If Harvard doesn't look at elemenatary report cards, Why am I working so hard?

I hate writing report cards. It's a long, tedious process. It's something that I avoid doing until I can avoid it no longer. This go round, that means I'm beginning them as soon as I finish writing this posting. And folding the laundry. And doing some shopping.

I think that writing report cards is perceived  by most as a pretty easy task. My father (not a teacher) used to explain the process; teachers stand at the top of a flight of stairs and toss test papers down. The ones that land near the top garner those fortunate children A's and then so forth down the steps. Although he was attempting humour, I think that many people don't realize how arduous the task truly is.

To get reports done right, a teacher has to amass tons of data so that an honest assessment can be made and a mark can be assigned. The marks then have to be supported with comments that accurately reflect them. The comments themselves must be positive, yet honest, and not full of edu-babble. Finally, marks and comments as to where a child stands at that moment do not suffice. That is not the sole purpose of a report card. A 'next steps' comment needs to be in place to give the child and parents a direction for progress. The entire process is a pain in the neck (sometimes literally), because in the end, everyone knows that universities don't look at elementary school marks when considering an applicant. So, if elementary report cards aren't essential for any major life choice or decisions, other than needing an official document to satisfy government regulations, why do we write them? Are they even necessary, and if so, why?

Oh, I can hear all of you shouting answers at me as I type. Report cards tell the parent how the child is doing. Report cards tell the child how he or she is doing. Report cards are there so that the parents of the brilliant students can 'kvell'. Reports cards are benchmarks for a child's academic growth. Report cards are there so that a generation later when the child is a parent, he can pull them out to prove that he was a better student than his son is, in order to spur some sense into the kid... or on the flipside, prove to his kid that despite his marks, the parent went on to become the CEO of a company, and therefore, so can the child. I hear all of your answers, and you're right, but I'll offer one more.

Over the years, I've realized that the report card acts as an assessment for the teacher, to see how well she knows her students.

In preparation for report card writing, I need to have a snapshot of the child in my mind before I begin. Sure, filling in the marks is an easy task. But when I sit down to write the comments, the child must be mentally beside me. I visualize her at her desk. I watch her work. I see her in the playground. I think about how she participates, or if she participates, and what type of answers she gives. In my mind's eye, I look at her eyes, and see what subjects make them sparkle. Twice a year I go through this process. It takes hours and hours. But by the end of it, I feel that I have a good idea of who those boys and girls are, inside and out. I see where they've progressed, and know what my next steps are. The feeling when report card writing is completed is a combination of relief, exhaustion and elation.

Report cards force me to focus on each child as an individual, and not see them merely as one of a group. It's something that as a parent I love to do as well. I relish my one-on-one time with each of my children. When they were younger, it might have meant a game of Boggle, or a walk to the grocery store. Now it might mean a chat over coffee or a Skype conversation between cities. These moments afford me the opportunity to spend time alone with them, to watch them grow and to get to know them better. I listen to their stories and try to keep up with what they're doing. And while they speak, I look into their eyes to see what topics make them sparkle.  It's a very selfish act.

While I don't recommend writing report cards to anyone, I do advocate spending one-on-one time with the people you love. Whether it's a Skype conversation, sharing a cuppa, a snuggling time, a walk in the neighbourhood, or sharing a meal or a long drive, reconnecting on a regular basis reminds us of how important these important relationships are.

Well, I've procrastinated long enough. I must get down to work. And when I'm done, I think I'll celebrate by calling my kids and share a cuppa with them.

It's a blog about nothing

It's what all we teachers live to experience. It's that day when all our ducks seem to be in a row, when we're sure we're delivering an incredible lesson. It's the ego booster, the nod from the crowd that we're doing everything right. If we were comedians, we'd be 'hot'. We'd be 'on'. It's when we feel like were born for the job...until we notice the boy (in this case) staring off into the land of X-Box or Wii or hockey or....

"What were you thinking about?", I ask as Grade five boy momentarily rouses out of his reverie. "Uhhh, nothin'", he replies in a dozy voice, and blinks his eyes a few times. "Nothing?" I ask. "Uh, gee" budding Einstein (and I say that only slightly sarcastically, because I know better) adds, "if I was thinking about something, I can't remember." And then, "No," he says with assurance after contemplating a bit, "nothing." And I believe him.

A few Monday mornings ago, the staff room was bustling with the usual choruses of "Hi, how was your weekend?" Each teacher, as is the ritual, proudly took her turn (there aren't enough male teachers in my school to warrant a 'his or her') rhyming off a laundry list of activites (including laundry, by the way) completed over the forty-eight hours since we had watched every second tick until the bell signifying the end of the work week rang in glory.

In the midst of this reporting, one teacher crowed (thereby inspiring this posting), "Doesn't it make you feel great knowing you've accomplished so much over the weekend?" All I could do was to sit with my hand cupped in my chin and wonder to myself, Hmmm, I'm not so sure. After all, what's so wrong with doing absolutely nothing?

Mind you, mea culpa, I'm as guilty as everyone else. When it's my turn, I talk about how much I cooked, how much I drove, how many people I hosted for how many meals, how many hours I cleaned or shopped or did school work. And, oh the school work! Report card time becomes the Belmont Stakes of who does the most over the weekend, because the mounds of after-hours school work become top of the list items, adding to the potential list of accomplishments. It's a sick, depraved, sordid competition of who did the most work on our supposed time off, the reward being arriving at work on Monday bearing bragging rights, but also being more exhausted than when we left on Friday. So, why is doing a lot so desirable? Should we be admonishing ourselves if we accomplish nothing during our down time?

Idle hands may be the Devil's tools but all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. It seems to me that over working by adults and over programming for children (arranged by over working adults) is counter productive. I have yet to see how either proves to be healthy. It is not unusual to see a child who has been at school all day, partake in some after school sports activity, which is then followed by eating a 'quick' dinner in the car so that she can get from her swimming class to her ballet lesson (and do her homework while holding her sandwich in the back seat) and then back home in time for her tutor, a bath, and fifteen minutes to practise her piano before she can relax for her mandatory ten minutes of reading before bed. Yes, children are buoyant. But I think too much overprogramming robs a child of many important skills.

I'm a big proponent of routine for children. I think they not only need it, but crave it. Too many things in a routine, however, is in my opinion, taxing, overloading and overwhelming. When too much of the day is programmed, a child loses the opportunity to play quietly alone. I find it fascinating to see how many children have great difficulty occupying themselves when they find they have nothing to do. They quickly resort to a screen of some type. Imaginary play breeds creativity, and I wonder if what children really need is fewer programmed activities and more time to slow down, ponder and play.

We grown ups who did not grow up with cellphones and all the assortment of berries that are out there are now being urged to be accessible 24/7. I admonish myself for taking a cellphone with me when I go for a walk. Yes, yes, I need it for protection. That's what I tell myself. But the truth is, society expects everyone to be accessible. When did that happen? And what has happened to cause us to believe that in order for us to be fine, upstanding people, we must be actively engaged in a responsible activity every waking moment of the day? Why is it not only acceptable but desirable to multi-task? How many of us are actually embarrassed to admit that we take the time to watch an hour of TV and not fold laundry, cook or do some sort of household task at the same time, because that would be admitting that we're being unproductive?

As the demands of the day and demands of technology overcome and overwhelm us, I remember with fondness the woman who lived in the house across the street from me when I was growing up. She used to announce that she was going to sit in her 'do nothing' chair for a few minutes. As a child, I thought it was odd that this lady, who baked and cooked and doted over her husband and three daughters openly relished being so lazy. Actually, she wasn't being lazy at all. She was simply allowing herself the luxury of doing 'nothing' for a few minutes to revitalize herself before taking on the demands of her day. In retrospect, I think this woman was quite brilliant.

To quote Phoebe Gilman's book title, I think that we should all take some time to make Something from Nothing. Whether it's taking a moment to phone a friend or read the newspaper or maybe just sitting on a do-nothing chair for a few moments to reward ourselves for a hard day's work, 'nothing' really can be 'something'.

Do you know where there's a sale on do-nothing chairs?

Hurry!

Okay, here's a little conundrum that continues to baffle me year after year. We all know that some children spend a lot of time throughout the school day sitting in class watching the clock, pondering how many minutes remain until they can go home. So here's my question: Why is it that the very same children will do anything first thing in the morning or right after recess to ensure that they're the first ones in the building when the bell rings? Every day I see the same children who would rather be somewhere else push ahead in line, refuse to hold the door, and even sneak in other doors to be the first one for the class that they want to leave as soon as possible.

Strangely enough, we adults exhibit the same strange behaviour. We are constantly in a rush, even downright excited to do something we don't want to do.

Recently, I underwent that routine, spectaclar medical test that marks the beauty of turning 50. I was sitting in the hospital waiting room populated by men and women with squeaky clean colons, contemplating an unknown doctor exploring my netherworlds while sedated, when I was reminded of something Jerry Seinfeld illustrated so brilliantly in an episode of Seinfeld. Here we were, a bunch of people about to have an important, necessary, yet fairly unpleasant procedure (well, at least the prep isn't exactly a party), and we couldn't wait to be called. As Jerry explains, "And then, they finally call you and it’s a very exciting moment. They finally call you, and you stand up and you kinda look around at the other people in the room. “Well, I guess I’ve been chosen. I’ll see you all later.”"

For me at least, the anticipation of a particular event is often worse than the experience itself, so the real attraction to expedite matters is simply to get the whatever-it-is, over with. Basically, the faster I get in, the faster I'll get out. So I have to ask myself, is this how kids view school? Do they scramble in the doors just so they can, theoretically, get out faster?

I'm not so sure. Granted, I see elementary children every day. You might tell me that it's different with high school and university students, but I'm still not so sure. You see, I think that most children view even the things they're not sure they want to do with a different attitude. Children want to give people and situtations the benefit of the doubt. Maybe it's because adults are reassuring them. Maybe it's because they're not experienced enough in life to know any better. Whatever the reason, even children who are having a tough go of school will, by and large, push their way into the doors day after day, because to them, a new day offers them a new opportunity to have a good day instead of a bad one.

We all have those things in life that we dread. Experience is a great teacher. Experience alone, however, should not be the only marker in judging the outcome of any particular event. Undoubtedly, we need to be mindful of past experiences when we head into new ones. At the same time, we need to remind ourselves that new experiences are just that...new experiences. Their outcomes might be different than ones from the past.

When we are armed with experience, we can take the plunge to discover new territory. And when my name is called, I'll stand up and look around at the other people in the room and announce, “Well, I guess I’ve been chosen. I’ll see you all later."

Do you like my party hat?

Silly Hat Day. Crazy Tie Day. Wear something Blue, or Red or Purple or Orange Day. Each of these are special events that are created in school to promote spirit and comradery. I'm kind of pareve when it comes to these 'special days'. I ususally forget about them until it's too late, and then run around my place frantically scrambling at the last minute to find the hat or tie or something borrowed or something blue to wear to work. All these days do nothing for me, except one. I like Backwards Day.

The whole concept of Backwards Day tickles me. I like the idea of wearing clothes backwards. In truth, the overall effect looks really cute but becomes very uncomfortable very fast. But for those first few minutes, seeing heads on backwards and literally not knowing if someone is coming or going is fabulously comical. Of course, Backwards Day in the true sense never happens, for if it were to be celebrated to its full and proper extent, at the sound of the first bell I'd be saying 'sayonara' and heading home.

Maybe I like Backwards Day because I enjoy reading newspapers and magazines backwards. I like starting at the last page of a section and working my way forward. I have no idea why I do this, I just do. I flip over the particular newspaper section and begin...or end.

Backward and forward thinking is illuminated at Chanukah with the correct procedure for lighting the Chanukiah, the Chanukah menora. The great yeshivas of Hillel and Shammai argued over which way the candles should be lit. In Tractate Shabbat of the Talmud, Shammai proposes that the candles be lit in reverse order, backwards shall we say, to what we do today. Essentially and for a variety of reasons, he felt that on the first night of Chanukah, eight candles should be lit; on the seventh night, seven and so on and so forth. Hillel, on the other hand, felt that the candles should be lit in ascending order. Although Shammai made a lot of sense, after much argument, Hillel's reasoning prevailed, which is why we light the candles in the manner that we do to this very day.

When I light my Chanukah candles, I am made aware that Hillel wanted us to live our lives facing forward. I think he knew that it's too easy to look backward, to get mired in the past. There is no question that we must not forget history, but once we learn from the past, we need to take those lessons and move toward the future.

As the miracle of the oil grows each night before our eyes, it becomes evident that it is indeed important to glance behind our shoulder to know where we've come from, but it is essential to face forward in order to see the miracles that await us.

Is that enough to convince me enough to read the newspaper from front to back? Not sure.But if I do, I think I'll simply begin to think of it as forward thinking.

What's a 4 letter word for regular drivel that is written on the internet?

"Good morning, Ladies and Gentlemen."
"Good morning, Ms. A."
And so each school day begins.

Rituals and regimens. I write this as I stare at my morning crossword puzzle. Mornings are always blissfully the same. I wake up, perform my morning ablutions, and then pad over to the kitchen where I flick on the light, scowl at the brightness of it all and mutter mild profanities at the morning for arriving too soon. If the dishwasher is filled with clean dishes, I empty it and shush at the noise of all the clattering, for it might wake up the sun. Clean coffee pot allows me to then put up the coffee, turn on the computer to check e-mails, put up the toast and then finally claim my prize for achieving all of the above; I get to go and fetch the newspaper.

The newspaper is a wonderful thing. The front page is meant to shock and appal...and sell newspapers. I admit to taking a gander at the front page, but my morning, pre-coffee stupor cannot handle rape and pillaging, so I hit the low brow, easy to handle sections before hitting the highlight of my pre-time-to-go-to-work-and-face-real-life morning....the puzzle page!

For me, morning isn't morning until those puzzles have been completed. I assume for many, it's like doing a morning run, or some pretzel yoga, or the morning load of laundry. I feel a sense of accomplishment when it's finished, especially if it can all be timed so that the the last puzzle clue is being written as the final bite of toast is being chewed, with an encore of the last swig of java barreling down my throat about to course through my veins.

This little ritual has been going on for years. When the children were little, this was called, 'my time'-precious moments before the house began to get noisy. I considered it a religious experience. I relished the quiet and the freedom to do as I pleased in the time I had.

With all the love for my own rituals, including certain ones I have created for my family, I often balk at religious rituals. Frankly, the necessity of lighting Shabbat candles at a precise moment (within an eighteen minute grace time) ticks me off. I can't understand why being late a few minutes is vitally important. And yes, I know the reasons why I must light at a particular time. It just bugs me that the ritual, the law, is being imposed upon me. I don't see why I can't light candles when it's convenient for me.

I  admit to a life-long struggle between the imposed and self-imposed ritual. The challenge I face, and I think the challenge many of us face in life, is how to come to terms with and find the beauty and rhythm of imposed rituals in our lives. Self imposed rituals are wonderful. Work imposes a structure and regimen of its own, as does family life. And then there is religious ritual. Sometimes, it all feels overwhelming. And when it does, and when I feel I'm being strangled by imposed rituals and regimens, I turn to the lesson of Chanukah.

Chanukah is the shining example of what happens when imposed rituals are denied. The story that ends with a miracle begins with horror, as the Jewish people under Antiochus face the threat of the death penalty if caught disobeying his edict, which prohibited following Torah laws and rituals. Jews were not allowed to study Torah, or to circumcise their baby boys. They were even forbidden to light those very same Shabbat candles which manage to infuriate me on a weekly basis.

Each year as I taught the Chanukah story to my kindergarten class, I would stop at this point and ask the children how they would feel if keeping Kosher and celebrating Shabbat would be forbidden to them. To be honest, I wasn't really asking them the question; I was asking myself. And believe it or not, as I would listen to each child respond, I would be reminded once again that as much as I tend to balk at imposed rituals, I would be lost without them. Recounting the story of Chanukah is a reminder to me that I must savour my  rituals, both imposed and self-imposed, because they define me.

Children crave structure and ritual in every day life. They get confused when routine is changed. They feel comfort in knowing what to expect. They thrive on it. And so do I.

So as the latkes fry and the dreidles spin, I celebrate not only the miracle of the oil, but the necessity of ritual in my life. And now, if you don't mind, I'm going to finish my crossword puzzle.

Here's to my regular parking spot!

I promise you, this is a true story. I was on yard duty one morning when a little boy in Grade 2 came up and tugged on my pant leg. His face was angelic, and so was his mission, for he was looking for the rightful owner of the objects he had just plucked off the playground. Filled with an air of moral consciousness and good old menschlachkeit, he opened his hand. I gazed down at the two small treasures. "Look", he exclaimed, brimming with both innocence and the awareness of the gravity and significance of what he was doing, "Someone lost his marbles!"

I am constantly losing my marbles. The memory that I never had is going. It left when I was pregnant with my first child and hasn't returned. I make lists and conveniently forget them. In order to remember where I have parked my car at any given shopping centre, I walk backwards for a bit so I know what the area of the lot looks like so I'll find it on my way back from shopping. Of course, I have my 'regular' parking spot at any given plaza or mall. No matter how out of the way my store of choice is, I park in the same area so I'll remember where the car is. It's pathetic. And at times, pathetically funny. There's even an in-joke between me and my children, who claim that I watched a movie with them, but I can't remember seeing it. The name of the movie, ironically enough is, A Walk to Remember.

The interesting things, however, are what I can remember. I remember events. To be sure, some events are better left forgotten. Everyone has some of them. At the moment, I have a  vivid recollection of two of my children having the flu at the same time when they were little and me doing round robin loads of laundry all night. Twenty years later, I can chuckle about it. I think even at the time, in my exhausted stupor, I managed to crack a smile thinking that at least the kids took turns vomitting. They've always been a considerate bunch.

I've always marvelled at the relationship between memory and the sense of smell (I apologize that this paragraph comes right after the last one...the last paragraph shouldn't linger). Smell has, as we know, the shortest attention span of the senses. You can walk into a kitchen wafting of fresh coffee, but a few minutes later you won't smell it, because the sense of smell becomes lazy. However, a scent that was inhaled as a young child, like your grandmother's chicken soup cooking, or the perfume of your father's after shave on his cheek, remains with you forever. It is the sense with the longest memory and the last to die. A familiar aroma will immediately transport you back in time.

Lately, I've been considering the connection between emotion and memory. I might not recall all the details about a particular event, but I can remember how I felt. Think of all those 'firsts' in your life. Maybe you can see everything clearly in your mind's eye, but for me, some are fuzzy. But not the feelings. They're completely intact. I know how I felt when my friend from elementary school passed away from cancer at 16. I remember how my first kiss felt. I know how I felt when the doctor told me that I most likely would never have children. I know how I felt when my babies were born. I know how I felt when I got married. I know how I felt when I got divorced. And I know how I felt when my firstborn walked down the aisle.

Emotion and memory can be very dangerous. I've always said that when it comes to teaching (and parenting and friendship), I'm never worried about what I call the 'scripted' things I say in class. Lessons are controlled. I know what I have to say to get the message across. What I fear are the unscripted things, both in and out of the classroom. Messages, either spoken with words or via body language can be misinterpreted. Tone of voice resonates.People hear things with their own personal history playing in their minds, and we're not privy to any of it. It is, therefore, so easy to do something that could unwittingly cause someone to feel hurt, and that memory can remain with them forever.

Of course, thank goodness, there are times when the unscripted word gleans something unexpectedly good. I remember, many many years ago while I was taking a walk, I met a parent of a child I had taught a few years previous. The parent stopped me to say how the child was doing. She thanked me profusely, gushing that had it not been for what I had said to her about her child, the child wouldn't have gotten the help he needed. She went on to tell me that she was routinely relating the story in lectures she was giving. I was stunned. All I could say was, thank you. I was too embarrassed to admit that I had absolutely no recollection of what I had said to her. To this day, I have no idea what I said, but I haven't forgotten how powerful and potentially dangerous the unscripted word can be.

'Think before you speak' is a great adage. Doesn't always work for me. Every once in a while though, I am reminded that each of us has the power to give someone else lasting memories. The unscripted word can be risky. It can also be inspiring. The mystery is, we rarely know how our words and actions will affect others.

I think the only way to combat the unscripted is to work on creating more of the scripted. The aim is to foster positive, enduring memories with our students, friends and loved ones as often as possible. We're apt to lose a few marbles along the way, but if we feel confident about the scripted as well as the unscripted in our lives, those who find those marbles will have something of beauty in their hands,

So, what's on your mind?

It was the end of an ordinary kindergarten day. The children were in line, waiting for the bell to ring. There was the usual chattering going on about playdates and such, nothing out of the ordinary. All of a sudden, from nowhere, little dark, curly haired girl opened up her mouth. I have no idea what compelled her to declare at the top of her lungs, "When MMMy mommy and MMMy daddy are in the shower together...". It was like watching a pile of dishes toppling off a counter, I couldn't stop the flow of her words. "....MMMy daddy tickles MMMy mommy....and she laughs and laughs!"

One of the reasons I loved teaching kindergarten was because this is the age before children gain a social mask. They would say whatever they wanted. They liked my haircut, they hated my shoes. They had a good weekend, they had a bad weekend. Daddy tickles mommy, she laughs. Nothing was taboo. The list went on and on, year in and year out. Hapy stories, sad stories. Children voiced their opinions on everything.

Well, as we know, children grow up. As they progress in school, stories are translated into something called Journals. My Summer Vacation. My Winter Vacation. Our Class Trip to Where Ever. My Weekend. All of these are called Journal prompts. I'm sure you remember writing these responses when you were in school. I sure do. They are classics, tried and true vehicles for writing. After all, who doesn't like writing about themselves! And for children who have difficulty writing about the State of the Union or who for some reason cannot regularly come up with prose that can be considered Nobel Prize worthy, 'What I did on my weekend' simply works.

Or does it? What if a child didn't go to overnight camp in the summer? Would he feel that he didn't measure up to his classmates? What if the closest a child got to Disney World one winter was to watch the Disney Christmas Day parade on TV? Would he be shunned forever by his classmates? What if, on the way to a class trip, a child threw up and he wrote that in the story that goes up on the bulletin board? And what if all a child remembers about a weekend is the fight that mommy and daddy had. The question being asked is whether it is fair to 'force' a child to recount these events via a journal entry. To take this one step further, could asking a child to relate difficult or emotional experiences be in fact detrimental, or even harmful?

A reader approached me with this issue, telling me that she had been to a lecture at her teacher's college, where this topic had been addressed. The entire student body was advised that asking children to recount their weekend or vacation could potentially be unhealthy for the child, and they should therefore make it a practice to never assign any of the above as Journal topics.

Are you shocked? I certainly stopped dead in my tracks, although I can somehow understand the logic, as twisted as I believe it is.

Let's be honest; there is a lot of bad stuff going on in the world. Too many children live in circumstances that many of us would not be able to comprehend. I respect the thought that reliving a bad weekend can possibly be painful for a child. But what if writing is a child's sanctuary, a window to safety?

Over the years, I have been able to have many one-on-one discussions with children about many difficult topics as a result of their Journal entries. Many times, children would relate stories about loved ones who had passed away. Their messages were hints to me that they wanted to talk further about what they had written, and I would give them the opportunity. Children know that what they say in their Journals is a safe way to express themselves. By writing their thoughts regularly, children learn that it's important to express themselves, that all feelings are valid and that by sharing, a teacher can help or find the appropriate help if need be.

I believe that asking a teacher to purposely not assign something for fear that a child might think of something sad or difficult is a form of censorship, and a dangerous one at that. Maybe what a child needs is to not suppress or ignore emotions, but to express them in a healthy way, so that he can learn to understand them and himself better.

You and I know that the moment we share an unpleasant or even an embarrassing experience with someone, we immediately (a) feel better and (b) realize that we're not alone. Schadenfreude aside, it's reassuring to find out how many people share the same or similar experiences that we do. Shouldn't children be able to learn that they're not alone?

As teachers and parents, we try to protect our children. We try to shield them from harm. We make an effort to have the ills of the world stay as far away from them as we possibly can. Protecting children is paramount, but isn't giving them the tools they need to survive a method of protection?

School is a safehaven for children, and their journal is a catch basin for their innermost thoughts. 'What I did on my  weekend' might not be the most original of Journal topics, but the thought that the abolishment of topics where negative experiences might possibly be divulged concerns me.

Children impress me with their frank and honest storytelling. No matter what happens on a weekend, children, just as we adults do, have the option of keeping stories to themselves or relating them to others. They are not being told which stories to write. It is their choice to share what they want. Let's teach our children that school is a safe place, that their teacher is there to advocate for them, and that their journal is a vehicle to make it all possible.

I love you

Oh, those three, beautiful little words. I must admit, I crave hearing them from my students. Sadly, as I have been slowly climbing the grades in my teaching these past number of years, I've been hearing them less and less frequently. To tell you the truth, I miss it. Oh sure, I see it in their eyes when they look at me. It's obvious. But I want to hear them say it. I want to hear the words coming out of their mouths, but I know they're resisting. Wait. Wait just a second. You don't think I'm talking about...? NO! Not THOSE three words! I'm talking about the three other precious words, I. Don't. Know.

Frustration finally got the better of me a few years ago, so I decided to attack the situation head on and began talking to the children about the beauty of 'I don't know'. Since then, I've made it a point of raising the subject every year. It's always a fascinating discussion for me, because I get to watch my students' expressions change over the course of the five to ten minute talk.

It always starts out the same way. During a regularly planned lesson, I pose a question and choose a person who has her hand raised (note:instead of the politically correct him or her thing, I am going to simply switch back and forth). The person thinks he knows the right answer, but finds out he's erred. I then ask a follow up question to find out what her thinking process was. The result is one of two things: (a) the child then makes up something or (b) I get 'deer-in-the-headlights' eyes staring back at me. Eventually, I ask her if she simply doesn't know the answer. When I get that nod, coupled with the expression of failure, I retort with a declaration that the child had just said something brilliant. I tell the class that no one is expected to know all of the answers asked. I go on to explain that if they knew the answers to everything I asked, they wouldn't be in this grade. 'I don't know', therefore, transforms from being a defeatest proclamation to becoming an appropriate response to a question.

Watching children slowly come around to the notion that they're not disappointing anyone by not understanding something is a beautiful sight. The muscles in their face relax. Sometimes there's an audible sigh. There is always the coy smile. All becomes right with the world. Until, of course, the next time it happens they feel that it's okay not to know something.

Although I do utter my share of I don't know's, I too am guilty of trying to cover up the fact that I'm lost (literally, sometimes!). I think that we resist uttering the words-that-shall-not-be-named because we fear that by admitting not knowing something, we're in fact letting the other person down. We risk losing our perceived Superman status and become boring, ordinary Clark Kent.

So now, let's pretend someone has asked you a question you don't know, or you yourself are in a postition where you don't know the answer. You can do as my students do (and I do...sometimes). You can (a) make up an answer or (b) you can make the ol' deer-in-the-headlights face. There's even a (c). You can pass the buck. Or, there's option (d). You can say, I don't know.

I don't know is a fantastic tool for learning and communicating with others. I don't know opens up discussion. At school when an 'I don't know' comes up, the child(ren) and I will then search for the answer together, be it on the internet, or in a book, or by asking someone else who knows. Together, we arrive at the answer, and ususally discover more questions. Now, I am quite aware that 'I don't know' can be used as an avoidance tactic, but when the option to solve something together arises, avoidance usually goes out the window.

Ann Landers, the great advice columnist, used to recommend that if parents wanted their children (especially teens) to talk to them about what was going on in their lives, the best thing they could do was to do dishes together. Miss Landers was right. Dishwashing is a fantastic leveling tool, because the work is shared equally and the dishes get done. Well, since diswashers tend to do the work for a lot of us, I'm going to offer another suggestion for creating an environment where two people can work together equally. Try saying, I don't know to the other person, and then work together to find a solution.

'I don't know' helps to find strategies to solve homework problems. It becomes a topic of discussion with a friend to find a movie to see on a Saturday night. 'I don't know' causes me to search for new recipes. 'I don't know' frustrates me sometimes, but then it challenges me.

So what am I going to write about next week, you ask? Honestly, I don't know.
Yet.

Put your left foot over your right ear

Just to make myself clear before I start, no, I hadn't taken any strange cold medication nor had I eaten something weird the night before this happened. It was as simple as this; I woke up in the middle of the night with the thought, Gee, anyone who eats salad must be quite flexible. And by flexible I don't mean Nadia Comaneci flexible, I mean psychologically and emotionally flexible.

Look, I don't pretend to be a profound dreamer like the Biblical Joseph. But who could possibly ignore such a propetic message? Ok, so most people can...but I couldn't. Over and over again in the middle of the night I promised myself I would remember my salad thought when I woke up. I was sure there was something my brain was trying to tell me, other than I needed to buy lettuce and possibly to go get a life.

Luckily for me, this message came to me on a Saturday night, so I had all of Sunday to think about this while avoiding everything of substance that I needed to do. This seemingly cryptic clue became crystal clear when I thought about my students.

If you've ever watched children eat, as I have my own at home, or in my classroom or in the lunchroom at school, you might observe that generally, children have a uniform way of eating. They'll eat all of one food, then move to the next, and then to the next, until they have finished everything (or thrown it out, but those are stories for another posting). There's rarely any variation of a theme; no, let's try a little bit of this, and then a little bit of that, and then back to some more of this (Seinfeld fans, I purposely avoided using the words, this, that and...the other).

A salad, as we all know, is made up of a variety of different ingredients. Every forkful of salad brings a unique combination of flavours to the tongue. A person is never guaranteed that he or she will get the same taste sensation twice (sorry Gump fans), hence my late night thought that anyone who eats salad must be someone who can deal with a lot of different things being thrown at them at once, thereby making them flexible.

But here's my question: are salad eaters missing something by eating their ingredients all mixed together, by being so flexible? What can we learn by children's eating habits? And yes, I'm going somewhere with this.

Let's think about this. The mixture of foods in a salad, although a tasty treat, doesn't give the taster the enjoyment of tasting individual flavours, because so many tastes are bombarding the mouth at the same time. When children eat one food at a time, they learn each food's distinct flavour and characteristics. They learn how a food feels on the tongue, if it's chewy or crunchy, sweet or salty. They learn the individuality of food. They appreciate each for its own merit and begin to learn to discern which flavours they like or dislike. That way, they'll know which tastes to avoid and which specific ones to savour.

To me, the average day is like a salad. A million things happen, but something always sticks out to claim that one adjective that will describe the entire day. Think about how, when you're tired after a day at work or working around the house, and someone asks you how your day was, you're able to reply with one word. It was 'great'. It was 'lousy'. It was 'frustrating'. It was...'okay'. How is it that we're able to take an entire day and condense it into one word...in essence, one memory? When we dig in and pull out one forkful to remember and discuss, how often do we choose a positive one, one that 'tastes good'? And why can one piece of soggy lettuce have the power to deem the entire salad to be terrible?

Let's be honest. Isn't finding that nasty, gritty piece of lettuce and talking about it a lot more interesting than relating a story about a great salad? 'I had a great salad' is a five word story, and a yawner at that. The story about how a delicious salad turned horrible is far more interesting, garners more attention and has a lot more staying power in a conversation. It can be reused and recycled at any time, especially after someone else tells a story about their bad experience with salad. 'I had a great salad' just sits  there like a limp leaf of lettuce.

I admit that when it comes to relating stories about my day, I have to fight the urge to tell the one that will get me the most bang for my buck... and more often than not, it's a story with a less than positive message or outcome. In my salad of life, I know that there are many forkfulls (and bowlfulls) that are downright vile. Maybe we can all learn from the children; savour the individual, delicious ingredients of each day, so that when our salad is tossed with things that are not so good, we can rely on the tasty forkfulls to get us through the day.

We're all so cold blooded

Have you ever considered that we humans might not be mammals, but might in fact be fish or reptiles? I had to wonder as I read the following note from a parent I received years ago and kept because, well, you'll see:

Dear Ms. A.,
I would like my daughter to stay inside during recess. We just came back from the warm climate and she needs time to adjust to cold weather, so she would not get sick again. Thank you.

Just to add a cherry to this ice cream of amusement, the girl handed me the note when she came into the class after recess. That note gave me a chuckle then, and has every time I've looked at it since.

I admit that I've kept the note on the side of my fridge in an inconspicuous spot. Over time, I noticed it less and less, until the only times I paid any attention to it were when I cleaned. Finally, a few weeks ago, I decided that maybe I didn't need it on the fridge anymore. I put the note in my hands preparing to stash it somewhere, but decided to read it one more time. This time, I didn't laugh. Something very different resounded in me.

We are all familiar with the French author, Francois de la Rochefoucauld's famous words, "The only thing constant in life is change". Funny thing about that line, nobody ever quotes it over something good. You never hear someone at a wedding saying to the bride and groom, 'Mazal tov! Now don't forget, the only thing constant in life is change. So, chew on that a while and then go start your life together!' No, that line is sort of a 'comforting-the-mourner' thing to say. It works well when someone has lost a job, lost a loved one, got a divorce, or the last kid has flown the nest. It's always followed by the recipient of the phrase casting his or her eyes down to the ground (or up to the sky), shrugging his or her shoulders and uttering an imperceptible, 'yeah'. The message is crystal clear-change sucks. So, if everyone knows that change is constant, why don't we expect it, why don't we look forward to it, why don't we embrace it?

As the weather begins to get nicer outside, about mid-April-when Spring is in the air, the trees begin to blossom, the birds sing their love songs and you can actually feel the sun's warm rays on your back through your woolen coat, all should seem right with the world. In the staff room, however, the looming panic of change sets in, as we begin to wonder what each of us will be asked to teach the following year. Will we teach the same grade? Will we have the same colleagues? Will we have to move rooms? We all look at each other and ask the questions, (a) So, what do you think? (brilliant, eh?) and (b) Have you heard anything? Everyone then speculates, and then the rumours fly. The spectre of change haunts as the tulips bloom.

And therein lies the problem I have with change. It's not always the change itself that is troublesome, but it's the anticipation of change that causes the struggle. It's the what if's. What if I have to change grades? What if I can't meet my payments? What if the tests come back positive?

I think that Mel Brooks as the 2000 Year Old Man said it best. When Carl Reiner asked him how people got around all those years ago, how they were transported, he answered, "Mostly fear (and a few seconds later)...Fear would be the main propulsion". Sure, it's easy to chant, 'the only thing we have to fear is fear itself' or sing (and yes, I've done this), 'Whenever I feel afraid, I hold my head erect, and whistle a happy tune, so no one will suspect I'm afraid', but how easy is it to believe it? Moreover, what can we do to combat those menacing thoughts that bring about the doom known as 'change'?

Some changes that occur in life are beyond our control. What we can control, however, is how we choose to accept the changes. In an extreme example, the passengers on the fated United 93 flight on September 11, 2001 knew that they were the target of terrorists. They knew that the chances of them getting out of that plane alive were slim to none. They knew their fate, yet they chose to take control of themselves, even when the situation was not in their control.

Not all change is bad. Moving to a new house, winning a lottery (please may it happen to me), landing that dream job, welcoming a new baby, falling in love, and getting married (or in my case, making a wedding for my firstborn) are all great changes. Still, these changes affect us and those around us. Even good changes cause stress.

Rochefoucauld was right; change is unavoidable. That girl in my class was simply going to have to get used to the idea that it's cold here in Canada in the winter. Luckily, that's an easy one; an extra sweater under a winter coat, warm hat, mitts and snow boots would suffice in making the adjustment to the frigid temperatures bearable.

Oh, and speaking of winter, well, that's a change that will soon be upon us. Believe it or not, the conversation in the staff room has already switched to sales on winter coats, and who knows which boots are the warmest.

And maybe that's the answer as to how to combat the fear of change. I've been a participating member of a group of clucking hens, all voicing concerns. Those conversations only help to escalate matters. Only when we share concerns and brainstorm solutions in a constructive manner does facing change become more palatable. Taking control of the change, good or bad, is what its all about.

Change causes us to challenge ourselves to reach new goals and conquer old fears. As for me, I'm going to go into my closet and find my winter coat.

Sign on the dotted line

I do not hold the monopoly on great stories. This one was related to me by my colleague the other day, while sitting over lunch.

My colleague is a Resource teacher. In layman's terms, she works as a Remedial teacher, to boost reading and other learning skills. It's a tough job. A Resource teacher has to have a bag of strategies miles deep in order to keep the children engaged and interested. Sometimes she works in the class with small groups of children. Other times, children are withdrawn from class in order to enjoy more intense learning in the quieter environment of the Resource Room.

One day, Resource teacher went to pick up the little boy from his Grade 2 class. The walk down the hall was uneventful and they reached their destination without incident. The two sat down together, ready to learn. The teacher pulled out the books and activities and placed them on the desk for both of them to see. It was then that the boy stopped, turned his head to look up at her and queried, "Who signed me up for this?"

I've always found it ironic that all those instructional books on child rearing seem to stop when the baby arrives at his fifth birthday. Up until then, you can track every little aspect of a baby's growth using these books. The specialists tell you when the baby is supposed to sleep through the night, when he should be learning to crawl or walk, or eat independently, or become toilet trained. It's all neatly laid out...until the baby turns five. And then, out of nowhere, the advice stops cold. It's like the experts are saying, 'Ok, you know what to do. Now, Skedaddle!' From that moment on, raising a child becomes a mystery. You're suddenly on your own. Bookless.

I've always considered that whole child raising issue a conspiracy. I think it's done purposely, so that we parents don't get scared. A book will give you step by step instructions on how to cure bedwetting, but no one tells us how to prepare a child for going on a first date, or (Heaven forbid) help us deal with the shock of it (hint: copious amounts of liquor). No child rearing books tell us how to get a teenager to pick his (or her...I've experienced both) stuff off the floor. We are told how to cope with Whooping Cough (now called the hundred day cough...and I've counted it...and it really lasts exactly one hundred days, each one a glorious nightmare), but not what to do when our first...or our last child enters university.... and there's NO child rearing book that deals with helping us get through the first child getting married (hint: copious amounts of liquor). It's all a well kept military secret, designed so that no one will ask early on, Who signed me up for this?

No one tells us that parents die, that young people get sick, that the rich get richer (that really sucks!), that life is filled with disappointments, and that sometimes, from seemingly nowhere, just when everything seems to be going right, something happens to make it go terribly wrong. It makes one ask, Who signed me up for this?

That little boy asks a really good question. It's a question that stems from confusion, from a point where it seems that there's a lack of fairness going on. This child sees that he's been chosen, but like Tevye, asks the question, "...once in a while, can't You choose someone else?" As adults who have 'been there', we chuckle with empathy.

What that child doesn't realize is that because he is 'signed up' for this class, his life in school might just happen to change dramatically for the better. Someone noticed that the child needed an extra boost to get him on track, advocated for him and did something about it to make things right. With some hard work, time and support from all sides (teacher, student and parents) this student just might eventually thank those who 'signed him up', because he will not feel as lost in the scary land known as school.

There's a great Yiddish phrase that goes, kleine kinder, kleine tzuris...grosse kinder, grosse tsuris (little children, little problems...big children, big problems). We big children live with the big problems in life, as well as the little ones. Dealing with our issues can be difficult, especially when we're mired in the problem. That's where our little friend comes in to help teach an invaluable lesson.

Whereas children often need someone to advocate for them, I've learned that I need to advocate for myself. Recognizing that there is a problem in the first place is difficult enough, but just knowing that it exists is not sufficient. It's important to work to find a way to muddle through whatever it is that life throws my way. I need time. I need to do the hard work. And I need support from the right people in our life. Without a doubt, I get by with a little help from my friends. Some problems can't be solved completely, but with the right tools, and with the right friends, I might not feel as lost in the scary place called life.

And neither will you.

The bells are ringing...

Recess. You gotta love it. For teachers not on yard duty, it means that we get to go to the bathroom; an auspicious accomplishment only we teachers can appreciate. If we’re really lucky, we might have time to run (literally) to the staff room, or make copies of the one important thing we forgot to photocopy, or possibly check phone messages. The experienced teacher tries to do a combination of the above, with limited success.

Those fortunate teachers who are not on duty get to gloat while the rest of us head out for the recess yard. In the warm weather, we relish those fleeting moments to soak in some Vitamin D. In the howling winds of winter, however, each second is poison. Fifteen minutes seems like a lifetime. Our watches don’t work fast enough. On those days outside, all bundled up, we stare at the school windows thinking of our lucky colleagues indoors sipping coffee (we forget that all they're really trying to do is to get to the bathroom or the photocopy machine) or else we simply dream of hot chocolate to pass the time. But, enough about me. What is recess about to a child? I’ll bet you think it’s a simple question with a simple answer, but it’s not.

Let’s be honest. For a child, recess is a break from the teacher’s droning. Even in the classroom where the teacher doesn’t drone, recess is a break from the teacher’s droning. The children have been cooped up in a classroom for hours, and they need a change of scenery. Recess provides that opportunity. Recess allows the child to roam around freely, get a drink and go to the washroom. And, oh yes, recess affords the child a chance to play.

One might think that play would have been at the top of my list. Well, it used to be, but I’ve noticed that increasingly, children are losing what I always thought was their instinctive ability to know how to play. It’s not as natural as it used to be, and that saddens and worries me.

Oh, sure, I hear ‘Wanna play?’ chanted repeatedly in the playground. I see groups of children playing tag or going off and shooting baskets or playing ‘four square’ or hopscotch. To the outsider, the untrained eye, everything appears normal, but the truth is that children are actually being taught how to play during school time (often in gym class). Without instruction, some children would feel lost in a playground. While it's wonderful that we can give children the tools to play, I wonder what has happened to cause children to need instruction altogether. I wonder if children are begininning to lose their ability to independently grab a friend and come up with a game to play.

And while I'm ranting, I'll mention another thing that strikes me as odd (and I admit to being old now as I write). Why is it that when a few children huddle over a screen of a ‘system’ game, they consider that as playing ‘together’? How are they playing together when they never look at each other? As I watch all of this unfold on the playground, I worry. If play doesn’t come naturally to children now, what will happen when they get older?

I don’t know what I would do if I weren’t able to play.

One of the reasons I became a teacher was so that I could ‘play’ with my students. ‘Play’ doesn’t necessarily mean getting down on the floor and building masterpieces out of Lego, although that’s perfectly fine and even desirable in my books. Playing means allowing the child in a person to emerge from time to time, in a positive, healthy way.

Every once in a while, when a child is skipping rope or playing with a ‘Skip-it’ (or whatever they call it these days) on the playground, I’ll ask if I can join in. I guess because I’m older, they always oblige. The kids don’t know what to make of it. I think they wonder how someone so old could possibly skip. I think that they think my request makes me a freak of nature. What they don’t realize that grownups need to play (indeed, maybe not Skip-it, although one shouldn't knock it--it's lots of fun). In fact, I believe that we need play desperately in our lives. The problem arises when we put off playing for a long period of time in order to perform our daily duties. We get so mired in our errands (often necessarily), that we forget how much we need to play. Sometimes, we even forget how.

As I deal with my obligations in life, I try to turn the mundane into play. As Mary Poppins so eloquently points out, "In every job that must be done, There is an element of fun, You find the job and snap! The job's a game". So here's some news: I'm not Mary Poppins, and I don't love doing all my chores. However, I often consider cooking as play. If I have all the ingredients and have time on my side, cooking is a combination of being at the play kitchen and the playdough centre. It’s creative and fun, and you get to eat at the end. And with any luck, someone else considers cleaning up as play. Now, that’s striking gold!

Sometimes, I will 'embarrass' my children in public by doing such criminal acts as singing a song out loud in the car with the windows down (with the children cringing inside), spontaneously dancing to the beat of a street player or volunteering for a busker show, to name just a few (I'm sure they could cite long lists of horrors the likes of the above mentioned). After being their mother for so many years, my children are almost used to my behaviour. They know that their mother is a bit 'off the wall'. What they haven't twigged into yet is that all I'm doing is playing.

It's easy to understand how play can quickly become a chore for children. When the recess bell rings and they run outside to an empty yard, children have to quickly assess who is around, ask someone to play and organize an activity. That takes work and skill. But they need it to survive. They need to laugh. It's good for their health. It's good for their soul.

Play needs to be fostered and encouraged. It needs to be practised, like addition or subtraction drills, until it becomes second nature. We need play. It's therapeutic. It breaks up the monotony in the day. At least for me, my sanity depends upon it.

I think the recess bell is about to ring. So go ahead! Go grab your friend and say, "Wanna play?"

Who are you anyway?

It happened every year in my kindergarten class without fail, somewhere between November and February. It even occurred once in my Grade 3 class. Now, before I let you know what transpired, keep in mind that I teach in a Hebrew Day School. By November, we would have learned about and celebrated four major holidays in two languages, sung a vast number of songs and prayers, stood for Hatikvah every day and learned at least a few dozen words in Hebrew.

Please understand, there would be neither rhyme nor reason as to when or why it happened. It just did.

A group of children would be sitting around a table, busying themselves with an activity, crayons or pencils in hand, when out of nowhere, one child would say to another, “I’m Jewish. Are you Jewish?” The second child would then chime in, “Yeah, I’m Jewish”. Then he would turn to the child next to him and ask, “Are you Jewish?” This little chirping with kippot bobbing would go all around the table, until they would all realize that everyone at the table was indeed, Jewish. It seemed incredulous. How could these children not have realized this before? Why did it seem such a surprise to them? More importantly, why were the children able to claim their identity so easily and succinctly? What do children know about being Jewish that I don't?

The question of ‘who am I’ gets more complicated as the years pass. Our identities become diverse. My own list is very long. I’m a daughter, a sister (and sister-in-law), a mother, a mother-in-law (a new one on my list), an aunt, a teacher and a friend (ooh, and a blogger!), to name just a few. Sometimes I feel that I've become compartmentalized as I travel through life. I'm so pushed and pulled by myself and others within each part of my whole that I begin to forget who the whole ‘me’ is. And I don't think I'm alone. We often fall into a trap of being a mother or father, a sister, brother or teacher, not a blend. When the scale becomes unbalanced because we’re overburdened with our jobs or our families, we begin to lose sight of who we are. It is when these things happen that I look to my students for clarity.

It is fascinating that kindergartners are able to declare their identity while drawing or cutting and pasting; literally without thinking. They are Jewish. Done. Are they able to be so sure about everything because their lives are simple? Do they know who they are only because they haven’t experienced life yet, because they don’t have mortgages to pay, or families to feed or bosses to please?

Perhaps. But I like to give children a bit more credit than that. Because they have not had to deal with the trappings of adulthood they are still ‘pure’. Their innocence allows them to see the world as it could be in a perfect state. If we take a moment to listen to them, we can glean great insight.

So, what does it mean for those children to say that they’re Jewish?

We know now through science that Kohanim share common DNA, so it is safe to extrapolate from that that all Jews carry some genetic marker, thereby branding us as Jews from birth. Being Jewish, therefore, is literally in our blood. We cannot escape it. No matter how one decides to be Jewish, he simply is Jewish.

Our sages and texts instruct us on how to be a good father, mother, sister, brother, teacher, and friend (and maybe blogger, although I haven’t checked). It’s all there to study, to learn and to question. Could it really be as simple as my students claim? Do the children instinctively know that being Jewish is simply part of them, biologically? Do they realize subconsciously that Judaism encompasses every aspect of their life, making their response to that question so immediate? I wonder. Furthermore, what can we learn from all of this?

I’m not the most observant person around by far, but I am religious, spiritual. The more I think about this, the more I realize that the children are trying to teach me that religion in general is important in life. No matter how I practise it, my Judaism acts as a glue that collects all those fragmented pieces of myself in order to assist me in becoming whole. I can be an Orthodox Jew, a pickles and pastrami Jew, a Woody Allen Jew, a BuJew (or JewBu, depending on whether you read right to left or left to right), Reform, Conservative or anywhere in between Jew.  Religion gives me the tools to be the sum of my parts.

So, I suppose I can say that I’m a Jewish mother (oy!), a Jewish mother-in-law (bigger oy!), a Jewish sister and sister-in-law, a Jewish teacher, a Jewish friend, and, yes, even a Jewish blogger.

I’m Jewish. Are you Jewish?

Mumbo jumbo

Anyone who knows me knows that I love word games. I enjoy crossword puzzles, jumbles, and any game where the manipulation of words is a factor. This is the story of how I was almost bested by a little girl.

My first teaching placement in my first year of studying in the Faculty of Education was a Grade Two class in a public school in the east end of the city. I enjoyed going there each week and trying out new lessons, aiming to impress my incredibly fabulous host teacher, Juanita, who nurtured my ego like a tender plant. I taught every subject with gusto, but was ‘assigned’ to be in charge of their Journals. The children would write while I was in class. I would then take home the work and return it the next week after I had marked them and made my comments.

One evening after a day’s teaching, I sat down in my dorm room to read the entries. As I read one little girl’s account, I came across the sentence, ‘I like owang goos’.

Owang goos, I uttered out loud, owang goos. What could that mean?

Suffice it to say that this puzzle drove me crazy for days, until I decided to think about the girl who wrote them. I visualized that sweet child with a mop of short, curly blonde hair. She had a great smile and a softness to her personality. Oh, and yes, I mused as I sleuthed, she can’t pronounce her r’s! That’s it, I shouted to myself. It was not owang goos, it was orang goos! And maybe the 'g' sound is soft, not hard! And if one ‘g’ is soft, so is the other. Finally the puzzle was solved. My student likes orange juice!

Communication is a fascinating art. Miscommunication, however, can be very dangerous, especially in this techno-world.

I got off with a misdemeanor a few weeks ago. I’m teaching a new grade this year, so I e-mailed a colleague who was a veteran teacher in the grade asking for some help. She e-mailed me back that she was sorry, but she could not be of any help. She then proceeded to ask me how my summer had been. After reading her response, I was hurt. I had helped her in the past, and couldn’t understand why she wouldn’t assist me, even a little bit. Nevertheless, I wrote back, writing a terse reply as to how I spent my summer vacation.

A day or so later, I received a reply to my reply. As I read through the message, which was by and large a recount of her summer vacation, I became confused with a few details. I began to think I didn’t know her as well as I thought I did. At one point in the message, she referred to someone as though I should know who he was, and I clearly didn’t. I finally e-mailed her back with a simple question…who is this person?

As soon as I clicked send, and the recipient’s name came up, I shrieked. Turns out, I had been e-mailing the wrong person the entire time! Both people had the same first name, and the same first, middle and last letter of their last name. I hadn’t paid enough attention to the name, because I had assumed I was communicating with the right person. I quickly called the person with whom I was mis-communicating and stuck my virtual tail between my legs.

The person for whom the e-mails were intended found the whole story quite amusing, but what she didn’t realize until I told her was how quickly I had been let down by her when I thought she had refused me, when she was guilty of absolutely nothing and is in reality a very generous person. Had I not realized the error, I might have had a very different relationship with my colleague.

Miscommunication is responsible for so much unnecessary misery. That poor little Grade Two girl tried to relay a message that could have easily been ignored or overlooked. I might not have thought that it was so important to know that she likes orange juice, but she thought it was important enough to write it down. To be completely honest, had I not had a love for word games even back then, I might have glossed over those challenge words and paid little or no attention to them. After all, it took a lot of time and energy to figure them out. I must admit, I felt a sense of satisfaction when I finally figured out the puzzle.

We all know the importance of good communication, but it is one thing to know it and another to be able to communicate effectively.

So many factors enter into a simple conversation. First, one needs to simply hear the words the other person is saying correctly. A famous family anecdote surrounds a yom tov gathering where a friend of my brother asked my grandmother, So, how are you? My grandmother then turned to him and with a quizzical look on her face replied, Why? Is it raining?

Next, comes the hard part- the listening-very different from the hearing, and much more complex. Listening involves taking in someone else's information and interpreting it using one's own frame of reference. That is dangerous, because every person comes into any conversation with his or her own unique history. A recount of a thrill ride at an amusement park can be interpreted as huge fun by one and scary as hell for someone else. Imagine that the person telling the story is thinking that the other is being amused, when in fact, the other person is imagining the horror of it all. The simple can become complicated so easily.

The story of owang goos reminded me that learning to communicate effectively is an ongoing challenge. In order to understand that little girl, I had to try and put myself in her shoes. It wasn't easy. It took time and patience. I had to hear her voice and understand her unique perspective. And that is the lesson. Through her, I have learned to keep trying to communicate effectively. I'm trying to improve my listening skills and take the other person's perspective into consideration. It doesn't always work, but it's always worth a try. And it sure is satisfying when the puzzle is solved!

Nobody's perfekt

So I've beaten my breast into plowshares over Yom Kippur, repenting for my wrongdoings, and am beginning to wonder about the idea of aiming for perfection.

One would think that I would be smart after all my decades of teaching, but no, I'm getting dimmer by the day.

First homework night of the Grade 5 year, I assigned some math to my students; addition and subtraction of some pretty big numbers. Next day, children came in, we took up the work. All was well in Shangri-la, or so I thought.

That same evening was Curriculum Night...meet the teacher (or for me, meet the parents) night. While discussing the use of calculators to solve math problems during question and answer time, a few parents informed me that their children had used calculators to do their homework the night before. I couldn't believe what I had heard...I had been had by a bunch of ten year olds!

Of course, the next day the class and I discussed the fact that while the calculator was going to provide them with the correct answer, the importance of the excercise was to figure out the questions on their own, to do the hard work. We talked about the fact that it was all about the process. I told them that we were going to work on strategies to help them solve their problems effectively. I reminded them that if they had problems with the work, all they had to do was ask, and I would help them to understand where they went wrong. The children seemed to understand but the incident really bothered me. I was left wondering why children are so afraid of making mistakes. Where is the pressure to get things right coming from, with-out or within? Indeed, how right is it to strive for perfection?

Don't think, by the way that this is a phenomenon for the Junior grades. Little children in kindergarten will cover up their work when they fear they've made a mistake. They'll colour over something or make up a story to cover for their errors. They just don't want to be wrong.

Look at we lowly humans. There's no way to be perfect. It's impossible. Each one of us has failings. Each one of us has faults.  We know that no one is perfect. And yet, we're fearful to admit to anyone, including ourselves sometimes, that we're less than ideal. It's actually quite humourous. I understand how adults can come to these childish conclusions. But aren't children smarter than that?

We all know that there is much to learn from the value of mistakes. Great inventions like Velcro, Coca Cola, potato chips and the Frisbee were created as a result of mistakes. Mistakes propel us to push forward. They cause us to ask more questions. Mistakes, if caught, realized and redirected, help to make us better people.

I think mistakes should be celebrated for what they are, proof that we're human. And yes, I know that the idea of the High Holy Days is not to try to aim for perfection. We're only being asked to try to do better. My class simply reminded me that sometimes we put unrealistic pressure on ourselves to achieve the perfection that we know is impossible and try to take the easy way out.

I have learned that the 'calculator' of life is not the way to improve. We have to practice and make mistakes over and over again, so that we can slowly learn to figure out things on our own. It's about the process. We need to learn strategies to help us get through life's problems. And if we need help, there's always someone who knows a bit more than we do on the subject to help us succeed.

All we have to do is put up our hand and ask.

Even Robin Hood had to start somewhere

My kindergarten class was buzzing; children were drawing and cutting and pasting. As per usual, the girls were playing in the doll centre (that’s what we called it in the times before political correctness caused it to become a ‘play centre’, even though no one cared and boys never did end up playing there), and the boys were using Lego and other toys to build weapons of mass destruction and other phallic symbols (don’t criticize my point until you’ve watched little boys play). Anyway, all was running smoothly until one little guy came out of the bathroom to tell me that another boy had had an accident. Great.


In I walked to find said student, still standing half naked over the toilet with his pants around his ankles. All around him on the floor was a little yellow puddle. It was a Norman Rockwell moment-truly sweet and humourous, but I forced myself to stifle the smile and be teacher-like.

How did that happen?, I asked in my oh-so-professional, teacher voice.

The little boy turned his head, glared at me in disgust with his huge, dark brown eyes and belted out,

Ms. A., have you ever tried to aim one of those things?

As we are knee deep into the High Holy Days, I’m reminded of the Hebrew word ‘chet’. People often translate the word as ‘sin’, but is in fact an archery term, indicating that one has missed his mark. Missing the mark is scary. Fear of missing the mark is even scarier.

I’m thinking about that little boy and how he handled himself (pardon the pun) when confronted with missing his mark. Here he was, caught (literally) with his pants down, and nevertheless had the self-confidence and dignity to defend himself. He knew that he was still learning how to be independent and knew that eventually he would master the skill. He knew that despite this mishap, he was going to go on, live his life and for the most part, refrain from missing the toilet. He was okay with that.

I admit to being afraid of ‘missing the mark’. In considering blog writing, I had to conquer many fears. Will I be able to keep the blog going on a regular basis? Will I run out of ideas? And then there’s the worst one…will I be laughed at?

I came close to not starting this at all until I remembered the story of the little boy. He wasn’t afraid to be caught with his pants down. Maybe I shouldn’t be afraid, either.

I have learned that missing the mark isn’t the worst thing in the world. This blog might turn out to be a dud, or it could be that I’ll write for years. I am going to try to write every week, but I may decide it isn’t working for me. I might miss the mark, but I’ll celebrate that I accomplished what I accomplished. And then I’ll take the lessons I’ve learned and move forward.

Each day, we have a number of goals we aim to accomplish. Sometimes we achieve them. Other times we miss the mark. In this New Year, I hope to learn to be more like my little student; I will try to achieve my goals, but if I miss the mark, I’ll just pull my pants up, clean up the mess and start again tomorrow!

Here we go again!

There is a feeling of electricity in the air being on yard duty before the first bell on the first day of school. Everything is perfect; the school is clean, the hopscotch lines have been repainted, the sandbox has fresh sand and the blades of grass have been straightened. It is the day after Labour Day. We are pumped!


Slowly, then in clusters, the children descend on the playground in their yet-to-be wrinkled clothing, new runners, neatly brushed hair and pristine, perfectly packed backpacks. We teachers mill around and assess the situation with a smile plastered on our face. All seems copacetic until…we spy him; the lingering parent. First one, and then another. They soon seem to be everywhere, propped up against their children, defending them against…pencils, I assume.

For a moment, time stands still. We all know it’s going to happen, and then it does. The bell rings.

In what is now considered ‘flash mob’ fashion, children scramble into their lines, excited to get to class. Within moments, the building swallows them all up. There’s a momentary hush as the playground empties. The doors close leaving the children inside with the teachers and the parents free to go about their day.

Now, here’s the question…who at this moment is the most nervous, the student, the teacher or the parent?

I must confess…teachers get butterflies, we really do. We want to succeed. We want the children to like us. And we want a year where the only calls from the parents are to tell us what a stellar job we are doing. Yes, we get nervous, but it’s not us.

Students are nervous, for sure. They are facing a new grade, new challenges, and unfamiliar faces but is it them? No. Students generally sense that their nervousness doesn’t compare to the excitement of the adventure that lies ahead for them. They are daring, willing to give the unknown a shot with a positive outlook. It is not them.

It is, in my humble opinion, the parents who are the most apprehensive. That bell signals their permission to start wondering, will the teacher take care of my child’s every needs? Well, how could she, they surmise, when she doesn’t know every detail about my child and has to look after all these other children! What if my child is sad, will she know and be sensitive to his feelings? And…wait… (and here is the real zinger) how is it that my child just marched in to school with a mere, Bye Mom, without crying! Doesn’t he need me anymore? Does my standing alone on the playground indicate that my six or eight or ten year old is forsaking me? Am I not important to her anymore? After all I’ve done for her? Where did I go wrong!!!!

I’ve watched the scene repeat year in and year out. I’ve rolled my eyes at those pathetic parents, for I know the truth. The children are going to be fine. It’s just time for the parents to grow up.

So, why do I tell you all this? Because the tables have turned. I am now the blubbering parent standing in the empty playground. My last born is off to university. The sand timer is running with mere hours to go, so I am eking out every moment with him I can muster. I know that immediately upon arrival at his new digs, he’s going to give me a kiss and hug, turn his back and walk into his dorm. It is then that I will hear the umbilical cord snap.

Will I shed tears? Undoubtedly. But I’ve learned some things from watching all those students walking in to class that first day of school each year. My son may be more than a thousand kilometres from home, but he is not forsaking me. I am important to him. And yes, he still needs me….a bit.

My baby is embarking on a new, exciting adventure. He is ready to turn a new page in his life, and I am thrilled to be turning a new one in mine.

All about me

There is a common myth that teachers teach and students learn. It is true, we teachers attempt to impart massive amounts of curricula yearly. Some of us do a better job than others. We each have our unique styles, our tricks up our sleeves. Each day we muddle through, doing our best to make the boring exciting. The minutiae of it all is not the purpose of my writing a blog. No, I'm here to divulge a dirty little secret that has been held in trust by teachers for centuries. While it is sometimes true that we teachers attempt to teach; teachers, especially seasoned ones like me, know a slightly different reality. We teach in order to be taught by our students. It is through those students that we learn, if we choose to accept them, lessons about life and how to live well. It is those lessons I have learned and continue to learn that I care to share in this blog.


Although I have many stories from close to thirty years of teaching, I'll start with a lesson I learned from a little girl growing up as one of the few Jewish children in a public school in Hamilton, Ontario in the 1960's. Each year as the Jewish holidays came 'round, this student would stand up in front of her class holding up, in Vanna White fashion, a menorah at Chanukah time, or a box of matzah at Pesach and would cheerfully teach her classmates about the customs and traditions her family celebrated. For the first few years, it was a fun activity. It was fun to be recognized, fun to teach others, fun to be proud of her heritage and the fact that she was different in a good way. By the end of elementary school, however, it became, well, obnoxious. Why, she wondered, was she always having to explain herself? If she 'gets' other people's beliefs, why don't they get hers? As you have undoubedly guessed, the little student was me.

Luckily for me, years later when I chose to enter the realm of education, I remembered the little girl in elementary school and instead of going the public school route, decided to become a teacher in a Hebrew Day School. It was a conscious decision, based largely on the fact that I wanted to work in an environment where I would never have to explain myself. I have to tell you, after all these years, I have never tired of walking into a class on Fridays and asking, So, what are you doing for Shabbat? Decades of teaching have passed and I still get a kick out of hearing that a kid is late for school because he or she was at a bris. Conversations about yom tov dinners put a smile on my face. And here's my secret thrill: I'm tickled at the thought of being able to relate the secular things I teach to all things Jewish. Some might say I'm simply being creative. Nah. All I'm doing is reveling in the fact that I'm in a place where everyone 'gets' me, and in turn, I 'get' them.

And isn't that something we all want in life? For people to 'get' us? How hard do we work every day for our spouses, our friends, our siblings, our parents and our co-workers to 'get' us, so that we needn't have to explain ourselves? The best relationships are those where we can sit back and laugh and cry with each other, knowing in our hearts that what we say and do will be accepted because we are truly understood. These are the relationships I strive for and cherish.

As I blog babble, I will endeavour to take the anecdotes and events I experience now or remember from back when, and extract the lessons I've learned from them. The little girl inside me taught the bigger me just how important it is to be in relationships where the person or people 'get' me. Hopefully as time unfolds, you and I will 'get' each other as well!