Category: being me

With all of the negative that surrounds us.

With all of the headlines that tear us apart.

With the reports of more death, more violence, more hatred being spewed filling our airwaves every day.

In a world where children get sick, where children go hungry, where some have so little and others have so much.

In a world where inequity is the new normal and disengagement is the norm.

Can we please create classrooms where students feel safe?

Where they feel welcomed?

Where they feel like they belong.  That what we do matters.  That how they feel matters.  Where they do not have to adopt another persona to be accepted but can be who they need to be.

In a world that seems hellbent on tearing our hearts open, can we please, as educators, make it our mission to create classrooms that work for all children, no matter the life they leave us for.  No matter what they face outside our walls?  It seems to be the very least we can do.

Six years ago today, I had one child, she was 1 1/2, just starting to talk, discovering the world.  She still napped and the house would get so quiet, I was never quite sure what to do with myself.  6 years ago today, I was a 4th grade teacher, hoping that my next year would not be the year that I quit teaching.  Hoping that these ideas I had to possibly be a better teacher would actually work out and maybe, just maybe, my students would hate school less.  6 years ago today, I googled how to start a blog and then wrote my very first post.  It was all about how I was going to blog and I was excited but had no idea what I was really going to write about.

6 years ago today is just like today.  I still don’t know what my next post will be about until the words hit me and I know I have to write them.  I look back over the years and am so proud of all of the words that my students have allowed me to share.  Of all of the stories, yes even of failure, and how they possibly have made the smallest difference not just to me, but perhaps to another educator.

6 years ago today, I felt crazy, like I was certainly alone with these thoughts and ideas.  That I would probably lose my job if I didn’t quit first.  Now, 6 years later, my life is fuller than I ever thought it would be and I know that I am not alone; there are many fighting for change in education, just like me.  That our students voices can change and shape the way we teach, if only we start listening to them and then doing something about what they tell us.

I have never had a long-term plan when it came to this little blog.  It continues to be my truth-o-meter, my way of releasing the thoughts that keep my up at night.  My way of reminding myself that I am not perfect, but merely human, and that it is okay to not strive for perfection, but strive for connections instead.  This blog keeps me honest so that I actually teach the way I write, and not just concoct fanciful notions of what great teachers do with fictitious students.

6 years of posts means that there are too many to count, too many to remember. But this one, Dear Arnold, is the one that I will never forget writing because it was the first time I cried as I wrote.  The first time I thought I had no business sharing these thoughts yet had to get them out before my heart broke even more.  It started me on a path of absolute honesty, even if it meant not painting myself in a good light.  I am so glad Arnold pushed me that way.

6 years ago today I had no idea how changed my life would be.  How a small summer idea, as always prompted by my husband, would lead me down a different path than the one I had set out on.  I am so grateful to this space, to the small act of courage it took for me to hit publish.  Not because it might have made a difference to others, but because it made the biggest difference to me.

PS:  I sometimes get asked about the significance of the name behind the blog.  I am here to unfortunately say that it was not because I had thought of how it would allude to time, representing the journey I was about to begin.  That would have been so wonderful it it was the truth.  The real story is rather boring because it simply alluded to the fact  that I was a 4th grade teacher at the time, thus “Blogging Through the Fourth Dimension” it was.

This week someone called me Superwoman.   Teaching full-time, writing books, speaking, and then returning home to try to be the best mother that I can be for my 4 (still) young children.  How do I do it all?  How do I find the time?   I am here to burst that illusion.  I am not Superwoman, nor do I ever want to be.  Because Superwoman was alone in her endeavor, mostly relying on her own skills to save the world.   Only once in a while, reaching out to others for help when the problem seemed insurmountable.  She thrived by herself; eager for the next challenge.

But behind me stands a very strong man, a man who saw more in me than I ever did.  A man who told me that I could not change the students, but I could change the way I taught.  I married Brandon 11 years ago and 11 years ago we decided to have a child.  It took us almost 3 years to fulfill that dream, but for the last 8 years I have watched as the man I love, has become an incredible father.

So when people ask me how I do it all, I quickly tell them that I don’t.  That I am not alone in this crazy adventure.  That at home I have the biggest supporter, the biggest motivator, the guy with the biggest heart, even if his sometimes quiet exterior doesn’t show it.  He shapes me, he shapes our children and I am so grateful that he said yes so many years ago to be a part of this crazy adventure.

I asked Oskar, this morning why he loves his Dad and Oskar answered, “Because he is so good.”  I asked him what he was good at.  Oskar answered, “At pouring lemonade…”  Not quite the answer I had expected, and yet perfect in my eyes.  Because that’s it, isn’t it?  It’s not just that Brandon is great at all of the big things, like taking care of us, or fixing things, or all of those other big things that dad’s are supposed to master.  It’s that he is great at the little things too; at putting band-aids on scrapes, reading aloud every night, singing along to Emily Arrow, and yes, at pouring lemonade.  Because those are the things that matter, maybe not to others, but to me, to our children.  Those are the reasons why I am so lucky.

So to the man who gave me the most important job in the world; thank you for seeing something in me when you agreed that perhaps having kids was after all in our future.  That perhaps raising a family together was a dream we should pursue.  That perhaps it was okay if our life got a little crazy, because at least it would mean that our house would be filled with love.  There is no one else I would want to share this journey with.  Happy Father’s Day to all the dad’s out there that get to pour the lemonade.

To my four young children,

I grew up the child of a single mother, who worked hard so that we could have a better life.  I grew up the daughter to a man who wasn’t quite sure how to be a dad, until my mother married someone that did.  I grew up often lonely, although surrounded by friends, always moving from place to place trying to find out where I fit in and who I belonged with.   I grew up not wanting to really have kids, until one day I knew that being a mother was the biggest thing I could ever be.

As I sit in this airport, flight grounded, brain tired, I think of all of the things that your daddy and I hope for you.  All those hopes that we carry with us as we try to shape your future, and your present, into something that will let you be the incredible people we see you as. So our dreams are many, our wishes are real, because right now there are so many things I hope you may never feel.

May you never feel the despair of losing someone unexpected.  May death be a natural part of your life, much like living, and not be something that leaves you deep scars, whether real or imagined.

May you never feel the anguish of loved ones incarcerated or otherwise removed from you, leaving you wondering what happened and how you could have helped.

May you never feel like you are alone, like it will not get better, like there is no better way to cope.

May you never have to feel like there is something you could never possibly tell us, ashamed of your own actions, ashamed of events beyond your control or those of your friends.  May you know that no matter what, we are there to support, to help, to be the kinds of parents we both had as we grew up.

May you always feel found.  Feel seen.  Feel heard.

May you always come back to feeling whole, even if for a while you didn’t.

May you always feel like you matter, like your voice matters, and that at the end of every day who you are and what you do makes a difference to the world.

May you make the natural foolish decisions that all adolescents seem to make without them altering the path you are on.

But if you ever find yourself in a situation you are not sure how you got into.  If you ever find yourself wondering about something that you do not feel comfortable enough to discuss with us.  If you ever wonder about some of the harder sides of life; may you find a library that carries books that will satiate your curiosity.

May you be taught by teachers who have the right to carry books in their classrooms that may have topics that can make grown ups pretty uncomfortable.

May you meet authors who dared to write books that didn’t fall into pretty boxes, who made us think, who made us question.

May you always be able to find a book that will give you the answers you were searching, so that you do not have to experience something instead.

May you always be able to explore safely within the pages of a book, within the conversations that teachers and librarians can facilitate in their schools, within the natural exploration that comes with being alive.

May you always have access to the books freely, much like I did growing up.

As your mother, I can only hope for so many things, but as an adult, as a teacher, I can speak up for books that need to be in the hands of students so they can learn about a world that hopefully does not mirror their own.

May you find what you are looking for, whenever you search, and may you have great teachers and librarians there to guide you as you do.

Love,

Mor