Connect to a student Editor's Query Illustration by James Smallwood Art

Tell us about a time you connected unusually well with a child not your own

Twenty-five years ago, I was in my first year of teaching special education at an elementary school in Reston. I was very experience, and a fourth-grade named Bernando unintentionally became my “professor.” Bernando spoke in short, simple sentence and lacked certain social skills. One day, smiling airily, he peppered me with questions: “Mr. S., do you eat a lot of food?” “Mr. S., where do you live?” This kid is testing me, I thought. Two can play this game. “Right here in this classroom, Bernardo.” The smile vanished. “But where do you sleep?” “On this table. After school I just lie down on it.” I gave him a big wink. “Now let’s do some math.” The next morning Bernardo gave me a little homemade pillow. “So you don’t have to rest your head on this hard table,” he explained. He said he and his family had been homeless until recently, and he wanted me, a homeless teacher, to be comfortable. That’s how I came to understand the importance of the words a teacher uses, and how much they can be misunderstood by students. Bernardo felt better after I told him I had a nice home. We even became lunch buddies for a while, before his family moved away. Today, he’s probably about 35 years old. I hope he has a nice home, too.



Strip mall Editor's Query Illustration by James Smallwood Art

Tell us about a time when a child said something freakishly grown-up

I manage a strip mall in Silver Spring. Maybe because of the dumpster in the parking lot, people seemed to treat it like a junk yard — they’re always coming in the middle of the night and leaving things they no longer want. In my more than 40 years there, I’ve had to remove hot water tanks, refrigerators, couches, car engines and bags of horse manure, to cite just a few examples. One day when my son was about 6 years old, I picked him up from day care and drove to the strip mall parking lot. That afternoon, for whatever the reason, there was clothing scattered everywhere — pants, shirts, you name it. Driving around the lot, I was complaining out loud about it, saying that I would have to clean it all up and put it in the dumpster, when my son suddenly piped up. “Mommy, maybe someone was having sex and threw their clothes out the car window!” It totally freaked me out.



Adoption Editor's Query Illustration by James Smallwood Art

Tell us about a time when you realized you weren’t a kid anymore

I don’t remember the labor pains. This was 23 years ago, but I think most mothers forget those anyway. I do remember that it was a natural birth with no epidural. My mother held my hand. I was 15 years old. I wrote “Andrew” on the birth certificate and stayed at the maternity home for a few weeks after, caring for the newborn son whom I was soon to give away. Other girls there were still waiting to give birth; most also would end up putting there babies up for adoption. We discussed our hopes for the children we would never know and other things mothers talk about: diapers, feedings, sleepless nights. Back at high school a couple of months later, I would listen to the girls talk about which boys they liked. They would giggle about French kissing and fret over whether they should let the boys touch their breasts. I remember having had those conversations. But now, I couldn’t relate to them at all.



Broken heart Editor's Query Illustration by James Smallwood Art

Tell us about a Valentine’s Day that made you glad the day was over

As a sophomore in military school five years ago, I had the unfortunate luck of drawing front-office duty for Valentine's Day. All day, I accepted flower, balloon bouquets and gift deliveries for other students. I had a boyfriend at the school, so I was sure I'd be getting something myself. As the hours ticked by, I checked delivery, waiting to see something — anything — with my name on it. Nothing came. I only gift I received was a box of truffles from my best friend's mom, which I found in my room once my shift ended. I ate two and then left to give my boyfriend the card I'd bought for him. Did he have anything for me? I asked hopefully. Of course not, he replied, hadn't we gone to dinner the previous weekend? Yes, just as we did every weekend. I left in tears. Back in my room again, I found a note from my roommates on my new box of truffles: "Sorry! We got hungry and ate a few." The box was empty.



Embarrassed by your children Editor's Query Illustration by James Smallwood Art

Tell us about something one of your children did in your presence that made you want to disappear from embarrassment

In the fall of 2003, just before Hurricane Isabel hit, our garage door broke. My husband was out of town, so I took our boys, then 2 and 7, down to Home Depot in hopes of having a new door installed before the storm arrived. The store was packed, and both boys were on a roll, misbehaving horribly — screaming and poking each other like two raccoons in a burlap sack. When I finally collared a frazzled sale rep, I was informed that our door was an odd size and had to be custom-ordered. The rep took me to a service desk to show me a catalogue. The boys kept up their rambunctious behavior. At wits’ end, I clamped my hands on their shoulders and ordered them to stand at opposite ends of the counter. All was calm, until I heard a crowd laughing and applauding. I glanced at my older son, who was giggling and pointing at his brother. I then turned to see my toddler standing a few feet away on a platform at the end of the aisle. He had his pants down around his ankles and was peeing into a display toilet. Totally humiliated, I asked the sales rep if I could call him from home to complete the order. He quickly replied, “Lady, nothing would make me happier.”