Gratitude

“Thank you.” Two simple words with so much power.  Sometimes teaching can be a thankless job.  We work long hours.  We stay late and come in early.  We plan lessons that we think will keep students engaged.  We want our students to love what we teach.  Sometimes, it works and sometimes our lessons tank.

Today, was a day where a simple “thank you” from a parent made all the difference.  Today a parent stopped and thanked me for teaching their son.  They thanked me for encouraging their son to read.  They thanked me for encouraging their son to find books that challenge his mind.

Thanksgiving is a few days away but the last few weeks have been a whirlwind.  Life happens and days pass so quickly.  It’s nice to take a moment to slow down and revel in the joy of feeling gratitude.  Today I am grateful for the parent who took a moment to say those two simple words and for making my day so much brighter.

 

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I Come From…

I come from Italy, Ireland, Hungary & Philadelphia.

I come from jelly shoes and dancing in the fire hydrants.

I come from catching lighting bugs and eating water ice.

I come from strong coffee and loud Italian spoken across the kitchen table.

I come from frilly dresses, lacy socks, and shiny shoes.

I come from Catholic school and the smell of church.

I come from a broken home.

I come from practice makes perfect, but not in a good way.

I come from the safe haven of grandparents and aunts and uncles.

I come from the anger of my step mother.

I come from slaps and ugly names.

I come from music and seeking a safe place.

I come from getting lost in books.

I come from spilling secrets and tears onto paper.

I come from education and hard work.

I come from heart break and learning to pick up the pieces.

I come from learning I am better than where I started.

I come from learning to forgive, but never to forget.

I come from learning I am worthy of being loved and learning to give love.

 

Small Moment-Sweet Summertime

If I could pinpoint one place that held the happiness of my childhood it would be Wildwood, NJ.  My earliest memories of summer start with crossing the rickety old wooden bridge.  That 30 second heart pounding, swear you were going to die, hold your breath and pray ride signified that summer had begun.  I can still here the seagulls loudly welcoming everyone to the island and the smell of the salt air.  I swore life could not get any better.  Years later that old wooden bridge was replaced by a huge cement eye sore that admittedly felt much safer to drive across.  However, there isn’t a trip to Wildwood that I don’t miss that old rickety wooden bridge.

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