There's Something You Should Know About Me

There’s something you should know about me...

I identify as a spiritual person. However, I don’t believe my sole purpose on earth is to convert everyone I meet to my exact way of thinking. Instead, I resonate more with the belief that God's greatest commandment is to love Him and to love our neighbors as we love ourselves.

This spiritual perspective has led me to pursue careers focused on serving others. It also explains why I cherished my experience as a substitute teacher in the public school system. Substituting ultimately convinced me that I would thrive in a full-time teaching role.

One of my last substitute teaching assignments was the day before Thanksgiving break in 2023. I took a position at a small rural school as a 5th-grade teacher for a class I had filled in for at least twice before. I was familiar with the students, and we shared a good rapport. However, this class had a difficult start to the year, facing a series of substitute teachers due to the teacher's family emergency. By Thanksgiving break, the students were quite unruly, likely fueled by the excitement of the holiday ahead.

Here’s a brief overview of what I faced that day:

• A student became violent, jumping on desks and yelling, leading to a room clear.

• Another student fainted from low blood sugar due to not eating properly.

• A different student curled up under the teacher's desk, refusing to attend PE and crying.

• One student lay on the floor in a fetal position, moaning and crying, eventually tearing chairs from under classmates.

• A student got so upset during recess that he began banging his head against a brick wall until it bled.

Among these challenges, there was New Sam, the student I want to share the most about. On my first day substituting for this class, I noticed the name "New Sam" on the roll. I called it out, not questioning the name on the list.

The kids erupted in laughter.

His name was simply Sam, but he had been new, hence "New Sam." I mentioned that my brain was old, and I would always see him as "New Sam." He liked it and encouraged me to keep calling him that. Everyone was pleased.

New Sam reminded me of my youngest son, Thing 3, with his longer reddish hair, pale skin, and cherubic face. Both were a bit nerdy in the best way, and I developed a fondness for New Sam.

A classmate, whom I’ll call Silver, won the school-wide Hi-Five drawing that morning and chose a bouncy ball as his prize. Unsurprisingly, he struggled to keep it contained during class. I should have taken it away, but given the day's chaos, I decided to pick my battles. At one point, the ball mysteriously vanished, and Silver insisted that New Sam had taken it.

New Sam swore he hadn’t taken it.

However, everyone else confirmed that he had.

Tensions were rising, and I needed to act quickly. I assigned the class a task to work on quietly and warned them that I would call the principal if they couldn’t maintain calmness while I resolved the situation. I called New Sam into the hallway to hear his side of the story.

“New Sam,” I said as casually as possible, “Please tell me your side of the story.”

I wanted to nurture the rapport we had built. Then, unexpectedly, New Sam said, “There’s something you should know about me.”

“Oh, really?” I responded, trying to sound nonchalant.

“Yeah, sometimes...I lie, and I don’t know why,” he confessed, devoid of arrogance or defensiveness, just humble and worried truth.  I could tell he was also worried about losing our connection, yet he felt safe enough to test the waters with me. 

Wow! I was honored, and I recognized this as a rare opportunity to connect with a student. I felt a surge of energy.

“Hmmm,” I mused, “I think I know why.”

“Really?” he asked, his disbelief tinged with hope.

“Yup, you lie to protect yourself. It's like fight, flight, freeze, or fibbing. I suspect you’re afraid of something, and your brain is in protection mode to keep you safe. Just like some people might get angry, run away, or freeze when they feel afraid.” I then inquired, “What do you think you were afraid of in this situation?”

He pondered for a moment before replying, “At first, I was just joking around, but then Silver seemed really upset, and I was afraid he wouldn’t want to play with me anymore at recess. He’s one of my only friends here, you know, because I’m new.”

“That’s why they call you New Sam, after all,” I joked.

He smiled back, “No, only you call me that.”

Feeling a nudge to go deeper, I asked if he’d like to hear a story about a time I lied during my own school years.

“You’ve lied?” he asked, surprised.

“Oh yes, and it was much worse than a bouncy ball.”

He was intrigued, and I shared my story with him. It’s a tale for another time—one day I’ll recount the incident when I took a first grader's prized possession after Show & Tell. For now, I can say that by the end of my story, New Sam felt better about himself and was ready to make amends.

We discussed how he could resolve the issue and how I could support him. He wanted to apologize, but also felt it was important for Silver to understand why he had lied. I assured him that Silver seemed like a reasonable 5th grader and would likely comprehend.

In the end, the two boys spoke, and everything worked out. I spotted them playing together during lunch recess.

As the day concluded and I walked the class out for dismissal, New Sam approached me and said, “Mrs. Sandwitch, thank you for your help today. I think you’re the best teacher I’ve ever had.” He then gave me a hug, which, if you know 5th-grade boys, is quite a significant gesture.

That day, I left school with mixed emotions. On one hand, the class had been pure chaos, and I felt I had done little more than manage mayhem. On the other hand, I had an incredible opportunity to connect with a student.

Some days, teaching occurs amidst the chaos. It’s vital to recognize those moments and seize the opportunities that arise. While there’s plenty of science behind teaching today, this experience highlighted the art of teaching.

It’s about taking the time to connect with another human being in a profound and meaningful way, which is a spiritual practice for me.

What an extraordinary privilege that is.

~Kristen

The Important Truth about 2014

A new year is well underway! I am so excited to be in 2014. This year, I want to laugh more with my boys, get fit, write more consistently, and speak about storytelling. These goals sound simple enough—but when I really think about what it will take to follow through, I feel a little terrified.

The voices creep in:
You can’t write. No one wants to hear what you have to say. You’re not a warm, fuzzy mom. You’re lazy. You don’t have time. Your body is too far gone. Your spelling makes you look incompetent. You aren’t fun or entertaining. Maybe something is wrong with you.

It’s the past that haunts me most. As a storyteller, every time someone finds a mistake in my writing, I feel pulled back to childhood—sitting in a classroom, being corrected in front of everyone, feeling small and incapable. I remember thinking my sister was the writer, the funny one, the entertainer. And as a mother, I replay my own shortcomings like a film I can’t turn off.

But this is a new year. And in 2014, I am choosing to remind myself that the past does not define my future. I need to speak truth to myself.

Here are a few truths I’m holding onto this year:

I do not have to be a “good writer” to be a good storyteller. I started this blog to capture stories for my boys. They are growing up quickly, and I feel the urgency to share what’s in my heart with theirs while I still can. They don’t care about perfect spelling or grammar—but they will care if they never hear the end of a story. That is what matters.

Storytelling connects me to my boys. Even on the hardest days, if I tuck them in and tell or read a story, then at least the last thing we shared was something good. Sometimes we laugh. Sometimes we talk. Sometimes we reconnect. That is what I want them to remember—that they are loved.

I also believe there are others out there who hesitate to tell stories because they don’t see themselves as writers or storytellers. My hope is that they discover what I have: that the benefits far outweigh the risks. Storytelling has been a balm, a bridge, and a thread that ties me to my boys.

So this year, I’m choosing not to let old voices hold me back.

If you enjoy the stories I share, that is a gift to me. And if my imperfect spelling and grammar show anything, I hope it’s a willingness to be real and to share anyway. Maybe it will even encourage you to tell your own stories to your children.

You might be surprised by the truth you discover.

Happy Tales!
Kristen

Go. Heal Thyself, Girl!

Go.  Heal Thyself, Girl!

A story of personal healing

Ever since I gave birth to Thing 1 I’ve struggled with slouching.  I figured it was a combination of things;   engorged breasts, that would have won money in a wet t-shirt contest, muscle fatigue from holding a well fed baby, and stomach muscles that had been stretched beyond reason.  Two more babies and nine more years under my belt and I’m still struggling with slouching.  In fact it’s been getting worse.  For at least the last year and a half I’ve been consciously trying to fix the problem.  I check in with myself regularly throughout the day, “Am I slouching?  Yes!  Stop that!” I’ve been working on my core trying to bolster those muscles and give my shoulders a break.  All to no avail.  What is my problem?  I was a dancer for heaven sake.  Dancers don’t slouch!  They have lovely posture (and small breasts, I might add).

Yesterday, I woke up and put on a real new bra.  Not a nursing bra or the bandeau bras I’ve been sporting for the last 9 years because they are comfortable and what’s the use with real bras anyway when every hour your size seems to change.  It took me two hours to get this real bra picked out.  I asked the sales gal where the A cups were.  She said that Victoria’s Secrets doesn’t carry A cups.  Then she added, “And you are definitely not an A cup”.  Uh, yes I am.  In collage I was a 36B and now, well, now I just have pocket flaps.  She smiled and measured me.  I was pretty sure she was trying to boost my ego along with my boobs because she said I measured at a 34C or a 32D.  What!!!!  If I told my three nicely endowed sisters and mother that I was a C or D cup I would never hear the end of it.  Whatever Victoria’s!  Low and behold I walked out of there with three 32D bras that are way more comfortable than my 36Bs ever were!  How was I supposed to know? Victoria’s wasn’t even around when I started wearing bras.

Yesterday I woke up and put on my new 32D bra.  I brushed my teeth.  I checked in with myself, “Am I slouching? No!  Cool.  Maybe all those exercises are finally paying off?”  I moved on.  I check in throughout the day as usual.  Each time my answer was the same, “Am I slouching? No!”  I can’t believe it.  I have never given myself a positive answer to that question and now three in one day.  Unreal! I get ready for bed, put my PJ’s on and brush my teeth.  One last check in, “Am I slouching?  Yes!”  Huh???

When I weaned Thing 3 a couple months ago I actually cried for my sorry droopy little sisters.  Poor things! They worked hard for me and now their usefulness is over.  Done.  Never again will they nourish another human being, of course, my husband has a different opinion.  But I just wanted them to live out the remainder of their deflated little lives in contentment knowing they served faithfully and well.  They were troopers and maybe they even deserve a little purple heart tattooed over the top of them. 

I have discovered, however, that my sisters have will.  They shall not let life pull them down.  My sisters have been lifted and they are singing hallelujah!  These girls have life left in them yet.  They are standing ready to take on the world.  You go girls!  As it turns out my new 32D has miraculously healed me.  My slouch is gone.  Those maybe two pound weights have been slung back into their rightful position and I find myself over compensating, leaning back even, with the change in weight distribution.  As if my whole body is rejoicing with the ease in which I can stand straight now.  I find myself asking, “Was it really that simple?  All I needed was a new well fitted bra?” Amazing!

Here is my plea for all of women kind.  Please, if you slouch, go get your sisters lifted.  No matter how small you think you are give them the support they deserve.   Go.  Heal thyself, girl!