Maybe a myofunctional therapist #SOL24 21/31

“Ok,” she said, “push your tongue hard against this popsicle stick for thirty seconds.” He does. Then, they repeat the exercise once on each side. Next, she has him hold his tongue to the roof of his mouth “as if you were going to cluck like a chicken, but you stopped in the middle.” He chuckles, but he does it. Later he will hold water in his mouth and breathe through his nose for three minutes, then hold a spacer between his teeth and move his tongue in various figures. At some point during the session, she says, “I’m just really interested in tongues!” Fascinated, I text my friends – the ones who will understand this kind of text – about how cool this all is. This morning, for his fourth dental appointment in ten days, I took Mr. 13 to a myofunctional therapist. This is basically a physical therapist for your tongue. Who knew?

I get a kick out of anyone who is passionate about their job, and this therapist was clearly passionate. As we discussed her work, she asked if Mr. 13 knew what he wanted to do as an adult. He does not, but he had several great ideas when he was little: first, he wanted to be an animal translator who learned animal languages and then told people what the animals were saying; then he wanted to be an inventor who lived in the middle of the jungle and just invented things and gave them to someone who came to his cabin maybe once a month; more recently, he wanted to be a fountain designer to design the cool fountains where the water jumps around. Now, he just wants to be rich.

I was still thinking about unusual jobs when parent-teacher interviews started tonight. My first one was with a parent whose student will graduate in a few months. The student is fantastic, so the conversation was easy, and eventually the parent shared some of her concerns for “the next step.” Her biggest fear right now? He has no idea what he wants to do. I nearly laughed. “Stick with me here, but do you know what a ‘myofunctional therapist’ is?” She did not. “Neither did I,” I said, “until last week.” I explained the job and continued, “Nobody offers this as a job option when you’re in high school. Nobody says, ‘hey, you could do this really fascinating niche job, and you might love it.’ Kids have to explore and learn and find their own way for a bit – and who knows where they’ll end up? He’s not really supposed to know what he’s going to do with his life – he’s only 17.”

Parent-teacher conferences often leave me convinced that most things will work out, one way or another. The students will grow up. They’ll make mistakes and they’ll learn. Most kids figure things out, more or less, along the way. I’m pretty sure her child will, too, though I don’t see myofunctional therapy in his future.

Runaway #SOL24 20/31

He rarely comes to class, but when he does, we do what we can to make sure he has at least a little success. He’s in grade 9 and is currently illiterate in three languages. Research says that students with strong reading skills in their home languages often also have strong reading skills in their second language (see Short & Fitzsimmons, 2007 or this shorter article by Fred Genesee), but he doesn’t have strong reading skills anywhere. We can’t turn back time, but we’re doing what we can to move forward.

He’s lucky because this class has a push-in support teacher. She’s technically there for other students, but no rule says that she can only help them, so we’re using what wiggle room we have to create as much space for him as possible. When we were writing 100-word memoirs, she just happened to be sitting near him and just happened to be able to scribe for him. As I circulated, their heads were close together in front of the computer, counting words. When he realized he had written a story of exactly 100 words, he was so proud that he asked her to read it to him again. He beamed. Then he skipped for three days.

Then next time he made it to class during reading time, I sat with him and quietly talked through The Invention of Hugo Cabret, which he likes because it’s thick and he says it makes him look smart, while Ms H kept an eye on the other readers. Even the pictures were hard for him to understand, but he liked talking about them. Then he refused to do anything else.

Sometimes, he comes to class (late) and then asks to get water or go to the bathroom. I put him off as long as I can, but I am not the arbiter of his bodily functions; when he says, “Miss, I really have to go,” I let him. Sometimes he comes right back, but sometimes he runs. Two days ago, he swore he would only be gone for two minutes, then he took the hall pass and disappeared. I found him in the lobby later that day, skipping a different class. While we walked to where he was supposed to be, he told me that he had thrown up that morning, so he couldn’t return to my class. Given that he was practically bouncing up and down with energy as we edged towards his class, I reminded him that usually someone who throws up goes home, but he said he called home and his mother said no. Ahem. I found him in the hallways again that period and once the next period. He told me he just can’t stay in class.

Yesterday, Ms H had a breakthrough. She saw him (in the hallway, of course) and made some sort of deal/ bet with him – and then he actually showed up to English class a mere 10 minutes late (thus missing most of reading time). Meanwhile, she had hatched a plan. She took him to a quiet room – but not the resource room; he refuses to go there – and she started a phonics assessment with him. She praised him for what he could do and talked about ways we could help. She told him she could start with what he can do instead of expecting him to be able to do impossible things. He was eager.

Ms H was excited that we’d found a way to start giving him some real support. That afternoon we talked through her plan. But this morning, he saw her in the hall during first period, turned around and went the other way. Then, he saw her at the beginning of our class. This time he ran away. Ran.

We stayed after class together, Ms H and I, trying to figure out how to help him accept our offers of support. We reminded ourselves that years of failing in school, years of hiding his weaknesses, mean that he probably thinks he’s beyond redemption. He may be afraid that he’ll just fail again and disappoint us in the process. We walked into the hallway partway through lunch, and there he was, right by our English classroom. Gotcha! Gently, we reminded him of his (broken) promise. I told him that it hurt Ms H’s feelings when he didn’t come. She told him that she had been really excited to see him today. He shifted his weight back and forth, back and forth. When we finished – maybe a 30 second “chat” – he said, “OK” and then… he ran.

Sweet runaway boy, how I hope you’ll let us try to help you read. Reading will make a bigger difference than you can imagine. It’s worth sticking around for.

Noticed #SOL24 19/31

One afternoon, early in my teaching career, a colleague/friend and I got manicures together after school. The next day, in the middle of science class, a 7th grader raised his hand and said, “Did you and Amanda get your nails done together?” She was surprised that this young person – who could not reliably remember to bring his backpack from my French classroom to her science room next door – had noticed something so small. She was also surprised that he chose the middle of class to comment on his observation.

Over the years, I’ve gotten much more used to the idea that the students are always watching, but it can still catch me by surprise. Like yesterday when we came back to school after a week of March Break. I had gotten my hair cut (bangs!) the first Saturday of March Break, so I was used to it, but obviously no one else was. I was quickly reminded that my “look” had changed because students started to comment – in the hallway, in the lobby, in the classroom. Students who have never even had me as a teacher said, “nice haircut, Miss.” The kids I’ve actually taught were even more forward, one yelling, “you look good, Miss!” as I passed by.

I said “thank you” all morning long. The unexpected compliments put me in a good mood and I was sailing through the day. Then, during Grade 9 English, in the middle of a discussion about whether oral histories from “regular” people are important, a sometimes-reticent young man raised his hand. And despite my years of teaching, despite having been noticed in the hallway, despite everything, I still wasn’t ready when he said, “Um, did you get a haircut, Miss?”

“Yes,” I said, because what else was there to say?

“Cool,” he nodded, “It looks good.” And he went right back to doodling in his notebook.

I paused long enough to say to the class, “Well, that’s how you do it. If you’re going to ask someone if they got a haircut, you should definitely follow up with…” I paused for dramatic effect. The same young man looked up and said, “It looks good.”

Then we all went back to discussing oral histories as if nothing unusual had happened. And maybe it hadn’t.

Two poems #SOL24 18/31

Two poems for today. First, a book spine poem created from the books I just checked out of the library based on recommendations from other bloggers so far this month. Sensing a theme? (I also got Thornhedge, but it didn’t fit the poem.) I love all the recommendations and ideas I get during March. Will I finish these all before they’re due? I doubt it, but I’m not sure if that’s really the point.

Second, a poem for my recently restless nights.

The middle-aged woman’s sleeping prayer
Now I lay me down to sleep,
I pray that I won’t wake to pee.
If I should feel a sudden heat,
I pray that I won’t drench the sheets
And if I’m up throughout the night,
I pray my kids’ve turned out the lights.

Tomorrow I’m going to get my sh*# together and write earlier in the day.

Who? Me? #SOL24 17/31

I like to think that I’ve mellowed with age. I’m relaxed, chill, low-key. I have given up any previous passion for perfection. I’m comfortable with mediocrity when mediocre is called for. Just look at yesterday’s post. Perfectly middling.

I suspect people who know me well are laughing so hard they’ve just spit out their coffee.

Look, I try to be content with what I’ve got. At 50, I have enough self-confidence that I don’t need to worry too much about outside perception. Sometimes this is even true. Sometimes, I can happily come in second – or even third. Mostly, I can curb my competitive nature – especially if I’m concentrating on being easygoing.

Also, I just stayed up well past my bedtime on the last night of March Break playing Duolingo. I snuck up behind “Panda” and overtook the number one spot in the Diamond League, logging out with only a few minutes left before this week’s competition is over; she’ll never catch up. And I’m terribly pleased with myself.

So, yeah, not so mellow after all.

(In my defense, I am *comparatively* easygoing now. It’s just that I’ve really never been that kind of person at all.)

Throwing in the towel #SOL24 16/31

I give up. It’s not that I haven’t written anything today. Oh no, it’s much worse than that: it’s that I haven’t *finished* anything today. When I realized I was struggling to write, I looked through my photos, thinking that a photo essay might be just right. I even got as far as creating a March collage. Then I decided I didn’t like it. Harrumph.

I considered writing about my pets because I love posts with pets, but this morning Hera stood on my chest and purred until I woke up, and the dog was kind of a jerk at the dog park this afternoon, so no posts for them.

I looked back at ideas I’ve collected from other bloggers this month and got deeply involved in a prompt from Steph at Steph Scrap Quilts, but it’s definitely not done enough to share. Or, more true, I like it too much to share it too early.

I tried to shake off my writing blahs by doing non-writing things that sometimes help me write: I took a walk, baked (banana bread – delicious), talked to my sisters for a long time, worked out, read other blog posts… Still, nothing.

And here I am. It’s almost 8pm, and this is what I’ve got. I’m giving myself credit for writing something when nothing would have been easier, and I will publish my imperfect writing.

Now that I think about it, I’m going to dedicate this to my students. After all, I started blogging as practice so that I could be a better writing teacher. I think it’s worked. If nothing else, I know what it means to stare down a blank document, knowing I have a deadline, knowing that others will read my work, knowing that another day, another hour might make it better. And then, I publish anyway. This is what I wish for you all: the strength to do your work, even when you aren’t inspired, and the courage to turn it in, even when it’s imperfect. This is me, practicing what I teach.

Hammer/Nail #SOL24 15/31

Mr. 13 is remarkably willing to go to appointments, provided we abide by one simple rule: the appointment must be scheduled during the school day. He’ll do almost anything to miss school. Unfortunately for him, his parents work, and he has a *lot* of upcoming appointments, so when the dentist observed that one of his canine teeth still has not fallen out and that X-rays showed a potentially impacted tooth, I scheduled the orthodontist for this morning, the last day of March Break. He was not impressed.

Nevertheless, he got up with only a bit of groaning and walked with me to the orthodontist. After we filled in all the paperwork, we were put into a consulting room where his x-rays were up. Right away, I could see the problem: one tooth looked stuck. But Mr. 13 is a curious sort, and he was looking at far more than one tooth. After a minute he said, “I think these are old.” The technician pointed out that they were dated Tuesday; they were recent. Mr. 13 nodded politely, and she went to get the orthodontist.

As soon as she was gone, he said, “Mom, those are definitely old.” He showed me the teeth he’d lost that were still present on the x-ray along with the teeth that hadn’t fully grown in but were, quite obviously, in his mouth. When the orthodontist and tech returned, I pointed out the problems. “Let me take a look,” said the orthodontist, but all he had to do was glance at Mr. 13’s mouth to know that we were right.

“Hmph. We need a new x-ray.”

“He just had one on Tuesday,” I said.

As it turned out, he had not had an x-ray on Tuesday. I was confused. Why were we here? No one was sure. The technician took Mr. 13 for the x-ray, then everyone reassembled in the tiny room. The new x-ray was displayed and the “impacted” tooth was, in fact, not impacted at all.

“Maybe he could just, you know, try to wiggle it for a little while?” I asked. I know my child; he is not a tooth-wiggler. He would prefer to keep everything as it is, thank you very much.

But no. We were already at the orthodontist’s, and he suggested sending Mr. 13 to an oral surgeon. Mr. 13 asked if the appointment would be during the school day. I rolled my eyes. Next, the orthodontist explained that he would need braces on the upper teeth to “close the gaps” and on the bottom to “correct the overbite”. All of this, of course, after this tooth came out and the new one grew in.

The orthodontist left, and the technician continued the explanation: braces will take two years, followed by a retainer for two years, then a small wire behind the teeth to hold them in place, and a retainer for the rest of his life. She sent us to billing for the estimate.

Billing booked us for an appointment in December (during the school day) to check on the position of the erstwhile tooth, then showed us the price of braces and all the ways we could pay for them. I tried not to let my jaw drop too far open. When she was finished, we paid for our visit, took the estimate and headed home.

As we walked down the front steps, Mr. 13 said, “Um, Mom. I don’t think my teeth are too far apart. And no dentist has ever mentioned that I have an overbite before. Do you think I need braces?”

“Have you ever heard the saying ‘if all you have is a hammer, everything looks like a nail’?”

He had not. I explained. He nodded sagely, “Yeah, this guy definitely only has a hammer.” We continued walking until we arrived at the diner we love, my bribe to get him to the orthodontist this morning. As we sat down, he confirmed, “So, I’m probably not getting braces, right?”

Nope, kiddo, probably not. Hammer/ nail.

Grief at 6 weeks #SOL24 14/31

“You can’t write your way out of this,” says my therapist, and I know she’s right, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it. Anyway, the words won’t come out properly, so it’s not like I have a choice.

She says she’s not crying as much as she expected. Apparently her therapist told her, “You’re going to have to actually feel your feelings.”

We repeat the phrase to each other and laugh at ourselves because we aren’t crying until we are crying – and then we start laughing again because we’re crying about not crying and does this count as feeling your feelings?

At the gym, the coach shows us the workout: lifting again, the weights carrying some of our grief. But today all of her muscles hurt and she didn’t sleep well and she’s just so angry that she finally has time to take care of herself only her body won’t cooperate. I know what she means, but it’s not my child who died, not my body that aches so deeply. We do what we can and cry again.

“I’m so tired of crying,” she says, and I agree, “yeah, six weeks is way too long to mourn a child” and “what are you thinking anyway?” because apparently right now all we can do is cry, then laugh, then cry again.

With that, the coach erases the whiteboard, grabs her phone and orders us all something from Starbucks. We change our shoes and head out for a walk, which doesn’t fix everything – or anything – but at least we are outside, together, sipping hot drinks in the sun.

Cheesy #SOL24 13/31

Tonight’s dinner will be raclette. The potatoes are already boiled, the cheese is laid out, and the raclette grill is warming. Soon, the whole family will be melting the cheese then pouring its oozy deliciousness over the potatoes. Everyone is excited.

As I prep, I’ve been thinking of the first time I ever had raclette – which was also the first time I’d ever heard of it – in France during my junior year abroad. My (French, obviously) boyfriend and I had been together long enough that I was finally starting to meet his friends. That day, we drove into the countryside for dinner with a group of people I’d never met before. After aperitifs, we sat down at a table with this odd contraption on it. Small potatoes were piled in bowls interspersed between the guests. Long trays were layered with thick slices of cheese and various cured meats. Here and there were small bowls with cornichons. Everyone was talking and laughing and I had no idea what was going on.

Pause here. Prior to arriving in France that September, I had eaten cheddar cheese, Swiss cheese mozzarella cheese (on pizza) and Velveeta. Surely I had seen brie before, but I’m not sure I had tasted it. I had definitely heard of blue cheese, but all I knew was that it stunk. Similarly, I had never drunk more than a sip of wine and certainly had never had an aperitif. Also, I didn’t exactly speak French. I mean, I had *studied* French, and I did very well on grammar tests. I could even write a reasonable paragraph. I could not, however, actually talk to people.

So, when I moved in with a family that spoke only French and who cooked only French and Alsatian food, I had had to either figure things out or, I suppose, go home. Then I met Jean-Luc, whose English was also limited, and promptly fell head over heels for him. That turned everything up a notch.

Now it was maybe January, and I had gotten used to only understanding some of the conversation and not always knowing exactly what I was eating, but tonight I really wanted to make a good impression on Jean-Luc’s friends. I wanted to be part of the gang. But what does one do when seated in front of something like this (see below) and given a tool called a pelle – which I knew darn well meant “shovel”- and a wooden paddle?

At first, no one noticed my unease and, I had become expert at copying those around me. Soon enough, however, Jean-Luc realized that I was a neophyte and started helping me pile various meats on the grill and melting cheese underneath. Raclette, I discovered, was essentially an excuse to eat all the cheesy potatoes you could. It’s not especially refined and lends itself to laughing and chatting as you wait for something to melt or cook – or accidentally take your neighbour’s pelle. We had a fantastic evening. I was hooked.

My American friends in Strasbourg also discovered this dish, and by June we were all more than happy to go with Erin to a raclette restaurant for her birthday (even though raclette is, at its heart, a meal often served in the winter). There, we saw “real” raclette: a heater brought up to a giant wheel of cheese while a server scrapes the melting cheese onto a plateful of potatoes.

After I left France, I doubted I would find many places willing to serve melted cheese as a large part of a meal. I was going home to a land of cheddar, Swiss and mozzarella. I knew there was always fondue, but somehow that seemed almost as unlikely as raclette. And, sure enough, none of my friends at home had ever heard of raclette. It became just a delicious memory…

Until I got engaged to a Canadian. We were looking at things to put on our registry (“just in case”) when I noticed the raclette machine. My fiancé was taken aback by my extreme enthusiasm for something which he thought was, well, kind of normal. I tried to explain – France, cheese, years ago – but he just shrugged and said, “well, let’s put it on the list.” So we did. And we got one.

Pretty much every winter we find raclette cheese at the grocery store and drag the raclette machine out of the basement. We boil the potatoes and find the meats; we cut some veggies and, often, gather friends. Then we put the cheese in the shovels and thrust them under the heat. While it bubbles away, we grill the meats and veggies on the warm stone. We scrape it all onto potatoes and eat until we’re bursting.

I love it every single time. And now, dinner’s ready!

At the dentist #SOL24 12/31

While I was out with a friend this morning, the boys’ dentist called and asked if we could come in 20 minutes early to help with a scheduling hiccup. By the time I got the message, I knew we would have to hoof it to be there at the new time, but I called back and said yes, anyway. Unfortunately, when I told the kids, Mr. 15 said “yes” with his mouth but not with his brain, and hopped into the shower at the last minute. We managed to make it, but I dropped the boys at the door so that they could go in while I parked.

When I got in, Mr. 13 was already in with the hygienist. I love that my kids are independent enough to handle moments like this on their own. Just a few minutes later, Mr. 15 was called; he loped into the back, trailing after a different hygienist. I settled back to enjoy a little quiet time.

As I played a game on my phone, another mother came in with her two boys who rushed ahead of her to the receptionist’s desk. “Hello,” she chirped at them, “Who have we here?”

A small voice said, “Johnny Bear” and everyone chuckled. I looked up to catch the younger boy, maybe 6, holding his stuffie over his head so that the bear could “see” the receptionist. His mother ruffled his hair, grinned at the women behind the desk, and gave their names. The trio moved into the waiting room and the younger boy snuggled up next to his mother.

Oh, I miss those days, I thought.

Just then, the older boy – maybe 8 – made a snide comment under his breath. His mother heard, and snapped at him. He slumped in his seat, pouting. The water cooler bubbled and suddenly Mr. 6 really wanted a paper cone of water. Then his brother did, too. Mom heaved a sigh and asked, “Do you really want the water, or do you just want it because you heard the bubbles?” Mr. 6 assured her that he really wanted the water. Mr. 8 grumbled.

Mom stood up and got some water for the six-year-old. More mumbly-grumble from the eight-year-old. “What?” she asked.

“I said I want to do it myself. I want water AND I want to do it myself.”

Mom looked from the younger boy, holding the fragile cone of water, to the older boy, arms folded stubbornly across his small chest. “Ok,” she said, “Can you wait for me to come watch?”

He jumped up from his seat, ran to the cooler, pulled off a paper cone cup and waited for his mom. She watched carefully until she said, “and that’s enough!”

Delighted with himself, he sat back down to taste his independence. Mom turned back to her youngest, who had not, in fact, spilled any water. Just as she sat again, the hygienist came out and called one of their names. She heaved a deep sigh, gathered first one child, then the next. She took the now-empty paper cones and threw them out as they all trooped into the back together, Mr. 6 clutching Johnny Bear in one arm.

Nope, I thought, I don’t think I miss those days that much after all.