Right now I'm sitting the quiet of my classroom, thinking about the last 10 years I've spent teaching 3rd graders. As another year draws to a close, it's time once again to clean the closets, take stock, and reflect.
I love the quiet, busy days of May. My students know me so well they can practically teach themselves. I know them so well that I can measure exact ratios of praise-to-discipline without a second thought. Usually, May is when I refocus and re-energize, thinking about all I've done well and what I'd like to change.
This year is a little different for me however, because come August I will be in a new room teaching 1st graders. Someone else is going to be in this room next year, teaching the children I might have had. Someone else will be tacking her posters up on the walls in this classroom I now have to leave behind.
While I'm so excited to open that door and experience new things, I feel a little sad to leave this room...this small but sunny, happy room where I have become a teacher. Everything that I am as an educator, I learned here in room 41.
As I take my charts down off the walls and begin to pack, I gather staples from the wall. I don't want to be "that" teacher who leaves her mess behind for another. No, I carefully pull each staple out, readying my walls for the paint and ideas yet to come.
Each item I take down reminds me of my journey to this point. With each staple I remove, I remember a certain lesson, or activity, or idea that came from my crazy imagination. Curiously, under some posters are older staples...relics of abandoned theories and pedagogies. I see them and smile to myself as I gather them in my palm.
Although my memories are full, the room begins to seem so empty. The more I remove, the more it seems as if I'm removing myself from this space. I look around and imagine that soon it will be as if I never existed here, and all I will have to show for these 10 years will be a handful of staples.
Can the measure of all that I am (and all that I have been) really be held in the palm of my hand? I can't tell you how strong is the childish urge to write in a hidden-away spot, "Dawn was here." Don't worry New Teacher, I'm going to resist it.
But in the future, if you should happen to visit me in my new sunny, happy classroom, you may come across a little jar full of used silver staples. And we'll just keep that between us.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Friday, May 7, 2010
A Mother's Daughter
Of all the people who have influenced my life, changed my course in this or that direction, the one who has steered me and shaped me the most has been my mom. Like all children, I am who my mother made me. Everything I love about myself, I owe to my mom.
I love that I am a very creative person. My mom encouraged the kind of play that ignites creativity. We didn't have a lot of money for toys, but we had Playdoh, blocks, and sandboxes. My mom gave me materials for every kind of craft project, and she taught me how to sew when I was just a little girl. I learned to make my own doll clothing, and later to alter my own clothes and design costumes for my kids. I learned to see the potential in a bed-sheet, an old pair of jeans, a second-hand sweater. I can make anything I dream up.
I love that I am my own handy-woman. My mom taught me to fix things. I can put things together, and I "see" how things work. My mom taught me to build and design. I spent my childhood doing things like designing furniture for my dollhouse. She taught me how to use an exact-o knife, a drill, a level, and a saw. She made me comfortable with taking things apart, redesigning, and fixing what's broken.
I love being a book lover, journal writer, and dreamer. My mom instilled in me a love of books, nourished from the time I was a baby. There were times in my life growing up when we didn't have much. But I always, always had books. Books were my friends, my comfort. I traveled the world in books. I learned to walk in the shoes of others. I learned to see through the eyes of others. I became a life-long reader and writer, and I've passed that on to all of my own children.
I love that I am satisfied and happy with myself and my life. My mom always made the best of things, and by her example I learned to be content. As a child, I didn't get everything I wanted. I had to learn to sacrifice, compromise, make choices, and settle. So now as an adult, I am not always wishing for the next best thing. I love what I already have. I have learned as an adult that contentment is a rare gift.
I love being a mom. My mom taught me to balance the domesticity of raising young children. She taught me to cook, bake, and clean. I learned to involve my children in the daily life of cooking, baking, and cleaning but still take time to read, sing, and play with them. I learned what's important about family. My mom made sure that my sisters and I grew up to be friends. We are close because she raised us to share, help each other, and rely on each other. Most of all, my mom taught me that even if you have a large family, each child is different and special, and that there really is enough love and attention to go around.
I wonder if my mom knows how much I appreciate all she did to raise me. I don't think she sees the connections between my childhood and who I am now, at least not the way I do. I wonder if she worries about all she was not able to do, and feels she let me down.
I think that every mother carries around her own secrets and regrets, but mostly they are small compared to all she did that was wonderful. I have my regrets too. I can only hope that when they are grown, my children will love me for all that I did right, the way that I love my mom.
I love that I am a very creative person. My mom encouraged the kind of play that ignites creativity. We didn't have a lot of money for toys, but we had Playdoh, blocks, and sandboxes. My mom gave me materials for every kind of craft project, and she taught me how to sew when I was just a little girl. I learned to make my own doll clothing, and later to alter my own clothes and design costumes for my kids. I learned to see the potential in a bed-sheet, an old pair of jeans, a second-hand sweater. I can make anything I dream up.
I love that I am my own handy-woman. My mom taught me to fix things. I can put things together, and I "see" how things work. My mom taught me to build and design. I spent my childhood doing things like designing furniture for my dollhouse. She taught me how to use an exact-o knife, a drill, a level, and a saw. She made me comfortable with taking things apart, redesigning, and fixing what's broken.
I love being a book lover, journal writer, and dreamer. My mom instilled in me a love of books, nourished from the time I was a baby. There were times in my life growing up when we didn't have much. But I always, always had books. Books were my friends, my comfort. I traveled the world in books. I learned to walk in the shoes of others. I learned to see through the eyes of others. I became a life-long reader and writer, and I've passed that on to all of my own children.
I love that I am satisfied and happy with myself and my life. My mom always made the best of things, and by her example I learned to be content. As a child, I didn't get everything I wanted. I had to learn to sacrifice, compromise, make choices, and settle. So now as an adult, I am not always wishing for the next best thing. I love what I already have. I have learned as an adult that contentment is a rare gift.
I love being a mom. My mom taught me to balance the domesticity of raising young children. She taught me to cook, bake, and clean. I learned to involve my children in the daily life of cooking, baking, and cleaning but still take time to read, sing, and play with them. I learned what's important about family. My mom made sure that my sisters and I grew up to be friends. We are close because she raised us to share, help each other, and rely on each other. Most of all, my mom taught me that even if you have a large family, each child is different and special, and that there really is enough love and attention to go around.
I wonder if my mom knows how much I appreciate all she did to raise me. I don't think she sees the connections between my childhood and who I am now, at least not the way I do. I wonder if she worries about all she was not able to do, and feels she let me down.
I think that every mother carries around her own secrets and regrets, but mostly they are small compared to all she did that was wonderful. I have my regrets too. I can only hope that when they are grown, my children will love me for all that I did right, the way that I love my mom.
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