BOO!!!

Soooo . . . Halloween.  Not a fan.  I realize we’ve already established this in some . . . actually ALL . . . previous posts about Halloween, but it’s the last day of October AGAIN, and I just wanted to clarify the obvious.  I officially hate Halloween.

I know.  I’m a party pooper.  Trust me, I’m perfectly okay with that title.  I’ve never been all that good at parties, especially Halloween ones.  I don’t like dressing up – spending money on clothes I’ll never wear again just ticks me off.  And the candy . . . the candy makes me want to hand out bags of fresh brussel sprouts to trick-or-treaters.  Seriously people, how many calories and fat grams and artificial colors and flavors and preservatives do our children need in a single twenty-four hour time period?  Shall we discuss the decorations and costumes next?  Because those are the things that really put me over the edge. 

As we’ve already established, I’m all about the pumpkins and mums and scarecrows and little girls wearing ladybug wings, but why does Party City have bloody limbs sitting on tables when you walk in their front door?  I apologize for my inability to find the thrill in a severed head, but I simply do not find such things scary or funny or festive or spooky.  I find them disturbing. Gravestones in my front yard?  No thanks.  Spider webs all over my bushes?  I pay a pest control service to make sure that doesn’t happen.  Ten year-old boys running around with foot-long plastic knives in their hands?  Have you seen the news recently?  Do we really need to encourage the young men of our country to carry weapons?  Twelve year-old girls in flapper outfits?  Ever read the definition of a flapper?  They are described as young women who drank, smoked, wore excessive make-up, and treated sex in a casual manner.  Pretty sure I don’t want my daughter in a flapper costume any time in the next, oh, fifty years.

I know Halloween is supposed to be fun, and my children will participate in it tonight with all the others.  There are ghost figurines on my kitchen counter and a “Boo Y’all!” linen towel in my powder room.  We’ve carved our pumpkin and roasted our pumpkin seeds.  We are meeting wonderful friends tonight for trick-or-treating and Charlie and Libby will eat far too much sugar before they go to bed way too late.  But let’s just get one thing straight . . . I. Hate. Halloween. 

Still, there are lessons in most things, even (especially?) in the things we like the least.  And sure enough, the holiday I never look forward to provided one for me this year.

She told me months ago what her costume would be.  I dismissed it.  Nodded my head, smiled knowingly, maybe even chuckled under my breath as I thought, you’ve got to be kidding. She mentioned it again, several times in fact, as the weeks of October flew by.  I’m sure my reaction was always about the same. 

“We’ll see.”

“Sounds interesting.”

“You might change your mind.”

“There are lots of options.”

Strange how I continue to doubt her, when she’s proven over and over the type of person she is.  Decisive.  Confident.  Strong.  Independent.  Sure.

Not bad qualities, when used in the right ways.  Yet I push them aside as if they aren’t important enough to recognize.  As though I can’t see the good in them.  As though I would change her if I could. As if the character traits that make her exactly who God meant her to be aren’t worthy of acknowledging . . . of celebrating even.  

I compliment her when she’s kind.  I praise her when she’s thoughtful.  I encourage her to be sweet and caring and honest and helpful and loving.  And she is these things . . . sometimes.  And she will continue to be these things . . . sometimes. 

But what my daughter has always been, and what I truly hope she always will be, is decisive . . . confident . . . strong . . . independent . . . sure.

We walked in Party City, past the blood covered headless creature, and she immediately went to the wall of costumes, seeking the only one she wanted.  And I did what I’ve vowed time and time again not to do.  I indulged my own wants and needs at her expense. 

I spent a full five minutes trying to change my daughter’s mind.  I pointed out other costumes, the ones I wanted her to choose for Halloween.  I reminded her that she had never been a witch or a Native American or a doctor or an astronaut.  I forgot the fact that Libby has never been interested in the smocked dresses and big bows and gentle spirit I've always wanted for her, and I tried to persuade her to do . . . to be . . . what would make me happy.  Yes, I stood there in Party City and ignored everything that makes my daughter who she is in order to satisfy the mess in my heart.  I dismissed the character traits Libby already possesses, and which will serve her well in the future, and instead worried about what her current choices say about me.    

It took a full five minutes for me to realize my mistake.  A full five minutes for me to comprehend the error of my ways.  A full five minutes for me to understand that I was actually helping my daughter become a person who doubts her own decision making skills, instead of one who knows what she wants and goes after it, regardless of what others might think.

She walked out of the store with a huge grin on her face, and she spent the rest of the afternoon performing hilarious shows in our backyard in her black morph suit.  Yep.  Libby . . . the black morph. 

Not what I expected.  Not what I wanted.  But what she chose. 

When my daughter wears her black morph suit for Halloween tonight, I won’t be able to see her beautiful blond hair.  I won’t be able to see her big blue eyes.  But I will be able to see her spirit, and I will be grateful for who she is.  Decisive . . . confident . . . strong . . . independent . . . sure.

Happy Halloween!!!

As a former teacher, I’m allowed to say this. I do not believe teachers can possibly understand the power they hold in regards to the lives of the children they teach. Yes, I’ve been out of the classroom longer than I was in it at this point - I taught kindergarten and reading for seven years and Charlie is nine – but I believe seven years in an early childhood classroom, along with a master’s degree, warrants at least some expertise when it comes to education. Still, until my own children began attending school, I did not comprehend the magnitude of the role teachers play in the development of their students.

I was a good teacher. Some might even say I was a great one. My principal called me one of the best teachers he’d ever seen and people, he was old; he’d seen a lot. He told me dozens of parents sent him notes every summer requesting him to place their children in my class. He asked me to share lesson plans with veteran teachers, mentor first year teachers, serve as the grade chairperson, and pilot new curriculum. I had complete confidence in myself in the classroom. I believed my students were in an excellent educational environment. I still do.

I found success in the classroom. I taught my students to read, write, add and subtract. I taught them to recognize vowels, consonants, blends, and rhyming words. I taught them to count syllables, measure inches, and hypothesize results. I taught them the differences between cities, states, and countries. I taught them the differences between periods, questions marks, and exclamation points. I taught them to raise their hands to speak, to use polite manners, to take turns on the playground, to share toys during center time. I taught them, and I taught them, and I taught them. For one-hundred and eighty days I taught them, and I know I taught them well.

Now that I have my own children, however, I realize my job as a kindergarten teacher didn’t have much at all to do with teaching. My job as a kindergarten teacher was to help my students love themselves and love learning, and those are some serious responsibilities my friends. There’s a whole lot more that goes into nurturing the spirit of a child than creating dynamic lesson plans and engaging activities and quality assignments. Yes, teaching skills is both necessary and important, and it occurs every day in classrooms all over the world, but training a child to acknowledge their self-worth and the worth of others is a major undertaking. Making a notable impact on a child’s heart is more than a career choice. It’s a lofty goal, a significant objective, a chosen mindset . . . a purpose.

As a parent, I have witnessed the influence a teacher can have on a child from an entirely different perspective. Now, I can fully understand the weight of the words teachers speak, the behaviors they model, and the values they impart. Next to my husband and me, our children spend the majority of their time with their teachers. And Charlie and Libby won’t simply learn to multiply, divide, and proofread from these people. They will learn to express their ideas, thoughts, and feelings. They will learn to separate facts from opinions. They will learn how to respond to challenges and how to encourage their peers. They will learn organization and planning and patience and determination and perseverance and the power of a positive attitude. Most importantly, they will learn how to love themselves and how to treat others.

I enjoyed being with kids from an early age. In fact, most of my jobs as an adolescent involved caring for or instructing young children – I was a babysitter, I gave swimming lessons, I coached gymnastics. I suppose my journey into the field of education was a natural choice, but I can’t say I felt led into it. I just ended up there. Still, I loved teaching. I adored my students and found great joy in witnessing them master new skills and concepts. I look back on my years in the classroom with happy memories and little guilt, as I’m certain I taught my students in ways I want my own children to be taught – I used an uplifting, hands-on approach and tons of positive reinforcement. Yet, I know without a doubt that I wasn’t aware of the power I wielded when I was an educator. I simply didn’t realize my ability to change the course of a child’s day, or quite possibly, his life, with a look, a word, a touch.

If I could go back and do it all over again, I wouldn’t worry so much about whether my students could identify digraphs and dipthongs. Heck, I bet most people I know don’t have a clue what those words mean. Come to think of it, I’m not sure I remember the difference?!? No, I wouldn’t focus on the teaching of skills if I could revisit my former students.

I would focus on the training of hearts.

I would play more. I would giggle more. I would listen more. I would hug more.

I wouldn’t stop at vowing to say one positive thing about each child every day. I would find a dozen things, and say them a dozen times. I would notice when a student got a new outfit or a new haircut or a new pencil, because the things we find irrelevant have infinite meaning for a child. And I wouldn’t strive to let parents know whether their children had successfully mastered a list of skills; I would strive to let them know what I witnessed in their child’s character, because in the end, isn’t that what really matters?

My children are in an amazing school with incredible teachers. My kindergartner knows all about the planets and my third grader can tell me the difference between a digraph and a dipthong (and when he gets home, I’m going to ask him what it is because for the life of me I can’t remember!). But that’s not why I’m grateful for the teachers in my children’s lives. I’m grateful because my children have teachers who care about them long after they leave their classroom. I’m grateful because my children have teachers who pray for them, and for their school, on a daily basis. I’m grateful because my children have teachers who send bones home in a little baggie when they hear about our family’s new puppy. I’m grateful because my children have teachers who stand outside on a cold December morning to sing “Silent Night” to their students as they walk in from the carpool line.

Teachers are vital. They are imperative. They are invaluable, inestimable, incalculable. They are central, critical, crucial. Teachers are priceless, and I can only hope that if I ever enter a classroom as a teacher again, I will remember exactly what it means to stand in front of a group of children, and hold their hearts in my hands.