Thank A Teacher

Imagine, for a minute, you show up for your first day of work at your new job, your find your desk, and at it sits your computer but no chair. So you look around confused, and finally get up the nerve to ask "Is there a chair for me?" To which the response is "Oh you were to provide your own chair. Maybe you can try to steal Steve's chair in the next cubicle over, he seems to enjoy sitting on a stability ball." You cower over to Steve's desk, feeling guilty for borrowing his chair, but you need it to work, so you grab it and roll it back. You open up your computer and turn it on. You click on the software you are to use to complete your work and it says "This software is not available, the license is out of date." and after some conversation with coworkers you discover that your company has decided not to renew the licenses on your software, so "you can use a calculator and paper to do the tasks." You begin the calculations on some paper you found around the office, and after some time, open your drawer to staple a few of your pages together- no stapler. Shrugging, you decide to make it work, and continue on with your task. Mid-day rolls around, and you decide you'd like to meet with some of your peers. You notice a nice large conference room at the end of the hall, and discover that it is empty. No table, no chairs. You are told that the employees of the company are going to have to provide the office furniture by asking, pleading, and begging their friends and families for donations for your conference room....

This may sound absurd. It may sound unrealistic. Perhaps laughable. Exaggerated. But, this, my friends, is what is happening all around our country. These are the tasks that stand before teachers each year. 

Some people know. If you grew up in a teaching family. If you married a teacher. If your sister, best friend, or neighbor is a teacher. Some people know, see first-hand and understand. But many do not. And this summer, as I have been working hard to create a ideal learning environment for my students, it has been on my mind. 

What does it take to "create" a classroom? You see, when you accept a teaching position, you're accepting the responsibility of creating a second home for many kids. You're saying yes to creating a place that feels warm, welcoming and comfortable. You're promising to build an environment that promotes the love of learning, builds readers, encourages collaboration, minimizes distractions, and says "this is somewhere I want to be". And, most of the time, you're agreeing to do it on your dollar and your time. Because when a teacher is given a classroom, they are given just that- an empty room. Bulletin boards are blank. Book shelves are empty, and potentially don't exist. Furniture is scarce. There is no office chair, or stapler, or tape dispenser. You aren't given colorful signs, and comfortable furniture, and welcoming decorations. You're given a plain, empty, dull room, some desks, the keys, and your summer. And with those materials, you're job is to build a second home for kids. 

You purchase things. You borrow things. You get creative. You ask for donations. You scrounge up things from your house. You scour the school seeing if, maybe-just-maybe, another teacher is willing to part with a piece of their hard-earned classroom. You spend hours making, printing, laminating, cutting and hanging signs, charts and decorations. You covet garage sales, thrift stores, and Craigslist hoping to find the best deal on something for those kids. And then you spend days, upon days, upon days taking that classroom from an empty, white, dull room to one that is fun, innovative, interesting, welcoming, and homey. 

And friends, I'm not saying we don't all work hard. Oh how hard I've seen so very, many professionals work. I've seen them give of their times, their talents, their personal life, sacrificing for the people they serve. So please don't hear me wrong, I'm thankful. And us teachers, we love our jobs. We love the ownership we have of our classroom. And buying all those coordinating bins, and tubs, and stools to make it look just right. Our hearts are filled with joy when we step back and look at our completed masterpiece. So please don't hear me wrong, I'm not complaining. 

But when August comes, and you take those precious, newly-clothed, bright eyed children to their classrooms. When you watch them find their desk tag and locker tag, and marvel at the bean bags and stools and colorful displays, the chock-full book shelves with endless options of reading materials. When you see the bulletin boards hung and waiting for learning tools and student work. And when you see a teacher standing at that door of her perfectly-made classroom with a huge, proud smile on her face... Please thank her. Because every detail of that classroom was created while she was "on vacation", with her hard-earn dollar. 

One Year

One year ago today, at 4:56 a.m. a babe was born. We had prayed, and laughed and cried in anticipation of your arrival for 9 months, and there you were in our arms. A tiny, 6 pound bundle. Our little boy. That day changed our lives. 

As you have grown our hearts have grown right alongside you. Every milestone, every giggle, every tear, our hearts swell. Although exhausted, Dad and I spent that first night in the hospital wide awake, in awe, in fear, in joy. We didn't want to miss a thing. We wanted to protect you. We wanted you to feel safe, comfortable, loved in your new home. 

Since that first night we have spent many more sleepless nights; holding you, rocking you, singing to you. Still in awe, still full of joy, still terrified. You see, this parenting thing, it's hard. It's scary. So scary. And it pulls on your heartstrings. It makes you a rock and a puddle, sometimes all at once. In your year on this Earth you have made us feel every possible emotion. We've been tried and tested and blessed in more ways than we could have imagined, often wondering how we could feel more _________ (fill in the blank), and then we do. 

Louis, this year, the world has looked different. Because, when you become a parent, you start seeing things in a different light. They say your life will change, but they don't tell you that you'll hear of parents losing their child and tear up right in the middle of the doctor's waiting room. They don't tell you that you'll see a kid jumping in puddles, and catch yourself smiling at the thought of a mud-filled laundry room one day. Or that when you hear a baby crying at a restraurant you'll want to write the parents an "I understand" note. They don't tell you that you'll get a babysitter and talk the whole date-night about your baby, or spend an hour trying to soothe an overly-tired child, get him to bed, then long to wake him just to get a few extra snuggles. They never tell you that the world's ugliness will look a whole-lot uglier because you'll picture those wrongs being done to your very own child. Or that keyboards, and sun rays, tissue paper and spatulas will become favorite items because they'll bubble up that beloved giggling sound. They tell you so much about how wonderful it is, and how fast it goes and how your life will never be the same, but they don't tell you about being at your wits end because you haven't slept, and you haven't showered and you haven't eaten, and you just got puked on, and feeling like you want to scream and cry and call it quits, but loving that little human so much that not a moment of it matters as you rock late into the night. 

Now you're one. We've spent a whole year getting to know you, and your amazing personality. Making mistakes. Crying, laughing, losing sleep, and clinging onto those cuddles. One year doing this parenting gig, and I'm certain that we'll spend the rest of our lives saying... They never tell you. But maybe that's because they can't tell you. Maybe words just don't suffice. 

Happy Birthday, sweet boy. I can't wait to see all the amazing, beautiful, wonderful ways you will open our eyes to this world and change our lives. We love you, but how much we could never tell you.