Something happens the first day that you begin teaching. A connection materializes between your heart and those of your students.
But what about the ones who hate you? What about the ones who hate each other? What about the ones who make your instruction difficult?
Several years before I became a mother, I was a high school English teacher…and probably inappropriately maternal.
One particular student comes to mind from my first year in the classroom. He demonstrated a gift for the written word. His passion for music was contagious (think drummer). And his family was in the midst of a financial crisis. He always seemed to end our conversations with the same urgent question: How am I going to survive?
But I am a teacher, and – every so often – I struggle with a God complex. I want to save every last one of my students.
As an unmarried, 23-year-old I couldn’t offer him money or a safe home. He did, however, mention that his birthday was quickly approaching. And so I did what any loving woman without children would do.
I celebrated him as my own.
That is the question that emerges most often in conversations regarding my children’s education. They both have late July birthdays, and this means they will either be the oldest or the youngest in their classes.
To be honest, I was not familiar with the term until a few years ago. Thank you, Malcolm Gladwell. But, I’ll admit, the idea of sidelining our kids to further their academic, social, and personal growth sounds pretty wonderful.
But is it the right fit for our family?
Every time I cut a watermelon, I have to ask myself an important question: Are you a helicopter parent?
My mother said it all began with my great grandmother Martha. She loved to give us little ones sweet treats, but my favorite of all was the melon she so religiously extracted the seeds from. What I remember most is her selfless smile when summer’s juices ran down our chins.
But, here in the twenty-first century kitchen, I weld a sharp knife whose blade mirrors the painstaking care I take in eliminating challenge for my children: watermelon seeds.
Sometimes I can’t help but wonder: Do I have it all wrong?
Happiness is a ripe avocado. If you have ever lived in California, you know this to be true.
My daughter, six months young, is learning all about this magical fruit’s elusivity, as she cannot yet grasp avocado between her lusting fingers. Perhaps it is because she is mine or because her blue eyes penetrate my soul, but I find few things more mesmerizing than watching my daughter’s hands seek the promise of satiety.
