In culmination of Teacher Appreciation Week, I discovered a potted kalanchoe plant on my desk.  (Well, technically, it’s a table, but one can always dream.)  It was from Connor, a sixth-grader who remembered every single one of us who contributed to his instruction in some way this year: his math, language arts, science, social studies, homeroom, art, music and gym teachers, all the way down to little ol’ me, who tortures him with fractions, decimals and percents for but one measly hour each week.

I thought about how he must’ve carried that tray full of plants down the long stretch of hallway, his empty-handed peers snickering the words “suck-up” and “kiss-ass,” while he kept his chin up and delivered those plants to the people in his life who were truly making a difference.

It really got me to thinking. I can say whatever I want about my childhood, but take it from Connor: it must really, REALLY suck to be the vice principal’s son.