Yesterday morning I caught Diego and Jackson in a lovely, unguarded moment. They were seated together in my comfortable leather chair in the family room, with Diego’s “Snakes and Reptiles” book open over their laps.

“Look at this one, Jackson!” Diego said again and again, to which his younger brother replied, “Whoa!” or “Oooh!” or “Wow!”

It was a rare glimpse, and I did what I could to preserve the moment, snapping a few pictures on my phone, but not so conspicuously as to cause them to scatter like Brooklyn roaches. When they leafed upon a picture of a creature that looked particularly creepy, scary or interesting, Diego read aloud to Jackson, who sat there more transfixed and still than he ever is with me when I’m reading to him each night before sleep.

I cast no judgment or aspersion on anyone who has chosen to have only one child. Believe me. There are moments — regularly — when I envy them. Like my brother and me, and my father and uncle before us, Diego and Jackson fight almost constantly. Mutual combat is their preferred mode of expressing their love for one another.

It’s in these rare, peaceful moments, however, that I’m reminded of why we chose to have two. I can count on one hand the number of “lifelong” friends I have. My brother Mike is always first on that short list. It’s a comfort to know, as someone who won’t be around all that much longer (I’m speaking relatively, of course. No veiled “threat” intended.) that Jackson and Diego will have each other’s backs, so to speak.

They may not always see eye to eye on every issue; in fact, they may grow up to be two very different and divergent people. I have a feeling, though, that their friendship is being forged in the fire that is their childhood, and that the iron being cast will be strong indeed.

Oh and by the way: in case you’re wondering, Diego and Jackson have no new “friends” on the way. Nor will they. Ever. As a great man once said, I may be dumb, but I ain’t stupid.

Complete exhaustion.
Listen to the clock ticking.
Late for work again.

Lately, my children have a fascination with all things British — I think it’s a result of watching “Flushed Away” over and over, or maybe meeting my friend Janet Gordon from London not too long ago. (“Daddy,” Diego whispered, as Janet charmed him and his brother in my living room last month, “she really speaks British.“)

One of my favorite Thanksgiving memories is from 1987, when my girlfriend and I were living with our college friend, Tim Knight, and a band of BUNAC (British University North America Club) American expats for about a month in a flat in the Kilburn section of London, where we were studying to become certified English teachers. We were a pretty clueless crew, incapable of simple tasks like cleaning the shower curtain, which was an impressive science experiment of mold-cultivation. We were a fun bunch, though, and we knew how to laugh it up on the regular.

London was gorgeous in that month or so I was living there — adorned with Christmas lights, which looked especially lovely in that historic city. On Thursday, November 27, the holiday season was in full swing, and outside our little group of expatriate misfits, the day was just another winter Thursday.

We, however, were aware that it was the last Thursday of the month, and we felt compelled to make something of the day. Between the 10 to 12 of us, we managed to throw a turkey in the oven and have it come out pretty well. There may have been some imbibing going on that day, as well, so we didn’t stand on ceremony, as far as the table setting was concerned. In fact, I don’t remember any plates at all.

We were a dozen young, unkempt and carefree Americans living in an Irish neighborhood in London, drunkenly devouring turkey with the trimmings. It was a unique moment, a moment verging on perfection, a moment steeped in the joyful ether of youth.

It’s a moment I won’t forget.

It wasn’t until I pulled my car out of the parking lot that I finally exhaled. That was the kind of day it was at Cedar Ridge High School.

After a good early-morning meeting with my old boss, who now serves as our external coach, I found myself in Z.J.’s annual Admission, Review, and Dismissal (ARD) meeting. Z is a complicated young man with a host of issues, and he’s also the first student to latch onto me the way students sometimes do. The meeting was going well, until Z and Dad got into a disturbing verbal confrontation that included Z’s father claiming Z’s grandparents feared him. I don’t doubt that this is true, as Z can be unpredictably explosive, but those words — “They’re afraid of you, Z” — were like five daggers; I could almost hear them piercing the boy’s heart. As often happens with Z, he began crying, and the meeting was adjourned, to be continued at a later date.

The day snowballed from there. Two Downs Syndrome students got into a physical fight in the Life Skills classroom, a girl was stumbling drunk, I busted a kid for smoking in the bathroom, and a colleague was physically threatened by a student.

In addition, I had to fit in two classroom walkthroughs, participate in a learning walk with our coaches and discipline several other students.

I suppose the good news is that the world kept turning and all of us survived — albeit wearily — to see another day.

The most important test I passed came after all of this was over, after the aforementioned exhalation. When I picked up the children, Jackson was beside himself, inconsolable that we’d moved him into the ACE after-school program, without informing him he’d be leaving LEAP. I inhaled again, and the breath stuck in my chest. There was a clearly defined moment when time stopped, I stepped out of my body, and made a decision. It was when I walked around to Jackson’s side of the car to help him into his seat.

The burning anger, the wish to lash out made its way toward the surface, and before reaching for the door handle and yanking it open, as (I’m sorry to say) I’ve done before, I imagined the day’s troubles rolling off me like raindrops off a newly painted automobile.

(Breathe out.)

“Jackson?” I said in a calm, measured tone that made him stop and look into my eyes. “Would you feel better about ACE if we went to look for some vampire teeth?” (He’s been asking for them since Halloween.)

“Yes,” he said, smiling through watery eyes. “And Daddy?”

“Yes, Jackson?”

“I’ll give ACE a chance.”

The three of us went on to have a pleasant, fun evening together, which helped remind me that there’s much more to my life than ZJ’s tears or kids getting tickets for smoking in bathrooms, or sitting with a crying boy who can’t understand why he’d been hit in the temple by a bully. That simple choice to let out that deep breath and give my son the love he needs fortified me, built me back up and made it possible to come into work this morning with a smile on my face.

(And ending my evening last night with a shot of Cuervo and a cold Lone Star chaser didn’t hurt either….)

It’s not unusual to hear graduates or alumni of an educational institution talk about how much of an impact their school made on them. In my own case, I’ve written recently about my good memories of Harrison High, many brought back by my trip home last month for the HHS 30th reunion.

Less often does one hear from a former teacher about the benefits of having been a part of a school’s faculty. I’ve been an ardent proponent of Satellite Academy High School, where I worked from 1992 to 2005, for about as long as I’ve known about the place. Designed with the disaffected student in mind, Satellite is a place that builds students back up who have been worn down by the relentless tides of impersonal, traditional schooling. Satellite puts the student squarely at the center of the educational equation — not in a babying way but in a fashion that affords respect and autonomy while simultaneously insisting on accountability. Students are amazed at first, then thrilled and humbled by how different Satellite feels, in contrast to their “old” schools.

As the adults in charge of such a place it was imperative that we lived the dream, so to speak; we had no choice but to model the values of the place, if it was to work the way it was meant to. For most of us working at Satellite was a rare example of being allowed to live out the idealism of what had brought us to teaching in the first place. Occasionally a teacher would wow us at the interview table and then end up being outside our fold, someone who insisted they taught subject as an expert, and either the students got it or they didn’t. Their humanity (or “humaneness”) never entered into how they thought about teaching and learning.

Those teachers didn’t last too long. Usually the place made them into True Believers eventually. Sometimes, though, they tendered their resignations, stating the school was a “bad fit.” And they were right, and thank God they were honest.

Now, in my middle-aged administrator phase, I occasionally receive praise for my “unusual” leadership style. I’ve learned to ask people to elaborate when giving me any kind of feedback, even praise — not because I like the tolling of my own bell, but because I can replicate what I know works only if I know what it is.

Most people have trouble putting it into words. Some call it kindness, and others say I make them feel like professionals. Generally, they say I do things “a little differently.”

This should come as no surprise to me, as I “grew up,” essentially, in a small, different high school called Satellite Academy, where kindness, respect and a sense of humor went a long, long way. I want to bring a “small school mentality” to my gigantic, 3,000-student school where I currently work, and I think I am doing it so far.