Returning to Sandy Hook

My thoughts have often returned to the events of Sandy Hook over the past two months.  It is something I know I will never forget.  It has touched me and changed me.


On Friday, we were in the middle of a teacher workday at our school.  The children had the day off so teachers could finish entering trimester grades into the computer and then export them to the server to be printed.  It's the type of "catch-up day" we treasure as elementary teachers. 


This normal day suddenly became anything but normal when our principal came on the loudspeaker shouting "Code Red!  Code Red!  Code Red!"  This is our lock down signal, so we immediately sprang into action.  Our doors are always locked now, but we had to make sure they were tightly closed, turn off all lights, and go to our safe places in the classroom.  Then silence.  For twenty long minutes there was not a sound.  We didn't know what was going on.  Had an irate parent arrived at the school and caused a scene?  Was there a felon in the area?  What was going on? 

Then we heard the running of feet on the second floor.  This is not an area we are used to hearing noise from.  It is our main storage area and the location of all the "mechanical" devices keeping our school going.  But now we heard the sound of running feet ... and then shouting.  Angry shouting.  Obviously there was an intruder in our building! 

More minutes passed, and then the sound of keys opening my door.  My heart froze.  Okay, they tell us that only the police will have the keys to our room.  Only they will be able to unlock our doors.  They tell us this ... but we know that sometimes the "bad guys" are able to do what they shouldn't be able to do.  Suddenly, my door was thrown open and two men stormed inside, each with an assault rifle held at the ready.  Each screaming.  One turned on me and started shouting - "Hands up!  Hands up!  Don't move!  Police!"  Your mind registers the uniform, but your heart quails - are you really who you say you are?"  The assault rifle was a foot from my chest.  The man continued to scream at me not to move.  The other officer was searching every nook and cranny of my room before yelling "All clear!"  They then turned and exited the room, going to the room next door where my 67 year-old teaching partner was.  "Oh God, please don't let her have a heart attack!"  I thought.  Once her room was cleared, she tried to come to my room and was screamed at and forced back into her room by an officer.

At this point, the thought hit me.  This is what the teachers and students at Sandy Hook faced.  They didn't know what was going on.  They were frightened.  Their last moments were lived facing down an assault rifle.  I thought of my family, my daughter, all I wanted to accomplish in my life.  There was no gunfire, but I was unsure what was going on.  My thought was that a felon had come into our school and they were searching for him.  What if he came into my now unlocked room?  (I was unaware that there were policemen securing the hallways to prevent this.)  I was afraid, as I knew they had been afraid.  That's when the silent sobs started.  My heart swelled and broke for the horror those teachers and children endured on that day.  I prayed that angels were there to comfort them and hold them through this.  Oh God, please tell me that You were there, holding them and loving them.  Slowly, my tears eased and a feeling of calm returned.  A sweet assurance came to me.  He was there.  Even in all that madness, He was there.  Love was there ... and in the face of all that horror, love won that day.  It continues to win each and every battle, for God is stronger than hate, and His love cannot be defeated. 


This trial ended for us when our principal finally came on the loudspeaker and announced that we were to report to the library for a debriefing on the drill.  I'm not going to go into my feelings regarding this "over-the-top" drill we experienced.  That's for another day.  Today I am thankful to be here and to be surrounded by my family, to sing praises to a God who loves us at our most unlovable, and to breathe the sweet, if tentative, air of springtime.  I am thankful for another day ... and I am thankful for the unconquerable power of love.  Even in the face of death, love remains.

Special Needs

As a teacher, I hear this term every day.  Often many times a day.  Today, it means something so much more than just a child who needs a great deal of help and a different approach in order to be successful.


Today I had a conversation with a dear friend of mine.  Four years ago, she and her husband adopted a special needs child.  They have become tireless advocates for their son.  It breaks my heart that they have to be.  They constantly have to fight with their local school to get him the help and care he needs.  Frankly, as an educator, I can tell you that they have the makings for the mother of all lawsuits.  Their child has been referred to as "a pain in the butt,"  "difficult to work with," and "a behavior problem" on documentation.  Yes, you may now reel in disbelief. 


They are something that this particular district hates - informed parents.  They know their rights.  They know their child's rights.  They try to work within the system, but the system in this district has failed them.  The special education staff has not only treated them with disrespect, they have determined to make it nearly impossible for this child and his family to be successful.  They call meetings and testing times with little to no warning and at ridiculous times.  Quite frankly, they do whatever they can to make things as hard as they can ... all the while denying this child the services he needs.


All this makes me sick.  I find it offensive and horrible and just plain nasty.  It has made me ashamed of the educators involved, for I know they know better.


Today, the story took on another turn.  This time involving a situation at church.  Their son has been ignored during the children's classes on Sunday.  He is allowed to do whatever he wants, so long as he is not disruptive.  He is not included in the lessons or activities.  This has weighed heavily on my friend's heart.  She knows that her son is capable of learning, and feels that he needs to learn about God and his Savior.  Toward that end, she and her husband requested that a helper be arranged to work with their son during class ... to help him to be more involved.  This request was granted, and the helper is excited about working with their son.  Wonderful, right?  Happy ending.


Unfortunately, it didn't end there.  Since their request, they have ostracized by many members of their congregation AND their church leadership.  What a blow!  For now, they are determined to stick things out, praying that this situation will improve and that people will come to accept their son.  For now.  If this does not occur, they are facing the prospect of leaving their church and finding somewhere else to worship.  They have been talking to other parents, and have found that this is not an isolated occurrence.


As a Christian, this has broken my heart.  How sad when we become hearers of the word, but not followers of the word.  This has helped me to see that my faith must be more than skin deep.  It must penetrate to the very center of my heart ... I cannot be satisfied to be a hearer, or a follower.  I must live the gospel with every breath I take.


This has also gotten me thinking about special needs.  So often we merely concentrate on the educational needs of the child.  It is really so much more.  A special needs child has needs on many levels ... acceptance, respect, the chance to be all that they can be in every facet of their life, including their spiritual life.  Plus, we must never forget that a special needs child has a family with special needs as well.  They are weary with the daily fight they must wage for their little one.  They need support, understanding, respect, and compassion.

I want to remember all this and engrave it on my heart

Getting Schooled by My Child

I am the mother of ballerina.  The last ten+ years of my life have been spent as a "Ballet Mom," which is a pretty far cry from a "Dance Mom" in my opinion.  Ballet is my daughter's passion.


This month she tried out for the summer intensive at Ballet West in Salt Lake City with two of her best friends from the studio.  The intensive is MUCH more popular this year due to the CW reality television show, "Breaking Pointe," which features the dancers of Ballet West.   The parents were concerned going in that it was going to be much harder to land a spot this year, but you support your children's dreams and hope for the best.


We braved winter weather and roads to get to the audition.  One of the girls, Mary, was suffering with tendinitis.  My daughter was sick with a nasty cold.  We worried.  Would they do well?  The auditions are closed, so we had no idea how things went.  All three girls felt they did well, their abilities falling in the middle of the pack.  They critiqued one another, and felt good about their chances.  We braved the roads a second time to go home, and then the waiting began.


On the 15th I received a phone call at the dance shop from one of the other moms.  I could barely hear her over the heartbroken sobbing of her daughter in the background.  Then I finally made out what she was saying - "The other girls made it, but Bailee didn't."  Punch in the gut.  Tears came to my eyes.  Mary was crying in sympathy for her best friend.  It touched my heart, and I felt felt terrible.  I knew how much Mary was depending on rooming with Bailee.  They'd made so many plans together!  I didn't want Mary's joy turned to sorrow this way.  Then a text came from Aleks - "I feel like a jerk!"  Their love for my daughter had trumped their success.  Not much like what you see on "Dance Moms" according to what I've been told. 


My thoughts turned to my daughter, too far away to gather into my arms and comfort.  Was she in tears?  She had class in less than an hour.  Could she face that?  My inner mama bear roared to the surface.  I don't have any illusions about my daughter's skills when it comes to ballet.  I've spent too many years working at the studio and seen too many dancers.  She was as good as Mary and Aleks.  What the heck?!  Even the studio owner was stunned.  She'd thought Bailee would be certain to get in.  Why had she been cut?  Size?  She's only 5'2" ... but Aleks is the same size.  Skill?  Mary swears she nailed every combination thrown at her immediately.  She danced as well as Mary had ever seen her dance.  Age?  She's 4 months older than Mary.  Then the ugly demon rears his head ... was it because she was Asian?  Man, I hate that mama bear!  She was so angry, so irrational!  My hands were shaking as I dialed our home phone number (raging about why my family had not IMMEDIATELY called me when the e-mail arrived).  And I found ...


Total acceptance.  My daughter was fine.  Happy for her friends, no bitterness, no tears, no drama.  Mama bear was at a loss.  "Are you okay baby?" Her answer blew me away:   "I'm fine with it.  God just decided that the answer was no.  There has to be a good reason, and I'm okay with that."  She bounced off to dance like it was any other day, determined to share her friends' success and let them know it was okay to be happy about making it, even if she didn't.   Um, how did I manage to raise a kid with faith like that?  Especially when I was struggling with accepting this verdict and tears were streaming down my face?


Later that night, we talked about it.  She admitted to having a bad, dark feeling after she got home from the audition.  It just didn't feel right anymore.  She hadn't wanted to say anything because we'd sacrificed so much to get her to the audition (including driving through a blizzard).  Now I wonder if the rejection didn't verify those feelings as coming from her Father.  "Not now little one.  You won't know why, but I know best.  For now, the answer is no.  I love you, and I'm guiding your life and protecting you." 


She's still fine.  Still happy.  Still supporting her friends as they prepare for their great adventure.  My inner mama bear still growls from time to time.  I want all her dreams to come true, but I also want the Lord to watch over her and keep her safe.  This time, mama bear can't have it both ways.  My daughter is schooling me about acceptance.  The lesson isn't coming easily, but I'm hoping that eventually I'll be able to just drive that bear away, dry the tears that still fall sometimes, and accept what my daughter already knows - God knows best, even when He says no.


She'll go to her usual summer intensive in Pocatello, and she'll have an opportunity to work with teachers from around the U.S.  She'll love every second of it, and love sharing the experience with Mary and Aleks.  When they head off to Salt Lake in July, we'll pursue something else for Bailee.  She'll still be dancing ... or at least will be when she isn't texting her best buddies in Salt Lake and cheering them on.  Maybe next year it will be an experience they'll be able to share.  God willing ...

Oh my ...

We're finding out just how nasty and contaigious norovirus is.  It's made it's way from one family member to another, and has even done some repeat business.  No fun!

New Year's Resolutions? Get Real!

Over the past couple of weeks I have found myself possessed by a growing spirit of rebellion.  I'm finding myself willing to throw several things "under the bus" so to speak.  For some reason, they do not seem to matter so much anymore. 


So, here comes the New Year and the resolutions everyone seems to assume that you will make (and eventually break, given human nature).  People inquire, as a matter of general conversation, "What are YOUR resolutions this year?" 


"Nothing."


Stunned silence.  Lifted eyebrows.  A disbelieving, "Nothing?"


Yuppers.  Nothing.  No resolutions here.  No lofty goals.  No magnificent aspirations.  Zip.  Nada.  Zero.


Oh, the horror!  No goals?  Inconceivable!  (Don't you just LOVE The Princess Bride?  I do.)


Am I committing to accomplishing nothing?  To making no growth?  To making no changes?  Apparently this is what many believe.  I may as well announce myself as a sluggard and bum in the eyes of some of my friends.  I seriously think one in particular thinks I am just short of joining the forces of Satan.  Doesn't matter.  No resolutions for me!  No goals.  No aspirations.


I should probably insert dramatic and ominous music here, as that's the response my admission is getting from my very goal oriented friends and acquaintances.  Sorry, my resolve (ironic ... isn't it) is firm.  I resolve not to resolve. 


For once I don't want to begin a new year with a check list in hand - a check list that will define me and control me, and eventually condemn me.  Don't wanna do it, so I am not.  I'm just going to move into 2013 a rudderless craft sure to end up broken on the threatening shores (according to my buds).  That's okay.  I don't need that list.  I know where I'm going and I know what I want.  This year I'm going to move ahead without that checklist.  I'm going to concentrate more on living my life than fulfilling a list of goals.  I came to the conclusion that checking things (and people) off on a list of goals and projects is NOT how I want to live my life.  I want to move forward this year choosing to do what is right because it is right.  I want to be consumed heart and soul by the choices I make regarding what I do and what I devote my time to.  Life isn't a checklist, and I don't want to be defined by one.

Happy New Year!

Sandy Hook Broke My Heart

I couldn't post before.  I just couldn't.  I have cried more in the last week than I have in the last five years.  My heart was absolutely ripped to pieces over this atrocity.


As a teacher, this has been especially hard for me.  It hits close to home.  Way too close.  When I was driving to school on the 17th (with a great deal of trepidation - I admit), the radio station I was listening to dedicated Kurt Bestor's "Prayer of the Children" to the victims.  I sobbed.  This was especially powerful, because my daughter's dance group danced to this song when she was close to the age of those sweet babies who were gunned down.  I was a mess when I got to work.


We met as a faculty before school started to discuss new safety procedures we would institute immediately ... classroom doors locked 24/7, ID checks for anyone wishing access to the school, forbidding parents from trying to get students off the buses while they were being loaded, etc.  Our school is one of the safest in the district, with controlled access and fire doors that can section off (and lock off) parts of our very large school.  However, facing the type of military grade firearms people have access to these days, you feel totally vulnerable.  As one teacher said, "Given the right weapon, they could blow out a wall."


When I walked into my classroom I was hit again.  Looking around my classroom, I immediately visualized how we hide during a lockdown.  My imagination took over and played out our own version of Sandy Hook.  I nearly threw up, visualizing my own students in danger.  I thought about those teachers and administrators who lost their lives.  I hope that those teachers felt valued by their community before they were called upon to make that ultimate sacrifice.  I thought about how the teachers in our state have been villified, demonized, and degraded.  Yet, the parents writing letters to the editor or commenting on the internet felt that it was the teachers' duty to keep the children safe and that they should be expected to die defending them.  I sincerely pray that those six teachers felt they were appreciated and respected for the job they did everyday.


I worried as the time ticked by for the children's arrival.  Would they be afraid?  How could I reassure them?  There were no ready answers, but I found I didn't need any.  When the children arrived at school, their faces were not marked by fear.  They were filled with the same youthful exuberance and anticipation of Christmas which they'd left  with the previous Friday.  I saw trust in those eyes.  But most importantly, I saw hope.  Instead of helping my children, they ended up helping me.  I had lost a great deal of hope for this world of ours ... they reminded me that where there is life, there is hope.  They also reminded me that, while evil may have its day, good will win out in the end.


Now the debate rages about how to protect our schools and our children.  It will cost money, and no one want to hear that.  Should we arm teachers?  I don't see myself as Rambo, and I am not arrogant enough to believe that I could handle a situation that trained professionals find difficult.  So far, the only "solution" voiced that really struck any kind of chord with me was to have National Guardsmen or veterans stationed in our schools.  These are people who are trained to deal with high risk, life-or-death situations.  We don't have enough policemen to cover every school in America, but we do have enough members of our armed forces.  Frankly, I think protecting our schools is far more important than maintaining a presence in Afghanistan, Pakistan, Iraq, etc.  If Americans truly value their children, it's time for them to prove it.

My daughter is a dancer. I hate dance!

Okay, anyone who knows me or has been reading this blog for any period of time would probably say, "What do you mean? You love dance! You work for the studio. You do costumes. You drive ballerinas to classes and intensives all year. You support your daughter in everything she does. How can you say you hate dance?"

It's December.

 

 

Any dance mom would respond, "Oh. Well of course. That explains everything. December. Yeah. That's the pits." For the rest of you ... here's a little background.

 

 

December is probably the biggest performance month of the year. Not only are dancers doing huge performances of The Nutcracker, A Christmas Carol, Amahl and the Night Visitors, or any of a thousand themed recitals ... there are also tons of community events that said dancers are invited to perform at. Gotta share those talents. Gotta promote the studio. It's a huge time committment.

 

 

The ballerina in question is now dancing 25+ hours a week. This week the total was 32 hours. This is in addition to school (and her junior high thinks that December is the month for big projects - oh, how I hate them), and life in general. This weekend I haven't seen my daughter since Saturday at 9 am, when I dropped her off at rehearsal. It is now Sunday afternoon. The girls decided to have a dance sleepover so they could celebrate one of the dancer's birthday PLUS get to the studio to work on sets today. I admire her work ethic. I really do.

 

 

But, I hate dance.

 

 

It's the holidays. I yearn to do all those family traditions. She's at dance. The church youth group has holiday activities scheduled. She's at dance. Her non-dancing friends want her to come to support them at concerts and performances. She's at dance. Her room/bathroom is about to become a Super Fund Cleanup Site. She's at dance. We want to watch some holday movies. She's at dance. We want to decorate the house. She's at dance. We want to make Christmas goodies for our neighbors and family. She's at dance. Today I gathered two loads of laundry from her bedroom floor. Get the idea? I want my daughter back.

 

 

Okay, I know that come December 15th, I will be one of the proudest moms at their performance. My daughter is not just a dancer anymore, she's one of the studio principles, AND she also is a teaching assistant. This is a new production, which easily quadrupled the work load of putting it on. If I am being honest, I must admit to myself that my case of dance resentment is a result of what is going on in our family as well. During the past five weeks I have taken my sister to the ER three times and my mother twice. As the primary caretaker for both of them, I am feeling overwhelmed. Dance has robbed me of my best helper, and quite frankly one of the few rays of sunshine to be had lately. Dance is also becoming a metaphor for my daughter growing up and away from me, which is something I am struggling with at the moment.

 

Do I really hate dance? No, because it's my daughter's passion and she loves it. When she steps out on the boards next Saturday, my heart will explode in pride. However, there's still going to be that selfish little mom in my heart screaming "Bring on December 16th! I want my baby back!" So, until then I will just keep plugging away as "support staff." But from December 16th to January 2nd, she is MINE! MINE! MINE!