I rolled out of Philadelphia today wearing this:

and listening to this:

Kashmir by Led Zeppelin

because that's what it feels like to be insanely

justifiably

proud

Anniversaries & Cupcakes

Twelve years ago today, I started my first day teaching. I was twenty-two, having recently fled art school to teach third grade on the Navajo Reservation. I had a grand total of zero education classes to prepare me, although I had observed in a second grade classroom for two whole days.

My first classroom had two books and eighteen students who didn't speak English fluently. Sheep wandered across the playground. Our school janitor was arrested during the D.A.R.E. demonstration of drug-sniffing dogs. All things considered, it is kind of amazing that I am still teaching.

Outside of school, Valentine's Day isn't my favorite holiday. It's like the Peer Pressure holiday. Sharing love and affection with a significant other is endearing. It also happens in organically sweet and lovely gestures throughout a relationship, not necessarily on the one designated Relationship Day per year.

Valentine's Day with it's overt and loud declarations of affection seems to be not about the gestures so much as telling everyone else about them. "What did he do for Valentine's Day?" friends will ask over lunch the next day. There is an expectation that the answer will be good. Otherwise, excuses start flooding out.

"She's allergic to flowers."

"He's out of town..."

"No, really, who likes chocolate anyway?"

A few years ago, I decided to straight-talk my boyfriend.

"Here's what I need you to do," I whispered conspiratorially. "Send flowers to school. Have them delivered to the office. Everyone will see them, and they'll be impressed, and they'll think you're an awesome boyfriend. That way we're both off the hook."

He sent roses. My colleagues were impressed. I was relieved. And I haven't celebrated Valentine's Day with a boyfriend since.

Valentine's Day in elementary school is an entirely different matter. It's essentially Halloween Part 2, only with a different color scheme. Kids make mailboxes out of construction paper, glitter, and doilies. They hand out tiny paper cards, some homemade with carefully drawn marker hearts, others glossy with Harry Potter characters on the front.

The rules are simple, no matter the school: everyone gets a card.

I love Valentine's Day in school because it seems to be an entirely different holiday from the one that belongs to grown-ups. This is a joyful celebration where everyone is included. They celebrate their friendships, and they eat cake. It's simple and joyful and lovely. It's the way Valentine's Day should be.

What a perfect anniversary.

Over the past twelve years, I've had some amazing Valentine celebrations. One year, my nine year old boys fought over the Britney Spears Valentine's card. José ended up with it after he said what no one else dared - "I want it because she's hot."

Another year, commercial Valentine's weren't allowed in the school. My eleven students carted markers and watercolors up to our classroom loft for the afternoon. They each left school with gorgeous, handmade odes to friendship.

When I taught on an island, the entire community held a party for the seven children at the school. The kids ran around the community hall, shrieking and dancing while the adults drank red punch and ate frosted cupcakes.

This year, we had a dance party. A string of girls started a conga line. The leader, a quiet and thoughtful girl, held the hamster in her clear plastic ball. The boys sang along to Taylor Swift, forgetting to be embarrassed by listening to 'girl music.' One thoughtful parent navigated the requisite 'healthy' component of school parties with chocolate covered strawberries. It was sweet and lovely. It was exactly what Valentine's Day should be.

In Defense of Stuffies

A few years ago, I took a group of nervous fifth graders to "Step Up Day" at the local middle school. After touring the beautiful, expansive school, and settling in to a meticulously organized classroom, one boy tentatively asked, "where do we keep our stuffed animals?"

"Oh." The teacher glanced at me, eyes wide. "Oh, dear. Oh no. We don't allow stuffed animals in sixth grade."

I teach sixth grade now in a lovely private elementary school. My students sometimes grumble that they are too old for 'baby school.' They are ready for the jumble of packed hallways, class schedules, and school lunches. Sometimes, watching them crash through first graders with the lurching, awkward grace of pre-adolescents, I think for a second that they may be right.

The feeling lasts until the next time I read aloud. Then my tall, mature, thoughtful group of eleven and twelves pile onto our rug. Tucking pillows and stuffed animals under their heads, they snuggle in close to each other. They are eager for the next chapter, even though every few days one of them falls asleep, and has to be gently woken by a friend. "Did I miss anything?" the child will blink. "What happened in the story?"

Technically, pillows and stuffed animals are a violation of the fire code. They are flammable; therefore, they are unsafe for elementary classrooms. I pointed out that if we are going to ban flammable items from the classroom, perhaps we should be more concerned about the 800 or so books adjacent to the heater. Would four pillows really be more dangerous than the two bins of "Post-Apocalyptic Fiction"? Yes says the Fire Marshall.

To be honest, I didn't intend to have stuffed animals. Pillows, yes, because who really loves reading while sitting at a desk? But something interesting came up during the first few days of school. In the middle of a discussion on creating a positive classroom community, a child tremulously raised his hand.

"Would people be teased if they brought stuffed animals to school?"

I looked around the room. "What do you think, group? Are we a community where people can bring stuffed animals?"

I held my breath. Sixth graders are wonderfully sensitive to anything that might be perceived as "babyish." Stuffed animals seemed very young to me.

Instead, wide eyes stared back at me. One whispered, "You mean ... we could bring in stuffies?"

Bo

A week later, a three foot stuffed penguin moved in. His name is Bo, like President Obama's dog. He was followed by a two foot penguin, a blue whale, gray leopard, dolphin, and a seal.

After seeing the menagerie, another teacher cautioned that the stuffed animals would prove to be too distracting. My response was to purchase a live animal, a soft, peach-hued hamster. She is significantly more distracting than the stuffed animals, as she periodically waddles out of her sleeping den to eat, yawn, and briefly spin on her wheel. These rare moments of activity can incite a full class riot as kids stampede towards her cage. Thankfully, she accepts her celebrity with aplomb.

Recently, I've been thinking about the stuffed animals as we wade through sex ed lessons. My class has learned about everything from gender identity to sexually transmitted diseases. Meanwhile, many are shooting up like sunflowers, growing nearly as tall as me. They are talking about crushes, and about being a little heart-broken when someone doesn't like you back. They are looking ahead to the day when they graduate. They are ready to fly out of the nest. Are they growing too old for stuffed penguins and fat hamsters?

Then I walk in the classroom bright and early to discover one of them arranged the stuffies into a diorama. The penguins are reading a book together; the leopard is peering into the hamster cage; the seal and dolphin are swimming over the supply shelf. When my students arrive later, they jostle and nudge, wheedle over late homework, shout about the game or the show last night. Then one by one, they drift to the reading area to find a stuffie and a pillow. The classroom grows quiet with the hum of children absorbed in books. It's a stillness like holding a sleeping baby.

When the fire marshall comes, we rush to hide the stuffed animals in the spare lockers outside. Otherwise, we're a sixth grade classroom full of stuffed animals. Childhood is short. Why not make it last as sweetly and as long as possible?