How to Name a Cat

Yeah.  We got a kitten.

This was never in the plans.  Despite being a cat lover as a child, I came home from college with, inexplicably, a wild allergy to cats.  If I touched a cat, I would spend the rest of the day clawing and scratching at my eyes and face, tears streaming from ducts I didn’t know I had, and red, blotchy streaks across my cheeks. 

So.  No more cats for me.

When I started dating my now-husband, he had two great cats.  Gary and Newman.  He loved those cats, too, but if I were within ten feet of either one, I’d transform into a blowfish.  When we decided to get married, my poor fiancé said goodbye to his beloved cats; we found homes for the two and proceeded with our cat-free life.

And then.

About six weeks ago, my Dad stumbled across an abandoned baby kitten in his barn.   She was alone, and so very young:  Her skin was still translucent.  She looked more like a mouse than a cat.  Her siblings—almost certainly, there had been siblings—had been eaten up by a raccoon or dog or something, and her mama had fled the scene.  All that was left was this tiny thing, nestled in some straw way back in the dark corners of the barn.  Half dead, she was, with little hope of making it to cat hood.

But my father wanted to try.  You have to, really.  Because everything deserves a fighting chance.

So.  Assisted by my nieces and nephews, he made her a safe little home out of a cardboard box and checked in on her hourly.  He fed her with a medicine dropper.  He fed her a serum of water and Karo syrup, hoping it would be enough to keep her alive.

And she grew.  She found a personality and some spunk.  She found her purr.  And she used it, a lot, and more and more each day.

My reserved, gruff father turned into this unrecognizable softie around the kitten.  “I’ve grown exceedingly fond of her,” he admitted.  He carved out a couple hours of each too-busy day to pet her.  He transitioned her to milk and, then, soft food.  He trained her how to use a litter box.

I couldn’t help thinking about it. 

I did a bunch of research, trying to figure out how, 25-some years earlier, I could have gone from very not allergic to cats (as a kid, I slept with my cat on my neck, for cryin’ out loud) to very allergic.  I read about the likelihood of building immunity to cat dander.  I learned that sometimes allergies come and go and change.  I learned that cat dander might be managed with hyper-vigilant cleaning and lots of hand washing. 

I studied.  I asked questions.  I started to figure I could do this.  That we should.  Our family should adopt the cat.

I announced my thinking to my husband. 

“You’re crazy,” he said.

“We can just try,” I told him.  “Let’s see if I can build an immunity.  If not, we’ll find a good home for her, and she’ll live a very fat, happy suburban life.”

He thought about it.  A lot.  That’s what he does.

“It just seemed like a bad idea,” he told me, shaking his head.

“The kids need this,” I said.  “They need to see a young animal grow into our family.”

He sighed.

“So… “  I decided to drop the mic.  “It’s either this, or a puppy.”  

“I don’t like dogs.”

“I know.  Which is why we should try a cat.”

So last Sunday, the kitten arrived.  It was a trial basis, we said:  We’d see how things went, with me.  We wouldn’t name the kitten until and unless we were certain she could continue to live with us. 

The kids fell immediately into a deep, adoring love.  So did my husband.  I began catching him, late at night, snuggling and smooching with the kitten. 

I approached it very laboratory-like:  careful and with baby steps.  I spent a few minutes with the kitten every morning.  I first pet her gingerly, then more assertively, and then plunged in, sticking my nose right down to match her nose.  I breathed. 

Then I waited, fending off the dread, to see if I’d start to itch.

I haven’t, yet.  It seems like it’s going to be okay.  I had a flare-up once when she scratched me, but otherwise it’s been just fine.

So now we name her. 

I titled this piece, “How to Name a Cat,” but I have no idea how to name a cat.  We can’t agree, the husband and kids and I.  We’ve considered every name from Softie to Farcus (that from the husband).  We can’t agree, yet.  But what we are agreeing on is that this cat had a helluva start, in life, and a whole bunch of people who were at the right place in the right time to make sure she has a good life.  We love her already.

Maybe we’ll call her Lucky. 

9:30

Most of us have a time of our workday that is our favorite.  It may be the first pour of coffee from the staff lounge; the moment the “inbox” is empty; lunch shared with colleagues; maybe even the slam of the door in our car as we’re leaving for the day.  It’s the moment we breathe.  Deeply.

Mine is 9:30 a.m.

My friend Scott pointed this out to me; I’d never heard it so clearly articulated.  We were talking about the first day of school, and the frantic, rushed, confusing time it can be as all the students stream off the school bus and into the building.  Phones are ringing; buses are late; there may even be tears from particularly sensitive or anxious children.  It seems there are one hundred places to be and one hundred problems to fix.  Go-go-go-go.

“But then nine thirty will come,” he said, dreamy-like.  His voice actually lilted:  Nine. Thir. Tee. 

Nine thirty is a great time of day on the first day, and on every other day, too.  It is the magic time when all the students are in their classrooms, meeting together as a class.  Teachers have settled into their routine.  All the preparation is being put into practice.  No one is in trouble—yet.  No parents have complained. All of the morning questions have been answered.  Everyone is safe, secure, and where they are supposed to be.  PD has been delivered; IEP meetings have concluded; announcements and attendance and lunch counts and parent phone calls have been finished. 

 

So, for a principal, it is the most calm, quiet, productive time of day.

No one needs us to be anywhere. In fact, no one wants us to be around. 

It’s time to breathe. 

I get more done in the time slot starting at 9:30 than any other time, because I’m super-focused.  I work quickly and efficiently, because I know my window of time for productivity is small.  Shit’s gonna start hitting the fan, for sure, and it might happen any moment.   So I revel in the quiet, in the productivity, in the time I can breathe differently.

Think about it:  What’s the time in your day you breathe differently? 

Answering Questions

So I wrote a book, You're the Principal:  Now What?!?  It came out last week, and lots of people have asked lots of questions.  I thought I'd provide some universal answers.

How long did it take to write?
I have no idea.  I forget.

How did I get the ideas? 
I have no idea. They just kind of arrived.  I think.

How did it happen with ASCD? 
I wrote a proposal and—kiss my grits—they took it.

How long did it take from the proposal to the finished copy?  
It's a process.  Two years?  More?  A long time.

What was the hardest part? 
Editing.  I had to read the stupid thing a couple times.  The whole thing.  I love writing, but editing makes me crazy.

Is it selling?
I have no idea.

What's next?  Will you write another one?
I dunno.

Why are you acting funny right now? 
I don't know.  Because it's awkward.

Why didn't you tell me you were writing a book? [From my friends]  
I'm sorry.  It's just not the sort of thing that comes up naturally.  Or unnaturally, for that matter.

So, there.  A bunch of non-answers.

But there is one frequent question for which I have a solid answer.

How are you feeling?  
I haven't yet found the word to describe how it feels to actually hold the book.   Sometimes it feels right and normal and good.  Other times, it feels like I'm removed from the whole thing.

But here is what I can name, for sure, as a feeling:  Overcome.  There's been so much support from people I know— and people I don't know.  Almost everyone has been so... nice.  So kind.  It reminds me that we really are a big ol' community, watching over and taking care of one another.  And it reminds me that when good things happen to others, there is only one response that is the right one:  "That's wonderful.  I am happy for you."  

I will work to say those words more often—as often as I can.

Thank you, everyone.  I heart you.

Our Impact

I was a conscientious and anxious five-year-old, desperate to please adults and follow. all. rules. I couldn’t wait for kindergarten because I just knew I would love my teacher and she would love how good I was.  I imagined myself settling into my seat on the bus, hanging my coat in my own personal cubby, and organizing my desk in perfect, sensible order.   I saw neat rows of sharpened pencils, stacks of art materials, and the freedom to read for hours on end. 

But the reality of school was nothing like that.  The moment I lay my eyes on my teacher, my stomach flipped over in dread.  My teacher—I’ll call her Mrs. Mills— was a very large woman with a huge poufy haircut, a sharp chin, and dark, glinting, narrowed eyes.   She wore black pumps that clumped angrily as she walked.  She spent the first several days listing all the rules of the classroom and describing the dire things that would happen if we broke them.  She kept all books and art supplies locked in the closet behind her desk. 

I was genuinely frightened of her.  I tried to stay little, be small, and stay out of her way.  It worked for a while; she seemed unbothered by me—in contrast to two or three rambunctious boys, for whom Mrs. Mills seemed to thoroughly hate. 

Once, she even dolled out a smile just for me.

But in just the third week of school, she broke my heart. 

I remember the scene as if it occurred this morning.  It started when Mrs. Mills taught our class how to make an “8.”  She was firm:  “We never make an “8” by making two circles on top of one another, like a snowman.  No snowmen!  You must make them with one fluid line—start at the left top, circle around…” She showed us several times on the chalkboard, and then handed out a practice sheet.  There were probably 20 spots to practice—first with dotted “8”s we could trace, and then several more practice spaces for us to make the number on our own.

The problem was, as I began to practice, my 8s looked horrid.  They were awkward and shaky, like a baby was trying to make them.  I decided I couldn’t possibly turn these 8’s into Mrs. Mills.  So, desperate to make her proud, I began making all my 8s with stacked circles.  Snowman after perfect snowman. 

Mrs. Mills clomped around the room to check our work.  I felt her looming.  As she got closer, my shoulders slumped and shrunk.  I waited. 

Pulling up alongside my desk, she made a triumphant harrumph.  She snatched my paper and held it up to the rest of the class.  “Boys and girls, put your pencils down and take a look.”  She shook the paper a little. “This is exactly—exactly! —what not to do.  Jenny has made her 8s like snowmen.  This is not acceptable.  You must learn to make them in One. Single. Motion.  Do you understand?  All of you?”  Everyone nodded.  Mrs. Mills reached into her pocket and pulled out the inkpad and stamps that she always kept there. She stamped a large blue frown-y face on the top of the paper.

I bit down hard on my lip to keep the tears from springing up.  I stared down at my paper, mortified and devastated. The frown-y face was huge, and angry, and—oh, just horrid.   

Mrs. Mills moved on to another student.  Oblivious.

I announced to my parents that I wasn’t going back to school. 

Oh, yes, you are, they told me.

No. I’m not.

Yes, you are.

It was a brutal few days. When the bus was due to arrive, I crawled deep under my bed or into my closet; my mother had to call my father home from work to drag me out.  I cried.  I begged.  I hyperventilated.  But my father’s arms were too strong.  Their admonishments were too heavy.  My sisters’ bewilderment at my unprecedented behavior began to feel like scorn. 

So I accepted it.  I shrunk into myself and clenched my jaw and made it through each long, awful day. 

That was the only frown-y feedback I got that year, but it remained a bruise that wouldn’t fade.  The experience is never far from my mind when I am working with young learners.  It guided my philosophy when I was a teacher, and it guides me now that I am a principal.

The important message here is that the impact we have on students cannot be overstated.   Young learners can be deeply affected by something we say or do—something we did without even thinking about it.  It’s a powerful, enormous responsibility we bear as educators.  Whether a kindergarten teacher, a middle school Algebra teacher, or a high school American History class, we must never forget our first role is to lift and give—not take away. 

Although I had flashes of hot hatred when I was her student, if I saw Mrs. Mills today, I would be careful, cautious, and kind in my words.  I certainly would thank her, genuinely, for all those years she spent teaching kidnergarteners.  Because teaching is really hard.  It had jaded Mrs. Mills by the time I was in her class, and I can understand why.  Now that decades have passed, I don’t hate her at all.  I’m just sad for the whole bit:  me, her, the boys who got paddled in front of the rest of the class, the slivery 8s I made on the paper she frowned upon.  Just sad and sorry. 

Rumors

Last week, during our Open House/Meet The Teacher event, I was approached by a woman who asked how she could get on my calendar for a meeting.   The way she said it sounded ominous and defensive, as if this meeting wouldn’t be a meeting at all, but rather a big ol’ argument.  Years ago, this would have twisted me into some sort of awkward, anxious response.  This time, I came back with a confident, “Of course!  What is it you’d like to discuss?”

“Just an issue with my daughter.”

I had a hunch this was one I should take care of immediately. I pressed further.  “Oh, no!  What type of issue?”

“Something I heard.”

“Why don’t you talk with me now?  Let’s head toward my office.”

 Rumors

When we sat down beside one another, she got right to the point.  “I don’t want you vaccinating my daughter.”

I was speechless.  Rare, for me.

“Nothing, you hear me?  Not even the flu shot.”

I sputtered, I think.  Then: “Ma’am, I don’t give vaccinations.  We.  We don’t give vaccinations.  Only a medical professional does—can—vaccinate children.”

“Well, I heard you do.”

People talk, and they spread all sorts of false rumors about schools—what we do, what we’re about, what we teach, laws we must follow.  I thought I’d heard everything.  This, though:  this was new.  And a doozy, it was. 

I chose my words carefully.  “I don’t who might have given you this information, but assure you—promise you—we don’t vaccinate.”  I took a breath.  It’s a tricky thing, to tell someone that what she believes to be true is emphatically, thoroughly wrong. 

Her eyes were suspicious.  I kept talking.

“There are very strict laws that we follow—they prohibit us from doing anything medical with our students.  In fact, we won’t even give your child a Motrin.  Neosporin.  Calamine lotion.  Nothing.”  I said.

Over and over, I said it.  Different ways, again and again.  It took a good ten minutes before she relaxed and relented.   “Okay,” she said.  “Good.”

She left—no apology, of course—and it was all okay, and the day went on.  But I kept thinking about it.  It's an uphill battle that we're fighting, here in education.  And the odds are stacked against us because we have to keep doing the right thing—taking care of kids—in spite of the unfair judgements of their parents.  And the parents can say and do whatever they want to.  Much of the time, we don't even have a chance to defend ourselves and get the truth out there.  And it's worse, now that social media can run rampant; it's impossible to even know what might be circulating out there. 

It's maddening. 

But there's only one thing to do: keep on keeping on.  One problem, one rumor, one untruth at a time, with a focus on the real work, we've got this.  Right?  

Of course we do.  

So, we will.  

Happy new school year, everyone.  May it be your best yet!

Late Anxiety

I have Late Anxiety.  I get super-anxious when I'm going to be late.  If something has happened to make me late for an appointment or some sort of commitment, I'll feel sweaty and nervous.  I'll drive along, getting closer to my destination, and my eyes will be darting back and forth to the dashboard clock—as if obsessively looking at the numbers will make them stop moving upward.

I've always been like this, because I had a mother that was always, always late.  She still is.  She's an awesome Mom, but it's as if time doesn't permeate into her planning or thinking about her day.  At all. (If you're reading this, Mom, I'm sorry... but it's true).

And here's the thing:  my mother wasn't just five minutes late.  Sometimes it was a half hour late.  Sometimes it was more.  After sports practices, I'd stand at the front doors of the school watching all my teammates get picked up, right on time.  I'd say a silent, pleading prayer that she'd show up when she was supposed to—just this once, I thought, every time.  I hoped desperately that she would come before the coach came out so he didn't see me sitting there, all alone, waiting, and have to sit with me until my mom showed up.  My siblings all experienced it, too; in fact, my sister says used to hide in the bushes behind the gym so her coach would think all the players had been picked up, so he would leave; when she was sure he was gone, she'd crawl out of the bushes and wait, alone, until my mother finally came.

The time that lapsed between the time my mother was supposed to come and her actual arrival was spent getting good and pissed.  Really, really mad.  So when she finally pulled up, I'd get in the car and hiss, "You're late!"  But on her face would be passivity mixed with a tinge of defiance.  She would offer up a feeble excuse, one I was in no mood to accept.

I saw to it that I got my license about five seconds after I turned sixteen, so I could be in charge of my own time; I was determined to no longer be victim of my mother's lapsed attention to time.  It was wildly liberating. And I have made it my business to be on time ever since.

But life isn't that simple, of course.  We're all late, every now and then.  It happens to everyone.  I was reminded of this last week when I sat with a kid whose parent showed up 25 minutes late to pick up her kid from a school event.  I was frustrated at first, thinking of my own children waiting at home for me, knowing they were hungry and waiting for dinner.  But on the boy's face and saw the same anxiety, worry, and apologetic expression I'd worn a thousand times as a child.  And my grumpiness dissipated.  I sat down next to him and we began to talk; I made sure he thought I had all the time in the world and I wanted to spend it with him.

After his mother finally came, I walked to my car, meeting up on the way with a gentleman who had seen me sitting with the boy. "Late parent, eh?" he asked.

"Yep."

"I'm a baseball coach.  Happens to me, sometimes.  Wanna know what I do?"  He laughed conspiratorially.   "I make my kids run a lap for every minute their parent is late to get them."

My heart sank.

No, I thought.  No, no, no.  

Taking on a job where we're in charge of kids means we also take on the faults and frailties of their parents.  It's just a fact.  Parents will be rude; they will be dismissive; they will be absent; they will be late.  But to punish the child only serves to drive a wedge between the child and the parent; it reveals us as unempathetic and rigid; and it makes a young, helpless person be punished for a problem they did not create and cannot control.  If we have a problem with an adult, it's wrong and unfair to take our frustration out on a child.

And besides, there's this:  If a parent is being negligent or uncooperative in any way, the kid is already mortified enough.

Trust me.