What Teachers Really Want at the End of the Year


This would be nice.

One would think that the end of the school year would be a teacher’s favorite time of year. Because, you know, school is ending, and we all know that teachers have only chosen a woefully low-paying and difficult profession for the perk of having summers “off”. (See this post for more about my take on the teaching profession.)

This is not, in fact, the case. When I was in the classroom, the end of the school year was filled with stress and anxiety. There were angry parents to deal with. (Well, Johnny’s mom, I understand that you are upset that your son might fail social studies, but remember the 800 emails I sent you about how Johnny was drawing tiny stick-figure Hitlers instead of taking notes?) There were awards ceremonies and field days to plan, locker clean-out to supervise. There were days, far too many days after the state tests were over, to fill with activities that would keep spring-feverish adolescents happy and occupied. The hallways were filled with an air of crazed giddiness that simmered and threatened to explode.

It was all a bit much, really, but it felt manageable (well, manageable-ish) because it was also the time of year when I felt most appreciated. There were years when I received a lot of end-of-the-year gifts. There were years when I received fewer. But it was always special to watch a quiet kid come forward with his or her offering and wait while I opened it. It made me feel good to know that there were students and parents out there who felt I was deserving of a small token of gratitude.

If you are a parent who purchases end-of-the-year teacher gifts, read on. If you are a parent who gives your child’s teacher nothing at the end of the year, please stop reading now and go immediately to church. There is nothing you can do now but pray that God will forgive you and spare you the agony of hellfire.

Let’s be clear here: teachers are thrilled to receive any gift at all. We aren’t picky. You could give us an imprint of a raccoon’s foot in a piece of concrete (an actual gift given to a teacher friend of mine) and we’d be like, “Wow, that kid is telling me that I made an imprint on his soul. That is SO nice!”


A 7th grader gave this to me and my heart melted.

Now that I’m no longer a teacher, I feel I can put it out there: All teacher gifts are not made equal. So pay attention, because these are the end-of-the-year gifts that teachers really want:

1. Alcohol. Sometimes your children drive us to drink. As this is, however, unacceptable in most cases, let’s move on.

2. Gift Cards. Give a teacher a little plastic rectangle loaded with money and they will spend it. Starbucks and Dunkin’ Donuts are always, always a sure thing, but feel free to get creative. One of my favorites was when a student gave me a gift card to the movie theater. I almost never go to the movies, but it gave me an excuse to get out for a date night, which is a precious gift in itself. A bookstore, a restaurant, Target… honestly, it doesn’t matter. Teachers heart practicality. And did I mention that they don’t get paid enough?

3. Baked Goods (to Share). When I taught the children of a local restauranteur, he and his wife used to send in a cheesecake for the teachers to eat at lunchtime one day toward the end of the year. This was amazing because it was cheesecake, obviously, but also because unlike when I was given a personal bucket full of cookies just for me, I couldn’t stash it in my desk drawer and binge on it for a week straight.


I’ve been known to bake banana bread for my children’s preschool teachers. If it’s terrible, they haven’t told me.

4. Something They Can Actually Use: You can always tailor it to the teacher and what you know about him or her. Is he a coffee-drinker? Is she always searching through her bag for a tube of Burts Bees? One of the cutest gifts I ever received from a student was nail polish. It was clear that she had picked out each color specifically for a certain teacher, like she was trying to match the teacher’s personality. Doesn’t work for most male teachers, but you can give them, I don’t know, a beard trimmer or something. Other gifts in this category: throw blankets, nice hand soap (teaching is a germy profession), a mug or tumbler, a beach towel, stationery.

5. Good Old Appreciation: If you want to give your child’s teacher a gift, then by all means, do it. They will be grateful. They will not turn it away. If nothing else, give them an old-fashioned thank you, in whatever form you wish that to take. Give them a drawing that your child made just for her teacher. Send her to school on the last day with strict instructions to verbally express to her teacher just how much she learned this year. Maybe even throw in a hug, if everyone involved is cool with that.

I received a lot of gifts when I was in the classroom, but a hand-written note from a student or parent expressing sincere thanks for the impact I made on their child and the work I did in order to teach them? I mean, that would be worth at least three cheesecakes. Maybe four. And I would binge on those words all. summer. long.


Seriously, even if this is all your kid can write. The teachers will EAT IT UP.

The Imaginary Fourth Child


Clearly I need one more person involved in these shenanigans.

In a previous post, “How Will I Know When I’m Done?”, I discussed the uncertainty I felt about whether or not my family of five is complete. That was four months ago, and I’m no closer to having an answer. Not that I necessarily expected one at this point; my youngest daughter is only one, after all. It’s just that there’s really only one thing standing between me (well, my husband) and the inevitable snip snip, one detail that keeps the whole matter from being settled forever.

It’s the imaginary fourth child. The one who appears in my mind each time we ask ourselves if the era of babyhood is, for us, coming to a close. What would it be like, I think, to have one more? So I picture it, the addition of another human being into our fold. One more set of lungs, one more maker of messes. One more hand to hold and load to carry. One more division – or multiplication? – of our love.


My husband’s grandfather with his three girls… before he had a boy.

He has a name. It’s the name we had chosen for all three of our children, if they had been boys – unless I change my mind at the last minute like I did with our second daughter, who we came this close to naming Edith. (After my husband’s grandmother, but I lost my nerve. She really would have been a sweet little Edie though…) And if she’s a girl, I fantasize about naming her something exotic, maybe French. Pronounceable, but different.

This child would be our last, DEFINITELY our last. He’d be eight, maybe nine years younger than his oldest sister, who would watch after him when she felt like being helpful. He would trail after them or let them take turns carrying him around; he would look up to them. They would dress him up like a doll and speak to him in baby voices. They would teach him the best words from their Fancy Nancy books and the names of all the Star Wars characters.

The imaginary fourth child. The one who would bring our current vehicle to capacity. The one who would solidify the reality that sometimes, in this world, people do share a bedroom with other people. The last one to wear the clothes that have become, for me, hallmarks of the too-swift ascent out of infancy. OR, the one who would necessitate the buying of an entirely new wardrobe – I’m not sure which is worse.

He is a presence. In my mind, she exists. I can picture them, these phantom children, at their birth, and I know that I do have the capacity to love them. To fit them, as gently as possible, into this imperfect pandemonium, this affectionate wild rumpus that we call our family.


She was trying to help me envision one more baby.

I cannot make them any promises. How can I? I am tired. I am overwhelmed. Just yesterday the one-year-old made her way down an entire flight of stairs, and I didn’t know about it until she reached the bottom. Safely, thank God. I listen to the older two argue and I start another load of laundry and I think, One more would be unwise. I think, Look at what you already have.

A little boy with so many sisters. Four girls, my own little women. I am waiting to see if he will begin to lose substance, if she will start to fade with the passage of time. Until they do, I find it hard to wish them into never-existence. And if they don’t? Then the answer to my question will finally be clear.


The imaginary child is right in the middle, digging in the dirt alongside his or her filthy sisters.



A Love Letter to a 15K- And How It’s Making Me a Better Parent

I grew up just down the street from Utica, NY, where the Boilermaker 15K Road Race is held each year on the second Sunday in July. But because the date of the race coincided with our family’s annual trip to the Adirondacks, I never got to see what all the fuss was about. On Monday morning my parents would drive from our rental cabin to the small corner store to pick up donuts and a copy of the Utica Observer-Dispatch paper, which ran a Boilermaker insert. We would scan the results pages with cinnamon-sugary fingers and use a highlighter to indicate the names of the people we knew. Growing up, this was all the Boilermaker meant to me.

When my oldest sister began running the race as an adult, I was happy to pick up one of Utica’s finest bagel sandwiches and sit on a curb with the rest of the family to wave signs and cheer her on, but I had no real interest in distance running. I had been a member of the track team through middle and high school, but despite my coach’s best efforts, I was a high jumper and nothing more. I associated running with pain; there was never enough air in my lungs, and my flat feet made me susceptible to shin splints.

I guess it was love that led me back to my running shoes. A year after we got together, my future husband-to-be ran the Go! St. Louis Marathon, and the year after that, he agreed to run a half-marathon with me. We crossed the finish line at exactly the same time, my sneakers full of blood from unanticipated blisters. He spent the next several days complaining about pain in his knees and hips from “not running at his natural pace.” (Which really means, I love you, but I’m never running with your slow ass again.)


He ran WAY faster than my slow ass.

After conquering a half-marathon – or maybe it conquered me, but either way – I felt more equipped to tackle the Boilermaker when my sister suggested that we run together in 2010. On the day of the race, I had a nine-month-old and she had a ten-week-old. The fact that we were running at all seemed a little insane, but the draw of the post-race party, where Saranac beer flowed freely for all runners, spurred me forward.

What I didn’t anticipate, as I shuffled toward the starting line for that first Boilermaker (I’ve run one more since), was how enjoyable running 9.3 miles could actually be. The streets were lined with spectators offering encouragement, popsicles, and the occasional spray of a garden hose with which to cool off. Bands performed along the route; DJs blared popular hits and oldies music. This blighted city, which a century ago had been a vibrant seat of manufacturing and transportation, came alive. The whole city, it felt, was smiling.

I knew, just a few steps into that race, that I would do it again. Never mind my general dislike of running. This was something special. 


Something for everyone at the post-race party!

So, again I’m in training. With three children now, and let’s be honest: my body isn’t what it once was. This body that has birthed three babies, that totes them around and stoops down to clean up their messes and to look them firmly in the eye- this body is not psyched about running. It hurts. It hurts my joints, it hurts every bone in my feet. I have to wear as little clothing as I can get away with or the heat generated by my own exertion threatens to consume me.

Most of the time it feels like crap, but I do it anyway. And I never thought I would say this, but in the process, I’ve found something that I actually love about running: I’ve found the power of my own stubborn will. I’ve discovered that I can talk myself through the hardest parts. I’ve come to love the struggle, because it shows me I am strong.

At some point in this round of training, maybe panting on a treadmill in a crowded gym, or venturing out in the 5:30 a.m. dark while my children sleep, I unlocked a secret. Running and parenting are no different. Think about it: Most of the time it feels like crap, but I do it anyway. I can talk myself through the hardest parts. It’s a struggle, but it shows me I am strong. Stronger than I ever knew. And it makes me a part of something too special to adequately express.

If I can do one, I can do the other. Bring on the pain, and see you at the after-party.


All people I like. All runners. Coincidence?



1500 Miles in the Car with My Kids- And Why I’ll Do It Again


754 miles. That’s the driving distance from Anderson, South Carolina to Brooklyn, New York. That’s the distance I need to cover if I want to visit my two older sisters, who for some mysterious reason cannot be convinced to relocate to my pleasant southern town. (It could be because they are sophisticated urbanites who dislike rural practices such as driving in cars and living in spaces larger than 800 square feet.)

It’s a distance much more easily traversed by airplane, but with three small children, “easy” is a relative term. The last time we flew to New York, two years ago, we were so distracted at LaGuardia while waiting for our return flight, so concerned with keeping the kids occupied and fed, that we missed our boarding announcement and the plane flew away without us. With all of our luggage. And they couldn’t book us on another flight until the next morning, so my sister came back to get us and Matt had to cancel all of his patients for the next day. He also had to walk to the CVS closest to my sister’s apartment and buy diapers for Ceci and underwear for me. And since everything in New York is smaller and narrower, including the aisles of CVS, the underwear was way up high and he was forced to ask an employee to get them down for him. The whole thing was humiliating. We vowed we would never make the same mistake again. So this year, when we decided it was time for another Brooklyn trip, we knew we would drive.


The long drive itself is nothing new; my parents still live in Upstate New York, and we make the trek up there at least twice a year. As I’ve said, the expense and stress of flying with the whole family just doesn’t feel worth it to us, especially after several nightmare experiences of getting delayed or stranded. (The first time we ever took Maggie on an airplane, she was four months old. We flew from Charlotte to Syracuse, circled the airport, which had shut down due to blizzard conditions, and then turned around and returned to Charlotte. Because apparently that made sense to someone. It was the five most pointless hours of my entire life, but at least it makes a good story.)

Over the years, though, our attitudes about how we should handle the drive have changed. For starters: with kids, it’s no longer a 13-hour trip. They don’t have the same bladder control their parents have. When we’ve been in the car too long, they sob and strain against their seat belts and scream, “Let me get out of here!”And when we do take a break to let them run around, the process of getting them back into the car truly makes us look like kidnappers. As a result, we’ve made the following adjustments to our driving routine:

  1. We leave in the early evening and drive overnight. And when the children sleep, we put the pedal to the metal and do our best to shave minutes off the GPS estimated arrival time. Which reminds me of the time we got pulled over for speeding 15 miles into the 754 mile drive back…
  2. We do dinner at Chick-fil-A. Always. Hooray for indoor playgrounds! Hooray for excellent service and seriously delicious fast food! They’re not even paying me for this plug; in fact, they probably wish we wouldn’t stop there for dinner every single time we make the drive. Our kids are wild and in pajamas and we spend a combined total of about 45 minutes in the bathroom.
  3. We abandoned all our principles and bought a portable DVD player. Matt and I used to be proud of our old-school stance concerning technology in the car. We envisioned playing family games and singing songs and enjoying a good old-fashioned road trip. I guess we just didn’t understand the value of silence. We now understand the value of silence.


There’s no way around it- the trip from South Carolina to New York is grueling. In a lot of ways, it’s hard on all of us. There are people I know who don’t get why we put ourselves through it. “Just tell them you’re not coming,” they say. “Tell them you don’t want to do it.”

But as much as we dread the drive, as much as we complain about the exhaustion and the traffic and having to please the maniacs in the backseat, we do it because we want to. Because living 754 miles away from my family is hard enough, and I can’t imagine choosing not to see them. Because my daughters deserve to know their aunts, uncle and cousins. Because they benefit from spending time in a place so different from the one in which they live. Because of all the reasons to drive 1500 miles, family is the best possible one. 

This most recent trip had its stressful moments. There was the time when Alex, who just turned one, and Ceci, who is two, were both crying uncontrollably in their car seats, and Ceci yelled at Alex, “STOP COPYING ME!” There was the moment when Matt went to retrieve the car to load it up for the trip home and realized that it was… gone. As were all of the other cars on that particular block. Whoops. Family vacation fail.

And then there were these moments: My daughters’ faces, amazed, when they spotted the Statue of Liberty, lit-up outside their car windows, at 2:00 in the morning. My girls and their cousins marching down a Brooklyn street, arms linked, chanting nonsense words and giggling with their whole hearts. Riding a carousel beneath the Brooklyn Bridge. Boarding a subway train, an experience as foreign to a kid from Anderson, South Carolina as stepping  outside your house without shoes on is to a kid from Brooklyn.


1500 miles is not so much, does not feel so impossible, when your destination is a place you really want to be, when the people you journey toward are the people you really want to be with. Eventually (with the help of Frozen and The Lego Movie) we might just learn to enjoy the ride, too.