But What About Me?

Now that LJ is a teenager, I never know what to expect when it comes to conversation.

Many days, our only interactions consist of him rolling his eyes at me and taking deep, exaggerated, annoyed sighs.

Okay, maybe we both do that.

LJ tells me that I nag him too much (hence the eye rolling and deep breathing), so I have begun to tread lightly when it comes to poking and prodding him about the details of his mundane day-to-day activities.

As we navigate "the drama years" of teenage-hood, LJ and I seem to have come to an understanding: if he's awake by noon, wears deodorant, and does most of his homework, I should not ask questions and just stay the heck out of the way.

This arrangement seems to be working quite well for us.

But today, as I picked LJ up from his Javascript programming camp, I was feeling curious. I was feeling brazen.  I was feeling ... well, maybe I was feeling the three cups of coffee I had during my staff meeting.

Whatever the reason for my feelings, I decided to throw caution to the wind and ask LJ the always combative and often controversial question ...

"How was your day?"

I braced for impact. And eye rolls. And deep, exaggerated, annoyed sighs.

Instead, I got a flurry of excited, non-stop words. Actual words that didn't include, "Go away" or "close the door behind you."

Instead, LJ preceded to gush about how awesome his camp counselors were, and how they were going to personalize the next day's lesson just for him.

When I asked LJ to explain what he meant, he said that much of the camp's curriculum was centered on self-directed web-based learning. LJ knows that passively watching something on a computer screen is not how he learns best -- he learns by doing and prefers to have a "guide on the side" to lead him down the correct path.

LJ told his counselors about his learning preferences and, lo-and-behold, they responded by saying they would tweak their program to make sure he was getting what he needed.

*******

The parent in me was thrilled to hear that LJ is enjoying camp and that his counselors are making sure he has a positive experience.

But the school administrator in me began to consider the greater meaning to LJ's interactions with his counselors.

LJ has been fortunate to attend two schools (Ravenscroft and Academy at the Lakes), that encourage students to advocate for themselves and recognize that each student has a unique learning style.

But what if all schools (and all classrooms) looked like this? What if all students were empowered to say, "That's not how I learn best."

And what if all teachers, classrooms, and schools were equipped to answer, "Then let's do it your way."

What if? 

What could learning look like? Especially for the students -- like LJ -- who know themselves well enough to articulate that they don't learn by staring at a screen or a whiteboard?

What if all students like LJ could do, touch, and feel their way through their educational journeys?

What if?

*******

I realize that this is a meta-existential-uber-level hypothetical question with no real answer.

But as a parent and as a someone with a passion for education, it sure is fun to consider and dream what it could look like for our students.

Just imagine if more students weren't moved to roll their eyes, or take deep, exaggerated, annoyed breaths when we asked them to learn in a way that fits like a square peg in a round hole.

Just imagine if all students never had to ask the question, "But what about me?" 

A Letter to My Son

As part of a family history project for Jack's 7th grade Language Arts class at Academy at the Lakes, parents were asked to write a letter to their child. If you haven't ever done this for your own child, I strongly encourage it. What a wonderful gift for us both.

Jack, I have so many good memories of you that I hardly know where to start. But how about I start with Halloween night -- October 31, 2003?

You were not quite 3 years old but there was no doubt what you were you going to be that night. Your favorite TV show at the time was Bob the Builder, and I can remember watching it with you every afternoon in the den of our home in Greensboro, N.C.

Of course, you chose to dress up as the man himself, Bob the Builder. This was a man who was in charge, knew how to get things done, and was never too busy to lend a hand to friends and strangers alike.

As the theme song says, “Bob the Builder, can we fix it? Bob the Builder, YES WE CAN!”

Donning your blue jumpsuit and yellow hard hat, and with a hammer by your side, you were ready to conquer anything that came your way while trick-or-treating in our neighborhood, Adam’s Farm.

That Halloween, the street of Old Fox Trail filled with children and their parents as they trick-or-treated up and down the road. With you and Julianna being so young, your Ladybug sister sat in a stroller, and you rode in your green and grey Little Tykes Wagon.

What is most memorable about that night for your dad and me was how, at each house we visited, you eagerly jumped out of the wagon, navigated the steps to the front door, and before even asking your neighbors for candy, boldly declared to them, “I am Bob the Builder. I will fix that for you!”

And then you proceeded to hammer their front porch.

Cute story, I know … but why does this particular one stand out for me?

I think it’s because even at the young age of 3, we were beginning to see the type of young man you would become: straight to the point; caring; a “fixer”; and someone who is always was willing to help out a friend or stranger.

Today, I see those same traits in your willingness to help your sister with her math homework; in your genuine love and concern and for all animals and those people closest to you; and in your ability to help me conquer any technological or engineering task.

You’re my go-to guy -- the one who I know can get things done. I can always count on you to “fix it for me.”

Jack, although you are only 13 years old, I have already collected a lifetime of memories: birthdays and holidays; sports games and chess tournaments; talking football on the ride to school; racing at the annual Woolly Worm Festival in the mountains; riding rollercoasters with you until you are satisfied and I am sick … I cherish every moment -- even the ones where I’m nagging you to get out of bed or put away your laundry.

As I used to tell you when you were 3, I love you more than a million hippopotamuses.

And I can’t wait to remember the rest of what’s to come. 

A Teenager's Lesson for Vince Lombardi

"Winners never quit, and quitters never win." - Vince Lombardi

Vince Lombardi (Photo from Sports Illustrated)

If anybody could speak to being a winner, it was Vince Lombardi.

As the coach of the Green Bay Packers, he won two Super Bowl titles and five NFL championships. And the Hall of Famer never experienced a losing season as an NFL head coach.

But thanks to my 13-year-old son, Lombardi's quote now rings a bit hollow for me. Just a few weeks into his first season of conditioning workouts with the school's football team, LJ quit on his coach and his teammates.

And I support it.

In fact, not only do I support it, I can say that I watched my son mature and grow through the process -- even as he pronounced himself to be a quitter.

First, let me say that I absolutely love LJ's football coach. He's the right blend of tough and tender; cares deeply for his players; and always puts academics first. He holds his players accountable for their actions and choices, and as a parent, that's really all I could ask for.

LJ's issue with football wasn't the coach. And really, it wasn't the football.

It was everything else.

Although LJ just began workouts in January, he was already feeling the pinch on other areas -- wanting to participate in activities like Science Olympiad and chess, while also juggling his regular academic load in school. He arrived home exhausted after workouts, and started to feel the effects in the classroom with forgotten homework assignments and careless mistakes.

LJ wondered aloud how he would possibly manage it all when the "real" season began in August with even longer and more frequent practices, late night travel on game days, and an equally tough course load.

But Jack and I encouraged LJ ... told him his grades were fine (which they were), and that he could do it all if he just put his mind to it and just wanted it enough.

The mantra?

Our children will not be quitters.

Winners never quit, and quitters never win.

LJ kept a positive attitude through it all. He didn't complain about sore muscles. He talked excitedly about being part of the team and "earning" whatever minutes he might get on the field. And he began to develop a deep respect for his coach.

But earlier this week, I found LJ in my office after school, when instead he should have been at football practice.

I asked him why he was in my office, and he said, "Didn't you check your email, Mom? I sent you an email."

Irritated and feeling like I was about to hear some lame excuse, the mantra went through my mind:

My children will not be quitters.

Winners never quit, and quitters never win.

I started in on LJ, but his expression spoke volumes, so I opened my email:

Subject title:  I have Decided to Quit Football

"The stress produced from football far outweighs the benefits. This stress has prevented me from performing my best academically. I'm sorry I have had to make this decision but I am too stressed from football to continue."

And then I looked at LJ, curled up in the armchair in my office, and I simply said: "Okay. You can quit."

Future football dreams ... dashed.

With some cajoling, LJ talked to his coach in person, and gave him the same reasons for leaving the team. To his credit, the coach sensed LJ's anxiety, agreed that academics have to come first, and left the door open for him to join the team in future years.

As we walked back to my office, the relief was tangible. LJ's mood was lighter and he couldn't stop smiling.

Watching your child quit something -- walk away without remorse -- now that's a humbling moment. 

But on the inside, I was smiling too. 

Once again, my child had been way smarter than me. He knew his limits, knew when he'd reached the tipping point, and knew when to quit and be okay with it. In this case, quitting equated to winning. 

At least for LJ.

"Mom," he said, "I feel like half of my brain has just cleared out. I can think again."

Not exactly sure what was in the other half of his brain, but I didn't want to press.

Instead, I just gave him a hug and kept my mouth shut.

The NFL Hall of Fame may not be in LJ's future, but this was most definitely a Hallmark moment.

2 States + 650.2 Miles = 1 Common Passion

Exactly one year ago today, my family was wrapping up a whirlwind trip to Disney.

The fam at Disney (2013)

In our four days in Florida we traversed all four Disney parks; braved every coaster worth riding (including Everest three times); took the obligatory photos with us each donning mouse ears; watched a fake Indiana Jones blow up some fake stuff and outrun a fake boulder; rode (and got stuck on) the onetime state-of-the-art monorail; enjoyed over-priced, over-cooked burgers and under-cooked turkey legs; and reveled in the mystical magic of the creepy, squawking birds of the Tiki Room (yep, it's still my favorite attraction after all these years).

It was an exhilarating, exhausting, and sometimes exasperating vacation. But as we left the sunny, 80 degree temperatures of Orlando to return to the dreary, rainy 30-somethings of Raleigh, I turned to Jack and said, "You know, I could really get used to this."

It was a throw-away statement. And I didn't really give it another thought until today.

But today, precisely one year after that family trip to Orlando, I found myself at a Disney resort again -- this time for professional reasons. 

As I was walked to my car after the National Association of Independent Schools (NAIS) Annual Conference, those same, sunny, 80 degree skies greeted me.

And again I thought, "You know, I really have gotten used to this."

Beautiful weather not withstanding, this had a much deeper meaning. 

Since last year's family vacation to Orlando, an unexpected chain of events quickly dominoed into me taking a new job in Tampa -- just a one-hour drive from the Magic Kingdom. And thanks to my supportive husband and children, we all have landed on our feet here in the Sunshine State. 

Except for the Newf -- he's landed flat on the floor. He barely gets UP on his feet here. It's just too damn hot.

Newfs hate Florida

These last couple of days at the NAIS Annual Conference, not unlike our Disney vacation, have been exhilarating and exhausting -- but in a very different way. 

It's given me time to reflect on the last year and on how my career path rapidly wound its way a full 650.2 miles between my home state and my new state. 

I'm still not sure I have all the answers as to why this move made sense. And just like our Disney vacation and the NAIS Conference, this journey has been both exhilarating and exhausting.

But this conference did affirm why I have enjoyed, and continue to love, working in schools.

This conference, much like great schools, pushes you to ask tough questions and examine your own work under a microscope. And I was just one of thousands of people at this conference who were focused solely on making education better for our children, now and in the future.

We hear constantly how our educational system is "broken" and how we're getting passed by other countries in the way we prepare our children for tomorrow's challenges.

2014 NAIS Conference

What was happening at this conference, though, was everything that is right with education. Collaboration, creativity, critical thinking, communication, and most importantly, improvement -- on behalf of all our children.

As with any job -- any career -- some days are better than others. There are ups and downs, frustrations and disappointments. But these days and moments are the exception and not the rule when you work in a place that is filled with people who are passionate for their mission. 

I see the rule each and every day at my job -- in the students my school serves -- and in my own children, LJ and Julianna, who have been blessed to attend two outstanding private independent schools and learn from dozens of passionate, exceptional educators.

No doubt, our schools -- both public and private -- are not perfect. Certainly, we're far from it. But a passion for putting children first?

We could all really get used to this.

I'm the Proud Parent of an Aspie

April is Autism Awareness Month and today, April 2, is World Autism Awareness Day. Seems like the perfect time to share our family's story.

You know those bumper stickers? The ones that say "I'm the proud parent of an honor roll student?" Or some crap like that?

Facebook has become the auto bumper of parenthood. And our status updates are the bumper stickers.

Now I realize that I'm just as guilty as other parents for filling your timeline with tales of my children's triumphs. I too share videos, photos, and updates about my two amazing kids winning chess matches, singing on stage, and well ... practically everything else they do.

After all, LJ and Julianna are incredible kids, and despite my best efforts to ruin them, they are going to turn out just fine.

But something changed in our family a few months ago that has given me a very different perspective about what parental "pride" is and how we identify our children's true successes.

In December, LJ was diagnosed with Asperger syndrome, which is a developmental disorder that is considered to be at the "high functioning" end of the autistic spectrum.

Anyone who has met LJ knows what a smart kid he is -- but they also might have noticed that he's shy, often withdrawn, and might even seem rude -- sometimes he won't make eye contact, shake your hand or answer your questions. He often gets along better with adults than kids his own age.

We've been searching for answers for awhile, which for years came as a long list of diagnoses from a longer list of doctors -- ADHD, OCD, SPD, dysgraphia, and general anxiety disorder.

Finally, in December, it all came together when a doctor told us he wanted to evaluate LJ for Asperger's.

Every single day is a challenge for LJ: keeping organized, making and keeping friendships, following instructions, working with others, waiting his turn, noisy cafeterias at school, crowded hallways -- all of this creates an unbelievable amount of anxiety for an Aspie.

Teenage drama is hard enough for the average kid. For one like LJ it can be unbearable.

Through it all, LJ has shown unbelievable character and resolve.

He has played in the band, slogged through two advanced classes, found a hobby in electrical engineering, and carried himself with grace and dignity when his peers fail to understand him.

And he got his first-ever D last quarter.

And I don't care.

My respect and love for my son are not impacted by his test scores, his chess trophies, or his stats on the basketball court.

Every night when we get home from school, I am thankful for his smile, his perseverance, his desire to "know more about himself", and his pure, innocent heart that aches to not be "different" anymore.

I'm convinced the world needs more LJs -- "quirky" as he may be. It sure would be a boring place without kids like him.

Yes, I am the proud parent of a child with Asperger syndrome.

I think I'll put that on a bumper sticker.

Clothes Make the Man

As LJ marched into the gym for his fifth grade graduation ceremony last Friday, I couldn't help but notice that -- although he looked extremely handsome in his brand-new shirt, first "real" tie, and freshly ironed pants -- he was the only boy in the entire grade who was not wearing a blazer.

Or a belt.

And he was probably the only boy sporting navy socks with his black pants and black loafers.

It was actually a minor miracle that LJ was wearing pants at all that morning. Suddenly, his black pants no longer fit him. And these were the same pants that, when I bought them just months before, were so big his ankles were practically swimming in the cuffs.

Now, just 30 minutes before he needed to be at school for the culminating experience of his elementary school career, we couldn't even get his pants to button. 

Zip, yes -- never mind it required a metal captain's hook and the strength of 10 oxen. But the button just didn't want to budge, and I had serious concerns that I would tear the button from its tenuous threads if I pulled much harder.

Divine grace intervened ... or perhaps God just got tired of hearing me curse in Yiddish ... and the button somehow found its way into the hole.

After I made LJ swear that he wouldn't cough, sneeze or bend over until after the graduation reception, I handed him his belt.

Now, I should have known the belt -- which I bought more than a year ago -- wouldn't fit anymore, but it simply didn't cross my mind until it was too late.

And the navy socks? Well, I can't really explain that, except to assure you that I will be having my annual eye exam sooner rather than later.

As I helped LJ get ready that morning, I found myself panicked that we wouldn't make it to school in time, or if we did, my son would be sans pants.

But then, as I watched Jack show LJ how to put on his first "clipless" tie, I realized that these clothes did indeed make the man. 

Baggy pants to barely buttoned.

Brand new shirt that hardly stretched across his broad shoulders.

Belt that was more suited to my waist than his.

My oldest child is hardly a child at all anymore.

Despite his lack of a blazer, belt, and matching socks, LJ didn't miss a beat at graduation. He confidently strode in with his classmates during the processional, glided across the stage to receive his certificate, and even turned to the camera and posed when he shook the Head of School's hand -- just as he had been instructed to do during rehearsal.

For those of you who have been through a "milestone" experience with a child, you'll understand why I had to choke back the tears as he processed in and out of the gym. And you'll also commiserate with me on the "how did time fly so fast" sentiment. It may be cliche but could not have rang more true last Friday.

It's also true that LJ's first 11 years have gone too quickly. I haven't taken enough photos, scrapbooked enough pages, or captured nearly enough memories. I am, however, comforted by knowing that we still have Middle School and Upper School ahead of us. That's seven more years of moments I have to look forward to and memories to make ... and it's plenty of time to get him a pair of pants and a belt that actually fit.

Photos by Steve Abrahams

Standardized Testing for Parents

Yesterday's mail brought some standardized testing results for Julianna, who's now in first grade.

Like all good, neurotic parents who live vicariously through their children, I was curious to see where she stacked up among her peers.

This particular test was completed on a computer and gauged language arts and math skills. It gave feedback like: "Exceeding expectations," "Meeting expectations," and "Approaching expectations."

Not a whole lot for parents to sink their teeth into.

Nevertheless, it got me thinking ... if I were being evaluated by a standardized test for parents, how would I rate?

I tried to put myself in my kids' shoes to answer the questions ... how would my own kids score my mommy skillz?

My assessment was divided into six critical areas, each of which is expected of mothers -- like it or not.

Here are the results of my self-administered test:

The MOmmy Aptitude Norm (MOAN)

1) Laundry assessment: Meeting expectations. Note: Successfully completed 18 loads of laundry in one week. This included correctly matching and neatly balling up 83 pairs of white socks in four different sizes. Slightly impaired in sheet folding, but made up for it by using two kinds of fabric softener. Unable to assess Mommy in the ironing portion of this section because she flatly stated, "If Daddy wants unwrinkled clothes, he can iron them himself."

2) Carpooling assessment: Exceeding expectations. Note: Mommy is particularly patient in this area considering that she spends approximately 75 minutes in the car each day while traveling only 12 total miles. Extra points given for tying shoes, distributing snacks and band-aids, and changing music CDs multiple times while navigating bumper-to-bumper traffic. Room for improvement in the area of "SUV peacekeeper."

3) Cooking assessment: Approaching expectations. Note: Loses points because Daddy is the primary dinnertime and breakfast cook. If it were up to Mommy, the family would subsist on pizza, mac & cheese, and Chick-fil-a. However, points were awarded because Mommy packs 10 snacks and six healthy lunches per week. Extra credit was awarded for cookies and marshmallows.

4) First aid assessment: Meeting expectations. Note: Excellent at providing ice packs, gauze pads, antibiotic ointment, hugs, ace bandages, anti-itch cream, tissues, and Tylenol for bruises, cuts, aches, pains, and other mysterious boo-boos that appear mysteriously throughout the day and suddenly at bedtime. Also passed the "clean up the puke without puking" portion of this section. Loses points for making Julianna say "ow" when using an ear thermometer.

5) Sewing assessment: Frighteningly below expectations. Note: Mommy is completely incompetent in this area. When asked to sew a button onto a shirt, she was unable to proceed past "threading the needle." Also answered "How do you fix a hem?" portion of the test by snarling: "What do you mean? You just take it to a tailor." Remediation strongly recommended.

6) Snuggling/Cuddling assessment: Exceeding expectations. Note: Mommy is in the 100th percentile in this category. Perfect score.

Thomas Jefferson Ate My Homework

LJ and I spent the better (or worse) part of this morning working on his biography of Thomas Jefferson. The goal? To hand-write a four-paragraph report about Jefferson complete with a colorful cover.

When this report was assigned at least a month ago I swore up, down, and sideways that we would not, under any circumstances, wait until the final week to finish the report.

Now here we are, five days out, just starting it. And I am feeling the pressure.

Yes, me. Not him. Because let's be real here. Given that LJ is only in second grade, ultimately, this is my report -- a reflection of my Mommy skills.

At age 8, kids are essentially still puppets on a string. If he is late to school, it's my fault. If he loses his library book, that's on me. And if his biography on Thomas Jefferson stinks, well ... the blame lies here.

I'm not saying that LJ doesn't share some responsibility in any of this. On the contrary, I think reports like this help teach valuable lessons about planning (procrastinating), research (shortcuts), and taking pride in one's work (getting it done).

This report is particularly trying because it combines LJ's two least favorite things -- handwriting and drawing. If it was a vegetable, it would be Brussels sprouts.

But I know we will get through this together -- me with the cattle prodder and LJ with the eraser. Somehow, some way, before Friday, LJ will write those 412 words about Jefferson. And he will craft a beautiful drawing of our third President to go along with it.

I even have confidence that we will complete the accompanying project due just 10 days later. LJ is actually pretty excited about turning a huge piece of foam board into a $2 bill with Jefferson's likeness. Go figure.

Yes, we'll gt it done. Both the paper and the project.

Now, the Thomas Jefferson costume he needs for the class play? That's a whole other matter. Where is Betsy Ross when you need her?

At Fever Pitch

Last night I faced a classic parenting dilemma. When is the sniffly-nosed, dreary-eyed, almost-feverish kid too sick to send to school?

After Julianna stayed home from school for two days with a fever and cold, she was still running a 99.9 temperature yesterday afternoon. Her congestion had improved, but it still lingered -- as did her runny nose.

With Jack out of town on business, I worked at home both Monday and Tuesday. Those couple of days spent inside the house -- combined with a lack of physical activity -- had us both bouncing off the walls with pent-up energy. By bedtime last night, Julianna was like a wicked little Energizer bunny who was tormenting LJ just for sport.

So how does a parent, eager to return to normalcy and even more desperate for the light of day, take an unbiased view of the school handbook line that reads, "child should be fever free for 24 hours before returning to school?"

What parent hasn't considered giving their less than healthy child a dose of Tylenol just before school drop-off and saying, "Shhh ... don't tell your teacher, honey!"

(For the record, I have only done that once, and I am NOT proud of it).

Besides, who's to say that my thermometer isn't a degree or two high? Maybe that sweatshirt was making her a little overheated? Isn't it possible all that coughing is just from spring allergies? (Never mind it's still February).

Last night, as I once again faced the no-win decision of whether to send Julianna back to school, I opted to make the most informed and objective choice I possibly could.

I left it in the hands of my hyped-up-on-cold medicine 6-year-old daughter.

"So, how do you feel?"

"I feel great!" Julianna said. And to my relief, she sounded like she really meant it.

With new found confidence, I prodded further. "Really? So you feel better than you did yesterday?"

"Yes, definitely!" she said.

I continued on. "So how bad did you feel yesterday?"

"Well," Julianna said, "I felt like I was going to explode and die!"

Not the answer I was looking for.

If she actually thought she was on the verge of spontaneous combustion just 24 hours earlier, then "feeling better than yesterday" was not a very good measuring stick.

It may not be directly referenced in the school handbook, but I assume that if a teacher suspects a child is about to implode, they will probably send that kid home early -- fever or not.

I quickly changed course and determined that the choice of "school or no school" should be made by a responsible adult. Since none were available, that left the decision up to me. And because she wasn't running a fever at bedtime last night or this morning, I sent Julianna back to school.

Today passed without incident -- no calls from the teachers or school nurse.

When I picked Julianna up this afternoon I asked her how her day was.

"Terrific!" she said as she bounded to the car.

"So you feel a lot better?" I asked. "You don't feel like you're going to explode and die?"

"No way," she said. "I think I'm gonna live."

And no Tylenol required.

As the World Turns

In the pile of Saturday's mail were our Ravenscroft re-enrollment agreements for the 2009-10 school year. It's funny because even though I know my kids are doing fine in school, I always feel an odd sense of pride and relief when I get that letter saying "we still want your kids."

And I've heard other parents say the same. It's like we need to be reassured that our kids are actually as great as we think they are.

As I flipped through the agreements, my mouth dropped open when I looked at LJ's. There, typed in bold ink, were the words "3rd grade."

Somehow, seeing that on a formal document just took the wind out of me. Third grade just sounds so old. So grown up.

Then, after I got over the shock, I experienced a moment of panic.

I remember from my experiences as a babysitter and a big sister that the first day of third grade marks the exact moment at which your child become smarter, funnier, and more worldly than than you.

Or so they think.

It's like third grade is the tidal wave and I am the shore. I can see it coming, but I am powerless to stop it.

On Aug. 19, 2009, the first day of third grade, LJ will embark on an era of bossiness and know-it-all superiority that can only be surpassed by me.

Yes, it's true. I gave my third-grade teacher at Ravenscroft, Mrs. Bobbitt, a run for her money.

Although I challenged Mrs. Bobbitt unmercifully throughout that school year, the time I remember most vividly is when I stayed home sick on a Monday.

When I returned the next day and we were in "circle time" reviewing the calendar, Mrs. Bobbitt marked off Tuesday.

I promptly raised my hand and confidently stated: "Mrs. Bobbitt, today is Monday, not Tuesday. You marked off the wrong day."

"No, Penny. Today is Tuesday. This is correct."

"No, Mrs. Bobbitt. You are wrong. Today is Monday."

"No, Penny. Today is Tuesday. And just because you missed a day of school doesn't mean the world stopped for you."

Whoa.

In front of my friends, Mrs. Bobbitt had put me properly back in my place. And rightly so.

Her words obviously had an impact on me as they have stayed with me to this day.

So here I am as a parent, 25 years later, with LJ racing full speed ahead toward third grade ... and I'm tiptoeing on eggshells. Of course, in my heart, I know that LJ will do just fine.

The mere fact that he has never been wrong will serve him well as he navigates the sometimes choppy waters of third grade.

I can only hope that if -- on the off chance -- LJ ever gets out of line as a third-grader, he will be lucky enough to have a teacher like Mrs. Bobbitt. One to remind him that things are not always what they seem.

The world will not, in fact, stop spinning on its axis just for LJ ... it's merely the sun, moon, and stars that shine because of him.


First day of Kindergarten (2006). Where does the time go?



















Julianna's first day of pre-Kindergarten at Ravenscroft. She stayed home sick.