to my daughter
January 30, 2016 § 3 Comments
This week you were missing last year’s teacher. You lamented the injustice of having moved so far from the possibility of impromptu visits. It was a rite of passage, returning each year, chasing old memories across abandoned classroom desks to find your place.
Teachers are masters of recognition, holding past students present with a quick smile and easy hug.
Maybe for just a day you wanted to walk old footsteps with new confidence, feel wiser and revisit familiar certainties. Perhaps you wanted to disappear in sentiment or find a reflection of self in another’s hello.
It could be you just wanted to know everyone is where you left them and that you still belong.
We all need to know that we matter. Go first. Hold a place for someone else.
Write a letter, send a picture. Keep those who are important to you close with intention.
Meanwhile, let’s dig up last year’s end-of-the-year gift. Remember it? A collage of words collected by your teacher and classmates, shaped into art and framed for importance. They chose words to describe you, to hold a place for you, even before they knew you were leaving.
We’re overdue to hang the image, but it isn’t too late to write your teacher a letter.
Love, Mom
stand by me
January 25, 2016 § 7 Comments
It began at the end of school last Friday. My daughter was faced with a decision to muddle through a commitment to others while feeling ill or honor her commitment to self and disappoint others. She chose the latter. Not feeling well, she skipped play practice and headed home.
We each navigate a million different versions of this decision everyday; self or others. I was raised to be a people pleaser and move through the motions of responsibility to others even when resentful of the personal cost. It is easy to understand then that I almost missed the importance of my daughter’s choice.
I was quick to consider her irresponsible before weighing the maturity of her self-awareness. Ever one to get run down and sick, she recognized the early signs of exhaustion and chose self-care.
I’m sad to say it took me too long to appreciate my daughter’s awareness of her body’s needs and acknowledge the world would keep spinning on course despite the trajectory of her departure from expectations. Thankfully my emotions played out in the privacy of my living room with only my husband as witness while our daughter made the trip home by bus.
By the time I saw my daughter I could appreciate that this was not the decision of an irresponsible, insensitive child, but an act of self-care by a sensitive child who worried about disappointing a teacher she respects and a friend she cares for. In missing practice and letting down a friend who needed a ride, she was highly attuned to the consequences of her choice.
Still, she made the best choice she felt she could and then let go of guilt for confidence.
My daughter chose to risk being excluded from her school play for her absence and was validated by a thoughtful message from her teacher acknowledging the integrity of her decision with respect for health and well-being. I still don’t know how my daughter’s friend felt or if they will be ok today.
Last night, Friday’s actions were close in my daughter’s worries. She feared out loud that her friend might still be angry and that it would be uncomfortable sitting beside someone you care about knowing they might be mad. She dreaded the class where she could not escape the uncertainty of her friend’s feelings.
Growing up is hard, it isn’t easy finding balance between our needs and others. I’m thankful my daughter could make a difficult decision efficiently and wade through the complicated consequences mindfully. I love that she understands her self-worth with the same awareness she values others.
In fact, I’m pretty sure I could learn from her practice of self-compassion and trust in others. Mostly, I’m glad she let me sit with her through it all; however it all turns out.
to my daughter
January 24, 2016 § 2 Comments
Earlier this week Dad and I stumbled across a video – you and your brother, years ago, hamming it up for the camera. It was one of those spontaneous living-room productions, siblings collaborating in boredom.
The first part of the video was painful, you were directing your brother’s performance; an overly articulated, forced execution of a joke the audience could not decipher. I was set to delete the clip until the very end when your face popped into the frame. Speaking directly to the camera, your image consuming the screen, your voice boomed with the comedic timing and grit of a weathered entertainer proclaiming affection.
Love you, people. Love ya!
It was almost physical the way you threw your words. Fearless and playful.
You have long since layered yourself in more cautious performances of self. The world around you has etched away at the tough exterior, but your spirit is no smaller.
I’m saving the clip for the days you hide behind your doubts or hesitate too long in joy. For the time when you are old enough you cannot remember being little, or when you feel too small in your imagination. When the world feels too serious and you lose perspective, I hope your own words echo my love back to you.
I want you to celebrate yourself at five, dressed in your big brother’s hand-me-down astronaut costume, directing play and relishing in the spotlight; commanding sight and tossing love noisily into the moment.
Love, Mom
to my daughter’s science teacher
December 26, 2015 § 5 Comments
On Wednesday, my daughter showed me a narrow strip of colorful paper with a message written thoughtfully by hand. I can tell you without looking that it is already buried beside a stack of paper rewards in a messy drawer; a treasure of kindness my daughter keeps to herself.
You gave thanks for her gentle heart, her creativity and the way she looks at the world. It was a message that would make anyone feel valued; a gesture that invites respect for others and invests emotionally in individuality.
You did this for every student and that is what my daughter cherished. More than her own words, she noted that you had taken the time to write individual messages to everyone.
It’s a lesson that extends beyond textbook subjects, one that informs a standard of appreciation for individuality, collectively, that was not lost in the excitement for the season.
On the days when you are tired, discouraged, overwhelmed or uncertain those hours of personal time invested in your students are worth the cost of thoughtful details, they are.
Thank you.
self made
December 18, 2015 § 4 Comments
It began with a classroom assignment, a Social Studies lesson asking children to create a model example of ancient technology. Our daughter was cavalier in her efforts right up to the day she appeared with a colorful stack of construction paper piled onto her bed. In a single evening she cut and folded unlikely material into the shape of her assignment.
There was a moment when I first saw her bent over the stack of paper, that I was tempted to entertain a trip to a craft store for materials that might be more pliable and polished. Instead I watched as one-dimensional pieces of paper began to evolve into wheels with intricate spokes, suffocated in layers of scotch tape.
I cannot remember an assignment in our old community where children weren’t required to purchase materials for projects or when parents didn’t fashion their handiwork into their child’s task. I worried that our daughter’s efforts would appear laughable next to more elegant models, but I couldn’t bring myself to undermine her independence.
It was a happy surprise, when my husband and I attended her class museum, to see similarly fashioned models. Construction paper artifacts and Lego creations, repurposed toys and hand drawn examples. It is a standard of excellence that speaks to effort and attention over end results.
Today our daughter will present another project, this time for Science. When asked to create a solution to a problem, our daughter started engineering something I didn’t understand. There was a temptation to ask questions or offer help; an instinct to guide under the guise of support. Then, I read a quote tagged to a message from her Science teacher.
“Too often we give children answers to remember rather than problems to solve.” Roger Lewin
So I created space, offering our daughter room to struggle a bit against her assignment. There were times she came to me worried she might be wrong and we looked together for what those doubts might mean. I challenged our daughter to honor her big idea and I trusted her teacher to recognize the value in each mistake.
Last night our daughter asked that she go it alone today; that her father and I sit out her presentation. Gone are the days of elementary parties and hands-on help, our youngest is coming into her own; standing proudly independent at the culmination of her work.
to my daughter
December 9, 2015 § 2 Comments
Yesterday I gathered you from an after school activity, the outside air chasing our hurried movements. I was still settling the chaos of my oversized coat and cumbersome purse, pushing buttons and shaking off the cold, when I caught your tears of frustration.
Rushing into the car you had bumped your head; tired and sore you crumbled under the culmination of a series of unlucky occurences. In a winded run-on description of your day, you hiccupped over how the gym teacher wouldn’t dismiss your from running with a sore throat and how this had led to new aches.
The tiny injustice of running while feeling under the weather reminded you of another unfairness. In a sharing that rambled over intricately connected details with an unlikely logic, you punctuated the day’s events with the report there is a rumor the gym teacher hates children.
A little disoriented by so many details, it took me a moment to realize the heart of your tears was greater than the sum of your discomforts. You said that when you challenged your classmates to consider the possibility your gym teacher might not be mean at all and postured that she may want only to push students to do their best, that the other children told you middle school is too old to keep assuming the best of others; that not everything has a bright side.
Stubbornly Optimistic Girl, I love your bright side and I’m not ready for you to dim your view of the world to conform to someone else’s expectations. Growing up doesn’t mean giving up on goodness, it means cultivating kindness even when it is uncomfortable. I hope you always challenge negative assumptions and create a dialogue that provides for a different opinion. Mostly, I want you to be yourself; no matter your age. Love, Mom
to my daughter
November 13, 2015 § Leave a comment
Last night was your first band concert in your new school. Perched high in the bleachers I surveyed your new gym, noting colorful differences to your previous experience. Gone was the elevated stage and behind the scenes preparations. Children visited across instruments in colorful interpretations of loosely outlined guides for attire.
There was a cautious cacophony of sound; families making their way to congested seats, younger children impatiently filling the waiting with restless wiggles, urgent shuffling of papers and easy banter. Then, you began a collective warm up and I was in awe of the singular sound 192 children created.
The hair on my neck bristled with the quiet perfection of a singular harmony.
There was something exquisite in the uniformity of sound juxtaposed against the kaleidoscope of individuality. The sharply contrasted colors of attire and the eloquent introductions from student guides who lead each performance.
I had expected to miss the consonance of black bottoms and crisply starched white shirts or the humor of a well-loved teacher’s wandering narratives and easy humor. Familiar is not always better.
There was a lovely humility in change. We stack our expectations against the joy of discovery.
You looked well placed in your company; prideful and poised. Dressed in your favorite color and settled into your space on the page, you became luminous among your companions. Serene in sound.
It is a new favorite memory, the image of you finding your way home.
Love, Mom
adding up
November 6, 2015 § Leave a comment
Wednesday our daughter lead us through her school, sharing the space of her routines with hands on demonstrations of learning. Student lead and thoughtfully orchestrated by educators and administrators, each classroom presented a unique snapshot of school day experiences. We were able to look at lessons and play classroom games, review work and visit with teachers while our daughter was afforded an opportunity to articulate ownership of her effort.
It was not a time to check in on performance or address concerns; so I was pleasantly surprised when a teacher volunteered a more personal exchange with a meaningful interruption.
At the time, our daughter was bent over the work of a math equation. Her posture was casually confident as she ran through the problem step-by-step in a conscientious execution of mastery. It was while she was working eagerly through a second equation that her teacher paused to offer praise.
It wasn’t the privileged acknowledgment of a child to whom learning comes easily, her teacher offered statements of recognition for the resilience of character and the work of progress. Credit for thoughtful enthusiasm and earnest effort for comprehension; perseverance to establish mastery despite struggle.
My husband and I hadn’t realized that the work our daughter was modeling was a source of accomplishment beyond a correct solution. Our daughter had been flexing a new muscle.
Strong Girl,
When you asked to be dismissed from the supports of special education services, I was proud of your courage; secretly though, I worried you might have leapt prematurely toward independence.
Math and Reading were still areas of concern. Knowing this I asked you to be responsible for seeking help and acknowledged the importance of mastering difficult skills. Then, as all parents must do, I let go.
When you fell apart last week over projects, I worried you were struggling. I inferred need over ability.
Then, this week, you reminded me that progress comes imperfectly; that mistakes and determination add up to strength. Struggle isn’t always cause for concern, sometimes its cause for trust.
Love you.
Mom
to my daughter
October 29, 2015 § Leave a comment
Last night was pretty exceptional; anger and tears that transformed homework into a moment of tender self-awareness. You’re struggling a bit with two classroom projects. On the surface it would appear you’re a little behind, maybe disregarding your work, or ignoring responsibilities.
In some ways it’s the easier way to interpret unfinished material. To hide behind other people’s’ assumptions and carry the burden of their ignorance with silence or casual disinterest. It’s easier to assume something is wrong with you, to see your differences as failings rather than gifts when they clutter your effort with failure; less hurtful to pretend you don’t care when you do.
Asking for help is tricky when you aren’t sure why you can’t simply perform tasks the children around you appear to complete without struggle.
How do you explain to a teacher that you understood the directions when your inference is different from their intent? What happens when you listen closely, but can’t remember later what you understood previously? Who would expect the smiling child that is eager to help another or quick with a smile, someone who appears confident, may actually be masking insecurities over perceived inadequacies?
Imperfect work doesn’t speak to the years of growth behind confusing mistakes any more than unfinished work illuminates effort. Similarly, the determined set of your chin doesn’t inform the emotions that threaten tears of embarrassment. Compounding these challenges is the unfamiliarity of your surroundings; gone are the friends who might have previously prompted you gently or rallied beside you with gentle encouragements.
Here’s the good news, at any given moment we can learn to ask for help; change the language of our needs.
Last night you started to identify your struggles in a way that was exceptionally intuitive to your needs, but you strained against how to seek help. Ferociously independent, you worried that asking for assistance might make you appear to beg preferential treatment, you didn’t want others to call you “teacher’s pet” or to look at you with sympathy.
Sometimes strength requires we walk against the grain of our fears. Asking for help isn’t a weakness any more than struggling alone isn’t a demonstration of strength. So we came up with a plan would acknowledge need and facilitate independence; numbered steps in a specific list that might guide you over the hurdles of your projects.
Last night you helped me compose a letter to your teachers so that we could honor your sense of independence and need for privacy while seeking a specific partnership for success. You let your teacher’s see the struggle behind the gaps in your work that they might understand your effort. More importantly you outlined a willingness to accept help.
I’m not saying the work will be easier or the struggle less frustrating. Recognizing need and asking for help are imperfect, ongoing practices. It’s a beginning.
Love, Mom
to my daughter
October 6, 2015 § 2 Comments
There is something delightfully deviant in the stubborn swing of your gait and the effervescent honesty that sprinkles your outbursts with comical clarity.
Yesterday your father and I purchased decorative necessities, unexceptionally pretty things to settle the walls of our home. At the time it didn’t occur to us that the largest piece managed to incorporate all of our existing colors in an abstract, nondescript canvas.
I recognized the inadequacy of the piece the minute I settled it against our wall, but it was you, sauntering into our discovery with disappointed amusement that almost caused me to keep the painting.
You called us sad and depressing with such a flourish that I didn’t have time to feel offended. Instead I was intrigued as you gestured first to the painting and then to our pup, exasperatedly you pointed out that the artwork looked like someone had run over our beloved family dog.
It was catastrophically true. As our compliant pup laid peacefully beside the painting it was impossible to ignore the inconvenient truth of your assessment.
“Remember Flat Stanley, Mom? What if we buy one of those art plaques? We could name it ‘Flat Hazel.'” Then you laughed at our poor taste and cuddled our pup.
Heaven help me, I almost bought a plaque. Instead I returned the offensive artwork and kept the memory of your smile.
I’ve laughed all day over the folly of our choice and the honesty of your humor. Promise me that you will always wade into your environment with such attentiveness and good humor.
Love you. Mom
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