In the end, Tim missed the whole three-day sixth grade Outdoor Education trip. Each of the three mornings, he woke with a fever; each morning we said “Maybe tomorrow you can go.” We had plans and back-up plans and extra options for how to get him there. The first day, we said “You’ll only miss the introductions!” The second day, we said “You’ll still fit in one full day!” We told him no one would remember later on exactly which activities he was and was not present for, as long as he was there for some part of it.
But in the end, he wasn’t. He couldn’t rid himself of the fever that was keeping him listless and pale, so he stayed behind the whole time and thought about all his classmates up at camp in New Hampshire.
On Wednesday he asked to go over to my parents’ house for a little bit, thinking their company would cheer him up. When we arrived, my mother reminisced about an experience when she was a girl that I hadn’t heard before. She and her elder sister had rehearsed a tumbling act together for weeks; apparently the grand finale involved my mother being lifted high in the air (or possibly standing atop her sister and somehow elevating herself that way). She woke the morning of the gymnastics show with a fever and wasn’t allowed to go. “If I’d done the show, I probably wouldn’t remember it,” Mom said on Wednesday. “It’s memorable only because I was so disappointed I didn’t get to do it.”
That made me think about events that are memorable for having been missed. When I was about Holly’s age, a friend was having a birthday party; according to the invitation, there would be elephant rides, though looking back it’s very hard for me to imagine how this was going to happen in Carlisle, but I suppose it’s possible. I developed a high fever that day and had to miss the party; I thought about elephant rides for months after that. And as my parents both told Tim about while we were at their house, it was almost a certainty during my childhood that whenever the family took an airline trip together, at least one of us kids if not more would be sick sometime during our travels and have to miss out on some of the fun, lying in a hotel room bed instead. I can remember sore throats in destinations from Orlando to Palo Alto to San Francisco. Apparently we were extremely susceptible to airport germs.
Tim’s classmates all returned from the outdoor education trip last night. Yesterday I took Tim to the pediatrician, who said he should stay home today since he was still running a fever. I know Tim is bored and misses his friends, but I’m actually not sorry he won’t be at school today; all the other kids will be talking about the trip. By Monday, when Tim is likely to be all recovered, it won’t be such a hot topic anymore.
Of course, at eighth grade graduation two years from now, Tim will be missing from a lot of the images in the customary slide show. No ropes course for him; no campfire skits; no peering-out-of-the-cabin photos with the other guys. It’s a lesson all of us learn at some point: how to weather the disappointment of being sidelined when everyone else is off doing something great.
He’s okay with it, though. His group of friends had already planned an afternoon ice cream excursion for next week, and there’s a school dance the week after that. He’ll get back into the swing of things. And someday, like my mother with her tumbling show, he’ll be okay with remembering the outdoor education trip specifically for the fact that he missed it.
Showing posts with label sixth graders. Show all posts
Showing posts with label sixth graders. Show all posts
Friday, April 29, 2011
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Sixth grade outdoor education
Way back in the spring of Tim’s fifth grade year, a full eleven months ago, we first heard talk of the sixth grade outdoor education program: three days and two nights at a nature camp in New Hampshire. “We did that when I was in sixth grade!” I thought to myself. And I think I had fun. I definitely remember learning one critical life-lesson on that trip, though it wasn’t anything the camp intended to teach me. While we unloaded our duffels from the bus in a fire-bucket line, one of my friends was getting on my nerves and I was deliberately rude to her. That night, she rolled out of a top bunk and nearly broke a vertebra; the injury caused her to be sent home from nature camp in the morning, and I felt guilty for the rest of the week. It was my first inkling that one reason not to be rude to someone is that if something bad happens to them, you’ll regret the unnecessary unpleasantness you caused.
But last spring, the sixth grade Outdoor Education trip merited only a brief mention in a parent presentation about middle school curriculum, though I did wonder at the time how what I remembered as a weeklong trip had shrunk down to a mere two nights. But when we received our official instruction sheet a few weeks ago, I realized that the prescribed student drop-off time of 6:45 a.m. on Tuesday and pick-up time of 7:45 p.m. on Thursday meant they still managed to carve out three full days of outdoor learning while taking away some of the pressure that overnights with one hundred preadolescents inevitably invokes – even if not a single one of them tumbles from a top bunk like my friend Jennifer did.
I didn’t give much further thought to Tim’s Outdoor Ed trip until last month, when we were invited to a presentation by the camp director. After listening to the agenda for the three days – nature walks, outdoor exploration, group meals, skits – I was left with a feeling of pure envy. I wanted to be in sixth grade again! At least that one week. Three days at a camp in the woods with all my friends. Was there any chance Tim and I could pull a Freaky Friday so I could be him for those few days?
I don’t think so, and I’m not sure he’d agree to that anyway. Unlike many of his friends, he’s never been to sleepaway camp, but I’ve convinced him this is the perfect way to get a taste for what that would be like: all the fun of camp but all the familiarity of the classmates he sees every day and, in many cases, has known for six years. I’m excited to find out how he likes the experience.
Except now that it’s departure day, I’m anxious. The questions the other parents asked at the March presentation seemed insignificant to me: Does the camp nurse understand asthma treatments? What kind of protein is available for vegetarians? Are the kids allowed to read after lights-out? But maybe I suppressed my own anxieties until now. Will he be okay? Sure, it’s only three days – and, more importantly, only two nights – but will he miss home? Will he feel comfortable with his friends in such ceaseless proximity? Will he take any showers at all in those three days?
Soon enough, I’ll know. He leaves for New Hampshire today; he’ll be back on Thursday night. In the meantime, all I can do is wonder how he’s doing, hope he’s okay, and learn to weather this mild sense of anxiety. Which makes sending a kid off to Sixth Grade Outdoor Education a pretty good overall metaphor for parenting. I’m learning, one step at a time.
But last spring, the sixth grade Outdoor Education trip merited only a brief mention in a parent presentation about middle school curriculum, though I did wonder at the time how what I remembered as a weeklong trip had shrunk down to a mere two nights. But when we received our official instruction sheet a few weeks ago, I realized that the prescribed student drop-off time of 6:45 a.m. on Tuesday and pick-up time of 7:45 p.m. on Thursday meant they still managed to carve out three full days of outdoor learning while taking away some of the pressure that overnights with one hundred preadolescents inevitably invokes – even if not a single one of them tumbles from a top bunk like my friend Jennifer did.
I didn’t give much further thought to Tim’s Outdoor Ed trip until last month, when we were invited to a presentation by the camp director. After listening to the agenda for the three days – nature walks, outdoor exploration, group meals, skits – I was left with a feeling of pure envy. I wanted to be in sixth grade again! At least that one week. Three days at a camp in the woods with all my friends. Was there any chance Tim and I could pull a Freaky Friday so I could be him for those few days?
I don’t think so, and I’m not sure he’d agree to that anyway. Unlike many of his friends, he’s never been to sleepaway camp, but I’ve convinced him this is the perfect way to get a taste for what that would be like: all the fun of camp but all the familiarity of the classmates he sees every day and, in many cases, has known for six years. I’m excited to find out how he likes the experience.
Except now that it’s departure day, I’m anxious. The questions the other parents asked at the March presentation seemed insignificant to me: Does the camp nurse understand asthma treatments? What kind of protein is available for vegetarians? Are the kids allowed to read after lights-out? But maybe I suppressed my own anxieties until now. Will he be okay? Sure, it’s only three days – and, more importantly, only two nights – but will he miss home? Will he feel comfortable with his friends in such ceaseless proximity? Will he take any showers at all in those three days?
Soon enough, I’ll know. He leaves for New Hampshire today; he’ll be back on Thursday night. In the meantime, all I can do is wonder how he’s doing, hope he’s okay, and learn to weather this mild sense of anxiety. Which makes sending a kid off to Sixth Grade Outdoor Education a pretty good overall metaphor for parenting. I’m learning, one step at a time.
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
When the sixth graders do the serving
By my calculations, last night’s Sixth Grade Spaghetti Supper was, I’m fairly certain, the 35th annual of its kind. If I’m right, I was at the inaugural one in 1975, and as far as I know, this fundraiser has taken place every year since then.
We attended throughout the years that my sisters and I were in junior high, of course, and then I resumed the habit when my family moved back to town in 2001. Most families with children younger than high school do attend, and so do plenty of singles and couples without children at home. For many Carlisle children, the annual foray to the school cafeteria for the Spaghetti Supper, throughout their toddler and preschool years, is their first and definitely formative peek at the campus they will eventually inhabit for nine (or, if they attend preschool there, ten) years. For kids and adults alike throughout the community, it’s a much-anticipated chance to gather for an informal and always upbeat evening meal.
And every time I attend, I’m struck anew by what a great tradition it is. It’s typical to wait in line for at least a half-hour, but in the crisp October early-evening air, that’s never unpleasant. Dozens of kids run around on the school plaza; adults catch up with friends. By the time you finally get seated, you’re hungry enough that the rudimentary menu of spaghetti, tomato sauce, garlic bread and iceberg lettuce salad tastes delicious.
But the best part is the wait staff, made up of the entire sixth grade class. Wearing white shirts and pants or skirts, white aprons and typeset nametags, the kids are at their absolute best: attentive, respectful, cheerful. In fact, in years past, I thought the kids had to audition for this job and only the best were chosen, because in nine years we’ve never had a single sixth-grade waitperson who performed without the above qualities. But now I know that every student is required to participate, and how they all happen to be on such impressive behavior is simply this: it’s a special occasion and they know they’ve been called upon to show their best side.
This year was the first time I witnessed this as a parent rather than just another member of the public. I expected Tim would be a little bit grudging about the requirement that he put in a 90-minute stint waiting tables, as he’s not normally an extrovert or a laborer. This is the same kid who has never yet poured himself a glass of water without first arguing with me about why I should do it for him or gotten up during dinner to find himself a knife rather than ask me to do it. Wait on other people? Tim? To my ear, it was a contradiction in terms.
But as most teachers and many parents with more experience than I have already know, this is what happens when you pose a challenge to an entire class of kids and make it clear you expect them to succeed at it: they succeed at it. It’s that simple. Like all the sixth graders of previous years, Tim and his classmates did a wonderful job. Because we were willing to wait in line for a little extra time, Holly and I were able to get seated at Tim’s table, a ten-seater, so not only did I order from Tim myself but I got to watch while he served other diners as well. “Hi, I’m Tim,” he said, exactly the way the parents on the service-training team had taught the kids to do. “What would you like to drink? Do you want regular sauce or vegetarian? May I take your ticket?”
With its absence of restaurants, pubs and coffee shops, Carlisle lacks group gathering places, so evenings like this when so much of the town shows up for one event are a big deal. A small number of similar celebrations dot the calendar throughout the year: the Christmas tree lighting in December, the Fire Department barbeque on Old Home Day weekend in late June. But this one is a little different because it involves kids at their best: working hard and rising to the occasion.
That’s not to say it didn’t take nearly every single parent of a sixth grader working behind the scenes to pull off this fundraiser. We started back in the late spring and continued working throughout the summer on efforts such as recruiting auction donors and disseminating publicity, not to mention the efforts in the past 24 hours to prepare 1200 meals. From an objective point of view, the serving the kids do is a very small fraction of the overall effort required to make this event work. But at the same time, for them, in my opinion, it’ s a developmental leap forward when they are the ones doing the serving, and in that respect it’s very different from other community events.
Tim surprised me, and many other parents probably felt the same way about their children. Twenty-four hours ago, I wasn’t sure he could do what was expected of him: talk to strangers, find out what they wanted, serve them with polite efficiency. But he never indicated that he had any doubts about doing it, and now I see why. Given the chance, he and all the other kids proved themselves up to the job. I’m proud of all of them, and I hope they are just as proud of themselves.
We attended throughout the years that my sisters and I were in junior high, of course, and then I resumed the habit when my family moved back to town in 2001. Most families with children younger than high school do attend, and so do plenty of singles and couples without children at home. For many Carlisle children, the annual foray to the school cafeteria for the Spaghetti Supper, throughout their toddler and preschool years, is their first and definitely formative peek at the campus they will eventually inhabit for nine (or, if they attend preschool there, ten) years. For kids and adults alike throughout the community, it’s a much-anticipated chance to gather for an informal and always upbeat evening meal.
And every time I attend, I’m struck anew by what a great tradition it is. It’s typical to wait in line for at least a half-hour, but in the crisp October early-evening air, that’s never unpleasant. Dozens of kids run around on the school plaza; adults catch up with friends. By the time you finally get seated, you’re hungry enough that the rudimentary menu of spaghetti, tomato sauce, garlic bread and iceberg lettuce salad tastes delicious.
But the best part is the wait staff, made up of the entire sixth grade class. Wearing white shirts and pants or skirts, white aprons and typeset nametags, the kids are at their absolute best: attentive, respectful, cheerful. In fact, in years past, I thought the kids had to audition for this job and only the best were chosen, because in nine years we’ve never had a single sixth-grade waitperson who performed without the above qualities. But now I know that every student is required to participate, and how they all happen to be on such impressive behavior is simply this: it’s a special occasion and they know they’ve been called upon to show their best side.
This year was the first time I witnessed this as a parent rather than just another member of the public. I expected Tim would be a little bit grudging about the requirement that he put in a 90-minute stint waiting tables, as he’s not normally an extrovert or a laborer. This is the same kid who has never yet poured himself a glass of water without first arguing with me about why I should do it for him or gotten up during dinner to find himself a knife rather than ask me to do it. Wait on other people? Tim? To my ear, it was a contradiction in terms.
But as most teachers and many parents with more experience than I have already know, this is what happens when you pose a challenge to an entire class of kids and make it clear you expect them to succeed at it: they succeed at it. It’s that simple. Like all the sixth graders of previous years, Tim and his classmates did a wonderful job. Because we were willing to wait in line for a little extra time, Holly and I were able to get seated at Tim’s table, a ten-seater, so not only did I order from Tim myself but I got to watch while he served other diners as well. “Hi, I’m Tim,” he said, exactly the way the parents on the service-training team had taught the kids to do. “What would you like to drink? Do you want regular sauce or vegetarian? May I take your ticket?”
With its absence of restaurants, pubs and coffee shops, Carlisle lacks group gathering places, so evenings like this when so much of the town shows up for one event are a big deal. A small number of similar celebrations dot the calendar throughout the year: the Christmas tree lighting in December, the Fire Department barbeque on Old Home Day weekend in late June. But this one is a little different because it involves kids at their best: working hard and rising to the occasion.
That’s not to say it didn’t take nearly every single parent of a sixth grader working behind the scenes to pull off this fundraiser. We started back in the late spring and continued working throughout the summer on efforts such as recruiting auction donors and disseminating publicity, not to mention the efforts in the past 24 hours to prepare 1200 meals. From an objective point of view, the serving the kids do is a very small fraction of the overall effort required to make this event work. But at the same time, for them, in my opinion, it’ s a developmental leap forward when they are the ones doing the serving, and in that respect it’s very different from other community events.
Tim surprised me, and many other parents probably felt the same way about their children. Twenty-four hours ago, I wasn’t sure he could do what was expected of him: talk to strangers, find out what they wanted, serve them with polite efficiency. But he never indicated that he had any doubts about doing it, and now I see why. Given the chance, he and all the other kids proved themselves up to the job. I’m proud of all of them, and I hope they are just as proud of themselves.
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