The Usual Chaos

Last year, I participated in National Novel Writing Month for the first time. I accepted a challenge and felt great excitement and pride initially. I wrote about it here . Then, like the big fish that got away from me recently, my novel got away too. Spit the hook and swam on. Since, it has haunted me. Like the ghouls and goblins of Halloween night. I think about it frequently, working through the plot inside my mind, always hitting the same pothole. I recall the rush of writing and the spill of words, my fingertips dancing across my laptop's keyboard. This was a thrill I've not known before, and now, it calls me back. November is nagging my brain as October winds down. But I think I've decided I won't let it nag any longer. I'm going to jump back into #NaNoWriMo regardless. Even if it's hard. Even if I miss a day or two. No matter. Because I want to feel that rush again. I want to play with words and language and verse (yup, currently in verse! who knew?).

Last weekend, I went fishing with my dad. I packed the kids in my silver mommy van, waded through the 5 o'clock Friday traffic, and arrived at Lake Fork in time to meet Dad coming off the water. He'd found the "honey hole" and snagged two - one over six pounds, the other over seven! He knew where to take us the following day. Saturday, he took out Ian, my ten year old, first at six AM. Ian going out for his first official early morning bass fishing with Pops is enough to melt my daddy's girl heart, and as expected, they had a blast. After they came in for lunch, Emily, my seven year old, and I crawled into the boat with Ian and my dad, and we returned to Lake Fork, the Big Bass Capital of Texas for another round.  Initially, we cruised around in the hot Texas October sun. We found solace in the shade of an old bridge. We "wet a hook" as Dad would say but, sadly, with no luck. Then, evening hit. Fishing frenzy time. Dad returned to the "honey h

80/20 60/40 50/50 40/60 20/80 No, it's not the amount of fat in my ground beef or the decline of my eyesight. It's the evolution of my teaching, twenty years in the making.  In the beginning, I controlled 80% of our class time, and my students controlled 20%. I selected everything - their seats, their reads, their pen color. I designed calendars where students connected dots A to B to C easily because I only allowed them to look toward the next dot. Dot B was the only option after A, and I pointed the way. Forced the way, really. With time, I stepped back, adjusting the percentage numbers slightly. Students selected from some output options based on the texts I selected. They read in literature circles on a book or two I provided. They still moved from point A to only point B, but the path was more potato chip wavy than pretzel stick straight. Then, conversion. Metamorphosis. Revolution. Or finally finding myself and my teaching philosophy.  It. Was. Liberating.

One evening a few weeks ago, my almost 8 year old, Emily, was having a night. The scream, pout, tantrum kind of night. Drama was high, and I was doing my best to remain calm and avoid an explosion of anger or a fit of giggles. I'm about 50/50 when it comes to kid fights. I can never predict if I'll react in yelling or laughing. Anyway, this particular incident dealt with toothbrushing. I have come to believe that brushing one's teeth - at least at elementary age - must be akin to chewing shiny metal thumbtacks. Hearing my children protest, one may conclude that I torture them frequently with the help of Crest and Oral-B. This night was no different. Emily was NOT going to brush her teeth no matter what I suggested. Typically, she puts the paste on her brush, clicks two minutes into the timer, and off she goes. But not that night.  Her protests grew, her voice reaching higher and higher octaves as her eyes bulged and her face sizzled. She slammed her bedroom door. She th