Best Practice?

I don’t usually write a lot about my work, but today I must.

Best practice. What does that mean anyway? And when someone asks you if what you’ve done or what you are doing is best practice, what are they really saying? Are there unspoken implications behind that question? Or has curiosity simply taken over?

We use this term a lot in the education world. We are always working toward and sharing best practices. We go to professional development sessions about them and we analyze and share them with our colleagues in professional learning team meetings. It’s kind of what we do. Best practice.

The problem lies when there are different philosophies about what is best. Who gets to decide on best vs. all the rest? What if you really believe you are doing what is best, but the climate is changing or trending in a direction you cannot support? Best practice is also one of those terms that starts to lose all meaning after you say it so many times for so many years. A quick online search will produce many answers, but I think this one from TechTarget.com is fairly sound:

“A best practice is a technique or methodology that, through experience and research, has proven to reliably lead to a desired result. A commitment to using the best practices in any field is a commitment to using all the knowledge and technology at one's disposal to ensure success. The term is used frequently in the fields of health care, government administration, the education system, project management, hardware and software product development, and elsewhere.”

So if I’m using best practice at my job as a high school English teacher, I am committed to using all of my resources to ensure student success. Well, then we must define success and how it is measured. The idea that success is measured by one answer, one score, one performance, one assessment is antiquated. Really, success is layered and individual. It is also dependent on the situation. Are we talking about success in my class? On an assignment? As a whole person?

I like to think we are working with the whole student and not just the piece that pertains to our subject area. Instead of teaching Language Arts, I am raising Language Arts learners. So is my end goal that every student get one hundred percent of my work correct? Not necessarily. The goal should be to teach skills – language arts skills like comprehending what we are reading, writing with supportive evidence, thinking critically about a source. I believe in giving students second, third, fourth chances when they are learning. Who among us has learned everything and done everything perfectly the first time? Would I expect a student do to that? No. If I did, I wouldn’t be teaching them one of the most important lessons – to reflect and change and grow when it is necessary.

I have crafted an entire course on this idea in the past seven and half years. In the beginning it was difficult. I struggled to figure out what I believed was best for students. Through collaboration and practice, I got better. I figured out my teaching philosophy. When I did, I was confident – a completely different teacher. And even though the way I ran my class was controversial and not accepted by all of my colleagues, I stood by it and the way I was trying to teach kids the value of knowledge over points. Years later, not only is it accepted, it seems to be the way to making sure all students achieve at my school. I believed my class was one small step toward a new style of assessment, that it was respected and that my superiors were supportive. I still believe that.

But recently I was asked a question that really bothered me. A series of events led one of my superiors to ask me through an email if I thought I was using best practice in a situation she knew almost nothing about.

The answer inside my head:

“Of course! You have no idea what is really going on in this situation. What about my history and reputation make you think that I would do anything but strive for best practice in regard to my students and their learning? How insulting can you be about all I’ve worked for during my time here?! How many teachers in this building give students a complete list of learning targets at the beginning of every unit - learning targets that are printed on EVERY single class activity or assessment to which they are linked? Do all of your teachers use backward planning so they know how every skill and lesson will be assessed before they teach it? Does every single person on our faculty try to find a way to make every day, every lesson relevant by consistently bringing in contemporary connections? Do all of your teachers allow for and require students to revise and relearn instead of moving on to the next skill no matter what? And for this particular unit you are asking about: Do all of your teachers have an average of 98% of all research papers turned in over the last five years? I do.”

My actual answer was not forceful or rude. It was not arrogant. It did not poke the bear. This question was in an email, so I replied by thanking her for the “feedback.” I know most of my colleagues strive for best practice every day. I would never say I have all the answers or that I am the best teacher. We all have our days of greatness and days that humble us. There is a great amount of reflection as well as pride in our work so we are flexible. When reflection reveals a weakness, we change to make it better. We are proud enough that we want to do it right, flexible enough to change when it is required. It’s when an outside force makes me feel like my options are to change to a philosophy or best practice I don’t believe in, or be left standing alone that I am uncomfortable.

Lately I’ve been sad to see this school year end, but I feel that sadness lifting. That seems like a positive thing, losing sadness, but when I realize that I’m happy for the year to end, I’m sad about the reasons I’m happy to go. That sends my mind reeling about how much we all define ourselves by professional successes and failures, and how many times I’ve recently said I’m looking for balance in my life. The subject of balance sounds like a completely different post. The short version? I need it. We all do. There are 32 weekdays before finals. I guess I have that long to figure it out.

Flashback Surgery

Matt is in surgery right now.  As I write, he is on the table and they are repairing an abdominal hernia that developed after his splenectomy.  That was just over four years ago - hard to believe.  It feels so far away but close, details are blurry and painfully vivid, all at once.

On November 2nd, 2009, I went to work leaving a tired Matt in bed to sleep a little longer.  At some point that day, he called to tell me he had taken a sick day and would go into the doctor. After school he called to tell me he needed a ride home, but when I got to the office I was told to take him straight to the hospital.  They told me before they let me see him.  He was bright yellow.  It was exactly one month shy of our one-year dating anniversary.  

Looking back, we were a fairly new couple in the eyes of the outside world.  It was a done deal for us and we unofficially decided we'd marry in that ICU room.  After I witnessed some sort of embarrassing procedure Matt said, "I guess you have to marry me now."  I told him I had already planned on it.  Weeks later, when my mom and sister came to visit us in the hospital, Mom confessed she thought we might have gotten married in the chapel.

By the next night, he was transferred to the ICU.  It was presidential Election Day and we had been watching coverage of the polls in his hospital room when his vitals dropped too low and we were shuffled upstairs.  The ICU is like a prison with smiling wardens.  You buzz in with the patient's legal name.  Who is James, anyway?  The efficiency is alarming - too efficient, too planned for the worst.  And somehow everything is a secret.  Staffers know the secrets of procedure and you aren't made privy until it's the right time.

I walked into the ICU with a small cactus, a plastic bag of Matt's personal belongings and a card with a now inppropriate joke - something about how I knew he was an MU fan, but highlighter yellow skin wasn't the way to show it.  Cacti aren't allowed in the ICU.  I was acutely aware and my irrational mind was worried I'd be kicked out for having that spiky plant.  I took it home later that night and it lived on our sill for two years.  I was happy when it died.

They shuffled me out into the waiting room with couches that work double time as pull out cots, a coffee and snack room , pillows with those sanitized paper pillowcases.  This is a place where people camp and wait unconcerned with physical comfort.  It was around 9:00pm as I sat in the corner, wearing my sky blue Obama rally t-shirt, hiding from the cowboy boots and trucker hats who outraged for what seemed like hours at the election coverage under the tiny television that was bolted to the ceiling.  My guy won  - that had to be a good sign, right?

During those weeks, I was kicked out of the ICU every night at 11:00pm. I went home, yelled at Griffin who had no doubt peed on the floor, fed the dogs whatever I could find (I admit to peanut butter on saltine dog dinners for more days than I'd like), and sent an email to my friend and teaching partner with the next day's lesson.  He graciously led my students through a disjointed Transcendentalism unit that year.  When I taught it again one year later, I had no memory of those lessons.  I woke as early as I could after going to bed around 2:00am and either checked in at work or just went straight to the hospital.  On the good days, I would stay and try to teach a bit.  The morning of Matt's surgery followed a good day.  His oxygen levels were good, his red blood cell count had improved, the plasmapheresis treatment had seemed successful. He told me to go to work.

Around 9:30am I called him to check in and he casually mentioned surgery, but I knew that had not been the plan the day before.  This was an unexpected twist.  I left work immediately so I could hold his swollen hand as they dumped unit after unit after unit of blood into is draining body in preparation for his emergency splenectomy.  The sudden rush of fluids made his wrist a baseball-

sized water balloon.  

A week earlier, he had called out for me when they added the direct line - the IV that went from his neck straight to the heart. That had been added to administer cytoxin, a chemotherapy drug they hoped would stop whatever was attacking his red blood cells. .  Hemolytic anemia.  Apparently his spleen was acting as a giant net, catching all of those fragmented red blood cells and he didn't have a lot of blood to get him through the surgery.  The surgeon, the newest of the secret-keepers, was quick to tell me that he might not make it and that he hoped Matt had enough blood to make it through.  He also seemed surprised that I'd be waiting alone. Everyone I knew was out of town or at work so this unplanned surgery in the middle of the day was not on the radar for anyone but me.  They gave me a pager, let me sit with him for a few minutes while the OR was prepped and they sent me packing. 

I wandered.  First to the waiting room where I found too many people. Happy, smiling, planned surgery, outpatient people in groups, making jokes, talking about People Magazine articles.  That lasted for about five minutes before the horror of my isolation grew too big. Instead of hanging out with them, I went to the bathroom and crouched in the corner of the handicap stall.  I called my mom, but I'm not sure I was making much sense. She offered to come sit with me, but I told her not to. 

I had hours to kill, and I hadn't eaten since the day before.  Through blinding tears I found my way to the cafe that used to be on the lobby level of the hospital.  I kept thinking that the people passing me must have wondered who this lost, smeary girl was,  but no one even flinched at my twisted face or choked voice.  What was this place where fear, loneliness and pain were commonplace?  I ordered a full order of fries and a bowl of ranch dressing with a Diet Coke since they didn't have Pepsi.  I ate the whole disgusting mess and felt sick for a new reason.  Somehow the waiting didn't kill me and I was paged by a doctor who brought me to a small room to tell me the surgery had been successful, but more difficult than anticipated.  Matt's spleen was the size of a football and they had to make a much bigger incision than was normal.  

At least it was done and I would get my Foster back.  This was not the end as there were follow-up surgeries, gall bladder spasms, infections, medication changes, etc.  At that moment I wasn't sure, but I hoped we had reached our peak.  

Today I wait with those  smiling, People Magazine talkers and not even in the same hospital.  This time I am not sobbing uncontrollably in the bathroom stall.  I grabbed a cup of coffee, read my book, answered a few work emails and phone calls, and am now writing this post.   There were no French fries in my diet today, although I did indulge in some locally-made trail mix that had some white chocolate pieces in it.

Still, the memories of our last time through this were enough to make me tear up when I left Matt with his surgeon in that room with the far too efficient furniture.  If the splenectomy was the peak, maybe this will be the base of that mountain. The trail that leads to the base.  Even better, maybe the parking lot at the entrance to that trail.  

Stay at Work Momma

I have a friend who came back to school yesterday after a two-month maternity leave. She is a strong and proud person and I have a feeling she’s hurting a little more than she would like to admit. No shame in that, I say. Leaving Daphne at home after our first summer together was harder than I ever thought it would be.

I’ve been thinking a lot about this idea lately – staying home with a babe. Daphne was sick a week or two ago and because I am salaried, I stayed with her while Matt went to work. What a tough week with a feverish baby – the worry, my cabin fever, the sad. I also work with two women who are choosing to stay home next year. One is going to open her own in-home daycare including her brand new wee one just born last week. The other is going to stay home with her son who will be here any day while she teaches online college courses. I both recoil and have to suppress the green monster of jealousy when I think about their new adventures.

Would I like to spend every day with Daphne? Yes! No!
Our first summer together was a unique time in my life for a lot of reasons. Matt and I were new parents, I’m sure my hormones were out of control, it was my first summer without a summer school gig to occupy my time and it was literally 108 degrees for much of July. Four-week old babies don’t love that sort of heat in case you didn’t know. Just getting into the car from the grocery store would send little Daph’s cheeks to a brink pink hue.

After the first few difficult weeks of figuring out feedings (damn you, breast pump!) and sleeping, and finding time to shower and eat, we settled into a new schedule. Schedules are funny, aren’t they? I’ve have more “routines” in the last ten months than ever before. As soon as I realize we are in a new pattern, Daphne decides to change it. I guess that means we are just going with her flow, but I didn’t even realize we had cut out her third nap until about two weeks after it happened. FYI: we are now down to two long naps every day. Now that I’ve said that, I’m sure she’ll start to change it again. Thank goodness Mother Nature knows what she’s doing, because if she didn’t, I’m not sure Daphne would have increased slowly to three solid meals per day. She probably wouldn’t be cutting out naps as she grows older and she wouldn’t know how to use a cup or eat with her hands. I know I took a part in all of those developments, but really, Daphne and nature are running this show.

I was blessed with 10 full weeks of summer break as my maternity leave. I didn’t have to take any sick days and I had an extended time with her before going back to work. I was so lucky.

And it was so hard.

I have a friend who told me once, “It’s lonelier to stay home with a child than it is to stay home by yourself.” Sounds bleak, but I am starting to agree with her. When I’m home by myself I am free to do what I want, when I want, how I want and with whom I want to do it. When I’m home with Daphne, she is my world and sometimes I realize that at the end of the day I haven’t spoken to another adult, looked up or left my house at all. About halfway through my maternity leave, I realized I was stressed out about this and needed to regroup. Poor Matt. For a week or two, he was greeted by an unshowered me, holding out our babe for him to take as he walked through the door. The stress was downright tangible.

Even so, going back to work caused an ache I didn’t know I would feel. I knew it would be tough. Everyone from my friends to my hairstylist said it was one of the hardest things they’ve done. Matt and I dropped off Daphne together that first day. We were utterly out of all groceries so he stopped at McDonald’s before meeting me there to grab me a coffee and an Egg McMuffin (this was pre-egg allergy diagnosis). When we left our daycare provider’s house, he handed me my muffin before we said goodbye and parted ways. I held it together until I saw that darn breakfast sandwich. What is that about? I’m not really sure why that triggered tears, but I cried and stuffed my face with eggs and cheese on an English muffin until I got to school. Have I told you the story about crying and eating an entire plate of fries with ranch dressing while I sat by myself and waited for Matt’s emergency splenectomy to end? I’m pretty sure I have a stress eating….problem. But that story is for another day.

[Picture: first day of school]

Just like most areas of life, this one is totally grey for me. I want more time with Daphne. I want to feel like I’m connecting with the outside world. I want to make sure she is getting everything she needs to develop into a well-rounded, level-headed and kind person. I want a reason to shower and put on something other than yoga pants every day. I want to read Daphne stories. I want to read something other than board books. I want to make Daphne’s food from scratch. I want to eat lunch with other adults. Balance it is. Balance is what I want. Maybe that statement applies to every part of my life.

I’m lucky enough to have a job to go to every day. I have my routines and my job that allows me some unstructured time in the summer to be with my girl. I’m happy for my colleagues who have figured out what they want because the decision is so unique and personal. I’m happy that they are financially able to pursue their desires and sad for those who cannot. For me, I’ve decided that this is the right choice and that we are going to continue to do just fine as we continue the hunt for balance.