she wanted the last piece of cake?

It didn't seem to matter the circumstance - the bigger piece of pizza, the last piece of cake, the Friday night movie selection, the Sunday lunch destination, or the college I wanted to attend - almost as if automatic, my mom would graciously let her preferences slip into the background saying "No thanks, you can have it" or "It doesn't matter to me, you pick."

As a child, I was blissfully unaware of the constant sacrifices my mom was making for me. It never occurred to me that she didn't want to watch Father of the Bride (again) or eat at Chili's (again), and frankly, it hadn't crossed my mind  until recently that she really would have liked that last piece of cake.

*****

"Is there more of that cake, mom?" my daughter asked.

Just keep washing dishes and pretend you don't hear. 

"Mom. Is there cake?"

Start singing to yourself.  Put something away in the pantry.  Head to bathroom.  Anything to avoid the question.

"Mom!!!  Is there cake?"

Ugh. She's so persistent.  I'm probably not supposed to lie.

"Yep, but only one piece left."

"If I eat all da tings dat are good for my body, can I pease hab it?"

Shoot. She even said please.

Stephen and I often joke that our greatest display of sacrificial love for our children doesn't come in the form of 3 AM feedings, cleaning up puke, or playing Candy Land for the zillionth time.  It comes in the sharing of our food.  For Stephen this means handing over large wedges of blue cheese or breakfast meat.  For me, it is dessert.

I begrudgingly scooped that last piece of cake - chocolate coconut cake with buttercream frosting, mind you - onto a Minnie Mouse plate.  I opened the fridge to grab the milk, and that's when I saw it - my saving grace - a small Tupperware with leftover frosting.  There had only been a small amount of unused frosting left; I'd almost thrown it away.  Fool.  But there it was, to cheer me up as a mediocre substitute for that last piece of cake.

I was taking no chances.  As soon as Charlotte got started on her cake, I grabbed that Tupperware and a spoon and headed straight for the bathroom.  I shamelessly closed and locked the door, and enjoyed every bite of that chocolate coconut buttercream while sitting on the edge of the tub. It seems I should be embarrassed - I mean, I wasn't even eating an actually dessert, just frosting from a container - but instead, I was rather proud of myself.

I was proud of myself for sneaking away so casually, arranging the circumstances to give me at least four minutes alone with my frosting. And proud of myself for reaching a new level of motherhood, a level where shame slips away because silence and dessert are just that wonderful.  At that moment, I felt a sense of comradery with all the mothers of the world - knowing I fall in a long line of mothers who have eaten dessert in the bathroom to avoid sharing with their child.

It took three years, but I had been officially initiated into motherhood.

As I sat in the bathroom, I began thinking about my ridiculous behavior over the past few years (all in the name of motherhood, of course).  Some of it out of intense head-over-heels love; some out of sheer exhaustion, the kind where I'd offer up my kidney for five minute without a baby on my hip and a toddler on my leg. And I soon started to wonder about my own mother's ridiculous displays of love and exhaustion.

Did my mom ever eat dessert in the bathroom?

Did my mom ever sit on the floor of my room staring through the bars of my crib to watch me sleep?

Did she constantly squeeze my chubby cheeks?

Did she announce to my brother and me that she was putting herself in timeout?

Did she try to imitate my laugh or purposely get me to say words I mispronounced just to laugh at me?

Did she negotiate deals where I could watch one more episode of Daniel the Tiger (previously known as Mr. Roger's Neighborhood) but only if I promised to cuddle and not talk?

Did she skip pages in the really long, boring stories?

Wait, did she really want that last piece of cake?

Far too often I succumb to a good old-fashioned pity party, allowing pride and selfishness to shine through in all its ugly glory.  I go all crazy mom, ranting and raving about all I do for my kids - the meals I prepare, the toys I pick up, the poop and puke I wiped off myself, the sleep I don't get.

Certainly all that earns me the last piece of cake.

In my best moments, it is so easy to give, almost as if the Lord has been rewiring my gut response to willingly (perhaps even happily) give up my preferences for my children without a second thought.  But just when I start thinking too highly of myself and my sacrificial ways, I find myself hiding in the bathroom with a bowl of frosting, bitter about the cake that's probably been devoured (and not nearly appreciated as much as it should be) by a three-year-old sweet tooth.  Oh, I'm such a mess.

But Jesus tends to remind me of truth in my messiest moments, and today He is reminding me that He never stops giving His best to me; His constant, gut response is to give me the best, over and over.  He never tires of giving, and in fact, I think He finds great joy in it!

Isn't that one of the best parts of motherhood? We begin to grasp just how crazy Christ is about us, and we begin this transformation process where we find joy in giving our best, over and over.

So to all the moms who have read Brown Bear, Brown Bear no less than 53,482 times -

To all the mom who play hide-and-seek every day, pretending you can't find your child even though they hide in the same spot every dog-gone time (it was cute the first dozen times, but seriously, how are you gonna make it out in the real world with those kind of survival skills?!?!) -

To all the moms who give happily without thinking twice -

To all the moms who grit their teeth and give anyways -

To all the moms who have ever found themselves eating dessert in the bathroom because good grief, we're human and sometimes we just don't want to share!

And to my mom, who constantly said "No thanks, you can have it" or "It doesn't matter to me, you pick."

Keep doing what you're doing.

Keep allowing the grace of God to teach you what it means to love like crazy.

You have children who are watching and learning a lesson they might not realize for another thirty years.  You are showing them how head-over-heels in love Jesus is with them.

Well done, and happy Mother's Day.

P.S.  Sorry it took thirty years, Mom.  I owe you some cake. 

P.P.S.  In case you need some cake (or a bowl of frosting) this weekend,  here's the recipe from one of my favorite food blogs!

just for a season

I know my story is not your story, and my friends are not your friends, but if I had to guess, you too have experienced the toll that distance can take on a friendship.  You have lost touch with dear friends and feel guilty about it from time to time.  Making new friends sounds exhausting, and sometimes you'd rather just binge on Netflix than put in the time and effort it takes to make a friend who really knows you.  If I'm right, you just might see a little bit of yourself here. 

*****

It has been over fifteen years, and the loneliness of my first weeks as a college freshman can still tie my stomach into a knot.

Saying good-bye to my high school friends was excruciating.  You can chalk it up to teenage hormones or girly drama, but leaving the comfort of those friendships left me paralyzed.  When every other college freshman was running around with their friendly in high gear, I was being quiet at best, cold if I'm honest. I ached for people I had history with, people who knew me, and I had absolutely no interest in making new friends.  After all, I already had friends; they just didn't live near me anymore.

I didn't know at the time, but that transition forever changed how I handled future good-byes.

*****

As to be expected, I didn't stay a hermit for long.  I soon managed to put on my big girl panties, introduce myself to some friendly faces, and before long, I was all in on this friend thing.  College life creates the perfect condition for friendship at its finest.  You get more than just the highs and lows - you get the mundane - the weekday breakfasts in the dining commons before 8 AM classes, the drives to Walmart to buy white undershirts and puffy paint, the Thursday night countdown to the final episode of Friends.  And somehow, those hundreds of mundane moments add up to friends who know your heart.  

And within the blink of eye, four years of college was wrapping up.  I was again facing another round of goodbyes with the potential to crush me, but this time, it didn't.

It wasn't a conscience decision, or even one I realized I'd made until years later, but when faced with this second wave of goodbyes, I wasn't taken down the same way I had been four years earlier.  I suppose I knew going in these friendships were just for a season, and in order to protect my own heart, I wasn't so foolish as to think these friendships would forever stay the same. 

This term "just for a season" has become a running joke in our home.  All in good humor, Stephen will occasionally criticize me for being callous, hard-hearted, and giving up on friendships.  He doesn't understand my "heart of stone," and grieves deeply for friendships of the past. I have often felt the need to defend my perspective, eagerly proclaiming my affection for past friendships, while willingly admitting my acceptance that most friendships are just for a season.

*****

Earlier this year I flew to Arizona to spend the weekend with girls I haven't seen for nearly ten years.  These were the five girls I lived with my senior year in a house we dubbed The Ritz as it was the only house in small town Upland, Indiana that was built in the past decade and therefore was without leaky pipes, cracked walls, or the permanent stench of college boys.  Such luxury.

The first couple years after college the six of us kept in touch with an occasional email and enough weddings popping up that we'd see each other on the dance floor once a year, but we really hadn't all been together since 2005.

"Is it going to be awkward?" a colleague of mine asked when I told her about the upcoming reunion.

Awkward?  That thought had never occurred to me.

And sure enough, our weekend together proved what I knew to always be true.

There were no apologies for not calling to check in over the past ten years.  No "I'm sorry I didn't send a gift when you had a baby," or "I'm sorry I never texted on your birthday."  We'd all missed special occasions, and we all mistakenly thought everyone was doing fine when we weren't.

We all knew we were just trying to hold our own shit together, and our lack of communication didn't mean we didn't care.  It didn't mean we were never thinking of the others, and it didn't mean that every time we heard Kelly Clarkson's Breakaway, we weren't overtaken by a physical ache in our gut for the safety of friends who just knew.  (We experienced the first season of American Idol together, so Justin and Kelly -- both the people and their movie -- will always have a dear place in our hearts.)

And, most importantly, it didn't mean our friendship wasn't real.

That is what I'd tell my 18-year-old self.

Distance will separate you from your dearest friends.  Time and time again you will hug someone goodbye saying "til next time," not really knowing when that next time will be.  If you're lucky, next time will be in a few months.  If you're realistic, it will be in ten years.  You won't keep in touch, and you will miss all kinds of significant events in each others' lives.  You will begin to wonder if that friendship even mattered because if it had, shouldn't you be having weekly phone dates or yearly reunions?

There is great comfort in being surrounded by people who knew you, and it might be even more comforting than being around people who know you.  I have a deep love and admiration for the girl I used to be, and whenever I get the chance to catch up with people who knew that Joy, I am thankful for time to remember her.  It did my soul good that for one weekend I could visit with a part of me that had been buried under responsibilities like packing lunches, dealing with health insurance, and learning about 401Ks.

Although the six of us  did a fair share of lamenting over what a total drag grown up life can be, it was clear we were all a bit more confident and a bit wiser, readily admitted we didn't know as much as we thought we once did.  We are now more willing to hold future plans loosely because the past ten years have thrown us all the unexpected, both the confusing kind and the terrifying kind of unexpected, and I was so proud to be in the presence of women who loved Jesus through it all.

Shauna Niequist strings words together so beautifully to match my feelings that I often end up replying back to the pages of her books with an avid "Yes!" or "That is so true!"  In her book Cold Tangerines, she describes the deep sadness she had after moving from Chicago to Grand Rapids.  She goes on to describe the image of newborn puppies, huddled together in a box keeping warm.

"They didn't want to be held, even if you held them tight, 

because really they just wanted to be back in the box with other puppies."

Yes.  That is so true.

Through ever transition in my life, I have felt like I was lifted from my box of puppies, aching for the warmth and comfort friends provide by just being there.  Knowing my life will be a revolving door of transitions and goodbyes and awkward hellos is exhausting.

There is such potential for guilt when I think of the friends I should be calling, texting and flying across the country to visit.

There is such potential for frustration when I wonder how it is that for a season my life was intertwined with girlfriends I now only text when they're pregnant.

There is such potential for disappointment when I remember the season of my life when every picture, every weekend, every laugh, and every decision involved couples Stephen and I now only see at weddings (if we're lucky).

Ugh. I hate it.

But I will firmly plant my heart in the truth that these friends still matter, even if their physical presence in my life was just for a season. 

A lunch filled with laughter as we remembered our college crushes

just be their mom

My to-do list was looming. I can't even remember what all was on it, but I don't want to dismiss whatever it was because it must have been important and in need of my attention.

The juggling act of motherhood was in full swing.

I was rocking my three-day-old yoga pants while refilling sippy cups, tackling breakfast dishes from two hours ago, and picking Cheerios off the bottom of my feet.

The newborn needed holding and the toddler needed a playmate.  My half-hearted attempt to comfort the baby while building a tower with the two-year-old was not well received, and the neediness quickly reached new heights.

I grabbed the Moby Wrap (as if I'd ever be able to get that mile of fabric wrapped around myself correctly), scattered crayons on the kitchen table, and glanced at my to do list, searching for an item that required minimal focused attention and could possibly be completed in under twenty seconds.

"Mommy, color with me."

I leaned over the table, drew a quick rainbow and gave a fake oooo and ahhh over Charlotte's artwork.

At this point, I'd tangled Andrew onto my chest (seriously, can people really wrap a child to their body without the assistance of at least seven friends?!?!) and was hoping the massive knot I'd created would secure him to my body.  I discretely set down my crayon and moved to the counter to write the check for our homeowners association dues which was just hours away from a late fee.

Yes. Check written. Cross one item off the list.

When the crayons got boring and the Moby Wrap too loose to be considered safe, I moved us all onto the floor, a play-mat on my left, puzzles on my right, and a basket of clean laundry in front of me.

I frantically folded a few items while talking in an overly pleasant voice to compensate for my lack of enthusiasm and help keep everyone (mostly myself) from sinking further into complete melt down mode.  Within half a minute, the puzzle Charlotte had completed independently a dozen times before was suddenly too hard, and Andrew's face was red from screaming.

The neediness had reached its peak, but for whatever reason, my heels were dug so far into my to-do list, I couldn't stop and just be mom.

I don't claim to have audible heard the voice of the Lord at any time in my life, but there certainly have been a handful of times when the Holy Spirit has spoken so clearly and so aptly to my heart, I undoubtedly know truth and wisdom were just revealed to me.

This was one of those moments.

Right there, on the carpet that hadn't seen a vacuum in weeks, surrounded by laundry, blocks, puzzle pieces, baby rattles, and two crying children, God knew I needed some truth.

Joy, stop.  Stop what you're doing and just be their mom.

Just be their mom.

There really will be time to complete those to-do list items, but right now my children needed me.  And not just half of me as I try to do a dozen other things at the same time. They needed my undivided attention - to sit, play, and be all in on this mom thing.

And truth be told, when I just give in, when I allow myself to be all in on this mom thing, motherhood becomes immensely more enjoyable.

Since that day, so many mornings have started with this prayer.

Lord, if I do nothing else today but be their mom, remind me that I've done enough.  If not one item on my list gets crossed off, remind me it was still a day well spent.  

Help me today to just be their mom. 

travel, food, and vin d'orange

This post started as quick recipe for vin d'orange - a refreshing orange-infused liquor that Stephen and I sipped all summer long last year. And just as it should, food (or in this case, a drink) sparked a memory, which turned into a story, and I couldn't bear to give you one without the other.

******

During the summer of 2013,  Stephen and I brought nine-month-old Charlotte with us to Europe to visit David, Kelly and their two young girls, some of our dearest college friends who were living in Germany.  David, Kelly, and Stephen are travelers and adventures by nature.  They are people who would happily leave on a moment's notice to go anywhere in the world, throwing a few items into a bag and trusting they'll find food, shelter, and friendly people to help when needed.  They are flexible, up for anything, and can spin a traveling nightmare into a hilarious memory.  I need these people in my life because as much as I love traveling while in the midst of it, the planning and preparation is exhausting.

I have spent time in Europe, Africa, Asia and all corners of the US, and before each trip, I have the same internal dialogue.  The homebody in me is anxiously screaming, "It would just be so much easier to stay home," and the adventurer in me, who for years has been fighting to get out from under a pile of practicality, is faintly heard in the background, reminding me I'll love it once I just get out of the house and make it to the airport.  

This exact scenario played out as I prepared for us to visit David and Kelly, and after weeks of self-doubt, followed by self-talk, I locked our front door and headed to the airport, ready to brave an eight-hour flight with a nine-month-old, who by the way was an absolute rock star.  She slept nearly the entire flight there, and I was appalled that the other passengers weren't applauding for us as we exited the plane in Germany.  Didn't they know how many hours of worrying went into the planning of this flight? And surely it was those well-spent hours of worrying that contributed to such a successful journey.

David picked us up at the airport, and despite our desperate need for a change of clothes, a shower, and a toothbrush, we went out for pastries and espresso instead.  I love Europe.

For the next two weeks, we piled three car seats into the back row of David and Kelly's mini van, and our team of seven took western Europe by storm.  We drank too much beer, ate too much schnitzel, and sadly bought nowhere near enough pastries from the morning bread truck.  We strapped our children into Ergos as we roamed cobblestone villages and held on for dear life as David drove that mini van up the narrow, windy roads of northern Italy during our four day stint on Lake Como.  And because David and Kelly are awesome like that, they encouraged us to leave Charlotte with them for a night and hop on a train to Paris.  (I try to use the phrase "hop on a train to Paris" as much as possible in my life because it makes me sound way cooler than I am.)  We left Germany in the wee hours of the morning, and made it to Paris in time for an early lunch and a day of sightseeing.

Paris has always intimidated me.  I have not one trace of French in me, and I am quite certain my Chicago accent, boot cut jeans, and inability to even look at pâté immediately foiled my best laid plans to pull off Parisian class.  Nonetheless, we did Paris right.  We saw the Louvre, toured Notre Dame, and took at least forty-seven pictures in front of the Eiffel Tower.  We wandered bookstores and art galleries, kissed on the Locks of Love bridge and, most importantly, sampled the best of the Parisian cafés. 

Stephen and I can hold our own in various food situations.  We can pound greasy burgers from a hole-in-the-wall diner, and we can happily overpay for small portions of pretentious food.  We like trying unique foods and approach our travels with an "eat as the locals do" kind of attitude.  The vast majority of time, this theory has served us well, leaving only a small handful of times we couldn't quite stomach the local delicacies.  But we certainly weren't expecting French food to give us any trouble. I am embarrassed to admit we still have not lived down the shame of our one and only dinner in Paris.

Stephen found a small, charming restaurant, A la Biche au Bois, that online reviews raved about, dubbing it a local, affordable gem not yet taken over by tourists. Sounded perfect. It opened at 5 pm, and there was a short line waiting outside the door.  The restaurant was small with one main room and tables no more than 12 inches apart. The maître d' began seating guests, filling tables in a counterclockwise system, beginning with the table in the front right corner.

Stephen and I were the third party to be seated, and we squeezed into a tiny table, carefully keeping our elbows tucked to our sides lest we bump the lady who was sitting alone at the table next to us.  The maître d' promptly sat the next guests at the table on our other side and continued down the row, filling up all the tables on the right side of the restaurant; it didn't seem to matter that there were a couple dozen empty tables throughout the room.  The method was clear - pack 'em in tight and do so in an orderly fashion.

As to be expected, the menu was written in French and the server only spoke French.  We began pointing to items on the menu and hoping for the best.  Various wines, salads, soups, and pots of bubbly goodness came to our table, and to our delight, everything was outstanding.

Midway though our main course, the lone lady next to us had finished her entrée, and the server brought her out a glorious site - a large tray filled with at least ten different cheeses.  The customer pointed to the cheeses she wanted, and we watched as the server cut off unlimited chunks of cheese and piled them onto her plate. 

Stephen and I could read each others' faces: what did we have to point to on the menu to get that tray? 

A few minutes later, the server brought the same tray over to another table, and we watched in awe out of the corner of our eyes.  We soon came to realize that this heaven-sent cheese tray was offered to all guest between their entrée and dessert.  Can you imagine?  A limitless cheese course, in Pairs.

Stephen and I lean toward excessive, unabashed enthusiasm when it comes to good food, and we totally wanted to pull a Zach Morris "time out" moment to scream our heads off with excitement.  It took every bit of self control in us to maintain our Parisian demeanor. 

We picked up speed during the second half of our entrée and eagerly watched as our dishes were cleared.  We must have been giddy with glee when the server lower that glorious platter down to our table.  The language barrier couldn't stop us now; cheese is a universal language, and we had our plates piled high with samples of nearly every type of cheese offered, far more than we saw anyone else take.

I remember the next moments vividly.  Stephen, whom I have watched devour an entire block of bleu cheese entirely on his own, went right for the veiny wedge while I scooped up a chuck of what appeared to be brie.  Within three seconds, our childish, goofy grins turned to confusion, then shock, and finally pure disgust.

What was in our mouths? Our senses were awaken to the taste, smell, and feel of rotten just sitting on our tongues.  We starred at each other, unsure of the next move.  Stephen finally close his eyes and swallowed; I honestly thought he was going to hurl. I wasn't as brave. Ever so mindful of the other guests just inches away, who just minutes earlier had happily consumed their own cheese plates,  I casually brought my napkin to my mouth and disposed of the rancidness.

Again, how badly we needed a time-out moment to figure out what had just happened.  Cheese platters are our love languages.  We both looked down at our plates which still contained a small mountain of various cheeses.  We couldn't stop now and embarrass ourselves by becoming those wasteful Americans who couldn't even handle real French cheese.

Maybe we just had a rough start.  Surely they couldn't all be so foul.

Take two.

Oh boy. Same scenario.

Stephen somehow managed to get it down, while my napkin again came to my rescue.  I was ready to call it quits, but Stephen is much too prideful when it comes to cheese.  I knew he'd never surrender to thought of being taken down by a cheese course.

"Put it in your purse," Stephen quietly commanded me.

"Are you kidding me? I'm not putting chunks of cheese into my purse."

Stephen whispered, over pronouncing each word.  "Wrap them in your napkin and put the napkin in your purse."

"You want me to steal the napkin?" I responded, hopeful that we really were the only ones who spoke English.

"We cannot leave all this cheese on our plates.  If we do, we might as well leave our dignity, too."

Over the course of the next five minutes, I slowly managed to get most of the uneaten cheese into the pockets of my purse.  We'd like to think no one saw, but there really is no way to be sure.  We watched that cheese tray come and go from each table, hoping we'd see another diner who thought something was off.  But alas, it seemed all of Paris was happy with the contents of this platter - a platter we could only presume sits out at room temperature for weeks on end.  

It's been nearly three years, and we still carry the shame of the cheese tray. 

******

Soon after returning from our weeks in Europe, Stephen declared he wanted to cook more French food.  I have learned that when Stephen makes such a declaration in the kitchen, it is best to respond with great enthusiasm and then step out of his way, keeping all feelings of hesitation buried as Amazon boxes begin arriving at our doorstep with the needed cookbooks, tools, and unusual ingredients for his culinary adventures.  Anything less than enthusiasm might be portrayed as unsupportive and result in banishment from my role as official taste tester. 

Do not mistake my sarcasm for complaining; I love when Stephen goes all Top Chef in the kitchen.   If you follow our Instagram account, @bakeitlikebecker, you know Stephen has been in a homemade pasta-making craze for the past year, and despite the influx of new cookbooks, awkwardly shaped gadgets, and fifteen bags of imported pasta flour (I wish I was kidding), I have nothing but good things to say about his culinary endeavors. (And, for the record, Stephen's ragù is otherwordly.)

And just because writers give three examples to prove a point, I will also tell you that we have 700 bags of organic black tea, glass bottles of various shapes and sizes, and a giant SCOBY (which has an eerie resemblance to a placenta) growing in our pantry from Stephen's days of homemade Kombucha making.

He is so ridiculous, and I absolutely love him for it.

The following recipe is one of many perks from Stephen's French cuisine phase.  He saw this recipe for vin d'orange on The New York Times, and since we already had all those class jars and bottles (thank you homemade Kombucha), we made it last spring and enjoyed sipping this liquor all summer long.  We just mixed up another batch this weekend and since it must sit for 6 weeks, now is the time to get started. 

Your summer evenings on the back patio will thank you.

Ingredients:

• 4-5 oranges (If you can get your hands on Seville oranges, you will be a purist in vin d'orange making and don't need to add the grapefruit as Seville oranges already give a slightly more bitter flavor. But Seville oranges are hard to find in the US, and other oranges will work just fine.)

• 1 lemon

• 1 grapefruit

• 1 1/2 cups of sugar

• 1 vanilla bean, split in half

• 1 cinnamon stick

• 3 bottles of rosé wine

• 1 cup vodka

• 1/4 cup dark rum (optional - this can be added to the finished product if you want a slightly less bitter flavor)

Wash your fruit well since anything in the peel will be brought out by the alcohol.

Slice or quarter your fruit. 

Add one bottle of wine to a large glass jug.  Add the sugar and stir until dissolved.

Add the fruit, vodka, and as much of the remaining wine as will fit into your jug. 

 Feel free to drink the rest.

Stir everything together, and then throw in your vanilla bean and cinnamon stick. 

Cover your jar and store in a dark, cool place for six weeks. No need to refrigerate, but you can if you want. Stir occasionally throughout the six weeks. Practice your patience. 

After six weeks, remove the fruit, vanilla bean, and cinnamon stick. Strain the liquid through a cheesecloth several times to remove all the pulp.  

If using rum, stir that in.

At this point, some recipes say to let it rest in your fridge a few more weeks before drinking, but let's be honest - no one is doing that.  

Traditionally, vin d'orange is served over rocks or neat as an apéritif on a hot summer day, but we also liked it mixed with champagne or sparkling water. 

Here's to travel, stinky cheese, and culinary adventures. Cheers. 

P.S. Stephen is determined to go back to that same restaurant in France and conquer the cheese plate once and for all. I'm bringing Tupperware in my purse just in case.

fight for fun

There are three books that have shaped my teaching more than any other: Reading with Meaning by Debbie Miller, Teaching with Intention by Debbie Miller, and Conferring: The Keystone of Reader's Workshop by Patrick Allen.

In Patrick's book (I'm pretending we're on a first name basis), he recounts a conversation from years ago that he had with a friend and colleague.  They were out for coffee, chatting about former students and retired teaching friends when rather out of the blue, Patrick's friend asked him: "What are your guiding principals?  What are you willing to fight for?"

Ugh.

I can only imagine these questions begin thrown out by a wide-eyed, inspirational administrator to kick off the first staff meeting of the year.  There's a brand new group of kiddos ready to trample the doors in less than 24 hours.  Welcome letters need copying, desks need name tags, and hallway displays already need more tape. Teachers' minds are swirling with to-dos, and we are being asked to consider our guiding principles.

Double ugh.

These really are the kind of questions that make the teacher in me cringe. Not because they aren't important questions, but because I should have a really good answer, and up until a few years ago, I didn't.

My guiding principals were whatever my mentor teacher told me to do, and I was fighting for survival, fighting to get out of my school by 5:00 at night, and fighting to stay one day ahead on lesson planning.  And let's be honest, I was totally losing those fights.

I was comforted my Patrick's response. 

"I don't know."

He, too, was taken off guard, claiming the casual conversation between colleagues was feeling more like a job interview.  He ended up rattling off some answer about every child being a learner, thinking strategy instruction, building community, blah, blah, blah.  His colleague called him out on such a ridiculous, fluffy answer and told him to really think about these questions. 

It was to my great advantage that I was reading this book during the summer.  And not just any summer - a summer before I had children.  Can you say "time on my hands?" To my credit, I used this time wisely and really thought about how I'd answer these questions.

By the end of that summer, I'd typed out my answers, and they've been in the front of my lesson planning book for the past six years. 

What are my guiding principles?  

There are a million ways to run a classroom, many of which are effective, but what beliefs would determine each decision I make? I wrote out eight beliefs, but number three seems most applicable to my current musing.

Children learn best when I am engaged and genuinely enthusiastic.

What am I willing to fight for?  

What do I believe to be so important to the education of my students that if someone told me "Uh uh, Mrs. Becker, no more of that," I would be passionate enough and knowledgeable enough to fight for?

Fun. I would fight for fun.

A few weeks ago, a teacher popped into my office after school.  State testing season is just around the corner, and the stress of it is bringing out the crazies in us all.  We got talking about numbers and percentages and who passed last year and who didn't pass and by how many points and bubble kids and rubrics and constructive responses and testing tips and tricks and pretty soon we just had to laugh at how ridiculous we sounded. 

"Are you having fun teaching?" I asked her.

"I always have fun teaching," she said.

"What about your kids?  Are they having fun at school?"

"Yes and no.  I've worked hard to create an environment that allows for fun, but they dread the repetition and the demand.  They know we are all pushing for a better score."

I hated that she was right. 

"We're really gonna have to fight for fun around here, ya know?  But I think it's possible."

Since that conversation, I keep thinking about that phrase - fight for fun.  The fun isn't going to just happen; we will have to battle through standards, assessments, teacher evaluations, assessments, data charts, and yes, another round of assessments to find it. But hidden at the bottom of that pile is the thrill of learning and the joy of teaching that drove every educator into their classroom.   

We've started to convince ourselves there isn't time for fun.  We aren't allowed to have fun because fun isn't rigorous enough. Good grief.

At the beginning of this month, I became a "traveling instructional coach," working now in three  elementary schools instead of just one which has given me a great opportunity to be in even more outstanding classrooms. Every moment in a classroom is a confirmation to me that teaching is hard.  Education is an exhausting place to be right now, and the government isn't doing anything to make it easier. But I still believe that fun is possible. I believe it because I see it. I see classrooms dancing, singing, and laughing.  I've seen art projects,  paint, and even glitter.  I have seen science be an icky, sticky, mess and social studies involve costumes.  I've listened to teachers read books in such a magical way that a carpet full of seven-year-olds break out into applause. And it is no surprise to me that in those classrooms, the ones where teachers are fighting for fun, all those assessment and testing scores just kinda fall into place. 

I will now dismount my soapbox.