~ I can't even imagine ~

How some kids can even start to concentrate on learning and assignments, I will never understand.

One of the secretaries called very early, interrupting the early morning grading frenzy today. She was letting me know that the office had to be notified if C's dad showed up at the classroom to get him. C's parents are divorced, so he and his brothers were living with Dad. Dad had become depressed and over the weekend told his kids he was going to kill himself. Mom, understandably, took the kids and called Protective Services. C spent part of his day in the office, talking with a couple of officers. As a result, there is now a police order that if Dad shows up at school, the police must be called to deal with the situation. Added to that, there's also a previously scheduled family court date tomorrow that C will be attending.

I can't even imagine that level of stress and anxiety.

Yet C handled it pretty well today, considering. No outbursts, got all his work done on time, and generally participated in class. I would have let him crawl under a table and hide from the world if he'd wanted to.

~ My Red Folder ~

Each of my kids have a red folder in their desks. This is a catch-all for unfinished work, projects, and anything else that needs to be kept for more than a couple of days. They hate using thier red folders; I'm constantly nagging at them to put it in your red folder, not just in your desk.


But what they don't know is that I have my own red folder. I keep it in the bottom drawer of my desk, forgotten for months on end. It's a small folder, and I don't really have a name for it, but it's my catch-all for the little notes of appreciation students and parents have written me over the years. I remembered it again cleaning up Christmas gifts from students. I found a couple of nice handwritten cards and remembered I had a place for them. Opening the folder up is a little like time travel; many of the kids whose names are signed on these notes are in high school now, some have even graduated. But these notes take me back, to the time they spent with me. I get a little teary-eyed, remembering.

~ There's a letter from S, who was only here a few months before she moved. She liked my class so much that she, in her words, "could sit 12 hours of every day learning something new with you."

~ Another layer down, there's a handmade birthday card from the whole class. They made it to cheer me up while I was at the doctor's getting tested for mono because I was feeling so terrible and they were doing busy work with one of the parapros.

~ Another card, this one a handmade Christmas card from kids who are sophomores now. They made it during class, passing it around under my nose to get it everyone's signature on the card.

~ A letter from a parent, the first half all business to notify the school of a different bus route for her daughter. The second half is why I kept it, though, it's a thank you for helping give her child confidence in herself.

~ A Thank You card from a graduating senior from my very first class, thanking me for the part I played in helping her graduate and remembering some of the Chinese words I taught them that year.

I don't share this to toot my own horn. The truth is that for every scrap of paper in this folder, there have been multiple angry phone calls from parents, kids I didn't reach, or who couldn't wait to get as far from my classroom as possible. Even though my red folder holds only a handful of paper, as I glance through it, the notes remind me again why I work in this field, why I decided to become a teacher in the first place.

So think about the teachers in your life: your own teachers, your child's teacher, or just a teacher you know. Let them know if you appreciate the job they're doing - maybe your little scrap of paper, your five minutes of time, will end up in their own "red folder," a reminder of why they go to work every day.

~Utterly Disturbing~

Overheard today -
Kids are discussing middle names, when one nice, sweet boy chimes in.
"My parents just told me the meanings of my first and middle name. My first name means 'demon' and my middle name is another word for like a god or angel or something. So my name means 'demon god.'"

Yeesh. Thankfully he does not live up to the supposed meaning of his name. I've met his parents, too, and they seemed normal. Now, I'm thinking not so much....

~ Dear Self ~

Dear Future Self,
Should you ever be a parent to a fifth grade boy, do not give him cologne for Christmas. His future teacher thanks you in advance for the headache free, non eye-watering days.
Love,
Mrs. N

~ Reason #46 ~

Reason #46 why I love fifth graders...

When you come back to school the day after Christmas vacation only to discover that the janitors have played a very fun game of "rearrange the furniture" while you were gone, don't worry. Just meander down the hall and find a couple of your students who were dropped off early. Take them back to the room, tell them you want it to look like it did when we left for break, and continue on with your work. Ten minutes later, the room will be back to normal.

If you try this with third graders, they will argue with eachother for 7 minutes, then realize the other kids are lining up at the door and madly scramble around trying to get things back in order, all the while asking you every 3.78 seconds where this table or desk or lamp goes. You will begin to see that it would have been less time consuming to just do it yourself.

Ah, 5th grade, how I love being back!

~ 20 Questions ~

Ah, indoor recess. On my top ten of things I dislike, this is right up there. Recess should be for playing, running, getting fresh air, and generally coming inside more calm than when they went outside.


With the windchill hovering at 1 degree, the kiddos are inside for recess. I, foolishly, decide to stay in rather than run away to the teacher's lounge. I know the next twenty minutes will be like the game 20 Questions, except it will go on and on until the kids leave for lunch. Indoor recess with a teacher in the room is like open season. It's now time for students to ask every single question they've been not-so-patiently waiting to ask all day long.


"Mrs. N, can we throw the ball in here?"


"Mrs. N, can I use the restroom?"


"Mrs. N, can we use your tape?"


"Mrs. N, why is this book called Niagara Falls, Or Does It? That doesn't even make sense."


"Mrs. N, can I use the computer?"


"Mrs. N, what is this for? What does it do? If you don't use it, why do you have it? Did you ever use it? Why don't you use it now?"


"Mrs. N, I know I'm not supposed to, but can I use your stapler just one time on my paper airplane?"


"Mrs. N, when the schedule says 'Math p. 88 - 89' does that mean we're using our math books?"


"Mrs. N, why does the green whiteboard marker actually look blue?"


"Mrs. N, did you know this picture has my cousin in it?"


On and on it goes, with me giving primarily one word answers which don't seem to faze them at all, the questions just keep coming while I keep hoping for a nine degree temperature jump...

~ Still Learning ~

As much as I teach them, they teach me just as much. For example, we just finished reading the book Because of Winn Dixie by one of my favorite authors, Kate DiCamillo. I've been reading this book aloud to kids for several years now. It's a great story, but one I've read many, many times. So I was surprised when my kids pointed out something I've never noticed before.

The main character's father is the pastor of a small Baptist church. His wife, the main character's mother, has left them before the book even starts, and that is something he won't talk about, even to his daughter. Throughout the book, the main character doesn't refer to her father as Dad or Daddy; she calls him "The Preacher." I had never really given it a second thought, until this year. As we were reading, S piped up.

"Why does she call her Dad 'the preacher?' That's pretty weird."

I asked for thoughts from the rest of the class, and they had some good ideas, all centering around the disconnect the main character feels from her father. As they were sharing, I was thinking, "I was an English major - I had to write incredibly lengthy essay answers to questions about stuff just like this. How is it that I've never noticed this relationship being mirrored in the name she calls her dad?"

But the kids weren't done. About a week later, we were getting close to finishing the book. There's a climactic scene with the girl and her dad looking for their lost dog, and she finally has the courage to ask her dad about why her mom left and why he didn't try to stop her. At last, her dad answers her questions and shares the hurt he's feeling too.

We're reading along, through the last chapter, when J blurts, "Hey, she started calling her daddy 'Daddy' instead of the preacher!" Again, we discussed why, and again, I thought to myself, "How did I miss this?"

It's another reminder for me that this, teaching, will never be just a rote job, a numb "do the same thing over and over" job. Every group is unique, every group has something to teach me, too.