First Day of School

Wasn’t it just a few months ago that Chris and Kelsey gave me a gift – a Boyd's Bear figurine that reads “When a child is born, so is a Grandma”? That was the way they announced, to us, that our first grandchild was in the oven. Shortly thereafter little Miss Clara arrived, and we couldn’t wait to get down to Texas for our first visit.

No. It wasn’t just a few months ago. It was six years ago when we learned that astoundingly wonderful piece of news, and Clara is now five-and-a-half years old. The school bells are ringing in Spring, Texas, and Clara starts kindergarten today. (Photo swiped from Kelsey's blog.)


I know it’s been a long time ago, but I remember as clearly as if it were yesterday how I felt when my own babies headed off to school for the first time. My emotions were all tangled up – excitement, fear, hope, worry, sadness, happiness, curiosity and pride were all knotted up in my stomach. In some ways it’s easier, as a grandma – in some ways it’s harder – having a child go off to school for the first time.

The world has done a lot of changing since my boys were five years old. There are more scary things out there. There are new ways of teaching and learning. Children have less freedom. Teachers have higher expectations about some things; and lower expectations about others. The next time I get to visit with Clara, I’m sure she’ll be teaching me all sorts of things.

One thing, though, hasn’t changed. We, as parents or grandparents, still have to put our children in God’s hands and trust in his loving care for them. I’m so grateful that Clara and Robert are growing up with two parents who know and believe Him. As Clara steps out into this new adventure, she’ll be wrapped in a blanket of prayers and love and protected by the Good Shepherd.

Clara, I wish I were there to hear your after-school chatter today. I know you'll have lots of stories to share. I know you'll always do your best and make us all proud. I love you!

Nice to See You Again, Mr. P

Last week, to my great surprise, I ran across an Internet article with a picture of Mr. P. But could this really be the same Mr. P that I knew in high school? It was! The photo was of a gray-haired, 70-some-year-old man with very little in his aging appearance to remind me of the former, 30-year-old, curly-headed, fiery-spirited high school teacher I knew “back when.”

Mr. P taught me American History and U.S. Government, during the Vietnam War era. For two years I sat in his classes; listened to his far-left political arguments; marveled at his passion; relived his adventures while traveling in war-torn Palestine; and for the first time in my young life, became excited about current events and foreign affairs.

I knew, even then, that Mr. P’s political leanings were edgy and counter-culture. I knew that his arguments might not stand up against those of someone, on the other side of the issues, who was equally educated and equally persuasive. But, in a class full of naïve and malleable youngsters, he had no competition. His conviction, his charisma, his camaraderie with his students, made us easy targets.

My Mom and Dad must have wondered what had come over me. At dinner time, knowing that Dad would counter with a more conservative point of view, I would toss out one of Mr. P’s hot topics, parroting his leftist position as closely as I could. These dinner-time debates often became tense. I’m not sure I really understood what was motivating me, at the time, and I doubt that my dad did, either. But, in retrospect, I know that I was just pressing my dad for some ammunition against Mr. P’s leftist volleys – although the ammunition was internal ammo, because I never openly countered his views in class.

At the end of my two years under Mr. P’s tutelage, he presented all of us with a test. It was a test supplied by the American Civil Liberties Union, to see how closely aligned a person was with their philosophy. To my own surprise, I scored 90-some percent on that test! How had this happened?!

Mr. P left our school shortly thereafter. There were rumors, though I don’t know if they were true, that his departure wasn’t voluntary.

Once away from Mr. P’s influence, I had a rather speedy and easy trek back to a much more conservative belief system. I don’t think of those two years as a negative experience. No permanent harm was done, and Mr. P’s passion for politics and government woke me up from my previous total apathy about those subjects.

I was a devotee of Mr. P. Despite his political leanings, I admired him for his convictions and his passion. He had a wonderful talent of persuasion, and he was devoted to his students, taking a personal interest in our lives.

When I found the article on the Internet, I couldn't stop smiling. The article was about politics. He was being contrasted with another fellow, on the other side of the political fence. His physical appearance has changed greatly, but he still holds the same convictions. And he is still trying to persuade people that his way – the left way – is the right way.

Yes, it really was nice to see you, again, Mr. P!

Remedial Classes vs. Electives

(or It's My Blog so I'll Rant if I Want To #2)

On February 12, an editorial ran in the Albuquerque Journal. This paragraph, from the article, is in reference to Albuquerque Public Schools (APS):

“Last year 6,250 ninth- and 11th-graders tested as not proficient in English, 5,343 in math. This fall, high schoolers who don't test proficient in those core subjects will have to take remedial courses to get them up to speed. And unless schedules change, that remedial course will be in lieu of an elective.”

The editor goes on to express his opinion that this move is “vital . . . if all APS grads are going to become productive members of society.” His recommendation is for schools to switch to block schedules that would accommodate both remedial coursework and an elective of the student's choosing.

In today’s Journal there are eight student responses, from a social studies class at a local middle school. I understand these are middle school students, so I would not expect perfection in spelling, grammar, or logic. However, when I read their responses today, I was actually embarrassed for them, especially considering that they wrote these letters knowing that they would be published in the newspaper.

Their own letters to the editor, which were intended to dispute the proposed APS policy, are, instead, prime evidence for the policy’s necessity, in my opinion. Below are a few excerpts from the letters, with all spelling and grammar exactly as it was written. Of the eight letters, there were two that were well-written for middle-schoolers (one of which was the only one in favor of the new policy). Of the other six letters, the following excerpts are typical.

“Are teacher read this article on Monday and I and other kids in are class wasn’t very happy about it.”

“I didn’t like that they toke out are elective because I heard that there was really good electives in High School.”

“I think thats not fair to the kids that are chalened in those euents because what if they dont get a good score? What if you were that kid would you wont to have your eletive tooken away.”

“The “ALL WORK, NO PLAY” artical was a pice of crap.”

“If we have to do even more we are in trouble and so will our grades . . . Comeing from a kid myself belive me this wont help us, if anything it will get us more confused haveing to do like two math clases if we dont get such a good grade on that part of the test.”

Well . . .

What do you think? Might remedial coursework be in order?

Call Me "Tom"

Continued from yesterday's post . . .

Tim started kindergarten when he was five. Because Salem didn't yet have public kindergarten, he went to a private one. His teacher was Mrs. Bebe, and she was the perfect teacher for Tim.

Mrs. Bebe had a system for teaching phonetics that involved taking one phonetic sound at a time and concentrating on it, starting with the short vowels.

One day Tim came home from school and announced that he had changed his name to "Tom."

"Why?" I asked.

"Because we learned the 'o' [pronouncing it as in "Tom"] sound today. But we haven't learned the 'i' [pronouncing it as in "Tim"] sound."

I figured this would last for all of about five minutes. But as the day went on I realized he was serious about this name change. Whenever I called him "Tim" he would correct me, "Call me 'Tom.'"

I was relieved that the next vowel in Mrs. Bebe's lesson plans was the short "i," because it wasn't until then that we got our son, Tim, back.

Fourth Grade Follow the Leader

I began fourth grade at Harborview School, but only a week or so into the school year we moved, and I changed schools. Fifth Street School was in an old, three-story building. I was assigned to a classroom on the second floor the first morning I was there, and then, later that same morning, was moved to Mrs. S's class, on the first floor. That meant that in less than two weeks of school, I had had three fourth grade teachers and about six dozen classmates, none of whom I had gotten to know!

That first day in Mrs. S's class may have been the worst day of my entire elementary school career. Mrs. S wasn't one of those teachers who gave a new student special consideration - no "buddy for the day," or anything like that. I was simply assigned a desk and expected to figure things out. I did surprisingly well . . . until lunch time.

When noon came, we all lined up at the door, one line for cold-lunch kids, another for hot-lunch. My Grandma had bought me a red plaid lunch pail, with a matching thermos. I stood in the cold-lunch line with the others, wondering where the lunchroom was and what the rules would be. After Mrs. S opened the door, the line leaders led us up a mountain of stairs, to the top floor; down a hall; through a door; and into a huge room with a stage at one end and rows of folding lunch tables spread across the floor. I was hoping that we would all eat together, as a class, so that I could stay with the group. But that wasn't the case. As soon as we passed through the door, everyone scattered, and I stood alone, for a moment, wondering where to sit. I finally chose a seat, sat down, and opened my lunch pail. In it, as I expected, were my tuna sandwich on white bread, with no mayo (that's how I liked it back then); an orange with the skin scored and a circle cut off the top, to make it easier to peel; a sugar cookie from our bakery, a folded napkin and a thermos of cold milk. Somehow, that lunch, familiar and safe and prepared by my Mom, eased my jitters a bit.

As I sat eating my lunch, I kept an eye on what the others were doing. As they finished their lunches they packed up, tossed their trash, and headed out the door. Not knowing where they were headed, I looked around for a classmate to follow. But, having been in that class for only part of one morning, and having been in two other classrooms in the week before that, I couldn't positively identify even one classmate. But there was one boy, with a crew cut, who had been acting goofy and making faces at me; I figured he must be from my class. So when he hopped up and headed for the door, I followed him. He went out the door and turned left, down the hall. I followed, although I was pretty sure that my classroom was to the right. About half-way down the hall, he noticed he was being tailed. He sped up, doing a fast-walk (we didn't dare run in the hall), and so did I. Then he stopped. And I stopped. I guess he figured it was a game by then, so he took me on a wild-goose chase around the school, finally entering a classroom on the second or third floor - by then I wasn't sure whether I was up, down or in between. He tossed his lunch pail on the shelf in the cloak room, and so did I, although this clearly was not my classroom. From there I followed him down stairs and outside to the playground.

I didn't know if I was supposed to be outside. And I didn't know where my lunch pail was. And I didn't know who my classmates were. And, when the whistle blew, I didn't know which line to get into. So I just leaned up against the building and cried.

The "duty teacher" saw me, and after the lines had been dismissed, one by one, to go inside, she came over to me, knelt down, and asked me why I was crying (she was the first kind face I had seen since arriving at school that day). WHERE TO START?! I finally sobbed out my story, and she took me by the hand and brought me inside. She asked me if I would recognize the boy whom I had followed, if I saw him again. I nodded. So, starting on the second floor, we went room to room. She would open the door, I would look inside at all the children (who would stare back at me with all 48-or-so of their eyes) and I would shake my head "no." Finally, upon opening yet another door, I saw the boy. He saw me too and turned red and covered his face with his hands.

I looked up at the duty teacher, and nodded "yes." She walked me into the cloak room, and we retrieved my plaid lunch pail. Then she took me to my own room, and came in with me to explain my tardiness to Mrs. S.

That disastrous first day set the tone for the entire year; the fourth grade was the only one, of all my school years, that I didn't like. In fact, to me it felt, all year long, like Mrs. S was trying her best to get even with me for that first day, when I came back from lunch tardy.

Tag, You're (not) It!

(Or, "It's My Blog, So I'll Rant if I Want To!")

I heard on the radio, the other morning, that a growing number of school districts around the country have banned kids from playing tag on the playground. Their reasons? First, the kids could get hurt; and second, "it causes self-esteem issues among the weaker and slower children." (FOXNews)

Now, I'm the first to be there, scooping up some kiddo who has fallen and hurt herself, wiping tears, plastering band-aids and offering kisses. Who doesn't hate to see a child get hurt?! On the other hand, scraped knees are as much a part of childhood as runny noses. And isn't tag a pretty benign introduction to the concept of winning and losing? ABC News did an unscientific poll of youngsters: Should tag be banned at school? Their response was a resounding "no." One kid summed it up this way: "You'll have nothing to do if they ban tag, because it's just not fun without tag." (ABC News)

I don't think anyone invented tag. No one has to teach it to a child. Running and chasing are instinctive activities to human children. Playing a game like tag helps kids learn to resolve disputes and to problem-solve on their own, not to mention the physical activity it encourages. I remember, for instance, all the rules that evolved on the playground because we, the kids, saw a need, agreed upon a solution and, then, enforced "our" rules. And if a child really is stressed out over tag, won't he/she naturally gravitate away from that game and on to the monkey bars, jump rope, or some other playground activity?

I feel sorry for kids today, in many ways. The "carefree days of childhood" are becoming a thing of the past (I know this is a generality, and not applicable to every mother's child). Their days, now, are over-scheduled, over-managed, over-analyzed and over-tested (don't get me going on that last one). Their days are lacking in free time, down time, spontaneity, and adventure.

Some of this reduced freedom is unavoidable and even prudent, because of dangers in today's society; I certainly understand that. But, as the adage goes, let's not throw the baby out with the bath water. Teach the kids about stranger danger. Be diligent in supervision. Know where your children are. Know their teacher, their friends and their friends' parents. But, for goodness sake (no, for their sake), let them play tag!