I’ve always been a pretty quiet person.  I love the silence of the morning, the quiet only punctuated by the cawing of crows heading east towards the fields, the spurt of the coffee maker, and the rhythmic splat of the sprinkler as it sprinkles my garden before the sun comes up.

I love the quiet of reading books snuggled under a soft down comforter, the scratch of my pen on journal paper, and the hiss of the candle welcoming me into the daylight.

I never much enjoy talking on the phone, talking in groups or talking at parties.  I think it’s odd that I chose a job where talking consumes so much of my day.  I’ve been told that my teacher-talk is like a kindergarten teacher, explicitly outlining each step of a lesson and highlighting expectations.  I explain  that teaching middle school is just like teaching kindergarten.  When I stop talking, they notice.

I enjoy talking with my children the most.  The times when we’re driving in the car and they see something that reminds them of a story from school, or when I need to explain something very serious, or when we just giggle together are my absolute favorite.  The way they talk as teens is so different from when they were little – in many ways, it seems like the stakes are much higher now.  They need me to listen more now than ever.  There is a shift going on – a time to carefully choose my words, softly encouraging them to listen.

When my children talk to me, they share little bits of their soul.  Sometimes those bits are broken-off shards, sharp, piercing and painful.  Other times they are soft, pillowy bits of fluff that slip from their mouth and bounce around the room.

Sometimes when they talk it is hard to hear them – especially when their words tumble out at warp speed, piling on top of each other like wooden blocks poised to crash to the ground.  We stop, pause, and take our turns at being heard.

Their words matter to me.  When I listen to their young voices I hear my hope for their future.  I hear their curiosity about the world, and their questioning human morality.  When I listen to their words I see their children speaking, years from now, asking for their wisdom.  I hear their minds whirr as they process what they see and who they have heard.  I hear myself in their words.

I know the quiet is coming soon.  They will be gone, moving into their lives and exploring the world more quickly than I would like.  They will use their voices to share, teach, and understand.  They will deepen and stretch and take in so much more than I can imagine, more than I could ever tell them.  I will hunger for those car rides and late night conversations when I had their attention, when I could teach them what I thought they should know.  And when those days come,  I will drop everything for their phone call, eager to hear their voice, desperate to listen for my words coming through their soul. 

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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As I wake up I hear the rhythmic tick of the sprinkler outside my window.  The coffee drips in time to the clock, and although the house is quiet, my brain jumps wide awake.

It’s not official yet – summer really still has four more days before I should be mourning the end of long nights spent wrapped around a novel, mornings lingering over another coffee with cream, and being alone.

But I’m part of something.  I contribute to a system, a group, a team of people who cares beyond measure about children.  We get up early, we plan, we laugh, we smile, and we create a whole unit designed to pull each other up and out of ourselves.

The sprinkler subsides outside my window.  The coffee dwindles to the last drop, and my house begins to stir. My body must jump awake, engage, and prepare to take part.

They’re counting on me.

Who’s counting on you?

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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As summer winds to a close I’m getting that fluttering feeling again-anyone involved with education knows what I’m talking about. Students, teachers, parents – we all feel it.

 If you’re a student, it’s that butterflies-kind of feeling that sets your body trembling at the thought of one last day at the pool, one more night hanging out under the streetlight on your block, and the last time you can sleep in as late as you want without worrying about all your homework, studying, or chores that need to be done.

 If you’re a teacher like me, well, it’s something similar, but a bit different. It’s that panicky-kind of feeling at the thought of the to-do list still undone, the novels not quite finished, the essays you want to write instead of grade, and the last time you can wake up early and do exactly what you want to do without worrying about all your students, your grading, or chores that need to be done.

If you’re a parent, it could be a mixed bag.  It’s that sorrowful feeling of days gone by, kids who’ve grown up before your eyes.  It’s wishing you had one more night to just cuddle instead of going to bed early, and the day doesn’t operate on a schedule.

Or I suppose you could be excited to have your kids out of the house and let someone else deal with them – no more arguing over TV time, restocking the fridge every other day, or groaning when your teen doesn’t wake up until the day is half over.

Summer is supposed to simplify my life. I want June again.  The smell of roses, the sun powdered gold. Rolling dizzily down the grassy slopes, never worried about what was at the end. The possibilities.

You remember what it was like, right?  It WAS simple then.

 Did it thrill you to go ‘back-to-school’ shopping, buying new Keds and a backpack ready to organize your way to straight As?

 Do you remember choosing your new binder, notebooks, and a pencil box, if you were lucky?

 Did you agonize over the Pee-Chee folder versus the one with the puppies, or the Scooby-Doo lunchbox over a paper sack?

I wish it were this simple for me now.

The teacher in me doesn’t know how to operate on any other type of calendar-if September came and I wasn’t in a classroom I think my world would spin off its axis.

The parent in me doesn’t want to lose the priceless minutes I have just being a mom-not a worker, or a helper, or the one responsible for anyone else’s kids.  Just mine.

Summer is supposed to simplify my life.

Instead, I feel torn in half.

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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Despite what you might think, I’m actually quite a homebody.  Whenever I travel I have certain requirements that I’ve learned really make the difference between a good trip and a disaster.  They’re not too much to keep me from experiencing the local culture, but they sure make life a lot easier when I’m trying to navigate a new culture, language, customs and country.

One of them is coffee.  I’m on the island of Java, but the hotel rooms only serve instant java, which makes my stash of American grounds a godsend.  After teaching all morning in the humidity, I’ve also felt grateful for the Starbucks in the mall adjacent to the hotel.

Another is proper clothing.  I like to be comfortable and appropriately dressed, which made packing for teaching in a Muslim country challenging.  I’m expected to cover to the elbow, below the knee, and have a high neckline.  Yesterday I made a fashion faux-pas and was required to don the school’s version of gym shorts – a kind of pant outfit called a yama.  I think they’re mainly used for some sort of yoga.

Reluctantly, I’ll admit I like to be connected.  Coming back to my hotel after a long day and finding Facebook messages and blog comments makes me feel like I’m not out here all alone, and the beauty of Skype and FaceTime has allowed me to see my children and keep me grounded.

Indonesia is a beautiful country, rich with traditions and hospitable people.  I’m not afraid to know what I want – and to ask for it. I think knowing what we need to be happy is important – and if it helps us experience the richness of another culture, all the better.

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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Most of us are taught that “there is no such thing a stupid question.” We are told to “raise our hands to answer a question” and even “question authority.”

Our young children ask us “Why is the sky blue?” And as we age, we wonder “What is the meaning of life?”

Sometimes we ask questions without really wanting to know the answer.

Often I think of the question after the opportunity is lost.

As I’m preparing for this Indonesian adventure I feel like I’m lost in between the child and the adult – knowing I need to ask the right question, but so bewildered I cannot form it. The child in me wants to have answers to everything; what will I eat? Will I be safe? How will I talk to my kids? Will I have everything I need?

The adult knows so much of it will have to play out on its own; the experience will be what I make of it.

The child in me wants to know the who, what, when, where and why…the adult in me doesn’t want too much information to stir up my anxiety.

So I stop and consider the questions that are truly important:

What will I learn from this adventure?

How can I use this experience to better my family, my community and my world?

When I’m outside of my comfort zone, what will I draw on to have the courage to leap into the unknown?

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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