Secret talents?

So, I have this dream.  I hold out hope that I have secret talents that I don't yet know about, that I am secretly amazing at something and it's a complete mystery to me what it is.  It might be for something that exists that I haven't yet tried: badminton, robot-building, flying a helicopter.  Maybe my secret talent is in a sport or game, possibly one that hasn't been invented yet, like sky-dive speech-writing.  Or lawn-mower food preparation.  Perhaps blind-folded tree climbing.

When I try something new, I sometimes wonder: "Is this my secret talent?"

For over a year, I have been undergoing the certification process to become a consulting teacher for the Responsive Classroom.  With this certification, I will be able to teacher Responsive Classroom Level 1 to other educators.  As someone passionate about the Responsive Classroom approach, this has been a welcome and exciting challenge.  It is an intense and rigorous process involving a lot of being observed in one's own classroom practice, a lot of writing and reflecting, which then culminates in a lot of practice presenting to other adults.

Apart from being excited at the idea of becoming certified, in the back of my mind, I thought I might find my secret talent.  Armed with my homework and bags under my eyes (I'm a first time mom of an infant), I arrived at part one of our adult seminar in May, really raring to go.

During those busy three days, we learned a lot, read a lot, and had the opportunity to give a very short presentation.  We all left that seminar with a lot to read and a lot to prepare.  In part two of the seminar -- in July -- we had four presentations to give.

I spent a lot of my sleep-deprived hours at the end of June and beginning of July working and reworking my presentations.  I practiced on my 4 month old daughter, who thought I was quite funny.  I practiced in front of the mirror, which told me nothing.  I practiced in the shower, in which I sounded amazing (of course, I also sound amazing singing in the shower and you'll notice that I'm not a famous singer...).

I arrived at part two of our adult seminar in July, laden with binders and books and notecards and posters and markers, even painter's tape.  I was exhilarated and nervous, excited to see the other members of the seminar again.  It was great to be back together again, to catch up, to hear about how everyone's summer was going, to learn more about each other.  We also began our many presentations on Monday and Tuesday of that week.

As it turns out, presenting to adults is not my secret talent.  Alas.

I don't mean that I lack skills in teaching adults, but rather that I was not instantly and immediately a Master of All Skill.  In fact, I'm not even bad at it.  I'm just not quite as amazing as my secret fantasy had imagined.  After that realization, I had a bit of a mourning period.  It can be disappointing to discover one isn't quite as good at something as one had (secretly) hoped.

Once I got over the initial mourning period, the time I had with my coach was absolute gold to me.  In fact, I got so focused on being given the gift of feedback, of places to improve, that I almost didn't want to waste any of that valuable time on what was going well.  I remember feeling a little bit like: "Okay, cool.  Yes, okay, but FIX ME!  How else can I get better?"

This got me thinking about my students (as many things do), and I wondered if any of them have similar experiences.  Six year olds often jump into things with enthusiasm and gusto, for them it's about the process, the beginning.  They often lose steam partway through, or when they realize that something is hard.  For me, as their teacher, their coach, this can be a rich opportunity to reinforce their enthusiasm, to help them see what they are doing well in this new learning.  Maybe I can help them through any mourning period they might have so that they can then reapply themselves with the same enthusiasm I had when I realized that my new endeavor was as rich with opportunity for new learning as theirs is for them.

And as for me...?  Well, I've still yet to discover my secret talent...

work vs. fun...

Apparently this sitting outside and reading thing has become, well... a thing.

One night last week I was sitting outside after dinner, reading again, when my husband poked his head out of the window to see how I was doing. I held up my book and told him that it was still completely awesome, and that he should grab a book and come out and join me, but he said:

"I can't; I have to go upstairs and do a bit more for work."

"No!" I said. "No work! You're not allowed to do anything for work... um, I mean... only if it's fun!"

He laughed at me and I glared at him in mock-indignancy, "What??"

"I saw what you did there."

"What did I do?"

"You realized that you, too, were doing work, so you couldn't very well tell me not to..."

"I did nothing of the sort."

...



Yeah. Except I totally did.

In my defense, though, it was a really good teaching book that I was reading...

organized chaos...

When I was in high school my family owned and operated a restaurant. I worked various jobs at the restaurant over my years in high school and college, the most common being the front desk as a hostess (I can be quite charming at times).

On nights when the restaurant was busy, I often found myself highly stressed and not enjoying work all that much. It was too chaotic, too unpredictable.

My father, though? He loved it.

I distinctly remember making arrangements for several parties of two and four, sending another party to the lounge to wait for a table, escorting a party to their table and sending my father to seat another group. Back at the front desk, I took a moment to breathe, to look at the seating chart and do a bit of mental rearranging. I remember wishing I could fast forward through the next few hours so I wouldn't feel so stressed with seating and tables and numbers and checks and menus and organizing.

I remember looking up to see my father walking back from seating a party with his eyes shining and an enormous grin on his face.

"I love this shit!" he said to me in a voice full of pure happiness.

It was his place. And while I just tried to get through it, my father thrived on the chaos and unpredictability of nights like that.

In first grade today our Writing Workshop buzzed and hummed and twirled. We're finishing up non-fiction books about animals and my students have been getting ready to publish their stories on the computer. I'd signed out the laptop cart and set up eight laptops on tables, logged in and dropped the book templates into each student's folder so they could access it and start typing.

Eleven students worked on computers with various questions, excitement, and frustrations. Six children worked on the rug, trying to finish their own work for publication, while others were at tables around the room, doing the very same thing.

Computers froze, left arrow keys stopped working, papers were misplaced and exciting words were written. I probably walked a quarter mile during Writing Workshop today, moving from student to student, solving issues and having mini-conferences.

My hair fell out of it's clip and tickled my nose as I talked with one of my students who'd just finished typing her story. I looked around at the blissful chaos of my classroom and thought:

"I love this shit."


[Please pardon the profanity. I blame my father for the sentiment in the first place. I'm sure he'll take full responsibility. :) ]