On being a double-working Mom

It makes me feel sad when I hear well-meaning but largely uninformed people make sweeping generalizations and broad statements about how daycare kids are neglected by their parents, or unable to bond to their Mothers, or robbed of the necessary love and attention needed to for a beneficial start to life. I marvel at the confidence with which some people assert that Mothers who work outside the home are willfully sacrificing the well being of their little ones for the personal satisfaction that comes from pursuing a career. And I'm surprised with how many times my stay-at-home-friends will tell me that "so-and-so" obviously doesn't really care about their family, because look how they just "shove their kids into a daycare."

The cries of "unfit!" and "selfish" are easily heard above the quiet, exceedingly busy, unrelenting sacrifice we who work outside the home are making on a daily basis in order to provide our children with the best life we possibly can, as we follow our own convictions that it takes a metaphorical village to raise a child and that when we enlist of the help of well-trained, caring, kind professionals to help us with the childcare, we are acting in what we truly believe is the best interest in our children.

We who work outside the home do the same tasks as those stay-at-homes who so easily claim the title of "working mom" for themselves, because indeed, all moms are working.  We cook for our families, clean our homes, do our laundry, grocery shop, buy and mend clothes - we just do it all in addition to the job we hold outside the home.

We also, by the way, read to our children. We engage in countless conversations with them, both lighthearted and meaningful. We drive them to swimming lessons, dance, soccer practice, Sunday School. We teach them about God, pray with them, hug them, kiss them, play with them, laugh with them, and demonstrate that we love them - just as thoroughly as the stay-at-homes. 

While we who work outside the home are working at an additional job, many hardworking stay-at-homes are also working - cleaning, shopping, cooking, mending. They are not always pouring into the lives of their little ones as some people would have you believe -  they have other work that needs to get done. And I admit, that time is well spent. Many of their homes are cleaner than mine will ever be. They don't run out of milk. Their meals taste better and their cookies are home-baked. They may even get enough sleep at night. But their children are not, let me assure you, better loved than mine. They are not more attended to, not happier, not better taught. In fact, some are less so.

My time in the evenings with my children is precious in a way that some people can't comprehend. I dont' join ladies Bible studies, don't "escape" to retreats, don't go out nightly or even weekly "with the girls". I work all the time; while I'm outside the home, entrusting the care of my precious little ones to the capable hands of others, and while I'm home with them, blessed with the opportunity to pour love and attention into their lives. While I am part of a community group, and I sometimes go out on a date with my husband or make an effort to try and see my own friends every once and a while, I don't take "time", need a "break" enjoy "getting away". I miss my children every second while I'm at work or out, but glad they are getting the love and affection they are from those I have chosen to care for them, and when I am home, I am doing all the Mothering in the world. The other stuff - the cooking, the cleaning, the shopping - it gets done, eventually. While the kids are in bed, or on the weekends with the kids along. But it's not a priority, and I don't mind having a messy house in exchange for a full life.

When I really think about the blind accusations and incorrect assumptions made about double-working Moms, to be honest, I think I can sometimes even get a little resentful. My Mom worked outside of the home my entire life. And let me assure you, I am as "well-developed", "well-loved", "self-confident" as any of my home-stayed peers and friends. I'd challenge any of them to show me how their Mother did a better job of raising them than mine did. My mother is my role model and my friend - and she has always been.

I respect and admire stay-at-home Mothers. They've followed their convictions. But I think it's funny how people assume that staying at home is the greater sacrifice. Let me tell you, it is not. It is difficult to trust the care of our children to another, difficult to work out of the home AND at the home (as we double-working mothers do), difficult to ignore the the silly statements insisting that I should join this club or that in order to "take a break". Difficult also to hear stay-at-homes make the statement "oh, you have holiday time? Must be nice to get all that time off!" - when in reality, the time I'm taking "off" is exactly what they do every day (not time off at all - simply time at home).

I love what I do. I love my job, my students, my work. But I love my children even more, which is why I do what I do. It's your right to disagree, but you'd be wrong. And that's that. :)

Stop! NaNoWriMo Time

So, if you haven't noticed by now, I've been neglecting this blog. I haven't been forgetful, nor run out of things to say. But, it's November.

I know for most of you, November is Mo-vember, or mustache month. But it ALSO happens to be NaNoWriMo: National Novel Writing Month. It's a 30 day challenge to write a 50 000 word novel.  The focus is on quantity rather than quality; an exercise intended to encourage writers to take risks, to experiment freely, and to simply WRITE, without getting bogged down with careful planning or meticulous self-reflection. The more writing, the better. As an English teacher, I challenged my students to try it out. As so I took the challenge myself.

I'm on 14 717. I hope to reach fifteen thousand words tonight. I'm on track though. It's a super fun activity, and I both HATE my story (so cliche!) and LOVE it (sooo fun to write!)

So, that's where I've been, and will mostly be for the remainder of November. I'm also, of course, trying to catch up on my marking in time for midterm reports, which need to be in my Wednesday!

Oh, and it's now snow-covered here. It really IS beginning to feel a lot like Christmas. And I LOVE it!

Ugg. And YAY!

Yup, one of the worst and best things about teaching ELA here in… well, in the province I teach in… is choosing my material. We have a list of “recommended texts” for each grade (or, in some cases, grade range, which means some students study the same book in grade 10, 11, and 12!) but really, we’re more or less free to choose the texts we want to accomplish our many governmentally required course objectives.

It’s great, in that if I don’t like a particular text, I’m not stuck trying to generate enough enthusiasm to effectively spend a month on the drivel, nor work on keeping my lips from sneering every time I say the author’s name. It’s also great if we’re trying to organize units thematically – we can choose a text that fits a particular theme. Nice, too, because it’s fun to change things up as a teacher, and also choose a text that fits a certain group of students.

It’s hard, though, because so many literary texts are so very depressing, and while I think tragedy is an extremely valuable writing form, often rich in meaning and lasting impressions, it can also be a drag to read piece after piece of sad, dark, “true-to-life-especially-if-you’ve-had-a-very-bad-life” literature.

I don’t want my students to ONLY be learning lessons from unhappy characters, or seeing how their poor choices resulted in their unhappy lives (so we can make better choices, of course). I mean, some of that is fine. But piece after piece of that kind of writing makes teaching ELA so – I don’t know, exactly – unhappy, maybe.

The Pigman, for instance (a great piece of writing taught in grade 9, which really does teach a number of valuable things and tends to engage the readers), makes the statement at the end of the novel when, (spoiler alert!) this old man dies due to the actions, mostly, of these two well-meaning but messed up young teens, “Maybe we were all baboons for that matter – big baffling baboons—smiling away and not really caring what was going on as long as there were enough peanuts bouncing around to think about—the whole pack of us—…baffled baboons concentrating on all the wrong things.” The quote and conclusion is a great lead in to questions like, “how do we concentrate on the wrong things”, and “how can we make our lives really matter/count” – but I wonder, can’t there be a more uplifting and positive way to bring these questions to light? Isn’t there a text out there that can be pleasant to read as well as meaningful?

And, of course, as a Christian teacher of many teens, am I being responsible about the literature I’m choosing? I wonder if God’s going to look at me in the end and say, “Seriously? You made them read THAT?” (or something to that effect). I want to have no regrets about the way I spent my students’ time, about the things I had them take into their minds, about the way I chose to bring up important literary and moral and critical thinking issues. I mean, YES, there is value in texts like the Pigman (to pick on one title, which seems convenient for the moment), but is it the BEST way to get value from the course?

Anyway, that’s just my current frustration. I’m not sure I have an answer. I just keep looking for that text that is extremely well written, meaningful, and uplifting. So far, I just haven’t found it. And not to be pessimistic or anything, but I’m not even sure it exists.

Sigh

So, I'm sitting at my desk marking papers, and I keep smelling the very distinct scent of rasberry jam. I look around the classroom. Nobody's left anything here. I look in front of me. No forgotten sandwich - nor can I recall ever packing one to bring with me.

I try to ignore it, but the sticky-sweet smell seems to be surrounding me. It smells delicious; I can feel my stomach rumbling and my mind rebelling against waiting for supper to eat. I look again. I don't see a thing! All that's left in my lunch is a lonely orange. So, given the conclusive evidence that I'm losing my mind, I continue to work.

An hour later, I decide to clear off my somewhat cluttered desk, and begin by moving that lunch bag. As I pick it up, I'm dismayed to discover it seems to be dripping. My first quick thought is - has the orange been crushed? No, indeed it has not. Instead, as I lift the wet object away, I notice my full but strawed juice box laying defeatedly on it's side, and it's rasberry juice liberally applied to my papers beneath it.

Not jam. Juice. 

Sigh.

Do it with all your might

"Whatever your hand finds to do, do it with all your might, for in the grave, where you are going, there is neither working nor planning nor knowledge nor wisdom." (Ecclesiastes 9:10)

Sometimes, I feel like my job as a high school English teacher (at the private school I work at) is the most important job in the whole world. Where else do you get the opportunity to pour into the lives of so many young people – to introduce them to the rich world of a number of written and visual works, to encourage them to use their creativity and individuality to create new pieces of art, to help them think critically and to express their ideas and opinions clearly and interestingly, to prepare them both for further education and also for navigating the world around them (for communication is, of course, essential in most areas of life). It’s a rewarding and immensely pleasurable calling, and I love my job.

I heard the question posed the other day, “If you died tomorrow, is this what you would want to be doing on your last day?” and it truly is. But some days, I catch myself wondering if – as a Christian - it’s enough. If teaching high school English is really “going about the Father’s business” to the extent I should be. It’s not that I don’t feel called to teach – I do. Really do. And I feel rewarded and fulfilled and all that important stuff. And my students! I LOVE those kids. They’re so funny and creative and amazing. BUT, sometimes… sometimes I wonder if teaching essay writing and marking test papers on “the form of a short story” has eternal value. When I stand before my maker, will he feel like I spent my days on things that built his kingdom? Things that made this world better? Things that have, as I said, eternal value?

A colleague mentioned the other day that as a Christian teacher, everything I do – including teaching an essay and marking a test – should be done in a way that honours Christ – that points students in the direction of God. It helped, to think of my job as that, as being a living testimony And, of course, to remember that verse that says, “Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart, as working for the Lord, not for men” (Colossians 3:23).

It also helped to remember that being able to think critically and to understand texts can help students as they navigate this life through their faith lens, and being a good communicator can also be a tool in kingdom building. And that seeing things from a variety of perspectives (as we strive to do through texts and discussions in English class) is an important step in loving the world around them, in wanting to make change things. And these things do have value, I think.

 And maybe my humble job as a high school English teacher can help build future generations of thinkers and communicators, who will make a lasting difference in this world. And if that's the case - or actually, now that I'm writing it down, if I even manage to point one person in the direction of their loving, forgiving, redeeming, amazing creator - then none of this is meaningless. And then this is enough.

You'd forget your head...

"You'd forget your head, if it wasn't screwed on tight".

This was a sentence I heard many times, as a child and then as a teenager. My band teacher was particularily fond of it. She also once said that forgetting something was actually a choice: you forgot something because, deep down, you wanted to.

This is not true.

For instance, I did not want to forget my son's swimming lessons last week. I didn't want to look up from my desk, where I was lesiurly preparing for the next day's lesson, and realize my little guy's swimming lesson started in 10 minutes. And I was 40 minutes from home. And it was half an hour long.

Poor guy didn't go swimming last week.

I also didn't want to forget my monthly staff meeting today. The same meeting that has been in my work calender and personal calender for a month. The same meeting I told my husband about on Monday when arranging for him to pick up the kids. The same meeting that is mandetory for all staff members in my small school. But I did. The meeting started at 4, in the meeting room.  I stayed at work, at my desk, until 4:30, when I took my coffee cup, walked PAST the meeting room to the strangely empty staff room, rinsed out my cup, and walked back to my classroom PAST the meeting room again. After a final tidy, I locked my door and left the school, 20 minutes before the hour-long meeting was over. 

I did not then want to arrive at the children's daycare and find them already picked up. I did not want to get home and have the husband ask, "Why are you here so early? Didn't you go to your staff meeting?" I did not want to explain to my admin. how I somehow managed to miss this regularly scheduled, mandatory, fairly important staff meeting - for no other reason than I simply, inexplicably forgot.

(Sigh). I suppose it is lucky my head is screwed on tight.

Why Marking Short Stories Makes Me Miserable

I don’t like marking short stories. I love assigning them: the students have the opportunity to be creative and original, and use a number of very important tools in their Language Arts tool chest. But marking these pieces is terrible for so many reasons.

One is that, since students are only between, generally speaking, 13 and 18, their work is in many cases quite rough. Some haven’t quite mastered the idea of a SHORT story, either, so their writing experiment goes on for quite some time. Also, being young, many miss important editing and revising, making me feel, as I read page after page of horrifying English abuses, like a complete teaching failure. This is depressing and demoralizing and I dislike it.

Another reason is simply that this marking process is incredibly time consuming. I spend, on most pieces, up to half an hour a piece. When I have 75 pieces over three classes to mark, the time required adds up.

The third reason I don’t like marking these pieces, and the most significant I think, is that it’s incredibly difficult to assign a numeric value on writing of this type. We English teachers strive to be objective, as objective as possible in our field, there is nevertheless an undeniable level of subjectivity. “Form”, for instance, is one of the areas I mark the stories for. At times, it’s quite difficult for me to say whether a student has used “excellent” form, or merely “good”. Sometimes it’s a clear “4” out of 5, but sometimes the lines are fairly blurry. The difference between one piece utilizing “superior skill” in language and arrangement, while another uses “effective skill” can be small indeed. And when the topics and styles are so vastly different, it’s tricky to be completely confident in my assessment.

I have tried, mind you. I use, for each piece, a very detailed rubric, which should make marking these pieces simple. But when dealing with creative works, there is very little simplicity about the marking. And students also take these marks very personally, since many of them can’t help but feel I am marking them, personally, as opposed as simply marking their writing. Because creative works like stories are so filled with personality and can become so personal to the writers, receiving a mark on a short story, especially a low one, can hurt. And that’s quite hard for me as well.

So, here I sit, trying to mark these short stories, and feeling sick about the whole thing (as usual). I love this assignment, but I so hate the marking of it. Sometimes I think Alfie Kohn was onto something. Most of the time I don’t but sometimes… sometimes I do.