Quaranteaching

Teaching is my first love.

I started teaching in 1985 with my first class of three imaginary students in the basement of my parents house.  I decorated my classroom on a shoestring budget and spent my every dollar on enrichment materials.

Proud of the work that I was doing with these three pretend pupils, I kept daily attendance, assigned grades, and took discipline very seriously.  I would trudge up the stairs after a particularly challenging class and sigh deeply, complaining to my parents about the poor behavior of my unruly, imaginary students.  I was invested.  I had a deep connection to these make-believe lives and it pained me when the time came to give them up.

As I matured so did my love for teaching.  I fell in love with the profession and never looked back.

In the novice years of my teaching career, my passion grew deeper.  My heart ached when I left on maternity leave to have my first child.  I obsessed about what would become of "my kids" without me there to guide them.

Over my 18 years in education I have had days that bring you to your knees and years that make me believe I'll last until the fat lady sings.  There have been periods when my love for my job nearly swallowed me whole.

I have struggled with lack of time and loads of paperwork.  I have endured new learning initiatives  and performance pressure from school administrators.  I have worked tirelessly to challenge my students to meet the standards set by government authorities and perform well on high stakes testing.  I have handled lack of discipline and diverse learning needs.

But I have never had an experience like this.

I sit in my makeshift office waiting for a single student to reach out via Zoom.  I have been sitting in this same chair and staring at various versions of myself since late March when schools took a hard left into online learning due to Covid-19.

My double monitor set up is designed to make me fully functional and available to teach in this new remote learning realm.  Primed and ready for phantom students who never arrive.

The sudden disconnect on March 12th was harsh and final.  The virus robbed us of our normal.  The faces, the smiles, even the sullen teenage looks and exaggerated eye rolls -- the energy and life of education.  Gone in an instant.

A "doorbell" rings from inside my computer alerting me to a student waiting to enter my Zoom call.  It's a sound I don't hear frequently and my heart leaps at the idea that for a few minutes today I will get to teach a student face to face.  I admit him into my virtual classroom and feel a burst of "first day" jitters.  A tiny spark in a fire I thought had burned down to embers.

His face enters the screen and we exchange a warm greeting.  Rarely have I been so excited to see another person.  He is waiting for me to guide him, to help him, to teach him and I do so eagerly.

The session lasts for 40 amazing minutes and for that brief time I feel normal.  Connected and engaged.

He finishes his work and thanks me for my assistance.  With a wave he is gone and I am alone again left to teach imaginary students in a virtual world.

I guess I just miss my kids.

Punishment and Perspective

My big kids think I've gone soft.  Appalled by my reaction, or lack there-of to 8-year-old Griffin's $170 of fraudulent X-Box purchases.

It's mid-day on a typical Sunday.  The flares go up that there is trouble brewing and the family gathers in the living room.  Either out of morbid curiosity or in an effort to protect the young perpetrator, the big kids settle in for the show.

You see, each one of my children have committed this particular crime.  I remember Riley's turn like it was yesterday.
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Standing at the counter in Boscov's, in a section of the store unfamiliar to me until this day.  I'm purchasing a suit for an 8 year old Riley.  A Riley who is a recipient of a Citizenship Award.  An award given at a gala.  A gala that would require him to wear a suit.  A suit whose purchase brought us to Boscov's that day.

I hesitantly hand over my credit card as the total appears on the register.  I'm looking at $150 before shoes...I take a deep breath and smile a proudly.  "He's worth it, right?" I joke to the cashier who seems uninterested in what brings us together today.

She swipes the card and the system beeps angrily.  Declined.  I am startled but not yet alarmed.

Can you try it again? I ask.  Declined.

I shake my head in disbelief and a flush creeps up my neck. Two patrons shift uncomfortably behind me in line. Fear grips me as I know there is a possibility that the account is empty, I fumble for my next move. 

The cashier asks awkwardly, "Do you have another card to try?"

No...I don't have another card to "try." 

I step aside and call the number on the back of my debit card hoping that somehow the automated system might know more.  I am thrilled when I reach an actual person but my excitement quickly fades when the voice on the other end regrets to inform me that there is no money in the account.

It seems charges have been made - charges that total $335.00.  Charges for a game called, "Real Steel."

Until this moment I had forgotten that Riley was by my side.  Watching my every move.  Eight year old Riley.  Award winning Riley.

"What did you say the game was called?" I ask the woman on the phone.  Riley's eyes meet mine.  In that moment I know he made the charges.  He bursts into tears.

I thank the cashier and apologize for wasting her time.  She laughs nervously and makes a joke about how busy Boscov's is on a Tuesday night. She is kind and I am grateful.

I turn on my heel and march out of the store, empty handed.  Riley trails behind.  I get in the car and buckle myself.  I say nothing.

The car ride home is steely silent,  punctuated with sudden bouts of expletive laced tirades about what he had done.  My scheming, thieving, deceiving 8-year-old son.

Punished for a month.  NO video games for a year.  NO fun - EVER.  AGAIN.
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15 year-old Riley presents this story to Griffin like a badge of honor.  Having been the first to survive the wrath of mom.  One by one, each child recounts the tale of how they angered the beast by lying or deceiving.  Different stories but the same ending.  A very scary Mommy.

It is at this point that my husband moves forward, steady and stern.  I take my cue from his calm and stay balanced.  There is no screaming.  Hardly any tears. 

Punishment is handed down.  The trial has ended.  Griffin is free to go.

Ultimately disappointed by the conclusion,  the big kids continue to discuss among themselves.

"That's it?" They complain, "I don't think he appreciates the seriousness of his offense."

They mock the mother I've become.  Where is the fury?  Where is the fire?

Griffin stares stone faced at the panel who sit in judgement.

He doesn't know the lady of which they speak.  He knows a much more mellow mom.  He has not yet felt the heat of her anger.  Anger that was driven by fear. 

Back in those days it was possible to upset the apple cart over the price of a children's suit.  Trying so hard to keep up with the Jones's and failing at every turn.  We lived far beyond our means in our big, beautiful house with less than $100 in the bank at any given moment.

This trip down memory lane lends me perspective on how far we have come. These days are different.  More stable, more secure.

Griffin's mom is surely more balanced, capable of taking it all in stride.  Confident in the knowledge that we now live within our means and that is money in the bank.