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Browsing Tag: teaching

Your Thursday Morning Pep Talk

I was brushing Saoirse’s hair this morning before school, which is always a task that takes approximately 23 minutes longer than expected (kidding. But it’s a pretty intense process. Which is why I usually let Quinlan do her own hair–all those curls! all that high-pitched screaming in pain! all of that chasing her around the bathroom because she keeps running away from me!–and tolerate the fact that she will perpetually–and quite happily, mind you–look like she got into a fight with a rapid flock of geese. One battle at a time, people). We were talking about…something. I don’t know what. Probably about how long it takes to brush her hair. And then this conversation came out of the blue, as they tend to do: SK: “Mom? At the game last weekend, when they [the announcer] asked all the teachers to stand up so people could clap, why didn’t you stand up?” Me: “I don’t know, Seersh. Probably because I’m not a teacher anymore.” SK: “But you are a teacher.” Me, shaking…

Patience

I was downstairs in the family room folding laundry (surprise, there).  There girls were playing in the living room above me, which was only a half of a flight of steps away. I was lost in my own thoughts a little bit, foldingfoldingfolding, when the girls’ chatter escalated just enough to break through my navel-gazing.  From the sound of things, Saoirse was helping Quinn learn her colors, and had quickly grown exasperated: SK:  “Quinn! We’ve been talking about it every single day when Mom doesn’t see us and I’m not at school.” Quinn:  (unintelligible) SK:  “You know what it is!” Quinn:  “Pink!” SK:  “Yes! You got it!  Now, do you know what color this is?” I stopped in mid-fold to write down what they were saying.  It took me 24 years of life to decide to become a teacher. And, to tell you the truth, I thought I was a pretty decent one at the time. But Saoirse is four, and insists that she doesn’t want to have any other job in the world when she grows up than being a…

A Pair of Shoes, A Paradox

Ladies (and some gents, if you’re willing to own up to it), do you remember this? Wearing your mom’s high heels? Prancing around in her clothes? Getting that giddy smile on your face when, for just a second, you were somebody else? Somebody special? You were your mom! You were a grown-up.  I caught Saoirse trying on my shoes yesterday, cavorting around her room a little too well for my taste in heels that are just about three  inches too high for anybody under the age of, say, 18.  She was giddy. I was concerned that she was going to wreck an ankle.  And as I am wont to do, I had three extreme and sudden silent reactions, all while keeping a proud-mommy smile plastered on my horrified face: 1.  Holy s#!+! She’s going to wreck her ankle! 2.  Aaaahhh!  No, no!  You look too mature in those heels and getthemoff! 3.  Wait. That’s what I used to do with my mom’s shoes. When did I become the mom? As I ran to grab the camera before Saoirse forgot the shoes and went back to playing with Lightning…