By Toby Klein Greenwald

“Those who educate children well are more to be honored than they who produce them; for these only gave them life, those the art of living well.”
                                                                         ― Aristotle

“There are two kinds of teachers: the kind that fill you with so much quail shot that you can’t move, and the kind that just gives you a little prod behind and you jump to the skies.”
― Robert Frost

Since I’ve already written about advocating for your children in school, when they aren’t lucky enough to get teachers who are all perfection, I think the least I can do is write about teachers I had who I appreciate.

I should add here that I’m a teacher, too, and nothing makes my day like meeting a student from years ago who told me I changed his/her life. But this post is about others. And as I reread it, I realize that the teachers who I remember best are the ones who had faith in me, who were fun in some way, who taught me lessons in life, not just in the subject matter, and who were role models. This is only Grades 1-12. College will wait for another post!

At the end, there is plenty of space in the comments for you to add your own thank you’s! Please do!

So here goes:

• I appreciate Mrs. Fredman, my second grade teacher at Millikin Elementary School, in Cleveland Heights, about whom I remember almost nothing other than the fact that she always spoke with a soft voice. She also published my first poem in our class newspaper that year. And I remember that she came to school in maternity clothes from which I learned that one can work and be pregnant at the same time.

•  I appreciate my fifth grade teacher, Mrs. Wood, at the same school. She was strict but with a twinkle in her eye. That was the only year (until my M.A. degree) that I got straight A’s. (Okay, it was also the year my parents experimented with taking the TV out of the house.)

• I appreciate my 7^th grade Chemistry teacher at Monticello Junior High (whose name I don’t remember, but who was always happy and excited about what we were learning) and my 10^th grade Biology teacher, Mrs. Betty Neustadter, at the Hebrew Academy. In both their classes, I loved science. In the 7^th grade, I remember biking all over Cleveland, with a friend, looking for a store that would sell us mercury so we could prove it possible to separate it (presumably on my mother’s stove), in spite of the fact that scientists said it couldn’t be done. (Surprise: nobody sells mercury to 12-year-olds.) In Mrs. Neustadter’s class, we pricked our fingers to get our blood types (I learned that my blood type is O-, the universal giver), she didn’t force us to dissect frogs and she spoke to us as if we were adults.

• I appreciate my 9th-10th grade French teacher, Mrs. Gladys Kraus. I struggled to maintain a C, but totally imbibed the spirit of French (and kindness) from her.

• I appreciate my 10^th grade Geometry teacher, Mrs. Jokinen. She seemed to just “flow” in class, and didn’t really act like a teacher. It was the only high school year in which I got an A in math, I think because Geometry entailed drawing pictures.

• I appreciate my 11^th grade English teacher, Mrs. Kadish, who was not only a scintillating teacher, but fun to look at, since she always dressed with full make-up  and spike heels. And she accepted, as a paper on Macbeth, a little booklet that I wrote as if it were a play, with accompanying facing notes.  A confession: I thought the book Mayor of Casterbridge was boring, never read the whole thing, and faked the exam.

• I appreciate my 12^th grade English teacher and English yearbook advisor (I was the English editor), Mrs. Judith Oster, who taught me more about plunging the depths of poetry and how to edit and self-edit than I could ever put in one blog.  One of her famous lines, when we said we didn’t have time to read, was, ”My father used to say to me, ‘What do you do between four and six in the morning?’” I have passed that on to many generations of children and students.

• I appreciate all  my teachers in Hebrew/Religious schools, who taught me about God, destiny  and belief. They are too numerous to name. That will be a separate blog some day.

I had planned on writing about my children’s teachers, who I appreciate, but my kids can write their own blog (or add their comments, below).

A colleague of mine posted the fact that, “Even though around 75% say that a past teacher had a direct impact on their future success, only 25% of respondents have ever sent a gift or thank you card to a teacher.” You can read more about that survey at Kars4Kids.

Please add comments, below, about teachers who YOU appreciate! Either your own, or your children’s.

And then drop them a line, telling them so.

Have a great day.

By Toby Klein Greenwald

 To be more exact, it’s a tale of giving an old stove away.

We are lucky to live in a small town in Israel filled with kindness. We have a non-profit that arranges for interest-free loans, a “store” that sells donated, gently used clothing for a few dollars, a similar “shop” whose merchandise is donated house wares, a kitchen that distributes food packages to the needy, a center for bridal dresses at symbolic loan prices, and the branch of an organization (Yad Sarah) that loans equipment for medical needs and for newborns.

The town has people of all ages who volunteer to help the elderly or infirm, who raise money for charity, who work as volunteer tutors, who gives rides to hospitals or elsewhere and who host strangers who need a good meal.

 In addition, the local community e-mail list has achieved a somewhat entertaining notoriety, not only for its sharing of stories and humor (and hot political debates), but for its offers to sell or give away unneeded items (ranging from bookcases to DVD’s to chicken necks) and, more important, to let neighbors know about the needs of others.

An elderly woman recently wrote to the list about five local high school boys who swooped in one day, did her cleaning, painted and repaired furniture, and planted window boxes for her. “They came into my home and made it my castle…I don’t remember all their names,” she wrote. “To the parents: you have much to be proud of in your children.”

Naturally, the list is especially active in the springtime, when many of those of the Jewish faith thoroughly clean their homes before Passover, and give things away that are no longer needed.

Which brings me to my story.

Our oven died a final death in the midst of winter and, since my daughters are the main bakers in our family, and most of them have their own homes in which to bake now, we decided to make do with the stovetop and buy a new stove before Passover.

What to do with the old one? Simple enough – offer it for free on the e-mail list, explaining that only the stove worked.

I got two replies. One from a man, I’ll call David, who picks up old electrical appliances, sells the parts and recycles the rest.  A few hours later I got a request from a man who lives alone, who I’ll call Solomon. I mentioned it to David when he called to double check about when to pick up the stove. He said, “Then give it to him. He needs it more.” But I had David stop by to take away an old broken TV. He noticed some sheet music in the den and asked who played an instrument and proceeded to tell me that he is a cantor and musician and does this selling-recycling on the side for extra money. Nevertheless, David insisted that if Solomon needed the stove, I should let him have it.

So I wrote to Solomon, asking if he was also selling it for parts or needed it to cook on, explaining that if it was the latter, he should take it.

Solomon wrote back, “No, let him have it. I’ve a one-burner hotplate I can manage with. One’s livelihood is the most important, and I never cook much anyway – thanks!”

At the time of this writing we were less than a week before Passover and there was almost a reverse bidding war taking place between two men, each insisting that the other need the oven more.

The story that comes to mind is an ancient legend of two brothers, one who had a large family and the other who had none. Each would sneak over a hilltop at night to anonymously bring sheaves of wheat to the other. One thought, “I have a family. He has no one. He needs it more than I.” The other thought, “I have no family. He has many mouths to feed. He needs it more than I.” One night they met on the hilltop, each saw what the other was doing, and they embraced. The Hebrew sages say that this was the spot destined to build the Temple in Jerusalem, where people would gather in unconditional love.

Please share your own stories of unconditional love with us! We know it is everywhere. Post in the comments below or write to me

By Toby Klein Greenwald

There is nothing we can do for the school lives of our children that is more important than mounting the barricades for them. Most teachers are caring, kind and dedicated to their students. Having said that, they are also underpaid, underappreciated and overworked. So I formulated my own philosophy about education, and it goes like this: “As long as the school doesn’t destroy my child’s self esteem, or his natural curiosity to learn, it will be enough. Everything else is gravy.”

What you can do to advocate for your child:

• Never tolerate physical violence against a child.

• Never tolerate a teacher saying something to a child that will make her feel degraded or stupid.

• Never tolerate a teacher embarrassing a child because of what she perceives to be a parent’s shortcomings.

• If you think your child needs testing, don’t delay. Teachers sometimes like to “wait and see” because they don’t want to “scare” the parents. If your child has a learning problem, the sooner you find out, the sooner he can receive special help to correct it.

• On the flip side: Never accept the excuse that your child is not being called on, or tested for gifted programs because, “He sits in the back and is quiet”. Advocacy is also about recognition of your child’s strengths. An expert in giftedness told me, “Giftedness is Special Education, no less than LD and ADHD.”

• Always believe your child. And even you have doubts, tell him that you believe him, anyway. Many years after nobody will remember (or care) who threw that piece of chalk at the blackboard, your child will remember that you trusted him.

• Never assume automatically that a bad teacher’s report means that there is something wrong with your child. Maybe the problem is the teacher. Find out how your child is doing in art, gym and other “non-academic” subjects. Investigate if there are too many other children in the same class receiving negative reports.

• If you believe your child has been treated unfairly, speak up! Nobody else will!

• If you believe your child has been abused in some way, contact the principal, a lawyer, or the police. Even if the teacher apologizes, or the truth is not as bad as you thought, your child will remember that you went to bat for him.

• Always be respectful when interacting with teachers or with school officials. This is a message to your child that will last him for life. One day, one of my grown daughters said, “Mom, you were always ready to mount the barricades for us. Thank you.” Being our child’s advocate demands courage, perseverance, and audacity, but it will pay off in their relationship with us, and in their perception of their own worth. And even teachers can be taught.

The author is the mother of six and has been a teacher for thirty years.

Toby Klein Greenwald

I have some friends who think they’re doing their children a favor when they rescue them.

I don’t mean that they jump into a pool or grab their kids out of the street when a car is coming. Neither am I dissing advocating. (See my column on “Mounting the School Barricades – How to Advocate for your Child.”) And there is a difference between rescuing and advising; as parents, it’s our duty to advise.

I mean rescuing children from the consequences of their own actions.

One of my friends, before a major family weekend event, told me she had five speeches to write. “Five!?” I exclaimed. “How many times can they listen to you?” “No,” she said, “they aren’t just mine. One for me, one for my husband, one for my son, one for my daughter…” “And if you don’t write them?” “They won’t get done.” “So?”

One of our sons, I’ll call him “Mitch,” was docked from a wonderful three-day school trip when he was eleven years old, because he had started a fight with a classmate. To his credit, he didn’t deny it. I called the teacher just to get the details, but did not argue with his decision, though I thought it was harsh. To assuage the disappointment just a little, we took Mitch to see a film one night. Unfortunately, our choice – The Day After Tomorrow, about a nuclear holocaust – was hardly a hoot. One could argue that offering a (lame) consolation prize is a rescue of sorts, but we didn’t try to talk his teacher out of his decision to dock him from the trip. Five years later Mitch became a counselor to troubled youth, to whom he imparted the message: Take responsibility for your actions.

When I mentioned it to a colleague, ten years later, during a discussion on “rescuing,” he asked if taking Mitch to a film was not a “rescue” of sorts. I asked Mitch what he had thought about it at the time. He said that he didn’t remember the story too well, but his assumption was that, on the one hand, we always mounted the barricades when we thought a teacher was really wrong, so he understood that at the time he must have deserved a punishment. On the other hand, we’re not his teacher; we’re his parents. And it was obvious, he said, that one could not have compared one evening at the movies with parents to three whole days of a great school trip with friends. He said, “You probably thought, ‘He’s learned his lesson,’ and as my parents, you didn’t think I needed to sit depressed in the house for three days.”

Some Ground Rules

Even those who are closest to us need to be informed that we are neither their slaves nor their saviors.

Here are some ground rules, culled from real life — metaphors you can share with your children:

“You break it, you buy it.” It’s your decision if you don’t want to hand in your assignments, or behave abominably in school, or show up late for that summer job. But you mess up – you take the consequences. You want to fix it? To change the verdict (when they drop your grade or fire you)? Do It Yourself. Plead your case.

“Wear white at night.” Be visible. If you don’t speak up, they won’t know you’re there. Neither teachers nor employers (nor family members, nor friends) are mind-readers. If you have something to say, say it – respectfully. A career expert I heard on the radio once advised that an employee should always: Do the job your boss wants you to do, and let your boss know what you’ve done, including extra initiatives. Translated to your children’s ages: Follow instructions and don’t expect Mom or Dad to approach the teacher after the fact and plead that you were being creative by painting a picture instead of handing in a book report. If you really want to do that, speak up. Dialogue with the teacher. Don’t be invisible.

“Don’t bite the hand that feeds you. And if you did, you apologize.” Whether it’s your dad or your boss, don’t expect a pat on the head and more ice cream if you’re rude or untrustworthy. And don’t expect your parents to explain to your teacher that you had a bad day or your cat died.

It is difficult to watch our children mess up, whether in small, inconsequential situations or in the really big ones. I have a daughter who insisted on wearing clothes to kindergarten whose color and pattern scheme were totally post-modern. Years later she looked at photographs and asked me, “What were you thinking?” What I was thinking was that it was more important to me that she develop independence than a fine fashion sense, so I grit my teeth and closed my eyes. Today she has a fabulous fashion sense but she is also one of the most proactive, independent young women I know, well worth the torture of watching her walk out the house in those mismatched components at age five.

But on a more serious note – the son of a close friend of mine, who is raising her children in a single-parent family, was busted for sharing pot with his friends when he was sixteen. She let him cool his heels in the local juvenile lock-up for five days, rather than come home for house arrest, before he was assigned to a youth detox center. She was shattered. And when she shared her heartbreak with me, she also told a story. She said that another parent, whose daughter was a friend of her son’s, met her at the supermarket one day and said, “You’re my hero.” “Why?” she asked. The parent said, “Because you didn’t agree to let him home on house arrest.” My friend was nonplussed and, by her account, she replied, “It wasn’t an option for even a blink of an eye. I didn’t deserve the punishment; he did,” she said. Her son eventually got drug-free, finished high school and became self sufficient. “He knows that he can come to me for moral support,” she said, “but not to bail him out of financial difficulties or in any other way. More than my other two children, he recognizes that he’s on his own. I told him one day, while he was still in detox, ‘Be aware that you’ve lost our trust and it will be a very long haul to win it back.’”

Consequences. They hurt. But they work.

If we teach our children lessons in life, hopefully, we will not have to toss them a life jacket.

They will have learned to swim.

or How to Encourage Independence

Confessions of a (Still) Working Mom

Toby Klein Greenwald

You know how there are some stories in the history of families that become legends? We laughed over one of those legends recently when our almost 21-year-old son brought home the young lady (same age) soon to be his bride. By the time you’re reading this, they’re married.

His story bumps up the Kool-Aid stand on the corner a whole new notch.

I always change my children’s names in articles and blogs to preserve the little bit of privacy left to the sons and daughters of a writer who consistently finds them her greatest source of material and inspiration. So, “Mitch” was seven years old when Dr. Tobin and I began this adventure we call WholeFamily.com. “David,” the next oldest child, was 11 and finished school in the late afternoon, but Mitch finished at 3PM.

Every day, around the time that Mitch came home, I’d call him to be sure that he had found the lunch I had left for him. Fortunately we live in a protected neighborhood and our little corner of the street had enough stay-at-home moms who remembered how I looked in on their children, when I was the  one home.

When Mitch was about 14 he revealed to me that he and a few friends (also children of working moms) decided to not settle for warmed-up vegetarian hamburger.  They had approached the local pizza parlor and asked the proprietor if they could wipe down tables in return for a slice of pizza and a coke.

This went on for about a year, until they started getting hot school lunches. The owner, who we saw occasionally in passing, never let on that he knew where our boys were after school even if we didn’t.

As time went on, Mitch sold flowers door to door, then collected bottles and traded them in for petty cash. I put my foot down when, at 13, he asked to work in a small local flour mill, whose owners should have been reported to the child protection agencies. It took a while to explain to a boy who had been earning his own ice cream money from the age of seven that no, he could not work in a flour mill.

Other jobs included washing cars, collecting trash at the zoo, tutoring small children, waitering and anything and everything else that would result in him having ready cash and not dependent on us.

I tried to get into the guilty mom head – really I did. But I failed.

At the age of 18 Mitch became the maitre d’ for the catering service he used to work for as a young teen. At the age of 19 Mitch was given the incredibly responsible job of being the head of personnel  for a municipal discount card service of a town serving more than half a million people.

Today he’s 21 and, in addition to being a husband (His new bride and he managed most of the organization of the wedding on their own) he’s in an officer’s training course. He will soon have hundreds of 18-19 year olds under his command, ready to go out and get the bad guys.

I don’t feel guilty for not feeling guilty anymore.