blog challenge « Miss Night's Marbles

New challenge: September Spending Starve

by Miss Night

Ok, this is not a post about teaching, so I apologise NOW if that is what you came for. (Sidebar: could someone please tell spellcheck that in The Canada, apologiSe has an ‘s’?) Yes, I am a teacher, and yes, I mostly blog about teaching, but man cannot live on school alone, so stay with me here!

I have set out a challenge for myself for the month of September, and YOU ARE ALL INVITED TO PLAY ALONG! If you’re like me, you get a little casual about spending money over the summer because it’s vacation! I’m relaxing! I deserve a treat! And then, in August, you get a little crazy about buying stuff for your classroom and general back to school goodness (teachers need new schoolbags, too!). And then, in September, you realise (see my earlier sidebar about apologise? also true for realiSe, thank you very much.) that you better rein things in, OR THERE WILL BE NO CHRISTMAS PRESENTS FOR ANYONE.

So: I have set myself a challenge: to buy no STUFF* for 30 days. Here are the rules:

I can buy groceries.
I can buy gas for the car.
I can pay for experiences like going to the movies or tickets to a play or dinner with friends or coffee with Mom.
I cannot get takeout to eat by myself as a convenience, but I can get takeout if it is part of a social thing with other people. Ditto to buying coffee/ice cream: Starbucks alone = NO. Starbucks w/teaching partner = YES. (Note that this is a sneaky way of also forcing myself to focus on relationships, which is sort of important during the first month of a new year, right?)
If something I own and use at least weekly should fall apart or run out or irreparably break down, I can replace it.
If it is critical to my health, I can buy it.
If it is critical (critical meaning it CANNOT wait until October) to someone who depends on me (this is really just Skip for me, but if you have munchkins, this covers you, too), I can buy it.
If it is critical to the daily operations of my classroom, or the completion of my school-related responsibilities, I can buy it. (There was no way to start this challenge in September without including this, truly.)

*After much deliberation, I decided that the definition of STUFF includes digital stuff like music and books and apps. This is a big weakness for me, and it is way too easy to impulsively buy a new song I love or a book I hear about.

There you go. My rules for an entire month. My goals are really to get out of the summer habit of treating myself too often, and to gain some perspective on what my spending patterns are. I promise to post every week and let you know how I’m doing and what parts are hard or easy.

Now, who’s in? Sign up in the comments!

And, if any of you have the talent to make a happy little blog badge for “Miss Night’s September Spending Starve,” I will happily post it and the code, for all of us to share on our sites.

Now go zip up those wallets!

blog challenge Spending Starve

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Heaven holds a sense of wonder*

by Miss Night

Not many words tonight.

An alarm-wake up on a summer Saturday, made less painful by a day spent in the sun with my dear friend over at Music4Munchkins. Guiltily delicious summer holiday food, including a shared basket of salty French fries and thick milkshakes.

A blessing: spontaneous invitation from a 3 year old to attend his birf-day party next weekend.

Home to the shower off the sweat and sunscreen. A small triangle of angry pink skin where, apparently, I missed a spot. Soap and citrus lotion. Clean pyjamas by 7:30 pm. A puppy warm in my lap. A plan to take a book to the deck for the last hour of daylight.

A few tears shed, for a Canadian Olympian who made our collective heart swell with pride as she finished the triathlon in last place. To repeat the part that matters: she finished the triathlon. The Olympic Triathlon.

Tomorrow: coffee and my favourite muffins, from my favourite coffee shop, eaten in the sunshine.

Yes, quiet is good.

*Silence, by my longtime favourite, Sarah McLachlan.

blog challenge NaBloPoMo reflection

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This business of caring: it makes me righteous, yes it makes me feel whole*

by Miss Night

Yes, I am woefully behind on the summer #kinderblog2012 challenge, and am sort of strangely pleased that my behind-ness on one challenge will now likely help me fulfill another challenge…

But first, the question, for the 3rd week of #kinderblog2012:

Tell us about your pet peeves. Do it however you want: write a list of 50 things that drive you crazy, or an essay about just one thing, or story combining several things, or write a song, or some limericks, or an epic poem. A photo essay! A slideshow! Video journalism! Stand up comedy! The sky is the limit, just tell us what grinds your teeth as a teacher (or an administrator, or a program director, or in whatever capacity you are joining this challenge.) (Yeah, parentheses again. I think I need an intervention.) Be careful: your blog is public, and you never know who is reading. Be positive and professional, but tell the truth. You can do it.

If you go through the comments on the original posting of the question, you’ll see people did some pretty awesome things – making comic strips, writing songs. But me, I blog because I like to write. Words have long been my dear friends and most favourite tool. So here you go. One of my single biggest pet peeves and professional aggravations:

It’s like fingernails on a chalkboard for me when I hear the words “I am not a babysitter” or “This is not a daycare” when uttered by a kindergarten teacher. Says who? If you are responsible for the safety and supervision of your students (which, um, YOU ARE), and your students are not old enough to be left alone without adult supervision (which, um, THEY’RE NOT), guess what: you are a childcare provider.

This expression tends to come up when teachers are irritated with parents, often over the most trivial of things: having to peel a child’s orange, helping with a change of clothing after a toileting accident, being asked to store a car seat because the child is going home in a different vehicle. The underlying belief seems to be that we “shouldn’t have to” do these things. Parents should pack snacks that kids can open independently. Kindergartners should be long past toileting accidents. Parents should have… two car seats?… really?

I’m not sure where it comes from, this need to separate teachers from babysitters/daycare providers/caregivers/nannies. Yes, I lumped all of those things together because, whatever your preferred vocabulary, anyone who makes a living in a context that makes them responsible for other people’s children is ALL of those things. We are IN THE BUSINESS OF CARING FOR CHILDREN, folks. To say that we are not caregivers suggests that caring is not part of our job. There is no way around it. I’m honestly not sure where the line is between “caring for” and “teaching,” but for the love of all that is good in the world, I certainly hope that we are doing both.

And honestly, if I had to choose? Between being acknowledged for the “teaching” or being acknowledged for the “caring?” Between kids remembering the things I taught them or the way I cared for them?

The caring wins every time.

Photo by AJC1

*Van Morrison, as sung by my boyfriend, Michael Buble

blog challenge NaBloPoMo philosophy

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With angels as visitors dropping by…

by Miss Night

#Kinderblog2012 Summer Blogging Challenge, Question Numero Deux:

Tell us about one (or two, or a few) of the classrooms you have had over the years. Not the kids, the ROOMS. What have you loved? What have you hated? How did you FEEL in the space? What did you DO with the space that, looking back, seems ridiculous? Or brilliant? We all spend so much time in our classrooms, we really do develop a relationship with the physical space. Tell us about that (those) relationship(s).

I know, I’m a little behind on this. What can I say – it’s summer and it’s hard to keep up with RUNNING the challenge AND participating in the challenge AND holding down the lounge chair on my patio with an iced coffee in my hand. Hopefully my story here is worth the wait.

When I finished grad school, my first teaching job was at a teeny weeny private school (known here as That School, not to be confused with This School, where I currently work), in a little town just south of The City. The town was small (24,000 people), the school was small (180 kids, in grades K-12), and the classes were small (maximum 12 kids per class, often fewer). The assignment was to teach a grade one/two split class, and while I know there is all kinds of debate on the merits and pitfalls of split classes, I will just say this: when you only have 10 kids in your class, you can manage damn near anything.

It was the first time that I set up MY OWN classroom – previously, “my” rooms had been already set up, by the program or facility where I was working. They were lovely, friendly, well-equipped and welcoming rooms, but I never felt ownership. About a week before school started, I arrived to check out my space, not even really sure what was involved in “setting up a classroom.”

It. Was. Little. LORD, was that classroom little. I am very bad at square footage, but: I currently live in a 700 square foot condo, with a big kitchen and one generously sized bedroom; that classroom was about the size of my current living room. Imagine the smallest space necessary to accommodate 12 children and one teacher. Now cut off about 10 square feet. It was THAT little. It was in a funny place: right at the top of a stairway, with the door in a weird little nook that housed the doorway to the staff bathroom as well as the (only available) storage for my teaching materials. It was a funny shape: sort of a rectangle, with a bite out of it where the door was. There were 4 low, rectangle tables, and a teacher desk and chair. There were no hooks for the children’s coats and bags, only a handmade bank of 12×12 cubbies (1 per child), where they had to store backpacks, lunches, gym shoes, and outdoor clothing. There was no counter, no sink, no cabinets or cupboards or even shelving. I later wrangled 2 more trapezoid tables out of other classrooms, and dug 2 small bookcases out of my personal storage container (which was, conveniently enough, right next door to school). But adding more furniture meant subtracting square footage, and, well…. even 6 year-olds need room to WALK between the tables.

Congratulations, you have now seen THE ENTIRE classroom.*

Setting up the room was like a a 3-D jigsaw puzzle. How to make enough room for me, the kids, their belongings, their learning? Everything had to be placed with exactly enough space to function, and not an inch more. I figured out precisely how much clearance I needed to be able to sit in my desk chair, and set my desk EXACTLY that far from the wall. The cubbies started EXACTLY where the edge of the door ended. The children HAD to sit or stand with their chairs pushed in because otherwise there was nowhere to walk. The calendar corner was the story corner was the play area was the group work area. We finished all of our art projects on the same day we started because there was NOWHERE TO PUT THEM other than on the wall. Everything we did had to be cleaned up completely before starting the next thing. I was offered a desktop computer for the room, and I declined – space was more precious than technology.

The space affected my pedagogy, to an extent I only realize in retrospect. I couldn’t greet the children at the classroom door in the morning because THERE WAS NO ROOM AT THE DOOR IN THE MORNING. I greeted them each, by name, from my desk. The children HAD to do most of their work at their tables, because there just wasn’t room anywhere else for them to go. I taught from my desk — instead of walking around — a lot, because (say it with me, now) there wasn’t really room to walk around.

And yet… I loved that little room. The only window faced straight east, across rolling green foothills, and I watched the sunrise nearly every day — on my own in the fall and spring, and with the children in the dark days of winter. We called the table in front of that window “The Imagination Station,” and the kids could sit there to draw or read or write or dream when they were done their work. I hung ribbons around the window, and clothes-pinned their artwork to the ribbon. Our story rug was actually an lap-blanket that my grandma had crocheted, just big enough for 10 little bottoms. I kept an electric kettle on my desk, and as the kids wrote in their journals first thing every day, the kettle would whistle softly, while my iPod played Beethoven and the sun rose outside. It sounds idyllic. It was.

The next year, I moved to a (relatively) bigger classroom at That School, and after that, to an (objectively) big room at This School. My room now has a wall of windows, miles of counter space, acres of cabinets, a separate coatroom, a sink and fridge and microwave, room for kids to move and play and have 25 projects on the go at once. Make no mistake: I do love it, and I appreciate every last square inch of it.

But there was something about that little room (which I later learned was originally intended to be a large office for the Head of School) that keeps hold of my heart. We were cozy in there. We were together. We were safe. We were learning and laughing and holding hands. We were (perhaps more than in any other classroom I have had) a “WE.”

*Oh, and the slates? Dollar store treasures! It was a tradition at that school to give the kids a small first-day-of-school gift from their teacher. I used the slates to identify their spots, and the kids took them home at the end of the first week — because, of course, there was really no place to store them.

blog challenge classroom memories

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But things come slow or not at all

by Miss Night

So, yeah, I am running the #kinderchat summer blogging challenge again this year, and, as usual, I am among the last to post my own response. In the name of full disclosure, I started this draft weeks ago, and have been tug-of-warring with it ever since. But first, the question:

What did you learn this past (or, for our southern hemisphere friends, what ARE you learning this current) school year that you couldn’t have learned any other year, from any other students or colleagues or administrators or parents? What lessons did this particular year, this particular setting, these particular children bring into your life?

Oh, Lord. THESE children…??? It has been a while since I had a group like this: a group who exhausted me, pushed me, needed me, questioned me, stretched me so much and so frequently. A group with whom I fell so utterly, completely, and hopelessly in love… In fact, I’m pretty sure the last group like this was not a class at all, but a group of teenagers on the side of a mountain high up in northeastern California. But that is another story, and will be told another time.

This group of kids questioned everything. EVERY. DAMN. THING. Why do we have to do this? Why do it this way? Why do we print letters starting at the top? Do I have to draw a bowl for my goldfish? Can I have a book at rest time? Can sit under the table to do my reading? Can I cut it out and THEN colour, or do I have to colour first? Why do I need to colour first? Why do we stand in a line? Why can’t I sit on my knees if I can’t see? Can I sit on a chair at circle? Why can’t *I* choose my spot for lunch? And they didn’t accept a simple “yes” or “no” or “because I said so.” Why, Mme? Why not, Mme? I can do it that way at home, Mme, why not here? I was tired. Lord, was I tired. I am still tired. I may always be tired. But from that dark, bone-deep-tiredness has come some lightbulbs: moments of clarity that have changed me, my classroom, my teaching.

So here: this is my list, far from exhaustive, of the things I learned this year, that only these children, these smart, funny, LOUD, quirky, demanding, stubborn, inquisitive, impatient, messy, sticky, and determined (did I mention LOUD?) children could have taught me.

THINGS LEARNED IN MISS NIGHT’S ROOM, BY MISS NIGHT, THIS YEAR

Criss-cross-applesauce is overrated.
Walking in a perfectly straight line is rarely necessary.
Sitting in a chair to work is not a requirement. Kids can work standing up, or laying down, or crouched over, or squatting.
The traditional “Today is; Yesterday was; Tomorrow will be…” calendar routine is a waste of 30 minutes. Kindergartners don’t conceptualize time that way.
I am not willing to expend energy to convince a child to complete anything in a workbook.
In most cases, following the steps of an activity in the exact order I demonstrate is unnecessary.
In many cases, my demonstration is unnecessary and may be detrimental.
Most activities that involve use of a photocopier have no place in my classroom.
If a lesson or activity is going to result in 18 perfectly identical completed projects, I probably have no interest in doing it.
Many crafts, no matter how cute, are glorified worksheets.
Sitting perfectly still is not a reasonable expectation for anyone, never mind an active five-year-old.
Being perfectly silent is not a reasonable expectation for anyone, never mind an active five-year-old.
If the children are bored, I am boring.
If I am boring, I need to change something.
Bored, disengaged children are MY problem to fix.
The cure for boredom is engagement, not entertainment.
If I am going to ask children to do something, I better be able to explain why it matters.
If I am going to ask children to do something, I better BELIEVE why it matters.
There is no glory in winning a battle of wills with a five year old.
There may, however, be danger in LOSING a battle of wills with a five year old.
If I’m going to have a battle of wills with a five year old, I better choose it carefully, and be prepared to win.
Even if it means spending my own lunch break supervising a child who is refusing to put away the train he hurled across the room.
No matter how many great transition songs I know, sometimes the best way to handle a difficult transition time is to eliminate it. (Ask me about the beauty of the snack centre.)
Respond as if you are assuming the best, even if you have solid grounds to assume the worst. Assuming, and responding as if, a child has picked up a stray toy with the intention of putting it away creates an entirely different interaction than assuming she has picked it up to sneak it into her backpack.
There is always a back-story. The story rarely begins at “He hit me.” The question “what happened before that?” is important. The story deserves to be heard.
If I want them to be calm, I need to be calm.
There is no shame in announcing to a room of kindergartners that “Mme needs a time-out.”
I teach CHILDREN first. Before the program or the curriculum or the philosophy, my job is to TEACH. CHILDREN.

Important work happens, without a workbook, a photocopier, a chair or even a teacher demonstration.

It surprises me now, reading this list. These are all things that I thought I knew, or that it seems I should have known, long before these kids came along. Many are things I thought I understood.

So maybe, what these kids taught this teacher is that we all, always, need teachers. It was an honour, a blessing, and a privilege, to be their student.

blog challenge daily grind philosophy reflection

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