No place like home

Tonight, I tried to save a friend who's been drowning for so very long. I reminded her that all this struggle and turmoil that gets put in front of us makes the other side seem so much better once we push through to it. I confessed that I don't believe in God; somedays, I wish I did so I could simply say, "just put your trust in Him/Her." Instead, I have come to believe we each hold the answer to all our problems deep inside ourselves, when we can quiet all the noise. It is my Glinda the Good Witch belief system, based on the final movie scene when she reconnects with Dorothy at the end of The Wizard of Oz. It sums up, for me, what religion should be based on... what the search for one's own moral compass is all about. (I wish I could trust in it more often, and silence the daily voices in my head that keep whispering in my ear, telling me contrary advise.) No...truly, this is what it all comes down to:

Dorothy: Oh, will you help me? Can you help me?
Glinda: You don't need to be helped any longer. You've always had the power to go back to Kansas.
Dorothy: I have?
Scarecrow: Then why didn't you tell her before?
Glinda: She wouldn't have believed me. She had to learn it for herself.
Scarecrow: What have you learned, Dorothy?
Dorothy: Well, I - I think that it, that is wasn't enough to want to see Uncle Henry and Auntie Em - and it's that - if I ever go looking for my heart's desire again, I won't look any further than my own backyard. Because if it isn't there, I never really lost it to begin with! Is that right?
Glinda: That's all it is!
Scarecrow: But that's so easy! I should've thought of it for you -
Tin Man: I should have felt it in my heart -
Glinda: No, she had to find it out for herself. Now those magic slippers will take you home in two seconds!
Dorothy: Oh! Toto, too?
Glinda: Toto, too!
Dorothy: Now?
Glinda: Whenever you wish.
.........
Glinda: Then close your eyes and tap your heels together three times. And think to yourself, "There's no place like home."

To me, the message is you never have to look outside yourself for the answers you seek; they were always there inside of you, if you only take the time to look. It also reminds me that, if we can remember to be grateful for the all the riches in our lives, we don't have to look or ask for more to be happy. Look inside for the quieted self for answers, and be grateful for all your blessings.

The Waiting Game

I was grateful their conference was one of our first today, as having to wait all day leading up to it might have been more than I could have handled. As it was, I was genuinely happy to see them both walk through the door. Clearly, though, the decline was happening rapidly and was evidenced on his face. Only a month or so ago (was it longer than that?), he was a tall, broad figure getting out of the family SUV at carpool, eager to surprise his children as he for once was going to be the one picking them up from school rather than their mom. Looking at him now, his face was gaunt, ashen, and there were telltale signs of shell-shock registering on him and his wife. Understandably, they'd only had a little over a week to digest the news: stage 4 colon cancer. After talking for a few minutes about the most recent updates they had shared with the three children to this point, we began Nayana's conference like we would any other. Right after we started, Sapna reached over and took Deepak's hand in hers, and they sat there listening to us talk and share, holding hands, for the rest of the 20-minute allotted time. I couldn't help thinking, this will make them feel good, give them a momentary reprieve from the sadness they're experiencing, hearing how their daughter is thriving in her second year in preschool. Simultaneously, I  thought, this must be gut-wrenching, knowing your youngest daughter is going to continue to excel in school...and in life... and you won't be there to see it. I wouldn't let myself take that in just then. I had decided I was just going to focus on one day at a time right now. With Matthew, I had thought the moment was imminent last summer, but he soldiered on another six months, and I realized it was time he should have been allowed to experience as a living person, not a soon-to-be-dead one. Deepak is not gone yet, he may be here for many months, or even year or two. But really, I don't think so. I think this will all play out before the end of the school year. We have not been through the worst, that is still to come. Helping Nayana cope, providing routine, watching out for any signs of waves of emotions...these days of support, holding her world at school tougher for her, this we can do. We can be stoic and offer structure and routine and everything she needs. Until the day it is over, and then I know I will fall to pieces.

"...get out of my body!"

All of our three-year olds are required to use the bathroom after lunch, to ensure they don't have an accident once they are herded off to the nap room following a short story reading. With a dozen little "Grasshoppers" trying to get to use only three toilets we have available for them, it can be difficult to get them in and out in a timely fashion. Yesterday, I started the process early, asking a few to use the bathroom even before they'd finished their bow-tie pasta and turkey meatballs. Bad idea. Within in a minute or two, I wondered what was taking so long. "Come on guys," I begged, "we gotta get going - others are waiting!" In order to convince me they were not wasting time but in fact dedicated to the job at hand, all three started to make the sounds of groans and strains, signaling there was more than just pee to be dealt with here. "Come on, poop...get out of my body!" one of them finally declared. The others laughed, and started to repeat this same chant, over and over. Momentarily, my spirit floated out of my body as I thought, is this really what I'm listening to?! Is this truly what I now do for a living now?!?! But then, they were so cute, and so earnest in their attempts to get that poop out of their bodies, I just had to sigh and say, yes, I guess it is!

Hips Don't Lie

The year was 1986, and I had just graduated from college that summer. I was working for Pamela Auchincloss in her art gallery in downtown Santa Barbara; her new husband, Garner Tullis, had built one of the largest monotype printing presses in the country and a revolving cast of well- and lessor-known artists were often invited to come and print for a week at a time. Pamela had decided to hold a show of Francis’ paintings while he was working in town. I recalled reading about Sam in my History of American Artists textbooks in college, and was excited to be asked to pour wine at his impending gallery opening. Pamela promised she would introduce me to him, but as the night got underway with important collectors coming in from L.A., she became distracted and managed to forget about me. I needed to take my fate in my own hands if I was ever going to meet someone of merit; after all, wouldn’t it be fitting for me as a gallery employee to introduce myself to the artist we were showcasing? And so I walked up to Sam at a quiet moment in the evening and offered my hand as a means of introduction. Sam was in his late 60s, somewhat stout and not what I would have termed handsome by any stretch of the imagination, but I was still excited to meet someone who was regarded as a significant painter by modern day standards. I tried my best to be charming without seeming too obvious or star struck, and Sam seemed to find something about by confidence alluring. He had just married his fifth wife, who was expecting a child any day now and was therefore not present, but this didn’t seem to deter him much. From the moment he took my hand in his, he began to grace me with compliments. He said something about how all the men in the room seemed to naturally gravitate towards me (I scoffed that was probably because I was responsible for keeping everyone’s wine glasses full for the evening). He protested, saying I had fascinatingly feminine hips that exuded the power of a Chinese water buffalo; I of course had no idea what he was talking about, but it occurred to me that being likened to a large bison was probably not the most endearing of comparisons I could think of. Since I was a teenager, I had felt cursed by my shapely figure, wishing instead to look more like those girls with flat, boy-like silhouettes whose tiny butts could fit into the smallest of jeans. Regardless, I remember feeling both unworthy of his praise and deeply flattered that perhaps he saw in me something special. I also recognized that I should probably extricate myself from the conversation soon, before either the bubble burst or he decided to make a move on me, of which I was completely unprepared to handle. And so I excused myself to get back to my job, and politely avoided him for the rest of the evening.

The next day, Pamela apologized for not introducing me to Sam. “Oh, I did it myself,” I explained. “You did?!” she said, sounding surprised by my boldness. Later that day, she had plans to have lunch with him at Garner’s studio to see how his work was progressing. When she returned, she announced, “Well…you made an impression.” I didn’t know what he’d said, but she eluded that he had included me in one of his prints, stating so with a bemused look on her face. I couldn’t ask her any more, as I felt like I had somehow crossed a line already with my forthrightness. But as brief as our introduction had been, the moment quickly passed: by the week’s end, Sam had to return home to be with his wife for the arrival of their child and I never saw or heard about him again. For weeks, though, I wondered what type of impression I might have made during our short meeting. After all, how do one’s womanly hips inspire a true artist - through especially graceful strokes of the brush, or perhaps a suggestion of passionate color?

Finally, a couple months later, his prints were delivered from the framers to be hung for a solo show. Pamela pulled one in the series aside and declared, “Well, there you are.” I looked at the bright all-over swirls of color, a cross in styles between Jackson Pollock and Matisse’ cutout works. Unlike his purely abstract paintings, Sam’s new prints contained more literal shapes and symbols imbedded within them. It took me a minute or so to finally see it, but eventually, the imagery made itself known to me; there in the middle of the vibrant field of color was what appeared to be a large, upside-down heart, a shape meant to signify my ass. And on it lay an open handprint. I didn’t know what to say to Pamela, who in turn seemed apologetic that I had become the object, if only momentarily, of a lustful older gentleman that she’d somehow brought into my small-world stratosphere. We never talked about the painting again, but I did manage to sneak off with a slide of it to keep as a momento… I have no idea where that slide is stashed today. But whenever I find myself in the United terminal at SFO, I look up at the enormous Sam Francis painting that hangs above gates 80-90, and think back fondly to a time when I was once someone’s water-buffalo muse.

Another last day of school

In two days, our school year will be over. This marks seven years of last day of school's I've had as a new teacher. And not one so far has gone by without me leaking at least a few tears. Every year, I vow I will not be that teacher - I will not cry and make myself look foolish! But, something unexpected always seems to trigger it - a parent's kind words, an unexpected hug, a handmade card - and I am off! Still, I'm beginning to understand the cyclical nature of teaching: everything feels new and fresh in August; things feel tired and frustrating by January; then changes on the horizon are  brewing by March or April. I have to get used to things changing, it's just that way it goes. Maybe more so than in any other career, in teaching we see the physical signs of change every day...these kids come in so small, unable to do so many things. By 8th grade, they exit with confidence and seem almost worldly. I saw it in Cooper last night, as we celebrated his middle school graduation. He looks more like someone who is headed off to college next year, not high school. There is no fighting it, they all are growing up and moving on, and that's the way it's suppose to be. But today I snuck in a few extra-long hugs - for Margaret and Beatrice, whose parents just informed us they're separating this month. For Jane, whose mom said she loves me so much, she is sad to think of moving on to first grade. For Henry and Gus, who are sweet boys that will be entering two new schools in the fall. And Bobby Kim, who likes to think of me as a human climbing structure - the grin on his face and the gleam in his eyes means he literally walks all over me, with little protest on my part. I sneak in the hugs, and then...I have to let them go. If I did my job well, I will remain in their hearts, at least for a little while. I saw it in the eyes of Cody and Tucker, Sam and Carson when they visited our school last month - they still remembered me and thought back fondly of our times in kindergarten and second grade together. Just think, like a grandmother with many grandchildren, I will soon have a whole army of kids out there that will have some connection with me. Still, it's hard saying goodbye. I hope I can make it through with dry eyes. But if not...oh, well. That's love for you.

The Goody Bag

"It's not fair!" exclaimed Scarlet. "Why does he get to keep it?" And so began another kindergarten tug-of-war over who was going to end up with something the others were restricted from claiming. This time, the dispute involved a "goody bag" that Gus had found on our field trip to McLaren Park today. The kindergarteners never know when I'm going to surprise them by letting them keep a small token they come across on trips like this - a shiny bead, miniature playing card and a new ballpoint pen were all discovered on our walking trip through the Portola neighborhood today. And because they had shown them to me first, these lucky scavengers were able to keep each item as a souvenir of our day together. But this discovery felt different. As more and more children gathered around Gus to proclaim the unfairness of him being the rightful owner of it, the look on his face as he walked towards me revealed he already had a feeling he wasn't going to be allowed to keep his prize. Reluctantly, he handed the clear zipper bag with a bright sticker over to me, and immediately I could see the appeal. After all, any child would be excited about receiving a party bag filled with what looked like new, colorful balloons and small packets of flavored chapstick. As tired as I was, I had to act fast; swiftly, I deposited the bag of unused condoms and lubricant into my backpack, telling Gus, "This might be a goody bag for someone, but it's not for us." This wasn't the answer he wanted to hear, but as long as no one else was going to be allowed to go home with it, he let it go. Now, someone just needs to tell the SF Department of Public Health that, though they're doing a great service by handing out these Safe Sex bags in public locations, they might want to work on making them look slightly less appealing to children!

Teaching with love has it's drawbacks

Last year, when I was trying to figure out my place in the classroom with a co-teacher who was not convinced I wasn't setting him up for failure, I overheard something he said to a fellow teacher. When she said, "Carla seems great! What's it like teaching with her?" his response took a moment. Finally, he said, "Well, she certainly teaches with love." That response really worked for me. And that's when I knew he and I were going to be ok. Because it's true, I really do try to keep my heart in the game everyday. Today, I was reminded of the downside of teaching this way. At 3:35pm, I opened the email from L's mom and dad. In it, she very sincerely thanked our Head of School for all his efforts, and said tomorrow would be his last day at school. With that, our months and months of struggle were finally resolved. And I felt - crestfallen. We'd failed. Though the outcome may have ultimately been the same, the way it went down was not how it should have gone.

At 2:00pm today, walking the kids to singing time, I pulled L aside. I squatted down to his level, and said, "Hi! How are you? I feel like I haven't seen you in a couple days...I've missed you." He looked in my eyes and responded, "You missed me?" I couldn't tell you what the expression on his face meant, and that has been part of the problem for months - was he surprised, sad or happy to hear this information? I can't say. But I do know, if I thought I missed him today, it is nothing compared to how much I'm going to miss him after tomorrow.

Emotionally spend, and yet...

Today was another one of those days. A day when you and your fellow teachers try your best to be in all places, have your eyes on all problems, positively impact all children. But somehow, somewhere, you feel like you failed. It doesn't happen often, but there are times when you see an email in your in-box from a parent and you think, "Oh, crap." We got one today from a parent whose three-year old has been saying he no longer wants to come to school because he is being hit by another child. And so we scramble - to address their concerns, to check in with other teachers to learn what they've witnessed, to bring administration into the loop, and to also respect the fine line of confidentiality that we owe to the other parents who are working with us on these issues with their son. We have to find the right words to say, "We hear what you're saying, we're taking precautions, and....we can't tell you more." It's hard. Today I wanted to hand the ball to someone else and say, can you please carry this load for me? I have invested way too much time, energy and tears on this child, and I don't have anything more I can give. At least not today, not this week, not right now. But I'm a teacher - I can't shift responsibility to someone else. Fortunately, there was one glimmer of humor in the day. After calling the concerned mom this afternoon to tell her we take her concerns seriously, she mentioned her son was also saying unusual things she'd never heard before. I cringed, as I knew part two of the issues we're addressing with this impulsive and physically aggressive child relate to verbal statements that range from telling others they're stupid to violent wording about cutting off people's heads. I waited for whatever offending phrase was about to come from this mother that would send chills down my spine. Instead, she said, "Yesterday, Daniel came home and told his little brother, 'You're behaving just like Hugh Hefner!' " I burst into laughter. Hugh Hefner?! I wouldn't even use a reference to him, and I at least know who he is! The mom and I agreed that, under the circumstances, we would give the offending comment a pass. Who would have thought that the founder and publisher of Playboy would make his way into my preschool classroom, c. 2017?!

My New Favorite Quote

Eli has really had me scratching my head this year. On the one hand, he is the sweetest, most endearing little three-year old you could ever meet. And then, at the drop of a hat, his lack of impulse control gets the better of him as he reaches out and scratches someone across the face who has frustrated him. He's also been known to say pretty violent things to others, though we would all agree he doesn't even comprehend the true intent behind such things when he says them. For months now, we've been trying to strike a balance - helping him manage his stress with calm, soothing words while also trying to hold a firm line about our expectations. These events, however, are a daily occurrence, and some days I have more patience than others. Yesterday, Eli had already had an incident of pushing someone who was not sharing a toy he wanted. Now it was snack time, and in his boredom he was provoking another classmate. When Kenny came to tell me, "Eli just told me he was going to chop off my mom's head," I had no more sympathy left. I told Eli we were headed to Maggie's office. Maggie, our Head of Lower School, is a warm, belly-laughing New York native who loves children - but you don't want to be repeatedly sent to her office for reprimanding. Eli had already been once in the last month, and he wasn't looking forward to going there again. When Maggie saw us sitting outside her office, she knew she had to play hardball. After hearing me explain what had happened, she told Eli he would have to sit silently at her desk while she worked. "If you can't use safe hands and kinds words with your friends, you can't be out playing with them." She told me later Eli sat there for about ten minutes before the tears started to appear. At first, she could not understand what he was saying, and had to ask him a few times to speak up. Finally, she deciphered what he was trying to say: "I...just need a hug...from someone...NOT YOU!" That qualifier sent me into a fit of laughter. Twice I have passed Maggie in the hall, and softly replied when she asked me how I was doing, "I just...need a hug...but Not You!" It has become my new favorite phrase for the month. As for Eli, the jury's still out. Three-year olds are a delicate breed - you can't rationalize, intimidate or cajole them as much as slightly older kids - they really, truly can only do what they are developmentally ready to do. So we will start again fresh on Monday, with lots of hugs, kinds words, and clear expectations, hoping to get him through this tough first year in preschool.

This is how we roll...

I wasn't even suppose to be there, in the classroom. It was my break, and I usually spend it elsewhere because it's so easy to get sucked in when you're in close proximity to the yard - and the kids. Babysitting a roly poly was not on my list of things I had hoped to get done today. I had just unpacked all of my bills that needed to be paid, laying them out on a large table while I searched for stamps at the bottom of my bag. Within a few minutes, I spotted Bobby Kim headed to the refrigerator to retrieve an ice pack for a downed peer. In his hand was a small stick with something balancing precariously on top. Helping out a friend was one thing, but this was going to be quite a challenge: how was one suppose to juggle a multi-legged creature on a stick while simultaneously opening a freezer door? I watched his first few attempts with mild amusement. After a third try, he sheepishly walked over and asked me with more than a hint of frustration in his voice, "Carla, can you..hold this...just for a minute?!" And that is how I came to be in possession of a ropy poly, one that was quickly striding across a piece of wood headed towards my arm. "Uh...Bobby...you better hurry up! He's on the move!" "That's because I've been teaching him how to walk the tightrope," he informed me. Bobby grabbed the ice pack and quickly rushed back over to rescue his new prodigy. And then, like a flash, both were gone. This is how we serve our community around here - we retrieve ice packs and watch each other's roly polies. Who says chivalry is dead?

Tokens of Affection

One of the perks of being a teacher to young ones is when small tokens of genuine love get shared with you as you go about your day. Parents must get to enjoy this all the time, but those of us without our own children are reminded what a gift these unsolicited gestures truly are. As kindergarteners go, Surina charms me on a regular basis. She and I have a special connection... I taught her a couple month's ago how to make origami cranes, and she is now working diligently to meet her goal of 1,000 so her wish will come true (as is the Japanese tradition). We are warm with each other, but not physically affectionate like I sometimes am with some of her classmates. That is what makes each relationship unique – you have to read the child, and meet them where they meet you. This afternoon, out of the blue, Surina presented me with a big card covered in paper flowers. Since it was given to me so late in the day, I assumed it was a forgotten craft she had just rediscovered in her backpack, something made the day before at aftercare now ready to be taken home when she decided to give it me instead. That was when I saw the hand-written card stapled to it's side – “To Carla. I love you. This is a valley of red roses I made for you out of tissue paper. Love, Surina” Of course, all of this was written with phonemic wording, using best-guess spelling patterns and punctuation we've been practicing. My heart grows two sizes larger at times like this, as I’m once again reminded that I need these children as much as they need me. Teaching is the right job for me, of that there is no denying.

A poem by Louise Erdrich

Advice to Myself 

Leave the dishes.
Let the celery rot in the bottom drawer of the refrigerator
and an earthen scum harden on the kitchen floor.
Leave the black crumbs in the bottom of the toaster.
Throw the cracked bowl out and don't patch the cup.
Don't patch anything. Don't mend. Buy safety pins.
Don't even sew on a button.
Let the wind have its way, then the earth
that invades as dust and then the dead
foaming up in gray rolls underneath the couch.
Talk to them. Tell them they are welcome.
Don't keep all the pieces of the puzzles
or the doll's tiny shoes in pairs, don't worry
who uses whose toothbrush or if anything
matches, at all.
Except one word to another. Or a thought.
Pursue the authentic-decide first
what is authentic,
then go after it with all your heart.
Your heart, that place
you don't even think of cleaning out.
That closet stuffed with savage mementos.
Don't sort the paper clips from screws from saved baby teeth
or worry if we're all eating cereal for dinner
again. Don't answer the telephone, ever,
or weep over anything at all that breaks.
Pink molds will grow within those sealed cartons 
in the refrigerator. Accept new forms of life
and talk to the dead
who drift in though the screened windows, who collect
patiently on the tops of food jars and books.
Recycle the mail, don't read it, don't read anything
except what destroys
the insulation between yourself and your experience
or what pulls down or what strikes at or what shatters
this ruse you call necessity.

writing wrules

How was it possible I was getting lost?! I mean, after 28 years in the Bay Area, how could I not find this place? I'd passed it enough times on my way to Stinson, and even came here with my 5th graders a few years ago to meditate and write some poetry. But like everything else these days, nothing seems to stick in this brain of mine...things just get murkier and muddier with each passing year. Besides, it was raining and parts of Highway 1 were closed due to mudslides, so I could always blame my lateness on that. Eventually, I found the slushy parking lot for day visitors, and started forging a path with precarious footing to the rotunda that would be our classroom for the day. As instructed, I slipped off my shoes before entering, and was pleasantly surprised to feel the warmth wofitng up from a wood-burning fireplace in the center of the room. The workshop I'd signed up for at Green Gulch was intended for beginning writers. My hope was this was really true, as I feared I was definitely the least practiced or skilled, and worried I had gotten over my head with the ambitious decision to attend.

In the end, the day was equal parts weird, scary, embarrassing and invigorating. In settings like this - zen mediation oases with touchy-feely, endearing patrons, I speculate that everyone I encounter has a secret magnifying glass directly into my soul, and I fear they can spot a phony a mile away. Not to suggest I'm a phony, but my judgmental, immature nature holds equal footing with my thoughtful, empathetic persona. And damn, that cynical, sabotaging voice was amped up to 11 in my writing today. Everything I put down felt indulgent, trying, bleeding-heart depressed. My ego desperately wanted to be stroked for harboring a hidden talent, but I also wanted to be shut down for having an average voice that wasn't saying much more than a self-loathing, under-apprecaited, sulking teenager. Walking back to my car as the sun was setting, I tried to hang onto the positive - that I had done it and stuck my neck out for six hours in a room full of strangers. And I had to admit it, I did feel encouraged - encouraged to stick it to paper, encouraged to "use my words" (as we say often in preschool) without having to worry so much about whether they were good enough or who would hear them.

Here, then, are ten sound tips from our instructor, all of which resonated in some way with me:
1. Write it for yourself. Write what's really on your mind - don't edit. You can always burn it later.
2. Trust the words that come out of you. Don't choose "better" words.
3. Don't try to sound smart. Smart writing is not good writing.
4. Try writing in the third person instead of a first-person perspective.
5. Put some skin in the game: reveal something. After all, we're all in the same boat.
6. Show it, don't tell it. Reveal the intent through a story ("If there was a space between our thighs, then my dad would allow us to have dessert," rather than "Dad seemed uncomfortable with us carrying weight.")
7. Jar yourself into telling a true story. Use "If you really knew me, ..." as a prompt.
8. Start a story with "This is not a story about..."
9. Never try to pretty up your writing or write what you think others would like to hear.
10. Put a spin on Louisa May Allcott's "Write what you know" adage...write what you don't know you know about - you might be surprised.

The letter I wished I'd once received

Our admissions director confirmed today what I'd been dreading to hear - Max is headed to a new school next year. For all the support we've tried to give him, we could not provide the tools he needed to make it through here. I am so disheartened, and yet I'm trying to remain hopeful that we've planted enough of a seed...that he will land in a place that's better suited to meet his needs. Once I heard, I drafted a note to him I'm not sure I'll give him on the last day of school. It feels heady and might be more than a rising second grader can take in or comprehend. Maybe I'm worried it says too much about me, about what I needed when I was younger and less about what he needs or can handle right now. Still, if I had the courage, this is the letter I'd send:

Goomy,

As you get ready to embark on a new adventure, I wanted to send you off with a few words from me. You were one of my favorite things about teaching here last year. I loved the times we'd sit together and just draw. I didn’t even really mind the millions of times you teased me by shouting “Naked Mole Rat!” after you discovered how much I.Hate.Rats. It's been so awesome getting to know your brother now - I love seeing how much you two look forward to spotting each other at carpool at the end of the day. He admires and looks up to you a lot. I know school has been tough for you sometimes. When I was little, I had some tough times, too. I felt like no one else was experiencing what I was going through or feeling. But every person you meet will have some sort of challenge in life. And these truly are the things that will build your character, and make you a better, stronger person down the road. Don’t give up on yourself. Don’t tell yourself that you're not good enough or that you're so different from everyone else. Besides, the ways that you are different are pretty wonderful - you're incredibly smart, creative, funny and complex. The important people in your world will see you for all these things and more – don’t worrying about the ones who don’t. School can be hard sometimes, but don’t give up on it. There are subjects and things that you don’t even know about yet that will really hit a nerve with you someday soon. Your job will be to zone in on the things that really click, and find a way to get more of them into your daily life. But you have lots of things to learn about between now and then. I tell you all this because it is one thing to hear from your family members how great you are, but it is something else to have someone outside your family see all the gifts you possess and remind you that you truly are awesome. I believe in you, and I know you will do amazing things wherever you land.

Love,

Carla

The New Beauty Gurus

Lydia is a three-year-old after my own heart - she speaks her mind, and says it like she sees it. After I'd finished reading to her and a handful of other kids on the reading platform last week, she turned to me and announced casually, "Carla, you need lipstick." And the truth was, she was right. These days when I look into the mirror, I ponder whose tired, sad face is staring back at me. I hated to admit it, but I needed to put in more effort if even the youngest of my preschoolers was starting to notice. Besides, Lydia was someone I didn't mind taking advice from. With two dads, she is hands-down the best-dressed of all our little ones in the Montessori classroom. Her Boden polka-dot tops, worn with stylish jeans, glitter and suede ankle boots and a Marimekko rain coat reveal a girl-about-town flair with just a touch of European edge. I could do worse. And so, for the rest of the week I diligently applied lipstick whenever I thought I was beginning to fade. Until Friday morning. Lucas entered the class that day with what could only be described as a swagger as he headed to his cubby to drop off his coat and backpack. He was just about tell me what he'd brought in to share as he nonchalantly dropped it into the basket when he did a double take. "Hey! What's that on your face? Are you wearing lipstick?!" he asked. "Why, yes, I am," I replied, proud to see he'd noticed. "Well, you should take it off."

Now I don't know who I should take my beauty advice from. Preschoolers are a tough crowd.

Indian Clay

What smells?! I feel like I asked this question about a hundred times today, but never got any closer to finding a suitable answer. At afternoon circle, during the Feelings unit that Harald was teaching this month, he asked the four-year-olds to talk about a time they remembered feeling frustrated. “I felt frustrated today when Campbell took my Indian clay,” said Ella. Ah, Indian clay…our kids get so territorial about the stuff! They dig and dig in the sandbox for the elusive dark, iron-rich material that is valued like gold to them. There is little to go around, and today Ella really wanted to lay claim to excavating the buried treasure. But Campbell had beaten her to it. Harald listened patiently…but in the deep recesses of his nostrils, he too began to smell it…something just wasn't right. “Let me see this Indian clay,” he said to Campbell, who was holding a small piece in her hands like a prized possession. After careful examination, he exclaimed in horror, “This isn’t Indian clay, this is cat poop!” At first, she couldn’t take in the words. But slowly, her face began to shift to a deep shade of crimson as she realized what she’d been coveting was in fact some feral cat’s droppings – a gift left in what amounted to his or her own personal litter box. Only one face looked happy now: Ella had the distinct beginnings of a small, four-year old smirk appearing across hers. Indian clay will never hold the same charm and power in the South Class after today.