Button Logic
Andrea Harwood

Students sew on buttons, one by one, white buttons on red felt, forming patterns, creating bold designs, each unique and sublime.  Their lips set hard in quiet determination. Even the not so artfully inclined, relax in the methodical rhythm of the task.  It is so quiet I can hear the soft pull of thread against fabric.  This is not unusual for bookclub time, the part of the school day when we savor good stories and crafts, an oasis amidst the ruddy efforts of math and reading.

I have been reading from Julie and the Wolves, and we wonder aloud just how this spunky thirteen year old will make it through the harsh winter months in the Alaskan tundra.  The children and I have been transported out of the classroom into a cold, biting wind on a frosty bluff when incongruently, the telephone rings.

Transitions are difficult, especially when engrossed in a good story, but I reach the phone on the third ring, and quietly answer.  The children start murmuring and conversing, the quiet quickly transforms back to our normal, noisy resting state.  Through the rising din, a voice on the line asks for me. "It's positive."  I know I've heard these words before in other contexts, generally implying a good outcome, or emphatic confidence.  This time these words make me feel the opposite of confident.

My world tilts a bit and I glance around, kids are working themselves into a highly energetic state.   I need to get off the phone. "Okay, 3:30," I hear myself say and hang up.
    The children in my classroom are typical primary kids.  They are a bit egocentric, energetic, and expectant.  I over-plan each day, heading off behavior problems by making sure we always have more than enough to do.  Gaps are my nemesis, and I strive to keep order through careful scheduling and a quick pace.  I inherited this classroom mid-year with the Principal's caution that these children tend to be high-spirited; moments without direction exacerbating their exuberant nature.

This job was my big break.  My opportunity to show my stuff.  I had just gotten my teaching credential with an 'A' in Behavior Management. I could do this as long as we stayed on track.  Unfortunately, I had just fallen off the track.  In fact, my train just jumped the track, its wheels are bent, and my engine is spewing black smoke.  
     My hand moves away from the phone, and I see a needle fly through the air.  The needle, launched with precision, seeking maximum height and velocity, reaches its intended target.  I can always count on Canyon to remind me that this group had already worn down one teacher this year.  
    I sit down on the closest stool to gather my wits; Trinity shows me her partially finished Salish blanket.  So beautiful and orderly, her design taking shape.  I look at the blanket, and the voice from the phone echoes in my head, "it's positive".  The white buttons set against a red background are positive. "The positive" comes forward and takes center-stage.   The positive is the foreground, what grabs my attention.  My attention so unexpectedly diverted is absorbed by these simple, bold words.   
    I had gone to the doctor with my suspicions just weeks before.  I was busy, but managed to fit the appointment between meetings and making dinner.  It felt good, I had done a chore on my list, I checked it off. It should have been finished.  I was sent to another doctor, a surgeon, just to rule out any uncertainties. I went.  I was now getting annoyed, back again?  Don't they understand?  I'm busy.  This is inconvenient and probably unnecessary and I really have more important ways to spend my time.

At this point, the classroom was erupting into chaos.  Our pleasant, serene book club had deteriorated into mayhem.  "All right everybody, put away your sewing projects, its time for math.  The first group that shows me they're ready, will get team points."  Math, a subject (at this level), that yields answers with predictable solutions, discernible patterns, and a clear definition for the word "positive".

The promise of team points motivates even the most unruly student to get things cleaned up and ready for the next activity.   I see my student's faces showing me they are ready to transition.  In this room of rambunctious second graders, order is reinstated, and I feel a sense that there are parts of my life that I do indeed control.

If only this transient notion of control was one I could count on in all realms and circumstances.  In reality life is not so easily tamed.  Conversely, and logically, the only constructive disposition, is to accept how little control I truly have.