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.