Tomorrow, for the first time in six weeks, I will be leaving work early. I will not be putting in a 13 hour day. I will not have to work with my middle school students to figure out how to build a robot for the BEST robotics competition in only six weeks, and I will not have to worry about sending out reminder emails or arranging for t-shirts to be made or putting together lunches for students. I will not have to find a way to borrow tools and return them, and I will not have to haul large pieces of wood and plexiglass to a shop teacher. While I'm thrilled to have my life back, I have to admit that in many ways I'd like to have those six weeks back again. Why? Because despite everything we did to build the robot, we still ended up without one. And, quite frankly, that sucks.
To be clear, our lack of robot had nothing to with lack of effort. I had parents and students put in long hours and give up their nights and weekends. The team was so generous with their time, energy, and resources. I could not have asked for more from any of them, and I am unbelievably proud of their hard work and dedication.
At one point someone suggested that our plan was too ambitious and perhaps we should try something simpler. The kids, however, made it very clear that they wanted to stick to their idea -- for better or for worse. I listened to what they had to say, and I agreed to back them up. We had an understanding that, because of the path we chose, we may not have something to show for our efforts and the kids decided they were okay with that. Realistically, I knew that our chances of advancing were slim. However, in agreeing to their design I still fully felt like we could make something happen. What I failed to take into account was how I would feel if we couldn't.
Unfortunately, that's exactly what happened. After spending a day and a half working at the state gifted conference, I raced up to Sedalia to watch my marketing students present about our (nonexistent) robot. There was still a team of students at school working to pull things together, and I kept checking my phone for updates. I started to race back home when I received that final text: "Robot DOA. Sorry."
I started spreading the news, and suddenly everything hit me. All of the stress, the running from place to place, and the exhaustion overwhelmed me, and as I drove home in the rain knowing all of the other commitments still awaiting me I felt something just crumble. My mind and body were being pulled in so many directions, like rubber bands, and all of a sudden they all snapped. I spent the rest of that drive in tears. In some ways I suspect I was more upset than the kids, because I felt like I had let them down.
I stayed behind the next day for the conference while the kids went on to Sedalia to cheer from the sidelines. Throughout the day I got texts, pictures, and videos and saw that, despite not competing, they were having an absolute blast. Their ability to let the frustration go and just enjoy the experience was wonderful, and I started to have a real sense of relief. I was still disappointed, but the pressure was off. The relentless pace had finally eased.
There is a lesson to be learned -- for the kids, and for me. I want my kids to know that it's okay to do your best, even if things don't turn out the way you plan. They still learned so much from the process, and I want them to be proud of their effort. However, I also need to realize that this outcome does not reflect on me and make me any less of a leader or teacher. If I want my kids to be okay with the outcome, I have to be okay with it too. The willingness of the parents and students to step up throughout such an intense process was so inspiring, and it was really because of them that we made it as far as we did. Would I like to relive the last six weeks so that we could end up with a working robot and compete? Sure. But is that going to make my children and me better people? Not so much. So, I guess now it's time to put my life back together and wait for next year.
To be clear, our lack of robot had nothing to with lack of effort. I had parents and students put in long hours and give up their nights and weekends. The team was so generous with their time, energy, and resources. I could not have asked for more from any of them, and I am unbelievably proud of their hard work and dedication.
At one point someone suggested that our plan was too ambitious and perhaps we should try something simpler. The kids, however, made it very clear that they wanted to stick to their idea -- for better or for worse. I listened to what they had to say, and I agreed to back them up. We had an understanding that, because of the path we chose, we may not have something to show for our efforts and the kids decided they were okay with that. Realistically, I knew that our chances of advancing were slim. However, in agreeing to their design I still fully felt like we could make something happen. What I failed to take into account was how I would feel if we couldn't.
Unfortunately, that's exactly what happened. After spending a day and a half working at the state gifted conference, I raced up to Sedalia to watch my marketing students present about our (nonexistent) robot. There was still a team of students at school working to pull things together, and I kept checking my phone for updates. I started to race back home when I received that final text: "Robot DOA. Sorry."
I started spreading the news, and suddenly everything hit me. All of the stress, the running from place to place, and the exhaustion overwhelmed me, and as I drove home in the rain knowing all of the other commitments still awaiting me I felt something just crumble. My mind and body were being pulled in so many directions, like rubber bands, and all of a sudden they all snapped. I spent the rest of that drive in tears. In some ways I suspect I was more upset than the kids, because I felt like I had let them down.
I stayed behind the next day for the conference while the kids went on to Sedalia to cheer from the sidelines. Throughout the day I got texts, pictures, and videos and saw that, despite not competing, they were having an absolute blast. Their ability to let the frustration go and just enjoy the experience was wonderful, and I started to have a real sense of relief. I was still disappointed, but the pressure was off. The relentless pace had finally eased.
There is a lesson to be learned -- for the kids, and for me. I want my kids to know that it's okay to do your best, even if things don't turn out the way you plan. They still learned so much from the process, and I want them to be proud of their effort. However, I also need to realize that this outcome does not reflect on me and make me any less of a leader or teacher. If I want my kids to be okay with the outcome, I have to be okay with it too. The willingness of the parents and students to step up throughout such an intense process was so inspiring, and it was really because of them that we made it as far as we did. Would I like to relive the last six weeks so that we could end up with a working robot and compete? Sure. But is that going to make my children and me better people? Not so much. So, I guess now it's time to put my life back together and wait for next year.
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