"Olivia, (not her real name by any stretch of the imagination)," I say, "If you keep going and finish your test, I'll give you a prize ticket."
Her eyebrows raised just enough for me to know I was going to have to take a different direction.
"Olivia," I say, "I know you can do this. You have been working really hard this week. You've got this."
Again, a look that showed she wasn't about to believe this white blonde lady whispering to her. She might as well have just said, "Really?"
So I reached into my bag o' tricks and pulled out the gentle but tough speech, the one I often perform with a wide smile and clenched teeth. I took a deep breath, replaced the yoga music in my head to a rough rap beat, and leaned in closer to her face.
"Olivia," (again, so very far from her real name)," I sternly suggested, "You are smart and you need sit up and finish this test." Then I tapped her paper with my index finger for effect and added, "Right. Now."
I hit some kind of nerve, because she began telling me she should have stayed in second grade because she still didn't know how to read. Then her diatribe took a turn.
"I should have stayed in second grade but that girl kept messin' with me. I told her not to mess with me. I told her but she didn't listen. So I bit her in the head and she had to have 16 stitches. I told her not to …"
At this point I realized how close I was to her face and I slowly backed away. She was still reliving the biting and I was thinking "OMG if I push her too far with this test taking stuff, I'll be sent packing from the war with a bite wound on my head." I might liken it to when you reach out to pet a stray dog; all of a sudden it starts bearing its teeth and growling, so you slowly back away with "Nice doggie!"
I was fast-forwarding through the potential scenes that might ensue, when she said, "and I should have stayed in second but she messed with me so they just passed me on to 3rd grade."
Wow.
Needless to say, I made some sort of deal with her that clicked. She was eyeing my cup of Starbucks coffee and said she wanted some. I told her if she finished the test and did her best I'd bring her a cup on Friday (genius, I know .. offering to bring a caffeine loaded drink to a third-grader who starts flipping over her seat like it's a pommel horse after 45 minutes in the classroom.) Nonetheless, she put her nose to the grindstone and finished.
Success? She finished the test and I walked out of the class injury-free. You be the judge.