Why trying to be a better teacher made me a crummier mother...

I've worked with kids since, well, since I was one myself. I loved children's ministry so much that each year in Vacation Bible School, when my friends in the youth group were being assigned as helpers in all of the classes, I was teaching. In fact, while I was still in the youth group, I worked to revive our children's church program. I'm thankful for a church that allowed me the chance to develop and use my gifts in those ways (even though I was not only young, but a girl! Gasp!)

In college, I worked at The Children's Place and had a small stint as a (very) part-time children's minister. I served and led in many creative ministries- acting, music, puppets; I was even a clown. I served in camp settings and led others in children's ministry, too. I enjoyed being around kids, and I tried to approach the world around me with their same sense of wonder and enthusiasm.

When it came time to figure out "what I wanted to be when I grow up" (which was already upon me, no matter how I tried to put it off) I entertained ideas of child psychology, social work, children's ministry, and more. But in order to have time to make the right decision (and to have insurance) I ended up as a paraprofessional in a Special Education preschool. That year led me to pursue my masters in education and a teaching certificate in a fifth-year program.

There are many, many reasons that I look back on that year at Samford with mixed feelings of fondness and regret. John and I were engaged (and then married) and exploring a new city and a new life (with a new buddy, our now-graying Al-dog). I lived on my own for the first time in my life. I learned a lot. But I also felt the pressure of a whirlwind program, an upcoming wedding (in another state), unsympathetic (some downright hateful) professors, and little social support. And, as I soon learned, there seemed to be TOO much about teaching to learn in that little amount of time.

I enjoyed my student teaching placement and was thrilled when I was hired to teach first grade there after graduation. It was a wonderful school with supportive co-workers and involved parents. I grew a lot while I was there. When (if?) I venture back into the classroom, I'll be a much better teacher than I was when I first walked through those halls.

But I think I'm a worse parent.

I mean, I can only speculate since the only person I "parented" before I taught was a wild and hairy German shepherd (and since I had never had a hyper, overgrown puppy before, I'm sure I made mistakes with him, especially since he could make me SO angry by leaving muddy pawprints on me or sprinting out the door just as I was ready to leave for work. But I digress...)

You see, there is this one super important thing you must establish as a teacher. It's what makes or breaks you (that and standardized test scores, unfortunately) called Classroom Management. To have great Classroom Management (according to all my profs and my principal and this guy named Harry Wong- no, I just wish I made that name up) you must practice all of the routines and procedures in your classroom before you ever teach a single academic concept. And you set clear expectations for behavior in order to make the best, most proficient learning environment. And if you fail, other teachers will judge you. (I might have added this last one myself, but nonetheless...)

Suddenly, I went from someone who knew how to get down on a child's level, lose myself in play and silliness, and talk to a handful of kids in their language- someone with a gift for engaging and guiding in my own way- to someone consumed with trying to get a roomful of the craziest kids to JUST. SHUT.UP.

A part of that was because I seemed to have the strangest behavior problems from each kindergarten class all reunited into mine (and I student taught in the year before in kindergarten, so I'm not just saying this). But a part of it was because I felt this terrible pressure to keep these kids under control, and as any first year teacher knows, you're just faking any confidence in your abilities for most of the year anyway. I was scared, and frustrated, and desperate for control. For classroom management.

So I implemented routines and procedures and expectations and drills and jobs and consequences and rewards. The kids got quieter in the halls. They seemed to be paying better attention. Mass chaos was slowly turning into a classroom. My principal praised my improvements.

But I wasn't enjoying the kids as much, and I don't think they were enjoying me. Sure, we had moments together- bandaging a papercut or sitting together at the playground, but I had so much to teach, and so little time, and so many things to enforce, that I couldn't stop and listen to every story about what they did last night. I couldn't let one kid talk in the hallway, even to me, or the whole system would crash. At least, that's how it felt.

In those days, it was almost automatic for me to answer anyone who left their seat (a no-no) to ask me a question with a "shh." I might still allow or answer the question, but the shushing made it clear that it was not truly acceptable or appreciated.

I knew some teachers who seemed to make it work- they had their expectations and their perfect little lines, but they still had time to really interact with their kids. I hoped that would come as I got used to teaching. Everyone always said, "Start out tough so you can loosen up later."

My later didn't really ever seem to come.

My second year I felt slightly less terrified and unprepared, but I also had a child who refused to follow even the simplest request, threw screaming tantrums, rolled on the floor, and threw. a. chair. So, no real room to "loosen up" there.

I only taught for those two years before we got pregnant and moved. In fact, we moved into our house three weeks before Big Sis was born. I feel like we started out behind and are still trying to catch up. We still have a lot more art/family photos sitting in boxes or on shelves than hanging on walls. We still have a few remnants of hideous wallpaper. We still have work to do.

So I traded in the overwhelmed feeling of teaching for the overwhelmed feeling of motherhood. And instead of principals, parents and co-workers assessing my job performance based on the behavior of a class full of children, I have a church family I imagine is doing pretty much the same based on the behavior of just two. That's a lot of pressure to put on myself and them. Couple that with the crazy schedules, the frequent illness and then surgeries for my girls, and the anxiety and depression I've been battling, and we've had a rough few months.

A friend let me borrow a copy of a book called Grace Based Parenting, which talks about raising kids with a strong sense of support and room to be vulnerable, make mistakes, and be themselves. It all resonates with me because it's stuff I used to believe. It's stuff I've always believed, really. But I've just developed some stupid habits.

So I'm trying to ask the question Dr. Tim Kimmel mentions in his book. "Does it really matter?" I'm trying to distinguish between disrespectful or sinful behavior versus my kids being themselves, quirks and all. Maybe Big Sister will always be spacey and sllllooooowww as molasses, but battling or punishing her for it does more harm than good. Maybe Little Sister will always have crazy curiosity, but who really cares if she tastes the cat food when she's supposed to be feeding Keaton? Is it really going to kill me if I have a few extra clothes in the laundry because Big Sis is obsessed with trying on her clothes? What's the worst that can happen if Little Sister leaves the house wearing her sister's shoes on the wrong feet, or her tutu, or both? And why on earth should my kids be shushed in the house if they are playing a loud game? There is no lesson being taught next door. No one is napping. I just have to lose that "default teacher" radar that senses the slightest violation of volume or order.

Now this doesn't mean my kids are going to get away with everything. For one thing, I'm still trying to embrace this. And for another, I will still not tolerate anything that is harmful or disrespectful to themselves or others, or breaks rules laid out by us or God's word.

So, the other night, I gave Big Sister a chance to change her ways after she dangled her little sister over the trash can at church, but when she stuck her tongue out at me, refused to clean up, and then removed her silly bands one at a time and threw them in my face... well, she got a pop on her bottom.

But when she sang SUPER loudly in the car on the way home, and I looked in the rear view mirror and saw Little Sis smiling and singing a long, I took a deep breath and joined in.

And then we had ice cream for dinner :P