Those with the least...

Today, I was taking attendance in my most difficult class as they attempted to settle down from lunch. They often bring the left-overs of their meal to class with them and enjoy as they do bellwork. One of my very special babies, Shawn, was sitting in front of me. He has to sit very close to me during class as he requires a great deal of attention. He is a wonderful young man who has captured the hearts of many of his teachers, including those who do not have him in class.

As the class worked, Shawn let out a large sigh. He turned to me and said, "Miss, I sure wish I had some chips." I told him, "I wish you did too. But, I didn't buy those students theirs. They bought them with their own money." He responded, "Well, you know Miss, you could buy some large bags of chips, and we could all eat out of them." I laughed and said, "Who would pay for them? I'm a bit tight on money right now." He said, "I'd give you the money." I just smiled and urged him to get back to work. I know he doesn't have the money to spend on chips for the class.

A few seconds later, he turned around again. "Miss, I know what we can do, just me and you. I can buy some soda, and you can buy some chips, and I can buy some little plastic cups. And we'll a throw party for the whole class on the 18th, just me and you." I smiled again, loving that he wanted to have this special little secret with me and share with the whole class. Then, as if he could read the doubts in my mind he said, "Cause my mom is going to get a $1,000 check for babysitting, and she's going to give me $30 for helping." Wow! What little he has, he wants to give to the class. I agreed to organizing a party with just him, but maybe close to time we could invite the other students to help provide the snacks so he could save some of that money for himself. He thought that was a pretty good compromise.

About thirty minutes later, I ran into a fellow teacher getting onto him for putting on a vest that was not uniform. She told him he should wear a white long-sleeved shirt underneath his short-sleeve polo so he wouldn't be cold. After dancing around the issue for a minute, he admitted that he didn't have any at home. I realized his family didn't have the resources to provide him with them, and I knew the weather was going to be even colder tomorrow. I decided to immediately take him "shopping" in the office of our social worker. While in her office, it came out that he was also waiting on a donated winter coat. When she informed us that the donations had not arrived as planned today, I think I was more disappointed than he was. As my face fell, she suddenly remembered she'd gotten just one coat yesterday, and it was his size! He tried it on and paraded around the room in his brand new coat. (It even still had the tags on it!) He pointed out that it had originally cost a whole $13. All I could think was, "And this was the baby who wanted to spend his precious $30 on snacks for his class."

Love from a distance

Today, I was babysitting my nephew and hanging out with my dad. While Daegan napped, I got on to do some work on the computer and was pleasantly surprised when my sister in Chicago signed on to Skype. We talked for a while, and then she sent me the message "James would like to see you." Apparently, my nephew recognized the Skype message sounds and was eager to see who mommy was talking to. He uses Skype to talk to grandma regularly and his dad when he's away.

I jumped on my dad's computer, which has a camera, and was rewarded by a very excited nephew when my face appeared on the screen. He clapped and laughed. Then he kept looking at his mom like, "Do you see this? That's my aunt!"

Every time I talked, he would laugh and laugh. He grabbed his blankie and started playing, "Where'd the baby go" with me via the internet. I was marveling at the miracle of technology that I could play such an old game with my nephew from such a distance. He's too young to talk, so the telephone is no fun, but being able to see each other's faces is such a gift. About the time I'm thinking what a miracle this is, I make kissy noises at him (I'm known in our family as the kissy aunt because since they were born, I have smothered the boys in kisses. They both love it now and lean in for more kisses.) He leaned in towards the computer screen for kisses. A meltdown quickly followed when he realized he couldn't actually receive my kisses. His mommy tried to substitute her own, but it didn't work. His frustration grew to heartbreak, and we had to say good-bye and sign off. Technology is a miracle, but it still can't make kissy aunt truly appear in his living room.

Baby Pics

As I was going through my Snapfish account the other day, I found a whole collection of childhood pictures of my sisters and me that I had scanned in as part of a mother's day present a few years ago. I couldn't help noticing how much the next generation of Bennett babies resembles the previous.

Aunt Arvilla (left) Daegan (right)

Aunt Patricia (left) Daegan (right)

Mommy Leslee (left) Daegan (right)

Practical Magic

I feel like I spend many of my days dealing in the business of broken hearts. Sometimes it's a true love shattered at 12. Sometimes it's a student who's been called an awful name. Sometimes it's a parent recently deported. I often find myself without the right words or tools to fix these hearts. I offer what love I can, and hope it's enough to get them through that day.

Tonight I found myself at my sister's, pouring out my own recent heartbreak. During the course of the evening, we started reminiscing about childhood. A story came up about my youngest sister. She had a few unique habits that still reduce her older sisters to hysterical laughter. For instance, she loved to get Mom's cinnamon tic-tacs, eat them until they got too hot for her two-year-old mouth, and then spit them out. More times than we could count there would be a trail of half-eaten candy down the hallway.

One of her other habits had to do with injuries. She loved band-aids, loved wearing them, putting them on her dolls, and decorating with them. Our other sister reminded me that we always had to have the plain ones because Mom couldn't afford to keep the cartoon ones in stock.

My mom also had this really amazing spray that had an anesthetic in it. It was a miracle on cuts, burns, and scrapes. We called it the "magic spray." Often, our youngest sister would pretend to be injured. Mom or I would put her up on the counter, where we would notice nothing was wrong. She would be crying real tears and insist on the "magic spray." We learned to grab the bottle, make the hissing sound with our mouths, put on a beloved band-aid, and kiss the "injured" spot. She would wipe her tears away, kiss us on the cheek, say a quick "I love you", and return to playing.

For a brief moment, I wished there was a "magic spray" for our grown-up injuries. They seem to cut deeper and take longer to heal. But even as we told the story, I received a sweet text message from a close friend, and my sister continued to make me laugh. I suddenly realized with relief that the magic was never in the spray.

Tough Love

Since school began, my students have been writing in their writer's notebooks constantly. At the beginning of the year, we compared it to a sketch pad where they can collect ideas for longer writing. Today, they began the selection process of choosing what America's Choice calls a seed piece that can develop into a longer story. I know from listening to another teacher who did this last year that they will get very frustrated at how much time and effort they will spend on this one story. So, I pointed out the plants in our classroom and explained that they had once been tiny little seeds, but that with love, water, and sun they had grown into bigger, beautiful plants. I told them their seed pieces would be that way. We would work and work on them until they were these long, beautiful stories that we could publish into a class book.

At the end of my instruction, the students moved on to their work period where they began sifting through their writing. One of our more difficult students that all the teachers have been struggling with began setting his paper up correctly without instruction, but called me over. When I got close, he so softly asked, "Miss, can we really do that?" Confused, I asked, "Do what?" He responded, "Plant seeds and love them until they grow into something else?" I answered him with an eager, "Of course! I'll get seeds this weekend!" So, thanks to this tough boy, my class will be planting seeds they can watch grow and develop as their narratives do the same.

Uh-Oh

So I live in a colorful neighborhood. For the most part the people are nice and say hello, but everyone minds her own business. However, it is not unusual for a trip to Quick Trip or our local Dillons to lead to an encounter with a memorable personality or two.

My sister just got back home from a trip to Walgreens to return the Redbox movie we'd just finished watching. When she got there, a young family was already using the machine, attempting to rent a movie or two for the evening. The couple was trying to figure out the machine while their young daughters were playing under and around them.

Their play was interrupted by the sounds of emergency vehicle sirens. Apparently there were quite a few, mostly likely an accident close by. The four-year-old stopped what she was doing, looked up and said, "Uh-oh, police. We'd better go." Hmm...

Fire Drill!

So, Thursday was our first fire drill of the year. I received an email about 5 minutes before it was going to happen. Of course, I hadn't even thought to review those procedures with the kids. I flashed back in my mind to the madness that was a fire drill last year. I took a deep breath and looked around the room for the green shirts that told me who was in leadership this year. I chose a guy and a girl to be our class captains for the fire drill. I told the students that when the alarm went off, we would line up single-file, move quickly down the hall, down the staircase and out to the recess field. The girls were to line up behind the girl captain and the boys behind the boy captain.

When the alarm sounded, I was looking down at my textbook. By the time I looked up, I had two lines in my room, each behind the appropriate captain. The boys filed out, immediately followed by the girls. I was beaming! I stayed behind as hall captain to make sure the whole hall cleared out. I was extremely impressed at how the whole grade walked single file, doing exactly as their teachers asked.

I followed the last group out the door and walked by the new principal quietly watching it all. I reached for my radio and realized I had forgotten my new responsibility. Strike one. I looked out at the field and felt instant panic. I did not see my captains or my class anywhere! I quickly looked over the 7th grade area again. Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye I saw four arms frantically waving. It was my captains waiting for me. All 28 kids were lined up, just as I'd asked...right in the middle of the 6th grade area. I laughed and invited them to join me in the 7th grade area. Those 6th grade teachers sure knew how to train them last year!

Who isn't advanced anyway?

So, it's back to school, and I've spent the last two weeks getting to know my classes in their two different personalities: individual and as a whole class. And any teacher knows, a class definitely has a personality all its own. I have three very different classes. One is an on-grade level class, with some ESL support needed. Another class is what we call a class-within-a-class, which means students with special needs have been integrated into a regular ed class, with both a general ed teacher and a special ed teacher. Finally, I have an advanced skills class with the highest scores I've had the opportunity to teach in seven years of teaching.

On the first day, I made a really big deal about my advanced skills class being advanced and that I would be a difficult teacher, but that they would learn to love the class as much as I did. They left beaming.

Three days later, I was at the 7th grade back to school assembly. A 7th grader asked if I taught 8th grade because she didn't recognize me. I explained that I was the other 7th grade language arts teacher. One of my students smiled big and said, "She's the advanced skills teacher." I do in fact have this student in advanced skills, so I nodded and moved on.

At the end of the day through a discussion with the other language arts teacher, a good friend of mine, I discovered that my students all thought that I taught advanced skills all day and that she taught on-grade level all day. They were getting upset when a schedule change moved them from my class to hers, thinking they were being moved out of advanced skills. While I quickly realized that we needed to make sure that all of our kids felt special and realized that her class was just as smart as ours, I couldn't help but smile when I realized that my children with special needs were proudly coming to Ms. Bennett's class for advanced skills each day. May they never know any differently.

My Addiction

So, after losing yet another night of sleep trying to determine what it is exactly that is making my life not as happy as it should be, I came to the startling realization that I have an addiction. My drug of choice (for lack of a better term) is neither illegal nor immoral, but all the same it is something that is hurting me, and I must find a way to let it go and recover.

I looked quickly over the 12 steps that an alcoholic must take to in order to begin his/her road to recovery. While my personal addiction is far different, I believe that it just might be the right place to start. I was surprised to find that step one is not just admitting that I have an addiction, but acknowledging that I have become powerless to that addiction. Everything in me screams out in defiance of that concept. I don't want to admit that I am powerless to anything. However, in a brief inventory of myself and my life, also required in the twelve steps, I cannot deny that I continue to make choices that allow me just a little more time with my drug of choice and less time with the things and the people who are good for me.

In the vulnerability of admitting my powerlessness I find a great amount of freedom and even strength. It is as if I am now saying to my drug of choice, "You have had this hold on me that is strong and powerful and has overcome me...until this moment. I am pulling away, and I am not going to allow you to grab hold again." And with that I become the one in power of me once again.

Do you accept these pom poms?

So the other night, I received a surprising text from a former cheerleader that I used to coach. She was touching base and inviting me to her upcoming baby shower. She's having a boy in November. It got me thinking back to both my time as a cheerleader and later as a coach. This all led to a very interesting dream that night.

In my dream I had the unique opportunity to cheer with my former squad. We were at cheer camp and were preparing for our first night's evaluation...something I used to stress about for months beforehand as a coach. I had to get my brand new squad trained and up to par because that was our first opportunity to introduce ourselves to the staff and the other cheer squads.

I suddenly felt the stress in a whole new way. I kept asking for my schedule and realized I didn't even know the cheer we were about to perform. I then went to my closet and had the sickening realization that I was supposed to put on a cheer uniform! I still remember putting on my varsity uniform on for the first time at 15, such a thrill. Somehow, at almost 30 it had the opposite effect on me.

I walked out of my dorm room and into the cafeteria where my coaches and captains sat. I of course felt that none of them were doing their jobs correctly either (who could possibly live up to the coach I had been...such an ego). But, I told them that my time had passed. I wasn't meant to be down on that floor anymore. They got very angry that I wanted to ditch them after they'd worked so hard to give me this opportunity. But I just shrugged and said, you have to know when a certain part of your life is over, and this one was definitely over for me 10 years ago.

Picture Perfect

At one of my trainings, we were asked to borrow an idea from our 7th grade anthology and quickly write our own story. I chose "The Three Century Woman" by Richard Peck. It's a story of a woman who has lived through three centuries and is being interviewed by the media. The story is narrated by her great-granddaughter. The great-grandmother tells all sorts of lies to keep the reporter entertained. She is feisty, and full of life, despite her age. I found myself reflecting on someone very dear to me who holds many of these qualities, although she is much younger. In one of the most desperate times of my life, and her own, her strong character showed through beautifully. Here's my story:

"We're hanging out at the funeral home. Just come here, " my best friend told me on the phone. "Sure, I'll be there in a few minutes Ryan," I stuttered. "Who hangs out in a funeral home?" I thought to myself.

It had been four days since Ryan's sister had been murdered by her estranged husband. We had been walking around in a state of shock during that time, adjusting to a new life without her. The night before I had left a sad, grieving family, and I braced myself for what I would find at the funeral home.

As I entered the building, I could smell not death, but grief. There were fresh flowers, newly brewed coffee and that sterile smell that comes with a building cleaned often. Quiet, soothing piano music was piped over the speakers.

As I neared the door that was marked for Lauren, I heard laughter. It was not the quiet, muffled giggles of the evening before, but the all out laughter that took me back to birthday parties and holidays at their house. As I entered the room, I saw Ryan and Lauren's best friend, Ashley, sitting in a front pew. But what caught my attention was Sally, Lauren's mother, leaning over the casket. Surrounding her were hairbrushes, make-up, a straightening iron, and hairspray.

"Come see if I have her eye make-up right," she called to me from the front of the chapel. I stood there, open-mouthed until laughing, Ryan came back to me and told me that his mom was making his sister look more like herself for her kids. The mortician had done the best he could, but Lauren's three babies had been terrified of how differently their mother looked.

Reluctantly, I walked up to the casket. I was shocked at what a fantastic job Sally had actually done. Her hair was just right and her make-up was almost perfect. Ryan turned to me and said, "Didn't she wear lip liner?" I laughed and said, "Yes, remember the lipstick was always wearing off, leaving just the line behind?" Ashley emphatically agreed and pulled some out of her purse. She joked Lauren could just keep it; she couldn't wear that color well anyway.

For a long time, I would look back on that afternoon and wonder if we had all lost our minds. Who redoes the hair and make-up of a dead body? But, then I remember Sally standing there, carefully applying the lipliner, not wanting to mess up Lauren's clothes, and I realize I was witnessing a beautiful act of love.

The First Language of Love

I had the wonderful opportunity to spend the weekend with two of my sisters and their beautiful baby boys. For the past five months I have adored my new role as "Auntie". I am very close to my sisters. As Amanda once put it, "We're much more than siblings. We're a pack." So naturally, I feel very close to their sons.

I get to see Daegan, Leslee's son, almost every day. I know him very well. I can tell without seeing his face whether he is telling a story or his babbling talk has turned to complaint and will soon turn to crying. I know how to hold him so he will fall asleep, despite his best efforts to stay awake. My sister and I agree though that the best thing in the world is the way he grins at you when you first show up to pick him up from daycare or when he sees you coming to pick him up from his nap. He can go from screaming to smiling just at the sight of your face. His Aunt Tricia was like this as a baby. Saturday, I looked down at him grinning in his playpen and said, "Do you know you can make a person feel like the most special person in the world?" His mom laughed and said, "I know. It's like you are just who he was hoping to see." How can someone so little, unable to speak make me feel so loved?

I do not get to see his cousin James who lives in Chicago as often, and I find that he has always changed quite a bit between visits, no matter how regular those visits are. I often find myself confused at what this tiny little person is wanting from me. It's hard to love him so much and not know what he's wanting. I often wonder if he knows who I am or how much I already love him. He's developed the best way of answering my unspoken questions. He grabs my face with both his tiny little hands to pull my face to his for a big, open-mouthed kiss. I don't know that that kind of love will ever need words.

What goddess are you?

At Marshall, the students are particularly into soccer. Their free time revolves around the sport, and even a small thunderstorm can absolutely ruin their moods if they believe it will continue after school. One day this spring, the clouds started rolling in, and one of my advanced skills students asked me, "Miss, when will it start raining today?" I said I would check the forecast, but that was the best I could do. The student seriously shook his head and said, "No Miss, I need to know exactly when it's going to start. I need to make plans."

I laughed and said, "I think you must have me confused with Mother Nature...I'm Ms. Bennett, your language arts teacher." One of the other students said, "No Miss, you're more of a goddess than mother nature." They have a certain way of building my ego.

At that point, one of the girls I've struggled with all year said, "Miss if you were a goddess, you'd be Athena." Now, I've never been good at Greek mythology, and I fully admit it. I asked her, "That's the goddess of war, right?" (This seemed completely appropriate given our relationship this year.) She shook her head, and with utter seriousness said, "No, she's the goddess of wisdom and reason. She fits you perfectly." I was stunned. All I could do was smile and say thank you. They never cease to humble me at any given moment.

Cracks in the Crystal Ball

So, as I begin my first blog, the first major question was what to title it. It seemed all too clear to me as I listened to my new Pink CD. I have a new favorite song, "Crystal Ball". It appeals to me at this moment in my life. The main theme falls in the lines,

"Fortune teller that says maybe you will go to hell.
But I'm not scared at all...
of the cracks in the crystal, the cracks in the crystal ball."

As someone completely obsessed with planning and preparing for the future, I have recently taken on the challenge of living in the moment. I have absolutely no idea what the future holds for me, but it is definitely not what I once planned. But, I'm beginning to realize that is a very good thing. There is so much I didn't know about myself or my world when I began making my plans. I would have done things differently, and I might not have ended up becoming the person I'm supposed to be.

My favorite lines in the song are

"I'm learning to be brave in my beautiful mistakes.
Oh I've felt that fire and I've been burned
But I wouldn't trade the pain for what I've learned
I wouldn't trade the pain for what I've learned."

The mistakes that I've made are mine and mine alone. Each step has led me to right now. I have absolutely no idea what is to come, but for now I'm going to enjoy reading by the pool, love kisses from my adorable nephews, laugh with my sisters and learn each second from the beautiful children I teach. Not only am I not afraid of the cracks in the crystal ball, I embrace them. The joy of this journey is having absolutely no idea where or how it will end.