I Stand Corrected

I'm thoughtful. I like to think I bring something to the table in all conversations. One of these things is a healthy sense of perspective.

You're so right! People say a lot. This is fine. I'd be lying if I didn't say it doesn't feel good to be validated.

But sometimes I'm wrong. When this happens I like to get to the acceptance phase as soon as possible. I like to come clean and admit that I'm wrong.

I'm going to be using this blog to write publicly about times where I stand corrected. When something comes up or I remember something from the past, I'll write about it and post it if it's not something that will get me in too much hot water.

This story begins at my kids' elementary school. I was there doing Class Parent stuff. I had one kindergarten kid and one first grader there.

I'd been asked by a teacher at the school to come in and help in her classroom. This teacher was not my kindergartner's teacher or my first grader's teacher. She needed some help filing homework papers.

Of course, I said yes to helping this teacher because the elementary school was a community. Also this teacher needed some help because her own class parent, co-class parent and class parent assistants had fallen down on the job.

The plan was for me to spend a period in there filing papers at her desk while she was out of the room. While she was on break, her class would have a period of art. When she came back, I would exit her room and then go to my Kindergartener's class to help serve the snack I prepared for the class. It was my turn to provide a healthy snack without added  sugar or hydrogenated oils.

I got myself settled into the teacher's chair. I lined up the papers, folders and labels. I started working on my task.

At the same time, an art teacher I'd never seen before entered the classroom. This was the first and last time I ever saw this art teacher. It may have been that she was a substitute art teacher. It may have been that she was a real art teacher but only lasted at this school for a few days. This happened sometimes. The third and final explanation is that the school could only afford a couple of days of art and this was one of them.

An older dad who was also a class parent made a beeline for me. I'd said hello to him a few minutes ago in the hallway.  He was assembling some shelves. The man was always busy.

I was on friendly terms with this older dad. We had a mutual respect for one another due to our respective work ethics. I'm not ashamed of hard work, he liked to say.

Sometimes he could be a bit of a pain in the neck. He could be rigid about how he thought things should be. Sometimes he made a big deal out of little things. I predicted that he was about to do this now.

He approached me with a sense of purpose and importance. Listen, he said. I wanted to catch you before the teacher got started. He took a quick glance at the art teacher.

That lady art teacher has a baby voice. He whispered urgently.

Now I've heard a lot of things from other parents at this school. Allegations of egregiously non-progressive teaching methods in a school that was supposed to be progressive. Someone who brought Frosted Flakes to snack. Someone else at the PA meeting who helped herself to an entire triangle of Brie thinking it was flan.

This was absolutely ridiculous and not worth talking about. I told the dad so much, using the nicest words I could.

He slammed his hand lightly on the desk. He really wanted my attention. He had this look like I'm saying this for your own good.

This room hasn't had a class parent in here for three weeks I say. I've got until next period to finish this filing. I look over at the clock.

Don't say I didn't warn you, he hissed. Then he exited the room to go back to the job he was working on before the petty concern came up. I went back to affixing labels on files, writing kids' names on them, and filing homework.

The art teacher cheerfully unpacked the art supplies from the big, artsy cloth bags she'd brought in. The class eyed her. Some of the kids seemed eager to begin an art project. But many of the kids prepared to test this teacher. That is what they always did whenever the regular teacher was out of the room.

The art teacher addressed the class. Can I have your attention please?

I could feel the blood draining from my head. To say that this teacher had a baby voice was a gross understatement. The teacher had an extreme baby voice.

Excuse my language. This shit was intense.

Once the art teacher got talking to the class, she was really on a roll. Just as I felt I had adjusted to the baby voice, it’d startle me again. I wondered if there was such a thing as a voice disability. Baby voice disorder or whatnot.

This teacher deserved compassion.

It was hard to know where to look. I didn't want to look at the teacher. I didn't want to look at the kids. I didn't want to look at the homework files. I settled on looking out the window. I needed to gather myself.

Then the older dad found another excuse to come in. He and I locked eyes. He saw the look on my face. He gave me a look that said I told you so.

I knew he was right. He knew he was right. I knew he knew he was right. He knew that I knew he was right.

At that point, in a gesture of quiet surrender, I put my head down on the desk. I had no more fight left. I left it there even after the older dad left.

Soon, the regular teacher came back. The class was in bedlam. She clapped three times and applied some expert management techniques. I learned from my kids' teachers that this was called bringing the class back.

Once the class had a semblance of control, she approached me. How were they while I was out? She asked. Pretty terrible, I said truthfully.

The teacher took a deep breath. Do you think it was because of the baby voice? She asked. I mulled that over for a moment. I don't think so. I said. The kids are always like this whenever their classroom teacher is out. It could be a substitute, it could be an enrichment teacher, it could be a lunch aide. Every class in the school is like this, I added so she wouldn't think it was just her class. Because between you and me, it wasn't just her class.

I then went to the other classroom to help serve snack. If I had longer, I could have elaborated. I could have told her that while the baby voice certainly didn't help the kids behave, it wasn't the baby voice's fault. I could have said a lot more about why this happened. But I didn't. I didn't have all day.

The School Uniform

This morning I was doing the laundry. It was a day like so many others. Sort. Load. Dry. Along with everything else I had several of Noah's school uniform pants and cardigans to wash. Except for the fact that this was the last time I'd be washing and drying these particular clothes, there is nothing remarkable to report.

I didn't wake up today thinking I was going to write about this. To be honest, I was going to write about something else.

But washing and drying Noah's school uniforms for the last time got me into a particular mood that seemed to dominate everything else there is to say. So I'm going with this topic today.

Three years ago, Noah and I took a tour of the school that would eventually become his middle school. The assistant principal led the tour. Here at MS324, we dress for success, she said.

Noah and I both loved this school. The science room was full of small animals in tanks and cages. Noah almost refused to leave that room during the tour. It was a warm and welcoming place. There were things that impressed Noah. There were things that as a mother made me feel secure and comfortable.

After Noah was officially matched with this school, they had an orientation for new families. That is where we learned the particulars of dressing for success. If you are a boy at MS324, this means a white button down shirt, navy blue pants, a black belt, and a navy buttoned cardigan. You needed to wear dark socks and shoes, except on gym days, when you were allowed to wear sneakers.

Noah had never worn anything remotely like this in his entire life.

Everyone has personal preferences when it comes to fabrics and clothes. Noah has always had preferences too.  I noticed early on, that he had stronger likes and dislikes than most other people.

There was no uniform policy at his elementary school. Noah dressed for comfort. He liked soft or silky things to wear. Before he could wear anything, I had to wash it first, which made hand me downs from cousins especially appealing. He wore a lot of soft cotton, velour, fluffy sweatpants and silky athletic wear.

So the summer before middle school I set about researching clothes that fit the requirements. I knew that I would not be buying Noah's school uniform pieces from Target. When I checked them out, I noticed that the fabrics there were very scratchy.

Part of my job as a parent is figuring out what to throw money at and what to economize on. My children have attended public school and except for the supply list, this is largely free of charge. However, I would need to find a uniform for Noah that would not drive him crazy. In other words, I might have to purchase some very expensive school clothes for him.

I started my mission in July. I approached it with a firm plan. I'd done my research. I spoke with customer service representatives from several different stores. I asked them about colors, weaves and thread counts.

Plan A, was to order two different styles of white button down shirts from Land's End. Same with the pants and the cardigans. This was not the cheapest option. But it wasn't the most expensive either.

If Noah could accept any of the choices from Land's End, then that would be our answer. I would then order four more of everything. But if Noah reacted very badly to these clothes, I had another idea up my sleeve.

Plan B would be to take Noah to Brooks Brothers. This was clearly the most pricey but most refined option. And if wearing navy pants and a white shirt would set my son up for success at his new school, it stood to reason that sending him there outfitted in clothes fit for a rich CEO might be dressing him for extra success.

When the shipment came from Lands End, I helped him try on variations on all of the elements. Noah had clear preferences. But it appeared that Noah would be able to tolerate these mid-priced fabrics.

But that wasn't the end of it. Just because Noah could tolerate this uniform didn't mean he was used to it. By the time Noah started school, he needed to be absolutely comfortable in the uniform. There would be many new things to get used to at MS324. The uniform needed to be a non- issue.

I washed all of the uniforms I'd ordered. I asked my mom for advice on fabric softening. She's also the one who turned me on to OxyClean. I was wondering what I was ever going to do about my 10-year-old rough and tumble kid wearing a white shirt.

I then set about acclimating Noah to the uniform without upsetting him. The first day, he wore it for 20 minutes. We quickly worked up to an hour. Then, eventually he was comfortable in it for an entire day.

I had Noah play and lead his normal life in the uniform. This included gaming at the computer, eating pizza, lying around reading and running around outside. I didn't worry about how dirty the uniform got. Boys need to get dirty. Also, my mother had given me stellar advice about washing these clothes.

My mother irons everything. But she did have a trick she shared with me. She said that if you take clothes right out of the dryer, and put them right on a hanger, they will look almost as good as if you ironed them.

For three years this is exactly what I did. For someone who has never had any great interest in fabric care, laundry or dressing for success, I have to say I really rose to the occasion. Noah was not only comfortable at school, he looked really put together. Everything was crisp, creased and clean.

He wore the exact same clothes for his entire time at MS324. When he wore through the knees of his pants, I ordered new ones. When he outgrew the clothes I ordered bigger versions of the same thing. There was a silver lining to all of this dressing for success. Noah is a person, who by and large, enjoys a great deal of consistency. He loves knowing what to expect. Having an extremely predictable set of clothes agreed with him very much.

The uniform was not the only thing that agreed with him at MS324. On the first day of school, Noah's 6th grade homeroom and math teacher walked him out at dismissal and said they'd had a beautiful day. I knew then and there that we had found the right school for him.

Noah has spent the last three years with amazing, inspiring teachers. He's soaked in a school culture that is structured but warm and has made many friends. He has maintained a straight A average. He's been kept safe. I've never once worried about dropping him off there. There are too many good things about this place to list here.

Recently, I set my sights on an 8th grade graduation outfit for Noah. I ordered a button down shirt and pants that are just like his school uniform, but in snazzier colors. I got him a silky tie. In deference to the idea that the other boys would be wearing jackets, I got him a cheap, plain one from Target. I figured I wasn't going to spend more than 25 dollars on something he'd only wear once.

It turns out that I was wrong about the jacket.

After some initial, mild complaints about the tie choking him, Noah enjoyed his formal attire more than I anticipated. As he strutted about, I noticed a new confidence and glimpses of the man he will turn into.

The graduation outfit seemed pretty transformative.

When it was time to go to prom, he insisted on the tie, as well as the jacket. For the first time, Noah was more into how he looked than how the fabric felt.

As Noah and I left together to meet his classmates at prom, he gave himself one last admiring glance in the mirror. Then he set out to conquer the world.

Noah will be starting 9th grade in the fall. The high school does not have a uniform policy. Come July, Noah and I will be discussing school clothes. I will ask him how he will want to dress. He can wear the casual clothes he wears on weekends. If he likes, he can dress up more and I'll be happy to order button down shirts, pants, ties, and a couple more jackets. Finally, he'll have the option of dressing for success the same way he has since 6th grade. In that case, I'll order new versions in bigger sizes. He's 13 and growing like a weed.

Binders

There are important things going on in my life. Chances are, every important thing has a file to represent it, and a place in my filing cabinet.

If something is extremely important to me, I create a binder for it. Once a subject has a dedicated binder, it is in the upper echelon of stuff I am working on. It is a level above the materials I house in the filing cabinet. It is Binder Worthy.

Binder Worthy means that the subject would benefit from an intensive Staples office supply treatment.

I have plastic translucent folders in a fetching palette of spring colors. I have dividers for different categories. I have clear plastic pages for display. I have zippered pouches that fit into the binders for small miscellany. I have labels and Sharpies. The act of creating and maintaining a binder is not only useful, but an exceedingly enjoyable experience for me.

I remember the moment it all started. It was at a middle school fair held at my kids' elementary school. I organized the whole thing.

I arranged for some parents whose children were successfully placed in good middle schools to come and talk to families. One of the parents was a smart and organized dad who managed to handle the placement of boy/girl twins. In NYC. In public middle school.

During his presentation, the savvy dad showed us a middle school binder he made. I'll never forget what he said. He recommended making a binder and carrying it around at all times. The reason, he said, was that one never knows when a middle school related opportunity could spontaneously arise.

I was hanging on his every word, and by the next day, I'd started that binder. That's what kicked this whole thing off. Now I have several active binders.

One of my current favorites is my apartment renovation inspiration binder. The first thing I want to mention is that I love the outside of the binder. It’s black, with a white Apple computer sticker affixed to it. The Apple sticker was lying around our desk for a long time. No one ever stuck it to the computer. One day, I slapped it on the binder. It makes for a visually compelling graphic statement.

At first this binder was for Noah's IEP. If you know Noah at all, a binder with an Apple logo front and center is extremely appropriate. Unfortunately, IEP records and materials soon made a larger binder necessary. I re-purposed it once Jeremy and I started talking about the apartment renovation.

Every time I see something inspiring for my apartment reno, I tear it out and display it in the binder. It is sort of like an analog version of Pinterest. It does not have the same sharing capacity. That said, I showed it to my mother the other day. She said that now that she's looked at my binder, she will send me things to put in there if she sees anything good.

I have another binder devoted to creative inspiration. This is a broad category and can include anything from clippings of art I love, to quotes, to articles. It is important that the act of leafing through the binder be an uplifting and highly aesthetic experience.

The high school binder is very active. It has helped me place both kids in an appropriate medical school program that fits their interests and needs. Did I just say medical school program? Sorry! I meant to say New York City Public High School.

Having a different color-coded section for each school with notes, brochures, and copies of application materials gives me a peaceful feeling. Once I'd completed the process for Hannah, I repurposed the binder for Noah, with all different schools, but the same beautiful colors.

The IEP binder I have for Noah is something I started when he was in 5th grade. This is a serious binder. It functions somewhat differently than the other ones.

For those of you who don't know the parlance, IEP stands for Individualized Education Program. Noah is a very interesting person. Like many interesting people, his skill sets are somewhat uneven. Some of his difficulties were causing learning and other issues in school.

The 5th grade IEP binder contained private evaluations I had done from occupational and speech and language therapists as well as a child psychologist. I had every phone call with the school documented and filed in there. I had examples of Noah's work, handwriting samples and copies of report cards with plummeting grades.

The school psychologist had a hissy fit when our guidance counselor said that I wanted to get Noah an IEP. I'd heard this song and dance before. Noah is very smart. This particular school did not traditionally like giving IEPs to students who were above grade level for reading and math.

I saw where this was headed and I wasn't having it. I'd been called into an impromptu meeting with the school psychologist and guidance counselor. I took my binder and plunked it on the desk with an audible thud. We exchanged pleasantries. I smiled. I never raised my voice.

I've stopped working so I can focus on my son, I said. I have all the time in the world to pursue this IEP. This is my full time job now. This binder is full of private evaluations. This binder goes where I go. I'm available 24/7 to pursue what's right for this child to have the support he needs going into middle school.

I leaned over. My son has ADHD. His mother most certainly does not, I said.

I had that IEP in short order and Noah is now a successful 8th grader at a different school, with a smaller IEP binder and the support he needs.

The recipe binder is my eldest one. It lacks a certain finesse that the newer ones have. I'm thinking of some new ideas to make it more efficient and attractive. I'm in no hurry because it’s functioning well. As binders go, it could be a lot worse.

The 5th Grade Table

When my kids were in 4th and 5th grades, I would volunteer at their school for lunch and recess duty.

I worked alongside the two lunch aides and the Physical Education teacher. I helped the kids open their ketchup packets, started their oranges and got lots of napkins for the spills. I also walked around the cafeteria. I was an extra set of eyes.

Then at recess, I walked around again. During quieter times, I might use a variety of non-verbal skills like context and body language to try figure out what the aide and the gym teacher were talking about in Spanish. Then they would apologize and start speaking English again. I told them not to worry about it. I liked it.

I admired the school aide very much. She came to the United States as an eighteen year old, not knowing a word of English. By the time I met her she was fluent, with a very rich vocabulary. She learned by doggedly reading the dictionary every day.

When things got rough, or a kid was seriously out of control, she would send me to get security. I'm a fast runner, particularly when there's some adrenaline on board.

Sometimes specific and pervasive problems would surface. They would cycle in and out. There was one week when the 5th graders were having a behavior problem.

The kids were allowed to talk in polite volumes during lunch. But then when the aide or the gym teacher did the Signal - three claps - they were supposed to quiet down. But the kids kept talking and talking. The cafeteria staff were at their wits end.

Every once in a while, the principal would put in an appearance. This principal was not a yeller. She had a lot of equanimity.  The worst thing she would do or say when she came down there would be to compare the 5th graders unfavorably to the kindergartners. The little kids were apparently excellent at calming down as soon as they heard the Signal.

Then she would go back to the other building. The school was split in two, and her office was several blocks away. That is a very long story.

I could see what she meant. But to me, it was an unfair, like comparing apples and oranges. I don't think that kindergarteners want to converse as much as 5th graders do. 5th graders are getting ready to be adolescents. They have more of a social drive.

The school aides and the gym teacher came up with a plan. They gave the kids assigned seats for lunch. They made sure that best friends and cliques were separated. Normally, the boys still sat with the boys and the girls still sat with the girls. The staff did as much boy - girl alternating as they could. It was imperfect because for whatever reason, the girls always outnumbered the boys at this school.

My daughter and her best friend approached me to say that this new system was unfair. They felt that a grave injustice had been committed against them personally because they always quieted down when they heard the Signal.

This is true. But I told them that they needed to listen to the Lunch Teachers. I was trying to cultivate the idea that not everything could be fair when you are in school. Sometimes you have to go along to get along.

On the first day of the new system, the 5th grade table was very quiet. The kids, bereft of their friends and social ties, were extremely well behaved.  They were quiet even before the Signal. The experiment went so well, that the aides mixed things up socially again the next day.

What they weren't counting on was the adaptability of children. The children would have liked to sit with their friends. If given the choice, they would never be sitting in these seats, next to these people.

But this is where they were sitting. They accepted their lot. If they couldn't sit with their friends, so be it. Once they got over the shock of the first day, they made the best of it.

They spoke indiscriminately to whoever was sitting next to them. On the second day of lunch the table was just as noisy as it was previously because the children became conversationally promiscuous.  They ignored the Signal in favor of their interesting new partner.

It might have been stretching it to think that they made new friends. But they could sit quietly or they could converse with their neighbor. They chose to talk to whoever was sitting there.

It reminded me a lot of this song that I liked in the 1970’s. It went like this: If you can't be with the one you love, then love the one you're with. Of course, the song was about something else. But you get the idea.