Who is me?

This morning I watched the last half of "Little Women". I mention this because Jo becomes the writer she becomes because of who she is and the experiences she had had which she then writes about. My grandmother's name was Jo. I've always felt some connection to Jo March because of Josie Mellquist, nee Johnson.

I once saw a science fiction show (Star Trek?) where an alien asks a human, "Who are you?" The first response the character gave was her name. Was it a female character or am I projecting myself into the memory? Anyway, the response of a name was met with some punishment - a shock or something. That is just your name. Who are you? A job title was the next punished response. That is just what you do. Who are you? A familial position was also rejected. I don't remember how the scene was resolved, but it has always stuck with me. How would I answer such a question? Who am I?

Well one thing is certain. Whoever I am, I am in part because I am Josie's granddaughter and I saw "Little Women" and whatever that sci fi show was. But I am not simply the result of my experiences am I? Admittedly my experiences in the sequence and intensities I experienced are a unique recipe. As are yours.

I watched an episode of "The Practice" in which many of the characters said we are what we do. Not our jobs, but our actions. I'm not looking to TV for the meaning of life. It just was interesting that it was one of my experiences today.

Today I also read Alex's philosophy paper on identity. He examined three or four theories of identity. Physical - very unsatisfying. Memory - interesting, but I'm not sure I lose bits of myself as easily as I lose my keys or your name. Mom doesn't remember a lot of things, but she is still her. Soul - hmm, I think that is a bit too undefinable. And yet...maybe that's just like calling something magic because it isn't understood.

Who am I? Am I the same person I was before? Am I the same person I will be? Is the towering oak the same as the acorn, the same as the seedling? The sapling? Or is it the sunshine and rain and lightning strikes and burrowing insect that makes it what it is? But I am not a what, I am a who.

Maybe we are the sum of our experiences. As I get older each experience is a smaller percentage of the previous sum and so the me that I am is less diluted or altered by any one experience. Now most experiences just subtly flavor the soup that is me.

One thing I know. I am me and the me that I am would like to take a philosophy class. I'm not looking for answers. Because whatever the answer, I yam what I yam. I just like pondering the questions.

When you have a new baby they are so precious. Dependent on you for everything. Bit by bit they become more able to do things on their own. Roll over, sit up, stand, walk. Sometimes progress means more work for a while. Baby proofing. They want to pick their clothes, dress themselves, go to the toilet on their own. Each bit of independence starts with a need for lots of support. slowly they attain autonomy. They babble and coo. You babble back. Eventually there are words, then phrases, then real two way communication.

Mom is making the slow reverse of that process. Rather than reveling with each achievement, I dread each step towards complete debilitation. I'm afraid of the day that I can't take care of her anymore. I worry I won't notice that day until it passes and I'm not taking care of her the way I should.

Two way communication has devolved into her phrases that make occasional sense and my replies that are attempts to seem engaged.

"Sort of off course, schedule..."
"Well it's Saturday"
"Is that his two tickets"
"Whose tickets?"
"Yes...There's a hole up there ahead first row"

Sometimes she forgets how to sit down in a chair or on the toilet. She stands there facing the seat, trying to puzzle out how to do it. Sometimes she'll start to sit down and then stand up again over and over.

I worry when she goes to the bathroom alone. Yet it isn't bad enough that I go with her every time. Today when she came back she was trying to ask/tell me something. At first I thought she couldn't pull up her pants. That's a common thing. She'll come out with her pants below her bottom. In a toddler it might be cute. Especially because it wouldn't happen very often before the pulling up pants skill would be mastered.

That wasn't it. Finally I figured out there was something she wanted me to do back in her room. As I walked back I could here the water running. I guess she forgot how to turn it off. What a mess. The sink drain was closed and the water was pouring over the counter and covering the floor, flooding out into her bedroom. Other than a package of Poise pads, nothing was permanently damage. How long will it be before it happens again?

adapt or go mad

Being a teacher means being ready to adapt.

Yesterday was the first day third grade grouped across the grade level for reading. I had 20 students from other classes plus six from my own. That means an hour of reading only and everything else being rescheduled around it.

Oh, and a half hour music rehearsal on the stage first thing in the morning. This was scheduled by the music teacher who didn't realize she should have told us sooner than last week. We had to arrange with another grade level to trade because we were originally scheduled for the middle of our new reading time.

Oh, and I got a new student yesterday. She can read, but I'm worried about where she is in math.

All of these little things plus the long weekend added up to behavior problems.

Now I had plenty of warning about this, but today is my yearly observation. A 45 minute snapshot of my teaching prowess. This year I have to teach an "Articulated Writing" lesson. This is the latest writing program the district has adopted. The administrator who is observing me made it clear she wanted to see direct instruction. Well a good lesson doesn't just have direct instruction. It also has guided practice and independent practice. So how I'm going to gracefully end this lesson is still up in the air. Perhaps I'll have a student hold up a "The End" sign and take a curtsy.

Well Meaning

I ran into a friend from work that I hadn't seen for a long time. We chatted for a minute and then she asked about mom. I told her it was getting steadily worse. She asked if mom was still living with us. When I said yes, I think she meant to be supportive by saying she would do the same and that she would never have someone else care for her parents. So I guess in her eyes I would be a total failure and terrible daughter if it ever got too hard to keep mom at home.

One of my administrators is always telling me about nursing homes that are "really great" and that I should look into moving mom into one. It's just too much to care for her at home, and it would be so much easier, etc. They're like grand hotels. So I guess in her eyes I'm playing the martyr and a terrible wife and mother if I keep mom at home.

I have had those two very different attitudes given to me by doctors too. One of mom's doctors was very much a keep her at home supporter. She kept her parents at home and it is the only right choice. My own doctor says it's too stressful and he is a nursing home supporter.

I know I have to do what is right for mom and my family in our situation. For now that means keeping her at home, but I am not saying it will be forever. I'm pretty sure there will get to be a point when we can't keep her at home, but it's not yet.

politics

Argh!

I don't like confrontation. I don't like arguing. I try to avoid political discussions like the plague.

I wonder how politically vocal I can be and still be secure in my job. I wish I had taken a class in debate back in my high school days.

I just saw a news article that painted anti-prop 8 protesters as weirdos. Then they quoted pro 8ers saying the stupidest things. This issue is just making me crazy! I can't believe how ready people are to take away equal rights. I hope the courts are ready to strike this down if it passes.

Organizing

Organizing is more than half the battle in my classroom/life.

I can't do any planning in my classroom until I've organized. Yesterday I redid name tags, changed the seating, redid the table point chart, and laid out the reading group materials before I started my lesson plans for the week. I could have worked for another 3 or 4 hours, though there would have been diminishing returns.

An organized room is calming and I do a lot of preplanning in my head as I move desks and clean whiteboards. On the other hand maybe it's an avoidance strategy.

Compared to many of my colleagues' rooms mine is stark. I like a little white space on my walls. I feel overwhelmed by too many art projects, posters, and lists. On the other hand I worry that visitors may think I don't do as much as the other teachers. After all they only know what they see.

We have administrators from the district office observing us now. They want to see the standards and strategies we are working on posted in the room. I haven't figured out how to do that so my students actually benefit from it.

anticipation

Yesterday was so long. Multiplication in a Week is labor intensive. No time for recess or lunch. Followed by after school crosswalk duty at what I lovingly call the corner of death. Then a two hour off campus meeting with the cute name Comprehension Club. Yes, that's the official name.

All through my day though was anticipation for our Fall Festival. I volunteered to be in the dunk tank from 6:30 to 7:00. We dunkees had been conferring all week about our misgivings. Still, dunking sounded better to me than pie in the face. I decided to wear my spring suit, which is a wet suit with short sleeves and legs.No white t-shirts, this is a school function!

The tank had bars around the upper half making it look like a cage. The bars protect against wild throws. I had seen them filling the tank earlier in the day. Water straight from the hose. It's not that I expected it to be heated, but seeing the hose made me shiver.

Once it was my turn in the tank I decided to duck in the water before taking my position. I wanted to get the first dunk out of the way. It was cold, but the suit helped a lot. Child after child paid their 4 tickets ($1) for 2 throws. Most didn't even come close to the target. A few hit it so lightly that it didn't release the seat. I started to relax and have fun.

Then I saw him. About 14, tall and lean muscles, baseball cap at a jaunty angle. I knew this was it! Throw and thwap! He missed, but that was a hard throw. The next...Wet, water in my nose, I'm under water and it's a shock! As I climb back on the seat I realize it wasn't so bad. Like most things the anticipation was worse than the reality.

Now I sit on the hot - no the cold seat and wait to be dunked again. And wait, and wait. I shiver and make cheery small talk with my students, parents, and staff as I wait for the next skilled pitcher. Child after child takes their shot. I hope one of my students succeeds, but none do. Then I notice another young teen in line. uh-oh he looks like he plays baseball. Sure enough, down I go. This is when I discover it's warmer to be be in the water than in the evening air evaporating.

I only got dunked one more time. Three dunks in 30 minutes. At 7:00 my 12 hour school day was almost over. I peeled off my wet suit in the staff bathroom and headed home. Now the anticipation was for my hot jacuzzi tub.