Our Book?

One evening after finally getting my own two children to bed I picked up my phone to check my work email. I quickly looked through the names of the senders before I decided which one I wanted to open first. I recognized a name I don’t often see in my inbox. A student from last year. I was fortunate to have her in my class in third grade, and again in fifth grade. She was a student you would not forget, even if you just had her once. She is now a middle schooler and I miss having her in my classroom.

Excitedly I opened the email. She has written a few times to keep in touch, also sending me a few stories she had written. I expected this email would be the same but I was wrong. She started by saying, “Did you know that other classes read The Thief of Always last year?” I did know. It went with our last unit of study in reading in fifth grade, fantasy. She went on to say that other students were talking about the conversations they had in class about the characters, themes, and symbolism. It was her favorite read aloud of the year, and it was also for many others. The students were continuing to have discussions about the book comparing it to the book they were reading now.

I was taken aback. At first, I was worried she thought I lead her to believe that our class was the only class that read this book. I reread the email and it wasn’t disappointment that she felt, she was surprised that so many had similar experiences in their fifth grade classrooms last spring. She just wanted me to know that many students cherished that time during read aloud.

I smiled to myself and thought how grateful I was that our district of fifth grade teachers gave that to our students. That our students carry those conversations and the love of books with them when they leave us and move onto middle school. Often times when they go to sixth grade I am left wondering if I served my students well. Did I teach them what they would need for the next step? On this particular evening, I was made aware that we all did.

Always a Hero

Every Friday I treat myself to a cup of coffee from a local bagel shop in my town. I love walking in at my normal time of 6:30 am because of the people I see there. A lot of the times there are teachers just like me getting their celebratory Friday caffeine for their commute into work. There are also many towns people picking up their coffee and breakfast for the long day ahead. I love this bagel shop. I feel at home there and enjoying starting my day with all the other customers that jingle the bell above the door.

This past Friday as I was getting my coffee I noticed a man in his late 60’s pouring his 20 ounce cup up to the brim. I raised my head to say good morning when I saw he was wearing a cap that stated, ‘Vietnam Vet.’ I recognized this cap immediately. My father wears the same hat everywhere he goes. The man reminded me of my father in his blue collar attire. Right down to his beard, light blue uniform jacket, and perfectly worn work boots.

Growing up in the 1970’s and 1980’s it was almost like a family secret that my dad served in Vietnam. He would of never worn a hat displaying his past. Even though my father is a decorated soldier, that earned the bronze star, we just did not talk about it. I remember my father telling me it was a different time and many people did not agree with the war, and because he went when he was drafted they were not too happy with him. When I asked how he earned his many medals that I would hold in my hand, he simply would reply, “It’s not important.” During that time I did witness how Vietnam vets were portrayed in TV and movies. It was not always flattering. Unlike, how the soldiers from the ‘Greatest Generation’ were viewed as heroes for fighting in WWII.

Now that my father wears his cap, I have seen people walk across a room to thank him for his service. I watch how humble he is when he replies, “You’re welcome,” or “It was nothing. Just serving my country.” I try to return that recognition to anyone I see wearing a similar hat. After I said good morning to the man at the coffee counter I added, “Thank you for your service. My father is also a Vietnam vet.”

The man looks up and says, “Oh yeah. When was he there?”

“I think it was 1969 to 1971.”

He gives me a half smile, “Those were the same years I was there. But I was no hero. I just was a med tech working in a hospital. I never did anything your dad probably did.”

This surprised me. My father was in a military hospital during the war. It was for malaria, however in resent years he has shared the horrors he witnessed while he recovered from his illness. The devastating wounds and brutality that the soldiers suffered due to the battles they were in. Standing right in front of me was a man that was there with those soldiers, helping them heal. He must of been around 20 years old at the time. He was only just coming out of his childhood years. His innocence must of been shattered.

He started toward the door. As his hand touched the handle I felt an almost frantic need to say something. I blurted out, “You are a hero. You always were.” He stopped in his tracks, he bowed his head, and raised his hand holding the small white paper bag that contained his breakfast to acknowledge my words. Then the bell chimed and he walked out the door.


Fear captures my boy taking his hope,

At times he cannot find the light,

Overthinking his every move,

Every thought.

Wanting to control his doubt, but worry steers him in other directions.

But he is a fighter.

He finds his stride, overcoming one fear at a time.

He stares out the car window, pondering about his achievements,

His voice reaches me through my own thoughts.

“I am proud of myself today.”

I hear the delight in his tone.

I watch as a smile takes over his face.

I sense his peace.

And because of this, I am encapsulated by bliss.

A Letter to My New Students

Dear Class of 2019-2020,

I have so many thoughts as I sit here now writing this letter to you. I really don’t know where to begin. I bet some of you can relate to that during Writer’s Workshop. I am human too and get stuck sometimes. At this moment we haven’t met yet, but will soon. I am excited to be your new teacher. This is not just lip service, I love teaching. I can’t imagine doing anything else. I have tried to imagine other professions yet I always come back to being an educator.

I have to admit, I am also nervous. I always am at the start of the school year. I have all these goals and ideas I want to share and experience with you. I hope I will be able to accomplish them. I worry you will not enjoy our time together. I even worry if you will like me. I know that seems silly that a grown up that has taught as long as I have would worry about that, but I do. Sometimes these type of thoughts keep me up at night.

I also wish I am the teacher that you need at this moment in your life. The most important thing to me is to build a relationship with you. I want the best for you. My dream is for you to have the best education you deserve under me. I am a planner and I have lots of plans for the year. I look forward on going on this journey with you. I want to have respect between us and have open communication. With that, we need trust which is the bedrock to a healthy relationship.

I know at times it may seem I am pushing you or asking you to try something that you may feel you cannot do. You might think I am mean, not understanding, or driven by work production. It may seem that way but when I do, please remember it is because I believe in you when you may not believe in yourself. I hope you will trust me enough to push your thinking, your ideas, and abilities. I want you to share them with the world. I really want to learn from you and I know the world is a better place because you are here.

I truly feel privileged to be your teacher this year. We don’t know each other yet but I am lucky you are about to come into my life. I look forward to building a relationship with each one of you and learning with you. I hope we can accept each other as we are and have a fantastic 2019-2020 school year.

Your teacher,

Mrs. D’Alessandro

Double Digits

Smiling faces. A single candle in a chocolate soufflé. My son looks around the table in the restaurant his uncle made reservations for this special day as we sing ‘Happy Birthday.’ He looks pleasantly amused, but a bit awkward. He does not like to be the center of attention and the setting of the five star restaurant is a little outside his comfort level.

It was such a different setting than it was ten years ago. It was a cold operating room where I longed to hear his first cries. It took a moment, but he weakly let the world know he arrived. He spent time in the NICU. It nearly broke my heart to know I couldn’t hold my baby whenever I wanted-the baby that I hoped for but had to wait years for until the day I could call myself a mother.

I remember a nurse coming in to my hospital room while I was crying about him being ill. She came close to me and said, “This is just one part of his story. In ten years his story will have so much more, and ten years after that, and ten after that and so on. Just remember that you are lucky to be a part his story and he is luck to part of yours. On his tenth birthday have a celebration about his life, and both of you eat whatever you want.” I smiled through tears back at her. It was a nice thought, however I couldn’t appreciate her words until years later.

Thanks to my son’s uncle, my son and I did have a celebration. Yes, it was his tenth birthday, but it was also the tenth anniversary of me being a mom. My son and I got to eat at an upscale restaurant. He was allowed to drink soda from a fancy glass. We ate what we wanted, filet mignon and chocolate soufflé. We enjoyed our time with family. It was just one part of our story, and I am ever so grateful everyday for our stories to be intertwined.

Summer Teeth

Last summer my then five year old was thrilled to learn from her dentist that one of front teeth was slightly loose. She bounced out of the dentist’s chair exclaiming, “I have a wiggly tooth!” As she skipped to the car her eyes danced at the thought of losing a tooth. She proceeded to list all the children she knew that had lost a tooth. Her admiration for these peers could be heard in her voice. Her name was finally going to be on this list.

Weeks turned into months and months turned into a year and her tooth never fell out. Even once in a while she would have me test the wiggliness of the tooth. To her delight the determined tooth was getting looser, but it held on. She continued to wait until the day she would hold her tooth in her hand.

That day did come. We were visiting family in New Hampshire, and while playing with her cousins she fell off a chair. In an attempt to get up quickly she bumped her mouth on the leg of the chair. She held her hand to her lips and when she opened them her tooth fell in her palm. A celebration soon ensued. Then later that day in the heat of a water balloon fight she came running over to show me another tooth dangling from her gum. It too came out moments later. Two teeth in one day. My family and I thought it must be a record. My daughter felt very accomplished.

When we got home a few days later she lost two more teeth. That made four teeth in a week. My daughter was thrilled, but as her mom I felt a bit of nostalgia of watching those teeth come in when she was a baby. I was watching Willow’s gappy smile and my nine year old son must have felt that I was time traveling. He looks at me and said, “Willow has summer teeth.” I gave him an inquisitive look. He sighed and replied, “You know, some are there and some are not.” Summer teeth.” I turned to look over at Willow’s smile again. I could not have said it better myself.

Belly Buddies

The sun came down on my son, Caiden, and his friend A as they were playing catch with a football. Both still in the swimsuits after an evening swim, running through the yard. Every few throws one boy would chase the other and wrap their arms around him in an attempt to tackle him to the ground. They would crumble onto the grass giggling, then they would get up and do it all over again. I watched as they bodies turned into silhouettes as the stars made their appearance one by one. I loved their play, their laughter and their friendship of over ten years.

According to Caiden he has known A even before they were born. I can see why he believes this. A’s mother K and have been friends years before they were born. K and I were expecting both our boys around the same time. A is K’s fourth and Caiden is my first. K took me under her wing and welcomed me into motherhood. She gave me sage advice about what was ahead in my journey as a parent. Once a week during my pregnancy I would meet at K’s house with two other pregnant experienced mothers and we talked and listened, and learned belly dancing from K. It was a magical time and for that I will always be grateful to K.

In early July of 2009 A was born. He was a few weeks early, but beautiful and strong. He had a full mane of hair and the sweetest plump cheeks a child could have. I remember holding him for the first time in K’s backyard. I was over nine months along and I laid him across my very large belly and supported his legs and head with my arms. The moment I did, the little one still inside of me kicked upwards as to remind A he was still in there. I laughed as I saw A’s sleeping eyes open slightly from his soon to be friend. I remember telling Caiden this story when he was about four years old and he looked up at me and said, “That’s why A and me are ‘belly buddies.” A term he uses to this day.

Caiden was late and came six weeks later in August. He looked the total opposite than A. Still beautiful in his own way. He had little to no hair, big black eyes that seemed never to close, and a long lean body. However, Caiden’s and A’s souls were destined to come to Earth around the same time. The look of joy in each of their eyes when they see each other, their laughter over silly things, and the happiness of just being with each other warms my heart. They don’t see each other often, but when they do it is as if time hadn’t passed. For that I am internally grateful.