This morning I received an email from Twitter reminding me that I have not taken the time to login for awhile. Since it has been my first few days of summer I have been neglecting social media. Curiosity did get the best of me and I opened the email. I saw that @TeachWrite EDU the Word of the Day is ‘miss.’ A flash of memories ran through my mind on all the little things I forgot I missed about summer break.

Last Sunday seems like decades ago. I sat for hours going over the speech I was going to give my fifth graders at their Moving Up ceremony. I would give this speech in front of them, their families, and some of my colleagues. I dislike speaking to large crowds, to me that is 25 people and above, so as each hour went by the butterflies in my stomach became more frantic. I wanted to deliver my speech to my students and make them proud. I wanted to convey to them how proud I was of them, all without crying uncontrollably so they could understand the words I was saying. I went to bed, as I do every Sunday night, with a mental list of to-dos wondering if I could get it all done in the short time frame that I had. A side effect of this is I do a lot of tossing and turning instead of sleeping.

This Sunday I forgot that I missed a Sunday with no school to-dos. I was completely relaxed as we had family over for dinner. I have to admit at first it was uncomfortable not having a ton of things on my mind. I had to remind myself that I could take a breath and just take in the moment. I forgot that I missed listening to my loved ones without worrying about what time it was. I listened and watched as my daughter talked about finding a ladybug so she could pet it. I forgot that I missed cooking a meal without any shortcuts. Savoring the process and watching the enjoyment of my family eating it. I forgot how I missed watching the sunlight find its way to the forest floor, watching it dance as the wind blew through the leaves above.

I also forget how hard it is missing my students. Remembering that they won’t be in my classroom when I return in August and moving on to middle school saddens me. I will miss their stories, their energy, and the community we created together. I have trust in the middle school teachers they will get to know. My students will learn more and continue to grow, and I am going to miss seeing it. This is the cycle for a classroom teacher. Sometimes I wonder why I keep doing it. Every year, getting your heart broken a little bit. But, I wouldn’t have any other way. Just think of all the things I would miss.

From the outside, this past Wednesday morning was like no other. An alarm woke me up for a day of work, I followed my morning routine, and I went to wake my children for school. One thing was different. It was the last day of school for my two children.

It was a special school year for our family. My son started public school for the first time for fourth grade. He learned to pick out his own clothes because there was no uniform. He went from a class of 16 to 25, he changed classrooms for each subject, dealt with a bullying situation, and he made over a years growth in reading because he got the support he needed. He rose from his bed and stopped half way out of his bedroom. He turned to me with tears in his eyes and said, “I am going to miss my teachers. I am never going to have them again.” I wrapped my arms around him, kissed him on top of his head, and whispered words of encouragement. He slowly headed downstairs to eat breakfast, his eyes cast downward.

I then go to wake my daughter, but she has beaten me to it. She is sitting up in bed with a big smile on her face. Suddenly, she looks so much older. She is no longer the little five year old I sent to Kindergarten all those months ago. She learned to read, she even explained what a digraph is to her father the night before. She writes fiction and nonfiction pieces. She asked me if I would help her research more about rocks to put in her piece. She not only grew taller, she grew into a student who loves to learn.

I don’t even get two steps into her room when she jumps up on her bed and shouts, “After school I am going to be a grader! No more Kindergarten for me!” I stop and look at her. She is my youngest, my baby. All of a sudden, the thought of first grade sounds so mature to me. Having a Kindergartner still made me feel like my child was very small, even though I know how much they learn during this year. My mother’s heart ached just a bit knowing my baby is growing up faster than my heart will allow. I scooped Willow up in my arms and she gives me a tight squeeze. I felt tear welling up in my eyes. I then look at her hoping to find the words to express how proud I am of her, to let her know how much I love her, and I know she going to do fantastic in first grade. Before I could find my voice she grabs my face with her little hands and says sweetly, “I have to pee so bad. I need down.” She sprints to the bathroom and I am left in her room alone, giggling.

My lunch was over so I walked to the cafeteria to pick up my students. As I entered I was surprised to watch my students line up as quick as possible. Then I realized that since we have the last lunch of the school day the spring fever that has infected many of my students caused them to be in a rush. I lend over to tell one of my colleagues something, suddenly one of my boys steps out of line in annoyance. He looks up at me with urgency, “Mrs. D, we need to hurry we have writing next.” In amazement, I turn on my heels and lead my students out into the hall. They remained relatively quietly, without reminders as we walked to our classroom. This is a rarity.

The only words that were uttered in the hallway were about our writing workshop on this random Thursday afternoon. I looked at my line of students and they talked about their writing plan, characters they awaited to develop, quests they imaged for their heroes, and the lessons they wanted to teach their readers. I started to become as excited as my students about writing workshop. My class galloped up the stairs, leaving me a few steps behind. As R passed me she said, “Thank you for fitting in writing today, Mrs. D’Alessandro.” I was so appreciative of that statement, because of the multiple standardized tests, field trips, assemblies, and being pulled away from the class for meetings, has done a number on our teaching and learning time the past few weeks.

As I turned the corner and walked into our classroom, all the students were waiting for me on the rug. They all turned to look at me and one student spoke out. “Please, put your lunchbox away later. Let’s do the mini lesson. I just want to write.” I obeyed and dropped everything on my desk, and took my chair next to the easel and away we went. During the mini lesson I realized my students took in so much of what Jess Carey and I taught them this year. Their conversations exceeded my expectations, they tied in lessons throughout the year from both reading and writing workshop. I was a sponge absorbing their knowledge, realizing they did not need me anymore. A solemn, but wonderful feeling.

I spent the rest of the workshop conferring with my students, listening to them share, and just watching them write. While I conferred with a student he explained his piece. “This is a story I would want to read. Like you said. It’s like, I am playing with the character. Like, making him better. It’s cool.” With a little more than two weeks of school left my students did not look at writing workshop as work, but as a time to create. On this random Thursday afternoon, my students made me the proudest teacher ever.

I am a planner by nature. I am constantly thinking about what is coming and sometimes forget to live in the moment. The last weeks of school is when my planning goes into full force. I feel there is so much to do, and there is a definite deadline to complete all the tasks. This school year will not go on for ever. During this long weekend I brought plenty of work home to complete. I planned when, what order, and even where I was going to complete these tasks. It makes me feel like I have control over everything on my to-do list.

On Sunday morning, the sun was perfecting streaming in through the trees. My backyard looked like a paradise. The grass was green and lush. Flowers were blooming in hues of pink and purple. The brilliant blue sky felt like an old friend I had not seen in awhile. The best part was the air that blew past me was warm with the sweet scents of summer. This day in May was like a preview to what is come, and I couldn’t wait. I made the decision to put away all my school work and do it all on Monday. My thought was we had an extra day for reason, and I always pad my schedule. I would just double up the next day and seize the day today.

Choosing to break away from my planning at first felt freeing. I was going to enjoy the sunshine and spend time in my yard, sit in my sun room, swing on the swings with my daughter, and sit and actually not try not to plan anything. However, I had a plan for seizing the day. Then something happened half way through the day, I did not know what to do with myself. I became antsy. I realized it was because I was not filling every moment of my day with something to do. It was an uncomfortable feeling for me. I was completely out of my comfort zone.

My thoughts raced with things I could be doing. I let the moment pass and looked up at the welcoming blue sky, and felt reassured that choosing procrastination today was a good choice. I just hoped I would not be annoyed at myself on Monday, but what did it matter? That was a worry for another day.

I’m thankful to be married to a school psychologist because he gets my end of the year jitters. Unlike some of people I know that think educators coast the last two months of school year, he knows the truth. Standing in our kitchen on Saturday morning before our children woke up we were comparing notes of all that we needed to do in ours schools before the school year ended. Our lists went on and on. We both were feeling overwhelmed by both work and our children’s schedules that morning. I often feel the end of the school year feels as if it is on fast forward, and I am moving at a snail’s pace.

During this end of year conversation with my husband, Jim was trying to put batteries in a new gadget we bought to help in training our dog. He finally found the mini screwdriver to open the panel to put in the batteries. He opened the drawer where we keep our AAA batteries, and laughs sarcastically. “That’s my life right now. Finding three batteries when I need four.” I got what he was saying, since I tend to be a pessimist. He however, tends to be the glass half full type of person. I was a bit surprised by his comment, but the end of the school year does strange things to people.

We went about out Saturday morning, coaching and attending soccer games, meeting the new neighbors, running numerous errands and making lunch for our two picky eaters. In the afternoon we planned to go to the carnival held by our church. It is a fund raising event, so we felt obligated to go. We felt we had so many other things to do for work and for our home. To say the least, Jim and I did not leave the house in a carnival mood.

When we arrived at the carnival we found a parking spot right away. I thought, well that was lucky. Since, the area was teeming with people. As we walked to the fair grounds we were met by friends happy to see us. They were waiting for us, even though I texted we would be an hour late. As we walked around, we were greeted by others we haven’t seen in months because of our cold wet winter. It felt like one reunion after another. I noticed Jim and I were smiling more, even laughing. We watched our children and their friends enjoying the rides and games, joked with the parents of our children’s friends, which assisted in forming more friendships of our own.

Time passed and it was time to leave. Jim, myself and the kids trudged to our car carrying our bounty of useless prizes. We buckles our seat belts and looked at each other with tired smiles. We may only have three batteries when he need four, but it was plenty. We have each other. We just needed to walk away from the to-do list for a moment to remember that.

It was the afternoon of our fourth day of state testing. In addition to state testing, our fifth graders have another standardized test in Spanish for the first time in the coming weeks. It was the last period of the day, I was working at my desk as our Spanish teacher was helping our students get ready for this test. Every once in awhile I would look up at my class as the students reviewed. Then I noticed one of my boys pull away from the group. I causally walked by him to see why he was sitting away from the others. As I did, I noticed he was upset. I signaled to the Spanish teacher, who I have worked with for over a decade. She immediately went to him. Speaking in soft tones, reassuring him that he only had to try. Our student moved to the back of the room. I gave him a few moments, and checked in on him. When I approached he was sobbing, trying to hide his face. I sat next to him and I could tell he felt my presence. He didn’t look at me but he said, “I don’t know if I can try any more.”

In an instant, I felt his pain. We have been preparing for testing, in reality all year. We all knew it was coming. However, the past two weeks we had a unit of study on the state test. I tried to pass the unit off as a short text unit, but they knew. I tried to reassure my students throughout the progress. I reviewed everything we did. I tried to make it fun. But, the moment I saw D’s tears I felt like a failure. My denial that the test was not going to affect our class too much, vanished in an instant. I was feeling the same way he was. All the testing was taking a toll on me too. I told D how I understood his emotions. I told him I wanted to help. I told him I wanted to make the end of year as fun and fulfilling as possible for him and his classmates. He never looked at me. Then I wondered if I was saying these things for him or for me.

When the bell rang and the students got on their buses. My heart was heavy. I felt confident that I did my best to prepare my students academically for the state test, but did I prepare them emotionally? That afternoon I left my school with a heavy heart, wondering if I truly took care of my students. I know I taught them what they needed to know for the test, but did I get them ready for the endurance of the week long test? Plus, the three more standardized tests that were coming in the last few weeks of school? I couldn’t sleep that night, reliving D’s tears and his hearing his words echoing in my ears.

The next day was Friday, but it didn’t feel like Friday. My heavy heart followed me into school. I tried my best for my students not to see. I am not a good actress, so I was worried. My class got through the morning. They helped guide me through the morning with their energy and conversation about their weekend plans. When we were in the middle of the test, I took a sip of my water bottle. In that moment, I realized I swallowed the wrong way. I felt a cough attack building in my chest. I tried with all my might to stifle my cough. I didn’t want to break the silence and the concentration of my students. However, my body had other plans. I moved to the corner of the classroom where I uncontrollably began coughing into my elbow. All of a sudden D looks up and asks, “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. You can get back to your test.”

D looks me straight in eye and replied, “Oh, I’m doing fine. I just want to make sure you are okay.”

I nodded to reassure him. He returned my nod and got back to his test. Every once in awhile I did feel his gaze on me. I then realized, we were all taking care of each other. We were not going through this alone, we had each other. My heavy heart felt a whole lot lighter.

Wondering when it will happen.

When it will come.

When it will stop.

Waiting.

Looking at the horizon for the future.

Needing to looking down at the here and now.

Need to reflect on lessons just learned.

Need to understand that the future is not a guarantee.

Need to stop and be grateful for this moment in time.

Need to see the present as the gift that it is.

I look for silence, but it is always beyond my grasp.

It is as if I am surrounded by a labyrinth of sound and I am endlessly seeking the end of the maze that will set me free.

If I would find it, I would have peace, a moment to reflect, a moment to be still.

When I do find a quiet place in time, I want to hold on to it, breath it in.

But then my mind finds sounds of it’s own.

Reminding me of the things I should do,

Stopping by memories long forgotten, reliving times that I wish would vanish.

The silence is gone, and I realize I cannot own silence.

It own itself.

When I am lucky, I get to borrow it for awhile. If only I will allow it.

In the dead of the night, rooms are filled with flashes of light.

For a moment it appears to be midday.

Familiar objects around the room take in the light, wishing the sun would rise and shine through the room.

Seconds later the booming sound of thunder shakes the house.

Her bright eyes pop open, and then the fear takes over.

In her six years, thunder has always been a terrifying event.

In her hectic state she dashed to her brother’s room,

She dodges the sound of thunder as she runs down the hall.

She leaps on her brother, and once again confides to him about her fear.

He cuddles her and teaches her to count the seconds between the lightning and thunder,

To wash away her distress.

She takes in his nine year old wisdom, and falls asleep in his arms.

Willow’s first friend

Has deep dark eyes, that look at her with love,

Most of the time.

He loves to run and shout for joy,

Willow filled with laughter gallops after him,

Because he’s her first friend.

He reads, she follows along.

He jumps, she leaps.

He cries, she kisses him.

Because he’s her first friend.