Category Archives: Education

Education: A Relaxed Approach

This is an actual statement—about me!—from one of my boys’ teachers:

by Horia Varlan

“I really appreciate how relaxed you are about his schoolwork.”

That sound you just heard? That was the collective gasp of every friend I’ve ever had, since I became a parent.

People say a lot of things about me. Some say I’m focused. Intense. I care deeply about education. I think too much. I’m too hard on my son. I need to lighten up.

But relaxed? I don’t hear that one quite as often.

So I smiled, a long, slow smile when this teacher, whom I respect and admire, handed me her very high complement. To be clear, I did defend myself. “I don’t want you to think we don’t care about education!” I exclaimed. “We just take a different approach.”

And from here, this post could go several ways. I could bog you down with the eight thousand things I think are important about kids and learning. I could bore you with details of why I strongly support the idea of a primary and secondary school Classical Education and a Liberal Arts education at the collegiate level. We could argue about when kids should learn to read or multiply. We could digress into the black hole of discussion that centers on public education in America today. My kids attend public school. We could even go there. I could tell you why I’m very glad they do or I could share reasons I’m concerned by the very same fact.

But that’s not where I’m going. Instead, I’m going to bask in the glow of that teacher’s high praise. I’m going to spend the weekend playing games with my son (yes, it’s true, they might involve math skills, or gasp!-reading). I’m going to watch the snow fall and remember why I’ve made the choices I have with regards to parenting—many of which are tied to my belief that thinking is the critical skill we teach our kids. For a few moments, I’m not going dwell on the many times I’ve fallen short as a parent or worry about the impact of my parenting choices. I’m not even going to sweat the fact that nary a boy made his bed today.

I’m just going to enjoy the happy shine of a good teacher’s words.

The Collegiate Years.

graduating from Bucknell

More years ago than I can fathom, my parents drove me to little Lewisburg, Pennsylvania, where I would spend the next four years becoming myself.

I remember driving onto the Bucknell campus, and coming to a stop in front of Veddar Hall.  I remember feeling grown up and childish at the very same time. I remember that I couldn’t wait to climb those stairs.

My parents and I didn’t have to haul my worldly possessions up four long flights. Instead, the fraternity boys—assigned as stevedores for the incoming freshman—did us that favor. As you no doubt have already guessed (but I didn’t discover until later) the fraternity boys were also there to check out the new girls. I was too excited to notice.

My roommates and I were assigned to 4th Vedder East. I was nervous and filled with anticipation. I was definitely ready.

I remember unpacking my precious possessions carefully—my stuff!—and trying to respect the boundaries of my two roommates. We’d been assigned to the one triple on the hall and space was tight. In the pre-Facebook era, we’d sent letters to one another that summer, and spoken with each other once or twice on the landlines from our parents’ homes. Our mix was this: Elaine hailed from New Jersey; Diane, from Long Island, NY; I was most recently from North Carolina, but had called Virginia, Florida, and Pennsylvania home at various times through the years. In that respect I was alone at this school, surrounded by girls and boys who’d lived all their lives in lovely homes with sprawling lawns in New Canaan, CT, Madison, NJ and Brookline, MA.

I remember gathering with the entire class that first week, to hear President Sojka speak. I remember him telling us, essentially, how lucky we were. But I didn’t need to be told.

I remember bid day, standing on the porch of the sorority dorm, looking over the balcony with 39 of my new best friends. I remember singing the songs as loudly as we could, our arms wrapped tightly around each others’ shoulders, linking us together like one long caterpillar, as we swayed back and forth and sang along with the music blasting from the windows.

To this day I smile at the words Bungle in the Jungle, as I recall the fun frenzy of the party my sorority threw my sophomore year. I hear those words and I see my sorority sisters, all of us dressed in jungle-y attire, laughing and dancing and flirting with fraternity boys on the dark dance floor.

I remember the note pads the RA of our freshman hall put on all of our doors (pre-texting). I remember the notes left there by the boy I liked “Stopped by to say, hi,” he’d write, or “Sorry I missed you.”  I squealed and showed my roommates. And I saved those notes—every one—for all of these years. Sometimes, now, I pull them out and show them to my husband.  “Do you remember leaving these on my door?” I ask. He smiles.

I remember retreating to the beautiful academic quad to be alone with my sophomoric thoughts. I filled page after page in my flower-covered journals as I wrote down words to sort out my life. It was there, in the refuge of the quad, that I cried hard, bitter tears when my boyfriend broke up with me, where I later breathed in the fresh, sunny, hopeful air of spring, and, always, where I went to contemplate life’s big decisions.

I remember the sectional couch in our sorority suite. I remember snuggling in, pajama-clad, with girls who cared about me. We felt safe there, as we shared our hopes and dreams and, sometimes, fears. I can close my eyes and feel it, even now.

I loved the academic rigor. I’d never been in a classroom where people said what they thought with such force and feeling. I’d never met so many other eager students, desperate for knowledge and validation. I loved the conversations, the thoughts, the arguments.  I especially loved seeing something, hearing it, and understanding it in a new way for the first time.

I write these memories because Aidan Donnelley Rowley did so on her blog, and asked readers to share ours, too. So many of Aidan’s memories rang true for me, too, but especially this thought:

“They say you can’t go back, but the really amazing thing is that you can. You can sit in a Starbucks at 6:34am on a Friday morning in February with your cup of coffee and computer and your mind and you can go back.”

It’s 9:44pm here, on a Saturday night and I’m at home. I’m not drinking coffee, but Nut Brown Ale, and still, she’s right. I can close my eyes and remember it so clearly. I can go right back.

What about you? You can read Aidan’s memories, and join her conversation, here.

Buying School Supplies for Your Child and the School

So I was thinking about taking a vacation, or buying something fun, maybe some pretty, pretty shoes by the lovely Tory Burch, but instead I spent our money on binders.  And lots of 3-hole punched folders, with pockets.

I’m not alone.  Parents around the country are currently participating in the annual spend-a-thon that is back-to-school shopping.  Apparently, last year, the average amount families spent on back-to-school supplies was a mind-boggling $600.  $600!

My kids need these supplies for school and I don’t mind supplying them one bit.  I don’t even mind buying crayons and glue sticks for the classroom to share.

But printer paper?  Dry erase markers?

Shouldn’t we draw the line somewhere?   Unfortunately, I have a sneaking suspicion that it would be the poor classroom teacher, not the school district, that felt the pain if I didn’t pony up.  It doesn’t seem right.

I’m thinking about sending the school district a copy of my earlier donation, also known as my tax bill, along with my printer paper and dry erase marker receipts.  Times are tight, I know, but asking parents to supply printer paper?  I’m not sure that the right way for schools to “save” money is on the back of the parents who already donate, through taxes and fundraisers.