When I called Lily to the dining room table Monday to get started on her distance learning for the day, she shook her head.
“No. I don’t want to,” she told me, refusing to budge from the rocking chair. There was no nuance to her declaration. After seven weeks (or so?) of home schooling, she was done.
Our adventures in distance learning over the past month and a half haven’t been perfect (or even in the same vicinity as perfect. If perfect were the lunch table where the cast of the “Descendants” movies ate with the cast of the “Zombies” movies, then we would be sitting on the opposite end of the cafeteria in no-man’s land with Caillou, the kids from the “Baby Shark” video and the stars of whatever boring grownup show I happened to be watching right now). But I could generally count of both Lily and Jovie to read over their learning “to-do list” and get started on their school work with only minimal grumbling.
Lily’s reaction caught me off guard. Especially since Monday was the first day she’d be back doing virtual meetings with her beloved class after being on an on again, off again roller coaster of synchronous learning for the past month.
I prompted her again.
“It’s time to get started for the day, sweetie,”
“No.”
Her body stayed glued to the rocking chair. The more I prodded, the more she resisted, curling in on herself into a tight, angry little ball of third grader.
At first, I thought Lily’s response was just classic Monday morning obstinance. Annoyed, I started down the path of Mom Lecture with a side of Guilt Trip. This did not result in Lily sitting down in front of the computer, her normal affable self.
No, instead she launched into a rant.
She told me she didn’t like distance learning. She didn’t like only being in a virtual classroom. She didn’t like boring videos from unfamiliar disembodied adults who taught lessons on converting feet into yards or pints into gallons to the backdrop of boring old slides.
I listened. And empathized. I told her I knew this wasn’t the preferred way of learning. That we all missed school. But that this is what we needed to do today. And that she needed to get started because her class would be meeting in just a few minutes (insert more Mom yammering on and on and on here).
As you can imagine, my Mom Lecture was as ineffective as all the other Classic Mom Lectures (the hall of fame of Mom Lectures includes “Can’t You See I’m on the Phone?!!” and “Unless Someone is On Fire or in Danger of Losing a Limb There’s No Need to Open the Bathroom Door!”).
Rather than being the obedient pupil of every English governess in every classic British novel I ever read, Lily stormed into the bathroom, slamming the door. I could hear her muffled sobs from a couple rooms away.
So here’s distance learning: A mix of frustration, anger, annoyance, anxiety and, eventually, resignation.
And this from two kids who generally enjoy school. Who like learning.
This year had been a golden year for Lily, who was thriving in the Learning Cottage her third-grade class used while the school is undergoing renovation.
She loved the books her teacher shared, the new games she and her classmates played during brain breaks, learning about ancient civilizations, even the more mischievous kids in her class who used to annoy her took on a new level of hilarity from the glow of Jefferson 1 (the name of their classroom).
The abrupt end of the school year did not bring whoops of celebration in our household. Both girls have really mourned the loss of their routines, classmates and teachers.
I let Lily sit in the bathroom to sort herself out, knowing she’d re-emerge when she was ready.
“I’m going to log you into your classroom and just have Pretzel [the cat] sit in the chair until you come,” I called to her.
Sure enough, as I was testing the audio and the camera for her virtual session, Lily plodded out of the bathroom and sat on my lap. She wiped her tear-streaked face on my shirt and sniffled. I hugged her close and told her it would be OK. That we would navigate this together. I told her she could just listen in- we didn’t have to turn on the camera and she didn’t have to talk if she didn’t want to. She calmed down and we turned to look at the screen.
Her teacher had posted a welcome slide:
“May the Fourth Be With You,” it read. The “Star Wars” theme played in the background.
“Oh thank God,” I thought to myself, smiling.
Lily, wearing a pink T-shirt featuring R2-D2 and C-3PO, lit up.
She’s a newly minted “Star Wars” fanatic – in the past six months or so, she finally got over her worries that “Star Wars” would be too scary and watched the original trilogy with Brad. The two of them, along with Jovie, are now playing the “Lego Star Wars” video game for PlayStation together and she recently got her first “Star Wars” Lego set.
She’s all in.
So when her teacher appeared on screen wearing a Chewbacca costume, Lily was giddy. It was as if the previous 20 minutes hadn’t happened.
“I got this, Mom,” she told me. Edging off my lap, picking up the computer and heading into another room to focus on her class.
I breathed a sigh of relief. And felt another wave of gratitude for her wonderful teacher.
If distance learning has taught me anything, it’s that my children need their teachers. I would love to say that I (a potential wannabe educator) have embraced the idea of homeschooling and have created well-rounded, thoughtful, challenging and fun educational opportunities for them that grew their skills and fed their curiosity. But that hasn’t been the case. Not with an impatient, demanding almost-2-year-old running my life.
They don’t just need their teachers because I end up spending most of my days helping Annie “bake” piles of dominoes “i.e. cookies” in our frying pan while making sure “The Hot Dog Dance” is playing on repeat. They need their teachers because their teachers offer an adult they can turn to and impress and share with and relate to and confess to and adore who’s not their parent. Not the same person who nags them to put their socks in the laundry basket or to stop fighting over who gets to pick the show they’re watching on TV.
They need their teachers to show them new ways of thinking and alternative ways of walking through this world. And they need to experience being part of a different family- the classroom ecosystem that allows you to test new identities and relationships and teaches you how to live in a world with people who aren’t related to you.
Over the past four years that my girls have been in school, their teachers have had different demeanors and teaching styles. But one thing I’ve observed in each of them, was that by November when we went into parent-teacher conferences, they knew who my daughters were as people. Not just how well they could read or skills they needed to work on in math, but they knew what sparked their interests, what motivated them and what seemed to cause them worry. They knew that Lily loves telling stories and that Jovie is a quiet leader.
Our teachers see our children as fully realized humans. Not just kids who need to learn how to add and stand in line, but people with valuable ideas and viewpoints, worthy of being seen and celebrated.
I see this from a parent’s perspective with my girls’ teachers. And I have the privilege to witness this daily at my job with the middle school teachers I work with. They love their students. And you know I’m not one to use the word “love” lightly. I mean it in the fullest sense. It’s muscular and meaningful. Even the most hard-to-love students– especially the most hard-to-love students– those are the ones I’ve heard them fuss and worry over the most since we’ve been out of school.
Students need their teachers. And teachers need their students.
I saw this when Lily’s teacher raced out of her car in the pouring rain to deposit the next couple books of a series Lily is reading into our mailbox, because she knew Lily would be wanting them.
I saw this when Jovie’s teacher emailed me, wondering if she could call Jovie to wish her a happy birthday- and then spent more than a half hour on a video conference listening to Jovie talk about the birthday parade our neighbors shared with her and our cats and the movies we’ve been watching.
I saw it in messages with one of the civics teachers I work with as we chat about our middle school friends and their shenanigans. We agree we’d be mostly fine with being farted on at this point if it meant we were all in a classroom together.
I saw it in the disappointed face of the history teacher I work with when we realized that yet again, it was just the two of us in our virtual classroom- waiting in vain for any of our three students to show up.
I saw it when another teacher I worked with clapped with glee as a student we hadn’t had contact with since this whole thing started joined our class midway through. A little miracle.
I saw this in the face of the science teacher I work with- grinning ear-to-ear as he greeted our rambunctious fourth period after more than a month of not having shared a classroom together. Eager to reconnect and share silly photos of himself, his family and his dog during quarantine while listening to their stories and learning about their artwork or pets or whatever it is they wanted to share that day.
I saw this on the face of the English teacher I work with- that mix of a smile and sad eyes as we finished our first synchronous virtual class together. “I miss them,” she told me. And I know she does. And I know how it’s not just missing the way you miss being able to get a haircut whenever you wanted or grab a drink with a buddy. It’s not half-hearted. It’s mournful.
I know, because I feel the same way. Because of how giddy I was a couple weeks ago watching a student’s cursor move across the screen on a shared Google Doc.
“Oh! She’s here!” I heard myself shouting (and because it’s me… also getting teary-eyed). Trying to sound casual and not too over eager when I left a comment to check-in, say “hi.”
I loved the anecdote one of our assistant principals shared with us weeks ago. About how he was handing out laptops and a student who had been a frequent visitor to his office for behavioral problems walked up and how the student smiled and told his assistant principal he was kind of annoying, but that he knew he had his back. This coming from a middle school student- who on any other day probably would’ve just left it at the “you’re annoying” part. And this coming from an assistant principal who could’ve taken exception to a perceived slight by a student, but instead saw it for the compliment it was.
I’m with Lily and Jovie. Distance learning is hard. It’s a watered-down replacement for being in a classroom with our teachers.
But it’s what we have now. And I’m profoundly grateful to my children’s teachers and to the teachers and administrators I work with who are doing all that they can to ensure our children feel seen. Feel cared for. Feel loved.
Even if it’s just through a screen.
I won’t forget the faces of the teachers I work with as they await the arrival of students in our virtual classrooms. Just as I won’t ever forget the faces of my girls when they first saw their teachers on screen after weeks and weeks of quarantine.
Smiling.
Like everything was going to be OK.