#SOL14 - Growing Pains

I'm sitting on the couch, listening to the Husband talk about the shelves he just built in the garage. My phone buzzes; I look down to see that my oldest son has texted me.

It's the weekend, when he typically hermits himself away with his friends, so I'm surprised.

"Just a sec," I tell the Husband, holding my phone up to show him I have a text.

I slide my finger across the screen and tap open the text. As I read, my chest tightens. The Husband is still talking. I shake my head at him.

"No, wait" I say, my eyes fixating on my phone.

He's been in a car accident. The other guy was on a motorcycle. No helmet.

The images that cloud my brain are ugly.

The texts continue. I'm wishing he had called instead.

It wasn't his fault; the guy ran into him while trying to pass him. He's fine, just shaken up. The other guy was bleeding from the back of his head, but it wasn't a serious injury.

He says it all happened more than thirty minutes ago. He was just texting to let me know, but he took care of everything himself.

We exchange a few more texts, and I let him go, knowing we'll talk later.

The ugly images clear a little, but not by much. This is an unwelcome reminder that my little boys are out roaming the world without me now, that I can't fix everything anymore -- that ever thinking I could fix it all was a silly ruse I played on myself.

But it is also a welcome reminder. They don't need me to fix it all, and that's a good thing.

#Slice2013 - Day 18 of 31

I should be sleeping, but
tonight is the night before
the morning of
Dos' surgery.

We talked on the phone, and
the boy is as restless as
his mother is sleepless, because
tonight is the night before
the morning of
Dos' surgery.

So while I wait for sleep,
my brain spins round, thinking
tonight is the night before
the morning of
Dos' surgery.

#Slice2013 - Day 14 of 31

I would like to say that I'm enjoying watching my kids grow up. But honestly, I can't pin down a word that wholly describes what it feels like to watch a child cross over from dependent to independent.

I mean, okay fine, I am proud of them. I love seeing them become more responsible. I love sharing in the joys of things like first jobs, first cars, graduating high school, first week of college. Those are good moments.

I enjoy the humor we share. I love trading music and funny videos, and love even more the quiet sharing in more serious moments. It even makes me a little giddy that these once-small boys both are as big or bigger than me. I am glad we are close enough that they come to me with big decisions. I'm happy to see them both trying to figure out the balance between school and work, between spending all their money on just "stuff" and saving for the future.

There is a certain something gratifying in watching a child come into his own.

But Uno is rounding the corner from uncertain adolescent to fully independent adult. And in that, I feel I am losing him a little. It's not a bad thing, exactly, it's the normal course of events. He's making his way, opening new doors, branching out. He has friends now that I've never met. Goes places I don't know about. Has new interests not shared with me.

He's doing exactly what he's supposed to do. He's figuring things out on his own.

But there's a quiet around the house now that I just don't know what to do with. It's reminiscent of when my sister got married. She had lived with me for so long that we had more of a mother/daughter relationship than a sisterly one. When she moved out, and when I saw her walk back down the aisle and out of the small lakeside chapel, hand in hand with the love of her life, I bawled like a baby.

I was so tenderly and powerfully happy for her. And a little brokenhearted at the same time.

She didn't really need me anymore, not like she had before.

I feel that way with Uno now.

My heart bursts simultaneously with joy and sorrow, anticipation of his future and worry for his safety.

He was so tiny when he was born; so fragile. And it feels a little like I have just released this tiny, fragile being out into the world and I want to yell, "Hey! World! Be kind! He's new to you, but I've had him all these long years, and I won't survive if you ruin him."

#Slice2013 - Day 6 of 31

I'm writing this with eyelids that want to fall like anchors, and a sandbag body.

It's been a long day. It's been a long week.

This afternoon I sat in the office of an orthopedic surgeon with Dos. His knee is wobbly and knocky and not at all 16-year-old sturdy. It's been this way too long, but I'm doing my best not to focus on the bits that make me angry. (If you're new to this circus, read here. And perhaps here.)

The surgeon, in a tornado of words and quips, quickly pointed out that we had exhausted all other options. It is time for surgery. A small surgery, one to two hours and back home again, with a few weeks of physical therapy and my boy should be back to normal. My eyes filled with tears, but The Husband felt me tense up beside him. He squeezed my leg. He grabbed my hand. I exhaled and let the anger go.

(Oh, but those angry thoughts want out of their cage tonight ... this shouldn't have taken so long, this might not have gotten so bad, he's been hurting for so long ... shoulda, woulda, coulda ... )

We left the specialist's office, enjoyed dinner together, and headed over to GoodWill to grab a pair of crutches. Doctor's orders -- Dos has to stay off that leg until the surgery.

He was good natured about it all, in typical Dos fashion. He apologized for doing "dumb stuff" that ended up costing us money (I told him to enjoy the time in his life when he can do dumb stuff and have someone else worry about the cost to repair his bones). He worried that his boss might not let him work until after the surgery (I told him to enjoy light duty, girls carrying his books for him, and less chores). He made jokes about hitting people with his crutches (I told him he wasn't very funny. He hit me with his crutches.)

I asked if he was scared.

"Scared? Heck yeah, I'm scared!"

I nodded, not sure what to say.

He's never had any real medical issues like this before. No broken bones or slings or splints or even a stitch. When he was little, he always stuck quite close to me. All the struggles we ever dealt with came from Asperger's, not broken bits inside his bones.

After finding just the right pair of crutches for a 6'1" boy, I took him home to his Dad.

(That phrase is still unnatural, those words don't fit in my head, saying goodbye still brings tears to my eyes...)

He hugged me with his crutches wrapped around my back (laughing at his own hilariousness), then hobbled up the steps and disappeared through the door.

Tonight as I lay on the couch, surrounded by my snuggle-loving dogs, my eyes begging to be released from duty for the day, a line  from Dos' favorite childhood book popped into my mind. I don't even remember the last time I thought about it, but it fits.

The book is called Turtle Time by Sandol Stoddard. It's about a child that finds a turtle and keeps it for a pet, and how turtle time is so different from our own.

The line he loved so much is the same that wrapped itself around me this evening: "Turtle time is very slow, it waits until it wants to go."

Maybe I need to practice some turtle time. I think Dos has always understood.

Slice of Life Tuesday

I would love to write a slice today,
but...
There are 37 students taking their first four hour unit test tomorrow. And their second the day after that. And their third the day after that.
So forgive me if my heart is a little too full of concern for these kiddos for me to concentrate on anything else.

There are 19 students in dire need of assistance they just aren't getting, and no matter how far I stretch what I can do in one classroom, I'm just not meeting their needs in the way I would like. So forgive me if my heart is a little too overwhelmed to concentrate on anything else today.

I have visions of NaNoWriMo swirling in my head. Broken bits, like splices of film flip flopping apart through my mind, pieces that want to tell a story that I just can't quite mend.

Because there are 4 students with Autism in my room working far below grade level that desperately need consistent one on one attention to be successful. If I could, I would sit all day with these guys and I know that real learning would happen. As it is, I do the best I can, but it never feels like enough.

I asked for help trying to determine how to do a better job.

I was told it was impossible.

So there it is.
Every day, I go to work to accomplish the impossible.
So forgive me if my words are scattered, my heart is broken for my students, and my mind is swirling Texas-tornado style.

There must be a better way.

I don't believe in...

Tuesday's quickwrite exercise over at Teacher's Write! Workshop had us looking at poetry! If you know me even the tiniest bit, you can imagine the inner carthweels of happiness I was doing. There are several amazing poems in the comments from Tuesday -- even if you aren't doing Kate Messner's workshop this month, they are definitely worth checking out.

The more I write, and possibly because my current WIP is so near to my heart, the more I realize that all the little (and not so little) hurts that I've "healed" from over the years aren't as gone as I believed. Writing through the hard parts is a little like letting the poison slowly be sucked from the marrow of these wounds. Perhaps finally taking on the challenge of writing this old-new story will mean some real healing can take place. It's an interesting revelation how intertwined the two are.

After reading Sara Lewis Holmes' unbelievably fun and witty poem, Credo, several of us tried out our own.

Here's my quickwrite response to an "I don't believe..." poem:

I don’t believe that kids should grow up,

unless I’m being honest,

and then I know they must, and they should,

and my heart beats a little faster and my

breath sort of stops in my throat

when I see these little grown ups

walk out the door and into their future.

I don’t believe in negative thoughts,

in fact, I don’t believe in them so much

that I watch them wink out of existence,

one. by. one.

But sometimes, in the darkest dark of night,

I worry those vanishing thoughts

are still alive somewhere,

and just might come back to haunt me.

I don’t believe in just one right way,

one black or white answer, a perfect solution

to save the day.

There are too many colors to paint, too many

notes to be sung, too many wondrous words

to settle on just one.

And I don’t believe in sitting still;

I’m a river, not a pond.

And life, well –

life is too twisty-turny,

filled with grown-up little kids, and

secret thoughts that wake your heart from sleeping,

and then,

there are all those words waiting to be written.

Sitting still just won’t do.

In Which I'm Proven Wrong, Yet Again

Remember how I promised my kids I would actively seek out publication for some of my writing? (And then threw a big hissy fit, positive it was going to kill me?)

And then got this crazy idea to write a completely new picture book manuscript, and take it through all the steps that lead to having an actual-factual book sitting in the stores? (Also: resulting in hissy fit.)

Yeah. I'm still pondering what on earth I was thinking, but it appears -- and I know this will shock you -- it's not quite as bad as I had imagined it to be...

I've followed the Face Book group Writers Support 4U! for a while now. Mostly I just lurk the posts, feeling sorry for myself -- look at all these writers writing! look at all these writers publishing their work! look at all these writers interacting!


Seriously, yo. I'm not really sure why I even joined if I just wanted to creep up on them Peeping Tom style, and not actually participate.

But last week I finally did more than hit the "like" button on a random post.

I asked about critique groups.

The response was quick and painless, and as a result I'm the newest member of a weekly Skyping writer's group and an online critique site.

The picture book has been critiqued twice on the site so far, with some really great feedback! I've got some ideas on a few changes to perk it up a bit, and both critics left me feeling hopeful about sending it out to publishers.

I also read the manuscript to my class, proving to them that I am, indeed, sticking to my word -- they had the same reaction as my own Littles, which was another plus. Laughed in all the right places, and because we so often critique each other's work, they also let me know what was strong and what needed help! What amazing little writers they are becoming!

This weekend I'll participate in my very first Skype critique group. I expect w(h)ine to be involved. (You didn't think I would give up complaining that easily, did you?)

It's good to be moving forward. New possibilities keep springing to mind. And I'm sort of falling in love with that.

Something I Can Still Do

It's 11pm, but I'm hurriedly doing a once-over on the house because we have friends coming over first thing in the morning. My husband and our 15 year old are pilfering the freezer for ice cream, laughing and talking about the trip we're taking tomorrow. I'm sort of half aware of this, but mostly I wondering where my oldest son is right now. He's been at an all day music festival today, and I'm expecting to hear from him soon. Although 18 now, I think I worry more every time he leaves the house. He's not just shooting baskets in the driveway or riding his bike down the street anymore. These days, when he walks out the door he could be headed pretty much anywhere.

My mom-brain hasn't worked out the right neural pathways to deal with this yet.

As I shove too many dishes into my groaning dishwasher, fill it too full of detergent, and ignore the arched eyebrow of my darling husband, my mind wanders to a discussion I overheard earlier tonight. I only picked up bits and pieces of it, but they were talking about a group of teenagers, reckless driving, a death, and possible jail time.

I silently curse myself for allowing these kinds of things to pop into my brain. The faces of Steven and all his friends, being driven around in a big old van by one of Steven's best friends, drifts through my thoughts. I slam a cabinet shut and start scrubbing countertops.

My phone rings, and I must look like an Olympic track and field gold medalist, hurdling past our slumbering dog to answer it.

"Hey Mom, it's me. So... I'm okay, but... the concert was great! But, so, I fell and I'm hurt and there's a lot of blood..."

Neurons fire. Pathways form. Time for my brain to learn how to deal with 18 year old Steven.

"Okay, Steven, just explain what happened."

And he does. A lot of rambling words about racing his friends back to the van, a curb that appeared out of nowhere like the boogey man, causing him to basically launch forward and slide across the pavement for what his friends estimate was a good ten feet.

I breathe. I grab a countertop. I ask more questions.

"Where are you right now?"

"We're still in Grand Prairie, we haven't left yet, so Ryan's going to drive me up to the front of the arena. There's a first aid center there, and we'll have them check me out. There's a lot of blood. There is just a lot of blood."

Yes, I think, my stomach curling in on itself, I believe you have mentioned the blood several times.

I want to teleport myself there. Grand Prairie is a good 30-45 minute drive from us, and I just want to be there in that van with those kids -- with my kid -- and fix this whole situation right now.

"Ok, man. That sounds like a good plan. Go see First Aid and give me a call as soon as you've talked to them."

"All right, Mom. I love you."

And we hang up. Simple. Easy. The kids-become-adults have got the situation under control. There's an unknown amount of blood pouring out of my son's body, but not to worry. Some kid in a First Aid clinic out in the middle of nowhere can treat him and send him on his way, lickety-split.

I look up at my husband, suddenly aware that he and Daegan have stopped kidding around and are staring at me. I give them a short recap of the conversation. Isaac just shakes his head.

I go back to cleaning, to shuffling things around, the way I used to shuffle these boys around from school to soccer practice to birthday parties and home again, when they were younger. It was so much easier then, when I had the illusion that I was in control of their tiny little worlds. Now their world is huge and open and as wide as they can imagine it to be, and I love that the possibilities in front of them are endless.

And I hate it, just a little bit, too.

A second phone call lets me know that he is fine, although the people at the First Aid center only looked at him, didn't treat him. He has some road rash, a little dehydration -- nothing major.

I breathe. I put the phone back down. I calm my mind. I think again of the teenagers affected by the car accident earlier this week. I don't know how people put the pieces back together after something that tragic. I count my blessings.

By the time he walks in the door I'm waiting, first aid kit in hand, ready to help.

Because for now, that is something I can still do for him.

Irish Memories

I grew up with Molly McGuire singing Wild Rover as a backdrop to many a family dinner.

I can still smell the sweet scent of Dad's clay pipe; still see him in his chair, feet propped up on the ottoman, head hidden behind his newspaper, plume of smoke puffing up above him.

I remember my first trip to McGuire's -- how I stared unabashedly at the dollar bills stapled to every inch of the ceiling but averted my eyes from the busty naked statue that serves as their beer tap. I loved listening to my dad tell stories of how he stumbled into this tiny hole in the wall pub years ago, and tried to imagine it as just so -- and not the huge enterprise it had come to be by the time I was there.

St. Patrick's Day at our house meant feasting on corned beef and cabbage, with generous helpings of potatoes and bread on the side. It meant Dad playing all our favorite songs, with my sister and I singing along til we rolled on the floor giggling from The Unicorn Song and The Rattlin' Bog and Seven Drunken Nights. That last song meant an eye roll and shaking head from my mom, who would leave the room, sighing. Looking back, I finally know why. As a child, these were the songs that made me laugh, because they brought my dad to life.

And that wasn't always an easy thing to do.

He bought me my first Molly McGuire CD, my first official McGuire's Irish Pub stein, and many other Irish accoutrement throughout the years.

Being Irish wasn't just something that happened one day a year.

As an adult, I sat by my boys' bedside sleepily whisper-singing Danny Boy and When Irish Eyes Are Smiling. I still sing those songs to myself, and often. They may not have grown up listening to the wild Irish drinking songs that I did, but I like to think I sang a little Irish into their souls, nevertheless.

We still eat corned beef and cabbage, and not just once a year. I still rock out to the Dropkick Murphy's and Flogging Molly, especially in the car when nobody's looking. And every year, on St. Patrick's Day, I wake up giddy and excited, and call my dad to wish him a happy Irish Day. I love the surprise in his voice each year, because really -- who calls to wish someone well on St. Patty's?

But it brings him to life, and it whisks me back to being a child giggling on the floor with my sister, racing to see who could sing The Rattlin' Bog the fastest. And for just a tiny moment, I'm small again, and everything is just right. So I call him, and we chat, and maybe laugh a little.

And it's amazing what an easy thing that is to do.

Happy St. Patrick's Day, friends! Take a moment to enjoy two of my favorite Irish lullabies!

The Right Audience

Today I read the Littles (she's 5, he's 8) my newest picture book manuscript. Right under 1,000 words, it's just short enough for a quick read aloud. Of course, I have no awesome illustrations to keep their interest, so I have to really play up my reading skills.

They squeal, they laugh, they nudge each other at all the right places.

My inner monologue, the one that was snickering at me last night while I narrowed down possible publishers to query, whispered, "That's right, you're a read aloud story creating rock star! Get it, girl!" It was nice to have my persnickety monologue being polite, for a change.

Of course, the story is inspired by our youngest's larger than life attitude, and they know it. So -- hardly an unbiased crowd!

Still, there's something magical about sharing a story with children -- something you've crafted on your own from beginning to end -- that makes them clap their hands over their mouths and laugh until they fall over.

Our little man immediately piped up with, "I'm going to be the illustrator of this book!"
And the sassy Diva herself pointed at me and quipped, "That book is not about me, it's about you!"

I wrapped that small moment around me like my favorite warm fuzzy blanket on a chilly night, and carried it with me the rest of the day.

And it was a very good day, indeed.

Not Accepting the Nonacceptance

Last night I trudged out to visit Barnes & Noble. I ushered our littlest Littles into the children's area, snuck over to the reference section, and -- with a quick glance to make sure nobody saw me -- grabbed the newest copies of the Children's Writer & Illustrator Market  and Guide to Literary Agents off the shelf. I zipped back to the children's area, feeling like I had a huge blinking neon sign that said "FRAUD" lighting up over my head the entire way back.



"Who does SHE think she is?" my inner monologue snickered. (Among other things, but I like to keep it as PG as possible, y'all)

Back in the safety of picture books and young readers, I found a bench that was definitely made for Goldilocks, plopped my books onto a smallish wooden table, and started flipping through the pages. When you decide to peruse the publication world for picture books, here is some of what you will find:




Not accepting unsolicited manuscripts.
Manuscripts by literary agents only.
Picture books must have strong lead character with problem resolution.
5% of yearly books published by new authors.
Not accepting unsolicited manuscripts.
Not accepting unsolicited manuscripts.
Not accepting unsolicited manuscripts.


Never one to let anyone else tell me what I can or can't do, I continued scanning the pages. I grabbed books that matched the publishers that actually do accept unsolicited manuscripts. I read through a mountain of picture books, scrutinized the words, the illustrations, the style.

I added to my list.
I found a little inspiration.

And we went home. I didn't buy the books, still not convinced I need them. But I did get some good information. I think joining the SCBWI will offer more resources in the long run. (No, I mean it. Joining them for real this time.)

I kissed the Littles goodnight.
I read Mem Fox's advice on picture book writing.
And I wrote a new picture book manuscript.

Then finally, happily, I went to sleep.

Thursday's are Bittersweet

This is seriously rough. But this has been tumbling around in my head, refusing to let me write anything I'd actually want to share. If, after reading it, you find yourself wondering what on earth I'm talking about, go here.

Most days,

I’m okay.

Wake up.

Get dressed.

Feed dog.

Make coffee.

Drive to work.

Teach class.

Read, write.

Relate.

Communicate.

Go home.

But Thursday’s are bittersweet.

On Thursday:

Drive thirty minutes,

pick up the son

that doesn’t live here

Anymore.

Eat dinner.

Laugh.

Watch TV.

Play games.

Pretend

Everything is okay.

Time’s up.

Drive him home.

Share.

Connect.

One last hug;

One quick “I love you.”

Car door slams.

Exhale.

Swallow hard.

Push tears back.

Breathe.

Drive home.

Alone.

Missing the son

that doesn’t live here anymore.

My Yellow Brick Road

World Read Aloud Day was a huge hit yesterday, and our Skype with Navjot Kaur certainly stole the show. After a few minor audio complications, we were off and running! I am so thankful we had the opportunity to trade emails beforehand because Navjot was able to tie in some special connections from her book while talking with my class about things we've been learning. She had them spellbound for nearly an hour, which pretty much makes her magical in my book.

After the read aloud, hands were popping up all across the room -- 21 eager 4th graders ready to ask questions. Everything from "what inspired you to become a writer," to "where do your ideas come from," to "have you ever cried when your book was rejected." I definitely have a class filled with writers!

We ended our conversation with her and had about 5 minutes to reflect on the Skype session before we had to jump up and run off to recess.

And my kids completely shocked me with where the conversation went.

"Soooo, Mrs. Mogk," one of them began, "You have books you've written."

21 heads nodded at me, eyes wide.

"Well, yes," I say, unsure of where they're going.

"But... you haven't even tried to get yours published?"

21 students fold their arms and glare at me accusingly.

(Okay, fine, maybe I'm exaggerating a little.)

"Oh. Well, they aren't quite ready yet..."

"But you have stories! You read them to us all the time! And you finished your NaNoWriMo novel! You told us!"

21 little bodies start bouncing up and down, shouting things at me in rapid succession.

"Navjot Kaur said she kept sending out her book even though she CRIED sometimes when it was rejected!"

"You said you want to have a book published, so you should do it!"

"It would be SO COOL to have a teacher that was an author too!"

"Navjot Kaur said sometimes you have to believe in your story even when no one else does!"

I had a full-blown fist-pumping riot brewing in my room.

I laughed. Partly because I didn't know what to say, partly because they were right.

Thankfully, it was time to line up for recess.

At home, I started browsing publisher sites, submission guidelines, the how-to's of picture book publication. I felt a little dizzy. A little unsure of where I'm headed.

A little like Dorothy on her yellow brick road.

Am I ready for talking trees and flying monkeys and mean ol' witches?

I certainly hope so.

So Quickly

They grow up.

Your mom warns you. "Don't blink, it all goes so quickly," she says. "One day you're changing diapers, the next you're sending them off to college." And she shakes her head. She chuckles.

You think she is crazy.

It all goes so quickly? What a joke! What is quick about diapers and dishes and the ever present disaster in this house? Quickly. She's off her rocker.

You're convinced you'll have these moments forever. Relaxing together after Kindergarten, reading stories at bedtime, cheering at soccer games, hunched over homework.

These days are long. It's only the night that goes quickly. That last stolen glance into the bedroom; peaceful sleeping faces nestled against Star Wars bed covers. You yawn, mentally ticking off your list of to-do's before you too, can sleep.

But still, her words echo in your mind.

You close your eyes.

Middle school dances, pizza parties, last minute research papers; an uncomfortable itch starts to settle in your mind.

Was she right?

You blink.

There are high school schedules to figure out, which may as well be a corn maze attempted with a blindfold. You sit side by side deciphering the wide world of electives, thankful that they still want your help for something besides movie money.  Suddenly: Driver's Ed, dating, football games, first jobs, and then; an order form for a cap and gown?

It all goes so quickly, you think.

Why didn't anyone warn you? You need more time to prepare!

You chuckle. You shake your head.

And want, fiercely, to call your mom.

it's time for a math revolution

I've had enough.

I've watched too many kids count on their fingers, draw out circles and dots, skip count on paper, and just flat out guess when nothing else works.

In 4th grade, we learn long division and double digit multiplication.

At least, we try.

But it's pretty difficult to remember all the steps to something like long division when you spend more than one minute just trying to figure out what 6x8 is. And another minute for the next fact... and another... how can you even keep track of the actual problem when you don't remember that 7x10 is 70?

Really, it's not just difficult. It's maddening. It's hopeless. No wonder so many kids think they hate math.

And it's not just their multiplication and division facts. These kids are incredibly hit and miss when asked a basic addition or subtraction fact.

In 4th grade.

Somewhere, somehow, we are failing these kids. I don't know where it happens or when it starts, and quite frankly, I don't care. What I do care about is their future.

I know seniors in high school that are still counting on their fingers.

So, I've had enough.  No more pushing forward through multi-step problems and watching kids attempt to enjoy math while counting on their fingers and banging their heads on desks. No more saying, "Well, they can do the problem if they write out all the factors each time, so that'll have to work." No more crutches.

We're going back to basics. I've got the beginning of a plan, a wealth of parents willing to help, and 21 kids that I just won't allow to cling to their "strategies" instead of memorizing these facts. These kids are going to succeed. We're going to learn the why of numbers, not just the how of math.

And we're going to have fun, damn it.

slice of life tuesday: and we're off!

This morning I rushed up the stairs to my classroom, eager to begin the day. It didn't matter that I was a few minutes later than I planned or that I was dangerously close to losing the juggling match with my latte, cellphone, and room key. It didn't matter that the lumpy, oversized bag slung over my shoulder was banging against my hip with each bound towards my room.

I had to get to class.

Rounding the corner I found one of my favorite early birds waiting by my door. She practically bubbled over with giggles when she saw me.

"You're here! We can write! Are you ready?!"

With a quick hug, I stumbled into the room, tossed my cache of goods into a corner of the room, and fell onto the floor with my journal and a pencil.

"Ready," I grinned.

As we opened our notebooks and started comparing ideas, three of my students from last year walked in, waving their journals at me. Without waiting, they grabbed a chair or a spot on the rug and opened their notebooks.

And a few more friends trickled in... and a few more, until there were 10 of us gathered around the room, talking about characters and plots and plans as we wrote and shared and laughed.

I glanced up at the clock to find we'd already spent 25 minutes together. Our time was almost up. Students began filing into my room, preparing for our day. I had to smile as they came in. We had talked about today; I had warned them to be respectful of the writers when they arrived.

They took a few steps into the room, stopped short, nodded as if they had just remembered something important, and silently put their things into their lockers and got to work.

My crew of NaNoWriMo warriors said goodbye and promised to be back tomorrow. We exchanged a few hugs and of course I was obliged to read some of their work before they left. They left, it seems, walking a littler taller than when they came in. All through the rest of the day I heard chatter of novels and listened to the sound of passion taking root.

And tomorrow, I get to do it all over again. Who knows, this may just begin a year long writing club. I can't think of any better way to start each day.

nanowrimo: ready to write

NaNoWriMo is right around the corner, and I find my creative wheels spinning as I rev up for this year's challenge. Last year, I brought my class into the mix by spending November teaching about story development as we worked together to finish our own novels. The energy in the room was contagious -- kids from all over the campus wanted to know more about what we were doing.

So this year I've decided to open my doors to more students. Instead of writing our novels during class time, I'm hosting a before school club just for NaNoWriMo's Young Writer's Program. Every day in November, students are invited to come write from the time school doors open until 5 minutes before the bell rings. This will give us roughly 30 minutes of writing time every day.

I've passed out flyers, given information to be posted on our school FaceBook page, and created a short video teaser that our librarian is showing to all her 4th and 5th grade classes this week. I've visited as many of my students from last year as I could track down and pumped them full of info and excitement as I can. Several of them say they will be there.

I don't know who will show up at my door on November 1st. If I'm lucky, I'll have a classroom crowded with little bodies lying all over the room creating their own stories. My dream version has so many kids show up that we have to overtake the library for our 30 day journey. Of course, I may see just a sprinkling of kids from one day to the next. Either way, the amount of kids that come to write doesn't really matter. Whoever is there is meant to be there, and we will spend our mornings writing, sharing, laughing, and sometimes banging our heads on stories that move more slowly than we like.

I have ideas to try a write-in for the area and a special event for all our writer's to have a reading when we're done. And we can't forget an after-party on December 1!

Regardless of the number of participants or events we celebrate throughout the month, I'll be there writing along side them.

November can't get here soon enough.

revolution by the seat of my pants: today, we learned.

Last night I watched some TED videos. I needed inspiration. I needed to slide back into my teaching sweet spot. I wanted to see something truly innovative.

I found this video:

Watching the video, I was captured by the wonder and intrinsic motivation that seemed to sweep the children away into a new style of learning. But Mitra was working with children that had barely ever seen a computer. My students would yawn at the technology that had enthralled the kids in this study.

So how could I take Mitra's work and make it meaningful to my own students? How do you amaze and dazzle kids that have technology literally at their fingertips 24/7?

Today, during a typical math lesson, I decided to give it a shot.

We've been working on strategies for solving word problems for a while now. Nothing amazing; I introduce a method for working through a problem, they practice it together, then they do some work independently. By now, they are fairly confident when working through a problem, but they still make mistakes and don't really take the time to think about whether or not their answer is reasonable. As long as an answer is found, they seem happy. I rarely witness any true wonder or joyful curiosity.

Today was different.

After spending about a minute to review steps that can be used to solve a story problem, I placed this problem on my document camera:

Following Mitra's lead, I gave them the following rules:

• Everyone will work in a group.
• If you feel your group isn't working for you, find a new group.
• Feel free to switch groups as often as you like.
• Use whatever resources you have to solve the problem.
• You can look at what other groups are doing, and report back to your group to help each other out.
• You may not work alone.
• Everyone in your group must agree on a final answer and be able to explain in detail why you are 100% confident it is correct.
• Once your group is in agreement, find another group and make sure you agree with them.
• Everyone in the room must agree on the correct answer.

In the beginning, it was quiet. Groups worked together, just like any other day. Within minutes, they started bringing their math journals to me -- as they always do -- seeking affirmation.

"Does everyone agree with your answer, and are you all able to explain why it's correct?" I asked.

I had more than a few angry glares and exhausted sighs as the kids shuffled back off to work.

After a little while, things began to heat up. I roamed the room and watched them work, smiling and encouraging them to keep working. It didn't take long before two major groups formed. They battled wits, arguing about why each group was right.

There were some tears. I stepped in and modeled appropriate and mature debate language. We continued.

Lightbulbs began appearing. Kids abandoned groups. Reformed. Abandoned. Asked questions.

They stopped coming to me.

No, dude, seriously. They stopped coming to me!

Remember, this is all work on one single math problem. After more than an hour of debating, calculating, and rethinking, a single answer started to find its way around the room.

They beamed at me, proud of their work.

"But... how do you know?" I asked.

More glares. More sighs. More shuffling back to work.

They wrote diagrams and tables and all sorts of things. They checked and rechecked. They talked it over with their groups. They checked with other groups.

Meanwhile, I roamed the room snapping pictures and taking short video clips of their work. I won't lie: I was in heaven.

Finally, we were ready to discuss our work.

Someone from each group came to the whiteboard and showed, in implicit detail, how they found their answer. They talked us through it, making sure we all understood every step they took.

Every group had come up with an entirely different method.

Every group found the correct answer.

I am stunned by the ways they solved this problem. Having little to no background knowledge with long division and decimals, they invented color coding systems and charts that were the stuff of genius.

After every group shared, I modeled how to write about what they had done. I told them writing two sentences that they had added or divided or "worked it out" wasn't going to cut it anymore.

With my word processor up on the projector for everyone to see, I talked them through my 2 page explanation of how I solved the problem.

And then they wrote. For minutes and minutes, word after word after word, pages upon pages, they wrote.

I couldn't be more proud of them. Although it was frustrating and uncomfortable, they kept plugging away.

All because of one 17 minute video watched late on Wednesday night.

Today, we learned.

slice of life tuesday: it's about the kids

30 days ago, I was excited to bring a cornucopia of new ideas into this school year. Plans for a new word study program, ideas from writing workshops I attended over the summer, and a commitment to a daily math workshop all acted as catalysts to launch me happily into a new year of experiments to enjoy.

2 weeks ago, I walked through the hall towards my room, smiling to myself at how fortunate I was to spend my days doing something I love. I couldn't imagine doing anything else. The ideas I brought into the classroom were shifting and changing into activities that would work for my students. Although there were bumps along the way, I felt confident.

7 days ago I left a meeting feeling like all my hard work meant nothing, that it was impossible to meet the needs of my students, balance the desires of my principal, and implement the type of instruction I believe in -- all at the same time.

This morning I welcomed my intern and quickly found a way to involve her in the class, focused on my students, laughed at my mistakes, and generally enjoyed the day with my students. I almost recaptured the beginning of year joy, almost let go of the mounting stress.

This afternoon I sat down to a faculty meeting where I listened to a woman encourage us to stay positive and bit my lip through a discussion about testing -- although my mind rattled and the words bubbled up in my throat so fiercely that I thought I would either burst into tears or burst into hysterics if I didn't speak up.

Tonight I'm thinking about the devotion so many teachers have to their students. Not devotion to a test, or an objective, or even a single subject or style of teaching. It's not devotion to a campus, although we do certainly tend to become territorial! We get up early each morning, often shuttling our own children out the door, already thinking about our students. We spend the day at our wit's ends, racking our brains for that one right way to reach each student. After hours each day trying to find the solution of how to fit the monstrous amount of necessary teaching into a schedule that laughs at anything more than the bare minimum, we say goodbye to our students, go back to our rooms, and begin grading, planning, assembling, and plotting all over again.

I'm thinking about how I fill my huge bag each night and drag everything I can fit into it home so I can continue working. I'm thinking about sitting behind my laptop or a book or papers into the late hours of the night, grading and planning and assembling and plotting ways to make sense of the days that are completely beyond all sense.

I'm thinking that it doesn't matter if you call it a TAKS or a STAAR or any other name. It doesn't matter if we teach TEKS or Common Core. It’s not about the data or the numbers or the graphs and the statistics.

It’s about the kids. It’s about the pure, real learning that happens when children and teachers meet each other every day ready to work together. It’s about keeping it real in a school system determined to forget that teaching is not about the numbers – it’s about the kids.

slice of life tuesday: 37 and counting...

A few minutes before lunch today, I noticed someone standing just outside our classroom door.
It was my husband. With a bright bouquet of flowers.

He came in, and after we settled the kids back down, joined in on all our classroom craziness for the rest of the day.

I love surprises, and although today is my birthday, I definitely hadn't expected to see him standing there!

An excellent way to spend the day. And honestly, right now I have an abundance of blessings in my life. So for today's slice, I thought I'd name one for each of the (manymany) years I've been alive:

1. My extremely compassionate husband
2. All my children are healthy
3. I have a great relationship with a sister I love dearly
4. I get to spend my days doing something I love
5. I have more than a few friends that will always have my back

Two Writing Teachers

6. My kids and I have strong relationships -- this make me crazy-happy!
7. I get to raise a little girl now! Well, help raise -- but still! A girl! Pink and purple and ribbons and lace!
8. I have a fabulous fairy classmother (my amazing mother-in-law!) that gifts our class all sorts of great things!
9. I laugh daily
10. I get to see my family all the time.
11. I have a little time to myself now and then to devote to my hobbies
12. I am healthy enough to enjoy pretty much everything life has to offer
13. I am smart enough to make wise decisions for myself (most of the time!)
14. The Husband and I have goals and plans in motion to meet them!
15. My work life is open enough to let my creative side show
16. I have people in my life that encourage the sides of me I love but am shy to share
17. I live in a place where safety is rarely, if ever, a concern
18. I'm figuring out, day by day, what it takes for me to be physically and mentally healthy and happy
19. I have a nice roof over my head, and don't have to worry from month to month how we'll pay the bills
20. I have one child ready to graduate from high school -- and each day I can tell more and more just how ready he is to take on the responsibilities of being an adult
21.  I have the means to be able to do kind things for others
22. I am more aware of what I need at work to be successful
23. I am developing a strong professional network of educators to lean on and learn from
24. I have watched my two oldest boys grow into mature, courageous individuals
25. I have more than a couple amazing mentors in my life
26. I know what it means to be loved unconditionally
27. I've learned the magical effect of letting go of the past
28. I can make a damn fine paleo-brownie!
29. I watch minds grow from unsure to confident -- every day
30. I have some really great shoes. No, really -- I do! And this has to be counted a blessing, right?
31. We have no credit card debt! We don't even carry credit cards.
32. I live in a country where blessings are easier to list than tragedies
33. I have a great ability to focus on the positive!
34. We have a steadily growing savings account
35. I am much stronger right now, this second, than I was at the same time last year
36. Each night I get to lie down next to my best friend to go to sleep
37. I can look forward to many years of future happiness!