Validation

I'm one of those people who put off having my hair cut. I go faithfully to the dentist every 6 months, and I have my physical annually, but haircuts? I postpone as long as I can. When I do go, I generally get a pretty short clip, and then let it grow out. The change is so gradual, that it hardly seems necessary to take any measures.

Recently my scheduling situation has been further complicated by the fact that my regular stylist has moved away, and so I don't even have a go-to. My last haircut was months ago, and both the person who cut it and the style itself were nice enough, so I decided to go back for a second time. The new stylist greeted me warmly when I arrived and showed me to her chair so that we could discuss options. "You're hair looks great!" she told me. "Who cut it last?"

"You did!" I laughed as her eyes widened in the mirror. "I haven't had it cut since October! That's how I always do." I shrugged.

"Well," she nodded, "it works for you!"

Of Carrots and Sticks

I heard recently of some teachers so frustrated by their charges that when the guidelines for participating in a special event were issued stating that any student with three or more referrals would be excluded they sat down and referred the most troublesome kids three times. 

As veteran teachers, we sigh at such folly: those students have nothing to lose and we have 2 months left in the school year. "They have to at least give them a chance to earn it back," one of my colleagues commented today.

"And a little support to do that," another added.

"Right! It's all stick and no carrot," someone else concluded.

I agreed. It wasn't until I realized that the stick should be a lever rather than a lash that I (pardon the pun) got a real handle on classroom management.

Turn Around Bright Eyes

I was almost 8 in March of 1970 when a total eclipse was set to obscure 95 percent of the sun over our home in South Jersey. The details are vague, but I remember they involved shoe boxes and pinholes, and stepping not even one foot outside. My parents closed the living room curtains, leaving a slight crack through which a ray of sun shone through the tiny hole in the viewing contraption they had rigged. I don't recall being particularly awed by the actual eclipse, but the precautions for it made a huge impression on me.

When I talked to my younger brother about it a couple of weeks ago, his recollection confirmed mine. "All I remember is being terrified of going blind," he said. "I thought even one little look would burn my eyes permanently!"

Times have changed. I was at the grocery store 7 years ago when an 80 percent eclipse passed overhead. Then, I looked at it in the reflection of the dark tinted windows of my car until a kindly stranger offered his eclipse glasses for a moment so I could see the bite the moon was taking from the sun.

And today, our school system distributed free eclipse glasses to all students and staff, and I was able to track the progress of our 87 percent obscuration during my planning time, from the comfort of my classroom. Then, at around 3:15, I stepped outside with some friends and colleagues and peered at the peak of the spectacle, the sun a glowing claw in the amber sky of my glasses.

Without the protective shades, the light was strangely dim and golden, the shadows oddly short given the gloam we stood in. It was magical, and I wished our family had ventured outside for just a moment or two all those 54 years ago.

Jumping the Gun

The other day I was talking to my lunch buddies at work about retiring. "As much as I'm ready to let go of all the work," I said, " I could live 20 years or more." I knocked on wood. "What am I going to do all that time?"

They nodded, sympathetically. "What about Heidi?" asked one. "How much time does she have?"

"To live?" I asked, wide-eyed.

"No!" she laughed. "Until she retires!"

Whistle Stop

Before she headed off to school yesterday, Heidi modeled her wardrobe choice for me. It was a T-shirt that always makes her giggle because it reads, Hey Trainwreck! This ain't your station. 

"You know what the funniest thing about this shirt is?" she asked me.

I laughed because she had read my mind. "Yeah," I told her. "It really is their station. With you? It's always their station."

Slapstick Humor

Despite the blustery cold, there were a bunch of kids hanging around the soccer field when I left school this afternoon. Just as I rounded the corner to start down the sidewalk toward them, I saw a ball fly through the air and bop one kid on the head. I laughed as he shook it off like a cartoon character, clearly now the worse for the unfortunate kick. 

As I continued on, I saw that several of my current students were in the group. They waved and trotted down, excited to see me outside and after hours. We exchanged greetings and a bit of small talk. "Did I see you laugh when that kid got hit in the head?" one girl asked, wide-eyed.

"Well, yeah," I shrugged unapologetically. "He was obviously fine, and? It was funny!"

"You're so cool for a teacher," she said.

"Just human," I laughed. "Have a good weekend!"

Being and Raininess

I always forget how much I love the poetry unit every year. Kids have such a fresh and quirky take on the world, and poetry is just concentrated enough to showcase their creativity and fresh perspective. Even a form as brief as haiku can be stunning or hilarious or both. 

The rain yesterday inspired many of the young poets in my class, among them this writer:

It rains heavily.
The children are not playing.
I don't like the rain.

I laughed out loud when I read it. "That's so existentialist of you," I told her, "to recognize the absence of the children!" I knew she was one of the few 12-year-olds around who would understand my point.

She brightened at the comment. "I do like considering existence," she confirmed, "but I was kind of thinking of The Cat and the Hat when I wrote that!"