Three months into my new job, I’ve made some discoveries about teacher and students and education – and myself. Now that I’m no longer in the classroom every day, I’ve had some space to think about the larger education community, and the impact the pandemic, remote learning, and now hybrid teaching have had on us.

I’m noticing a HUGE sense of exhaustion, regret, looking to the past and focusing on what “normally” happens that didn’t happen in the last fifteen months.

Educators are having trouble making themselves feel successful about education. It’s understandable – what we’ve been asked to do is unprecedented, undervalued and over the top of what any teaching contract outlines.

Educators – teachers, administrators, counselors, support staff – have all given everything they have to make this year come close to “normal”.

And, with the grind of “pivoting” their instruction, digitizing lessons and books and lab materials, engaging students hiding behind black Zoom boxes since March 2020, and now facing the ‘learning loss’ that will be documented for us thanks to standardized testing, educators are struggling.

So what do we do to support each other? To create a space of safety, community and acceptance for educators?

That’s what I thought of as I opened Katrina Kenison’s March 16, 2021 post, asking “What Have You Made This Year”?

If you don’t know Katrina’s work, you’re in for a delightful experience. Katrina, a published author of several books, a mother and wife, and a believer in “celebrating the gift of each ordinary day” has brought clarity and thought-provoking writing to me. And in the March 16 post, I responded in the comments with this:

This year, I made space for my self. Amidst all the cramped physical and mental space of the shelter-in-place, I found the space to be still. To turn off the Zoom classes and stop grading papers, to make space to meditate, to watch the squirrels try their best to upend my birdfeeders, and to see my adult children strive to adapt to the changes in college, wedding plans, and living spaces. Through it all, my self has been given wings to try out – and the space to fly.

I didn’t respond not only because I wanted to read the book Katrina was offering. Rather, I wanted to be part of the magic I saw in her simple acknowledgement of what she HAD made, what brought her ordinary joy and beauty despite the tragedy exploding all around us.

And surprisingly, I won the book anyways.

Katrina writes of author Beth Kephart, who published a memoir titled “Wife/Daughter/Self: A Memoir In Essays”:

How do we become the people we are?  How are we shaped by those we love, by those who hurt us, by those who see us more clearly than we see ourselves? How do we choose one path over another, releasing our grip on old dreams even as we’re compelled to envision new ones?

How do time, pain, love, and loss finally pare away all that isn’t needed, leaving behind the essence of a self, a truth, a way onward? Is it possible to write one’s way into understanding and acceptance, into healing, into faith that who we are and what we do is enough?

Being in community with Katrina and Beth makes me feel like making something is possible, even now when like so many educators, I’m feeling drained and depleted and need to mentally and physically coerce myself to my writing desk every morning. It’s not easy, putting aside the tumult of the world and allow for words to flow out, to go back through journals and posts and manuscript drafts to make sense of decades of thoughts about teaching and parenting. But that’s what I’m doing, inch by inch.

I’m trying to make something positive out of this year. Are you?

A few things I’ve made along the way:

1. I made videos for my students to say hello when we started remote learning in March 2020:

2. I made bread..lots and lots of bread:

3. I made vases of garden flowers to bring the outside in:

4. I made time for exploring:

5. I made yard decorations for graduating high school seniors:

6. I made extraordinary discoveries on my walks:

7. I made masks:

8. I made new teaching spaces:

9. I made a new way to do the first day of school:

10. I made surprising discoveries in new books:

11. I made opportunities for kids to collaborate and have fun online:

12. I made a trip to the beach to see my mom:

13. I made time for sunsets in favorite places:

14. I made Christmas memories:

15. I made a job change:

16. I made myself happy:

17. I made myself present:

18. I made a road trip to see my daughter…finally:

19. I made coffee…lots and lots of coffee:

20. I made promises to myself:

It turns out, the last year wasn’t a loss at all. I made more than I thought…and I’m feeling courageous about the future.

What about you? What have you made in the last year?

Jennifer Wolfe

Jennifer Wolfe, a writer-teacher-mom, is dedicated to finding the extraordinary in the ordinary moments of life by thinking deeply, loving fiercely, and teaching audaciously. Jennifer is a Google Certified Educator, Hyperdoc fanatic, and a voracious reader. Read her stories on her blog, mamawolfe, and grab free copies of her teaching and parenting resources.

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I first noticed the lambs in the field.

Two days ago, they grazed gracefully in the green grassy meadow. Babies spotted black and white and grey kicked their hind legs and nuzzled their mothers. Their unique markings caught my eye as I drove down the two-lane road, not sure where I needed to be at that moment.

Last night they caught my eye again.

This time, mothers and babies huddled close as the tule fog drifted in, coating their meadow with grey light and dropping dew on their wool. And as I glanced back to the road, John reminded me of how nervous he felt driving towards the headlights, the two of us, together. Parenthood always brings that anxiety of abandonment, the fear of leaving our kids parentless when we’re just having a normal day. Always the anxiety of ‘what if’. Always bringing me out of the moment.

‘Look at the sunset,’ he suggested. Ever cautious, he typically reminds me to keep my eyes where I’m going. If you look ahead, he shares, you’ll get where you want to be.

But tonight was different.

The sky, an exhale of pink and silver and mauve was not to be ignored. The first sunset of 2020, caught by chance, brings me to tears.

We’re reminded to make resolutions at this time of year, to identify what is wrong with us and our life, and try to fix it. As if just saying it, or writing it down at the stroke of midnight will somehow result in a different me. Drawing attention to an ‘all or nothing’ mentality as if it will spur me towards some sense of ‘betterness’.

For the last decade, making a resolution hasn’t been my focus for the turn of the December calendar. I’m not a ‘wind-up toy’ able to switch on a date; I’m the same ‘me’ I was the night before, maybe with a bit more anxiety thinking about the push to focus on something different.

My tears don’t stop as I pulled into Home Depot. The sky glows over the Berryessa Hills as I wipe my eyes with the cuff of my sweater and take a breath in. I make my purchase, and as we drive home the sky is dark, sunset replaced by stars shimmering energy drizzling down. I feel my breath like stardust now as I stop and start, careful to focus on the road ahead. Breathe in, breathe out. My intention surfaces with every inhale, a desire to pay attention – the intention to breathe in what I’m about to create.

The possibility of moving onward.

I don’t need the resolution to be outside, to search for your spirit. Every time I look up, the birds or the sunset or the stars of a fleck of spirit dust in candlelight refocuses me, reminding me that you are everywhere and nowhere all at the same time.

I have intention.

I have daily practices beginning with my first breath of ‘thank you’ as my exhale hits the floor. It’s the same me as yesterday and the day before, just another reminder of the divine presence all around me.

I won’t see every sunset in 2020, no matter the strength of my resolve. Some days I’ll see sunsets on social media and wonder what I was doing that was more important. What could possibly take my focus away from right here, right now? I won’t hear every moment of birdsong outside my window. And I’m sure some days I’ll repeat my mantra ‘onward’ just to make it through.

But I will remember my intention of breath, my hope for the possibility of moving forward. I’ll feel your breath like stardust, shimmering down on my shoulders when I don’t know which foot to put first. I’ll know your spirit soars over me with a birds-eye, omnipotent view, reminding me to enjoy life. To breathe. And to just start again tomorrow.

Jennifer Wolfe

Jennifer Wolfe, a writer-teacher-mom, is dedicated to finding the extraordinary in the ordinary moments of life by thinking deeply, loving fiercely, and teaching audaciously. Jennifer is a Google Certified Educator, Hyperdoc fanatic, and a voracious reader. Read her stories on her blog, mamawolfe, and grab free copies of her teaching and parenting resources.

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I’ve never been good at saying goodbye.

Always, I look to poetry, prose, to the words of those that came before me for such ancient experiences as this.

I search nature, beauty that I love and find solace in

the starlings drawing on the sky,

the frogs singing me to sleep,

the owl perched high in the pine, watching over me.

The wind in the pines comforts.

I search for the scent of narcissus and the feel of a soft fleece vest, zipped tightly, protecting me from the looseness of saying goodbye

shielding me from endings,

holding in what I can’t afford to exhale quite yet.

There’s comfort in poetry, in the written word, scratching black ink into my journal by candlelight.

No one else gets in there…only the current from my mind, the breath in, then out, deep and resonant.

Through the crack in the window, crows call to daybreak,

orange and gold ribbons lift the darkness, ever so slightly.

Grief and gratitude go hand in hand, I’m learning,

and goodbye comes in the smallest moments,

slinking around my spirit until I’m silent and still

and spot the starlings scattering in the sky

wondering if it’s you.

Please read my dad’s obituary here

Starlings in Winter

Chunky and noisy, but with stars in their black feathers,
they spring from the telephone wire and instantly they are acrobats in the freezing wind.
And now, in the theater of air they swing over buildings, dipping and rising;
they float like one stippled star that opens, becomes for a moment fragmented,
then closes again, and you watch and you try
but you simply can’t imagine how they do it
with no articulated instruction, no pause,
only the silent confirmation
that they are this notable thing, this wheel of many parts, that can rise and spin
over and over again, full of gorgeous life.
Ah, world, what lessons you prepare for us, even in the leafless winter,
even in the ashy city.
I am thinking now of grief, and of getting past it;
I feel my boots trying to leave the ground,
I feel my heart pumping hard. I want to think again of dangerous and noble things.
I want to be light and frolicsome.
I want to be improbable beautiful and afraid of nothing,
as though I had wings.
From:  Owls and Other Fantasies: Poems and Essays Copyright ©:  Mary Oliver

Jennifer Wolfe

Jennifer Wolfe, a writer-teacher-mom, is dedicated to finding the extraordinary in the ordinary moments of life by thinking deeply, loving fiercely, and teaching audaciously. Jennifer is a Google Certified Educator, Hyperdoc fanatic, and a voracious reader. Read her stories on her blog, mamawolfe, and grab free copies of her teaching and parenting resources.

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“Mamawolfe, can I talk to you today?” he questioned as he walked through the doorway of our classroom. There’s a reason I make a herculean effort to greet kids when they come into class. I get a chance to SEE them. I look them in the eye, say their name, and do a quick ‘mom’ check – eyes, face, body language…I can tell a ton in a quick ten-second glance. 

“Sure, bud – let’s make some time to talk in class today. And if something happens – I’ll make sure we connect during 6th period. I don’t teach then, and I’ll call you out of class, ok?”

He seemed temporarily satisfied, but I could tell after the first five minutes of beginning the class something was definitely NOT Ok. His eyes downcast, head tilted to the floor, and no jovial banter with the seatmates – this was not the kid I knew.

“Mrs. Wolfe, can I please go in the hall to text my mom?” he asked during binder check. 

“Sure, but why don’t you go sit at my desk instead? Make yourself comfy,” I suggested, and he agreed.

More to come

A few minutes later I asked him if this was a good time, and to come back to my ‘office’ – a fancy word for a corner space by my desk with a beat-up black bean bag, some lavender oil and coloring books, and kleenex. Several boxes. Most of all, it’s a place where I can listen without interruption, kids can cry and feel safe telling me what’s on their mind. Mostly my AVID classes use this space, but my 7th graders have been known to figure out that I will listen to them there, too.

Today the tears started almost immediately, validating my hunch that all was not right in this 13-year-old’s world. I know this kid pretty well – he’s had more than his share of trauma already in his life. So I listened. He told me about home, his mom, and how he’s frustrated and anxious and worried about his performance in school…and I listened. I reminded him that he will get through this and that when kids have anxiety at school it’s often connected to stuff they’re feeling outside of school – and I knew his outside of school was not great. Not even good. Downright crappy, in fact.

Handing him a tissue, I asked, ‘What’s one thing I can do today to make it just a little bit better?” He shook his head.

“Do you want me to write a note to your history teacher asking for permission to turn in late work?”

“No – my mom will do that. That’s why I texted her. But I know she’s just going to yell at me when I get home. And dump all her problems on me.”

Do parents listen?

I temper my rage when I hear these kinds of things coming from kids’ mouths – and yes, I’ve heard them before. But as a teacher – particularly an AVID teacher – I’m concerned about my student. I’m their advocate. I’m there for them. I can help parents get resources, I can give advice, but when I’ve got a sad and anxious kiddo in front of me, I want to make it better. I just can’t help it. They’re just KIDS! I want to scream. BABIES! They shouldn’t be dealing with all these real-life adult things yet.

“You know, I can just go to your teacher and let him know you need time. That’s part of my job as your AVID teacher. No questions asked. He trusts me…”

“Let me check if she texted me back – nope of course not,” he interrupted, glancing quickly at his phone. 

“Ok,” I replied, looking into his eyes. “You know, you are amazing. You have so much more to deal with than an 8th grader should. Your mom is lucky to have an amazing kid like you, you know? You’re amazing because you are YOU. You don’t have to do anything or prove anything – you’re just awesome,” I sputtered.

What I wanted to say was, “Your mom is lucky you’re not taking all this out on yourself like some kids do – cutting, drinking, vaping, cutting school…all you’re asking is for her to listen to you. To see how amazing you really are. And to treat you like a kid – not her therapist.” But of course, I swallowed those thoughts and we made a plan.

“You know, I just feel better telling you,” he replied softly. And I thanked him again. As I was getting up, he looked at me and asked,  “Can I have a hug?”

‘Of course, you can, Bud, of course,” and he smiled back as he reached for me.

Some days teaching is harder than others – for lots of different reasons. Some days are frustrating, some are long, some are painful. But when I have days like today, the days when I know I’ve been able to be that person a kid can trust to listen, to help them breathe through their anxiety, and to help them remember how amazing they are, it’s worth it. Every single time.

Because they’re KIDS. They have feelings and thoughts and insecurities and very little life experience to draw on to know what’s ‘normal’ and what to do and how to handle life…especially when the adults in their life don’t know how to handle their own.

These are the days I feel like a teacher. These are the days when I didn’t teach the curriculum – I taught students.

Jennifer Wolfe

Jennifer Wolfe, a writer-teacher-mom, is dedicated to finding the extraordinary in the ordinary moments of life by thinking deeply, loving fiercely, and teaching audaciously. Jennifer is a Google Certified Educator, Hyperdoc fanatic, and a voracious reader. Read her stories on her blog, mamawolfe, and grab free copies of her teaching and parenting resources.

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The first day back to class is always full of adrenaline, expectation and fun for me. I’m exhausted at the end of the week, but it’s a good kind of teacher tired. It reminds me that teaching is hard work – if you want to do it right. It’s the kind of fatigue that builds from beginning to create a community from nothing – the first step in letting kids know you’re paying attention to them so they trust you. And it’s beginning to balance kids, teaching, and motherhood – even when I’ve got an empty nest at home.

The first day

In my very, very small reading class, I have the opportunity to connect quickly with my students. We sit on stools and cushions together around a low coffee-style table, face to face. The first day of school this year was also the day my son was leaving the nest and flying to college in Boston. Being a teacher mom has these moments of feeling stretched between two worlds – do we focus on our own child and their needs, or tuck that away and see the kids in front of us. Of course, I try to do both and sometimes it doesn’t work out so well.

The empty nest

This year I didn’t get to see my son off at the airport, and I was sad. I stuffed it away for the morning of teaching, but at lunch when I had a few quiet moments I texted him to see if he made it out of our house ok. Sure enough, he was on his way to the airport and said he’d call when he was settled. The call came just as the bell was ringing for my 5th-period reading class – what do I do? Greet my students with a phone in my hand? Ignore them as they come in the door, knowing it will be weird for them to not see a whole class full of kids? Ignore my son…somehow I needed to balance it. I wanted to show my students the human side of me – the mamawolfe side.

So, quickly I answered the call, hung up, and brought my new readers into a circle. Introducing myself, I told them how happy I was to be their teacher and told them that my own son needed help, he was traveling to college and asked their permission to be a mom while they browsed the books in my classroom library and relaxed.

Of course, they said ok.

Building the relationships

After a few minutes of helping Cam get his boarding pass situated, I was back to the group. And naturally, they had questions. How old was my son? Where was he flying to? What did he need help with? How many kids did I have? Did I have a pet? Where is Massachusetts? Where is Boston? What began as a dilemma had turned into a very teachable moment. We used our US map and found his college, and talked about moving away from home. Quietly, the dark-haired boy to my left said, “I just moved away, too. I used to live in Oakland, but now I live here.”

I was pretty sure no one else heard him. He kept his eyes down, either shy or scared or both. I twisted around and replied, “Oh wow- Oakland is sure a whole lot different from Davis, don’t you think?”

He looked up. “Yeah. It’s a lot quieter.” His voice was a touch louder, but I could still tell he wasn’t ready to open up. The other kids were caught up in their picture book selections and relaxed on beanbags, so I pushed a bit.

“How long ago did you move?” I asked.

His stomach rumbled in the quiet room. Even though we had just come from lunch, I whispered, “Are you hungry?”

“No,” he quickly replied, barely audible.

“Ok; I have granola bars and crackers if you ever want anything….”

“Granola,” he blurted out before I could finish. Silently I stood up, went to my cabinet and grabbed a chocolate chip chewy bar and a small bag of pretzels from my snack drawer. Without speaking, I put them on the table in front of him and sat back down.

Like any teenage boy, he gulped down the snacks as I sat next to him, reading along with my other students. He stood up, dropped his wrappers in the trash and as he sat back down beside me, he asked if I’ve ever been to Oakland.

The moment

That moment – like an electrical charge – broke the ice, the first step taken. We connected. I think he felt my care for him; his body visibly relaxed into his chair. We talked about my grand-doodle Ellie, and other kids jumped in to tell about their dogs. I promised to show a picture of her the next day, and suddenly the class was over. I asked if he knew where to go next, and his quick reply reminded me of what it’s like being the ‘new kid’ in school. Glancing at his schedule I suggested I could walk with him – he was going to one of my favorite teacher’s classes.

“Sure…” his voice came out in a whisper-question, but I went with it. As we approached his history class, I introduced him to his teacher as he greeted kids at the door, knowing they were both Oakland fans. He would be safe in there.

What happened next

In truth, that’s not all of the story – it’s actually not even my favorite part. What happened the next day was where I really realized the power of connections, and what we had done together.

“B” walked back into my room the next day and looked straight at me and said hello as I brought my stool up to the coffee table. The shyness of the first day disappeared, and as the other kids were wiggling around with their backpacks and books, “B” said, “Ms. Wolfe, I have a question. Did your son make it to Boston OK?”

Startled, I looked back at him and replied, “Why yes he did – thank you for asking. I’m sorry yesterday started off a little weird, but he’s there now and I’m here and ready to read!”

“B” smiled and cracked open his book, settling back into the grey Papasan chair I had brought from my son’s bedroom at home. “B”, about the same age Cam was when he used to curl up in it, too, relaxed in his safe space.

I had to go over to my desk for a moment…I knew the tears were coming. Being a teacher-mom is like that. Relationships happen in the most unexpected ways at the most unusual times. Opening up to kids and letting them see YOU helps them open right back up and lets you see THEM. And that’s where the magic can really start to happen.

Jennifer Wolfe

Jennifer Wolfe, a writer-teacher-mom, is dedicated to finding the extraordinary in the ordinary moments of life by thinking deeply, loving fiercely, and teaching audaciously. Jennifer is a Google Certified Educator, Hyperdoc fanatic, and a voracious reader. Read her stories on her blog, mamawolfe, and grab free copies of her teaching and parenting resources.

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