Not long ago, on an afternoon off, I took the kids downtown to our natural science museum--one of our favorite places. It's free, and there are tons of neat exhibits to roam around, and some impressive dinosaur skeletons here and there, poised in mid-lunge. When we were in the main dinosaur room I noticed another family there--a woman and man, and their infant son, who must have been about two months old.

My students are in the throes of midterm exams this week. Whenever I watch my students bent over their papers, I feel a surge of protective, maternal concern for them--even for those students who taxed my patience in the weeks leading up to exam week. But my heart always goes out to them when they're taking tests. They seem more like the children they were (or are?) when they're chewing on their pencil ends, or staring off into space for the answers, or feverishly writing--pouring out all the stored-up knowledge onto paper.

When I was back home this past weekend, the college town where my parents live was filled with returning and brand-new college students. It was strange, and made me feel significantly older, to walk through the neighborhood I used to roam so confidently when I was a college student, and to have to weave my way past the throngs of eager college freshmen with their iPods and hip clothes and too tight T-shirts.

On average, I have more men in my classes most semesters than I do women; many of the young men have beat the odds, some still won't. They laugh, they joke; some work hard, some don't.  Behind them the invisible women in their lives--their mothers, sisters, grandmothers, aunts, surface from time to time, voices over their shoulders telling them to push on, work hard, and keep their chins up. They are relentless in propelling their boys forward--ever forward--into opportunities they themselves didn't--and couldn't--have.