The key to writing the perfect lesson plan is knowing that it doesn't exist. It can be a very good lesson plan--chock-full of knowledge, engaging for your students, approved of by the administration and the DoE, blah-blah-blah-effusive-praise-cakes. But it can always use tweaking: modifications for individual students, accomodations for recent current events, etc. And that is what I have to keep reminding myself. So that next time I'm writing one of these puppies, it hasn't taken me three weeks of personal agony.
Since procrastination and perfectionism are traits that I've been dubiously blessed with for over a decade, I thought I'd take a crack at this new meme. I fear i don't know how to cut a section so that you only read it if you won't. I'll just post this and if y'all'd rather not read it, skip to the end and send me a nasty comment. :) Besides, I appear to be making a habit of writing irritatingly long journal entries and then not updating for months...
March, 2004: Spring of my senior year of college. Taking five classes, working two jobs, "propping up" Lear, and attempting to create a dual masters' program at Simmons in which I can participate. Life is busy and stressful but blissfully full. My brother's a college freshman, my dad's getting married to a lovely woman in May, my friends are steady and silly (an excellent combo), and my relationship with my boyfriend of 16 months is as dizzingly, delightfully confusing as it's always been.
March, 2003: Recovering from a rather spectacular academic and emotional breakdown the previous fall. Having a blast in Midsummer's, my first play in almost three years. Acclimating my self to the SCA; getting used to being called Agnes. Four months with boyfriend and beginning to think I'm in love (know it now :)).
March, 2002: Almost halfway thru college. The world is shifting for me in tectonic ways: reminders of September 11th are everywhere, I've been to Israel on my very first far away trip from home by myself and fallen in love with it, and my dad has begun bringing home a very nice woman from work named Anne. I'm hoping she sticks around.
March, 2001: Have decided I really like living in Boston. My roommate is officially my best friend at school and we do absolutely everything together. As always, my side of the room looks like a bomb hit it. Every Wednesday night, Alie and I watch the West Wing with a devotion so true that our families know not to call while it's on. In addtion, I discover the addictive joys of fanfiction.
March, 2000: Spring of my senior year of high school. I receive more awards at class night than any of my fellow graduates; it does not induce me to want to stay in Sharon. I have the world's greatest A.P. English teacher and my writing has never been better. My drama club is practicing for the semi-finals of the local one act play competition. I harbor a not-so-secret crush on my friend Steve but am going to attend the prom with my friend Adam. We have decided to make as big an entrance as possible and so I am currently searching for a lace parasol. (Which I find the day of the prom!)
March, 1999: I begin the search for colleges. Intending to major in musical theater, I spend two months searching for the perfect school, only to discover I don't want what I thought I did. My dad and I go out for pizza and I tell him I want to be teacher. I have never regretted the decision. I am also preparing for my first advanced placement exam--.
March, 1998: Is there really a point to sophomore year? I didn't think so then and I don't think so now. I take junior Jason Moldoff to my semiformal dance; he flirts with me, holds my hand, sends charming grins in my direction, and then drops me like a brick for Jamie "wanna see my BMW" Kaufmann. Not that I'm still bitter or anything.
March, 1997: My grandmother has passed away the summer before. My mother, intending to move from New Hampshire back down to Massachusetts, decides to first visit her sister in Florida. Her visit becomes permanent and our relationship has been tenuous ever since. Freshman year drags on and on.
March, 1996: I have officially celebrated being Bat Mitzvah--daughter of the commandments--four months ago. I will not truly appreciate the meaning of it for at least another five years or so. I am participating in my very first musical, "Give My Regards to Broadway." It wants to be "42nd Street" with George M. Cohan; it falls rather short of the mark. The experience is thrilling nevertheless: I will join community theater that summer and will do two musicals every year until I graduate high school.
March, 1995: This is my first full year living with my dad. We have just moved into our new house in December after living with my grandparents for a few months. I have just hit puberty and neither my father nor I have any idea what to do about it. My aunt gets a lot of desperate phone calls from us. I develop a deep, obsessive crush on Craig Simons who goes to hebrew school with me and delivers my grandparents' newspaper.
March, 1994: My what change a decade wroughts. I am five months shy of 12 years old. I am living in Londonderry, New Hampshire, with my mom, stepdad, brother, and two stepbrothers. I am under the impression we will be moving to Nashua this summer. My friends are in the process of planning a surprise going away party for me. They accidentally drop a lot of hints; thankfully their lack of subtlty is in direct proportion to the thickness of my skull--I have no idea what's going on. I also have no idea how much my life is going to change in July. I have already begun to leave childhood behind--I get my first "D" on a report card--but I will never, ever be this innocent again. Ten years later, I'm still not sure how I feel about that.