An Old Bag of Tricks

A year ago during my first Slice of Life Challenge, I had a lot of fifth graders participating. Each day they would ask me if they could read what I wrote. Most days, I showed them, but sometimes I didn't feel comfortable letting them read my words. I realized about half way in they were searching for ideas. So during the commenting challenge, I compiled a list of posts that I thoroughly enjoyed reading. I printed out the list and handed it to my students. It seems fitting that today, a day that I just don't feel well and can't really think straight, I am going to look at that document that I created to give me an idea for my slice. (Looking for ideas, read this post for inspiration.)

I can write with that....

I can write with the pounding going on inside my head as each side sees who could be louder.

I can write with the two kiddos marching down the hall for group saying "It's only the two Robertsons today."

I can write with the echo of the train as it passes my house across the river on this clear and cold evening.

I can write with the words of my son asking if I am ready to help him study for his science test.

I can write with the heater blowing full force trying to make its way into the cool house.

I can write with the heaviness of my eyelids trying to stay open as to not allow this cold to win.

And I can write with the clicking of the keys as they make their way across this page.

The Gift of Time

I haven't heard my mother's voice in almost 21 years, but I can still hear it in my head most days. When I was younger she was a constant at every recital, sporting event, play. You name it, and she was there. She also made sure that my sisters and I were exposed to whatever activity we wanted to try. As a kid I tried piano, violin, trombone, and clarinet. I also played soccer, lacrosse, basketball, and softball. I took ballet, modeling classes and did art. Many of these lasted a session or two. Some longer.  It just depended on my interest. She never pressured me into making a choice or sticking with one thing or another. She also nurtured my love of the outdoors and sent me to dozens of day camps and eventually sleep away camps. At the time, I didn't realize the sacrifice that she and my father made in terms of money and time. I also didn't realize how fortunate I was to be able to be exposed to so many things.

Now that I have three kids of my own who want to participate in many activities, I find myself thinking of my mother. Spring is extremely busy in our house. There is soccer, baseball, lacrosse (for both girls and me-I coach), Girls on the Run, a full time job, a part time job, and just being a mother. When I find myself feeling a bit overwhelmed, I think of my own mother and the sacrifices she made. The time she gave up to drive me and my sisters from one activity to the next, cheering us on.

And I also think that I don't have many more years of this. Five for the oldest followed by seven and eight. I know that I will never get this time back. I also know that when my own children are adults they will look back on their childhood and be thankful for being given the opportunities to find their passion.

I just wish my mother were here so I could properly thank her. Thank her for helping me to be the person I am today. Thank her for all of her time. But then again, she probably knows. Because mothers are like that.

A Labor of Love

When I first graduated from college, I knew that I didn't want to be an art teacher although I had an art and elementary education degree.

I was drawn to the inner city. It could have been because I spent the first ten years of my life living in Detroit or the small town that I attended college in resembled a mini D. Whatever the case, I found myself back in the place I grew up in. I taught at a performing arts charter school located at Six and a Half Mile and Nevada. Not the safest neighborhood but one where I felt at home.

I didn't teach art.

Instead, I opted for second grade. I was a first year teacher. I don't care where you teach. Your first year is hard. From learning what works, how to communicate with families, figuring out discipline, and trying to just stay afloat. I had great mentors, asked a lot of questions, and just loved my students. The school I was at embraced creativity, and I found that many of my students had the same struggles I had as a student. So I did what worked for me in school. I started to incorporate A LOT of art into what I taught.

As the years went on and the districts changed, one thing remained constant: my love for art inspired lessons. There were quilts and digital stories and drawings and book projects and birds and a published children's book about plastic pollution. But I want to make one thing clear.

I didn't teach art.

So 21 years in, I traded my gen ed classroom position for a creative arts position. I teach STEAM and have a little more of an art emphasis than most.

Today, between my son's soccer games, I found myself cutting out kindergartners because they won't cut themselves. I have about 200 of them to do. I'm not even a quarter of the way through. It's tedious. But so worth it. They are part of a mixed media project. As I stare at the faces looking back at me, I am brought back to last week when the students were coloring their sky. It was a simple concept. Rub the background with your paperless crayon or crayons. When I first showed them how to do it, there was an eerie silence in the air followed my so many "Ohhhhhhs." It was as if I was a magician performing a magic trick. The skies were anything but blue filled with an array of colors then splattered with balloons. Ones the students will hold onto.

Next week, they will create skylines. Because, you know, life wouldn't be as exciting if you weren't holding onto a bunch of balloons in the sky high above the world below. Helping students see the potential they didn't think they had. Helping them see that anything is possible when you take it one step at a time.

This is magic to me because now, 22 years after I received my art degree, I finally teach art.

A kindergartner waiting to be attached to her bundle of balloons. 

Changing Habits

When I changed school districts and positions this past fall, I never imagined that my writing would suffer. Actually, I thought the time I would be able to spend on it would increase but that is not the case. I went from teaching fifth grade writing to kindergarten-first grade STEAM. Things are different.

I have traded correcting papers for cutting out lamination.

Knowing the names of 90 kids to trying to remember 400.

Following a curriculum to creating my own.

Enjoying a quiet classroom to embracing and encouraging conversation.

When I first started out as a STEAM teacher, I had this vision of trying to incorporate journals into my daily routine. That worked for a split second until I realized that time was my enemy. I am a thinker and writer and maker. I mourned my idea and worked at trying to include literacy in different ways.

We have a caterpillar, EETCHY,  that leaves mystery objects for my kindergartners. They use this tool to help figure out the item. Little do they know that EETCHY will be the backbone to their research unit on animals.

My first graders are recording PSA's for the weekly announcements focusing on an issue in the school that is important for everyone to hear. Today, it was the rules of taking part in an indoor walking recess.

There are books. A few baskets of them for my early finishers or students that just need a break. The students get excited when there are new ones in the basket.

And mentor texts. Every single lesson I do is centered around a mentor text. It's our routine and works.

Someone once told me that the difference between kindergarten and fifth grade is simple. With kindergartners you have to be emotionally available all day long. The end of the day comes and you are too exhausted to think. With fifth graders, they can take care of themselves, for the most part, during the day but the exhaustion comes after school hours when you are up late correcting papers or worrying about the child in your class that needs to take care of her siblings so she can't do her homework.

But I thought it would be different. I thought that since I am a creative arts teacher that it wouldn't be so emotionally draining and I would have more energy in the evenings. Um, no! Just as tired as everyone else. Too tired to read. Too tired to write. So exhausted that I haven't participated in Slice of Life Tuesday in over a month. I have every intention of doing it. Plan out the post in my head but never get around to pulling out the computer and typing my thoughts up.

So with March, a month I would just like to skip because we are so busy it is a bit overwhelming, I am going to change some habits. One of them is writing. More time. A little each day to participate in this challenge. Thirty-one days. And hopefully when I am done, my writing will once again be a habit that is part of my day.

Forever Ten

One of the things I have always had my students do at the end of the school year is write me a letter. Over the years, the content of the letters has changed, but one thing has always remained constant: their value. You will find each class set of letters in their own binder. Each letter has a photo attached to it. It may take me a while to remember your name if I run into you, but once I have it, a flood of memories surface. I can tell you what type of student you were in my classroom. Little things that you did. Your likes and dislikes.

At the end of every year, I pull all the binders out and let my current students read them. They like to see what school was like for the students that came before.

Then it is their turn to write me a letter. And their binder becomes a part of who I am just like all the others.

Recently, though, the letters in these binders have become invaluable.

I have had to pull a couple.

Copy them.

And do the unimaginable.

Send the originals to parents.

Because they lost their child.

Not one set but two.

Two former students in just as many months.

Tonight I read both letters. The one you wrote me in third and fourth grade because I was fortunate to loop with your class. That second year of having your group was unbelievable. There was a closeness in our classroom community that I haven't had since. We all knew each other and were like family. We started fourth grade where we left off in third. And I have memories of you.

I remember you standing in the doorway of my corner classroom with its red trim excited for another year of camp.

I remember you not reading all of your book report book, doing the project, then feeling so guilty about it you couldn't keep it in any longer. You finally told me and apologized.

I remember your quiet demeanor and old soul, wise beyond your years.

I remember your beautiful handwriting and was proud that I taught you to write like that.

But most importantly, when I think of you, I remember your ten year old self because that is the age you were when I last taught you.

Rest in peace sweet Tiffany. May you find comfort in your new home. Your words will always be with me. Always.

My Old Pal, Eight

For the past few nights my daughter has been quietly crying herself to sleep. I found her doing this one evening on accident. I ran upstairs to grab something and instead of finding a sleeping girl, I found her weeping. I quickly asked her what was wrong, and she replied with, "I don't want to turn nine."

My daughter's birthday is Friday, December 21st. Winter Solstice. She was a c-section baby and this date happened to fall among the ones I could choose. There is something about her. Always has been. She is quiet. An observer. I think it has something to do with being born on the first day of winter. Like a rite of passage.

When I inquired about why she doesn't want to turn nine, the flood came.

Then the sobs.

Then the reasons.

She feels like she is growing up too fast.
She doesn't want to go to middle school.
She is going to miss Hiawatha.
She is going to miss all of her teachers.
She doesn't want to be an adult.
She doesn't ever want to leave me.
She feels like she is growing up too fast.
She is going to miss her old pal Eight.

When I was telling a friend about this, she reminded me of the short story "Eleven" by Sandra Cisneros. And that had me thinking about the beginning of the story.

"What they don’t understand about birthdays and what they never tell you is that when you’re eleven, you’re also ten, and nine, and eight, and seven, and six, and five, and four, and three, and two, and one. And when you wake up on your eleventh birthday you expect to feel eleven, but you don’t. You open your eyes and everything’s just like yesterday, only it’s today. And you don’t feel eleven at all. You feel like you’re still ten. And you are—underneath the year that makes you eleven."

So for my daughter's ninth birthday, I think we will make a list. A list of all the things she cherished about being eight.

And another list. A list of all the things she will look forward to about being nine.

Celebrating our soon to be nine year old

The Art of Play

I have been meaning to write this post for weeks. But after the first session with my kindergarten STEAM students, I waited because each session I had was better than the last. My initial session, in a four session science series, proved to be the most important  and set the stage for all the rest. And all that was involved: playing. 

That's what the kids would call it. 

I prefer to call it discovering. 

My science series was targeting force and motion, but I wasn't sure which way it was going to head. When you look at all the standards, there is a lot of information for these little ones to learn. I had no idea what their background knowledge was and instead of doing a kwl with them, I decided on the art of play. Discovery centers. These centers allow students to choose where they want to go, for how long, and explore the materials and bins at their disposal. 

I had taught fifth grade for many years but this year found myself working with kindergarten and first graders.  I know exactly what centers look like with 11 year olds but had to seek out the advice of the amazing teachers in my building to help me see what centers look like with five year olds. I settled on choice and self regulation. 

Each center had a number. Only that number of students could be at that specific center. When students left one center for another, some would come in and take their place. What happened during this time of discovery was nothing short of amazing. As the students navigated the materials, I had conversations with them. I wanted to know what they were discovering; what thinking was going on inside their brains. 

Here are a few of those: 

Bridget: Look what I discovered!

Mrs. Waugh: Tell me about it.

Bridget: I discovered that when you pull the little gray thing, the car goes up.

Mrs. Waugh: What are you engineering?

Areya: I am making a track for the cars. They are having all of these problems. One went the wrong way into a dead end.

Hannah: Look Mrs. Waugh. We are engineers. We are sharing and working together to make stuff. I’m making cupcakes.

Mrs. Waugh: How are you getting them to move?

Hannah: I’m pulling.

Mrs. Waugh: What are you doing?

Blake: Making a factory.

Mrs. Waugh: How?

Blake: Putting machines in a line.

Mrs. Waugh: What kind of factory is it?

Blake: It’s going to be a factory, that, an apple cider factory. Some hand made machines like this one do the apples. That one takes the juice out and this one peels the skin off. That one smashes the apples into tiny pieces to get the juice from it.

Mrs. Waugh: How are you making your machines move?

Blake: By our hands. We don’t have hand mixers now. It mixes stuff. I wonder if it’s an old fashioned mixer.

It was these conversations that guided my next session, the instruction portion. I had found that many students could tell me that things moved up and down, left and right, but very few people used the vocabulary push and pull. Wouldn't it be amazing if all teachers had the time in their day to allow students to just play?

And we sat and watched and listened.

That information. More valuable than we could possibly know.