What day is it?

I say, "Find some examples of two word sentences." Child says, "This one has four, but it's close enough," and is prepared to argue the point.

I say, "Suggest some G rated movies for our next reward movie." They say, "Kung Fu Panda. It isn't rated G, but it should be," and they're prepared to argue the point.

Add in taking a bite of my breakfast apple only to discover the whole thing is rotten, going for some liquid caffeine only to discover the entire pop machine is sold out, and what do you have???

Monday morning.

ick.

Gimme an R!

I have a phenomenon happening in my classroom this year which has never occured before. I have cheerleaders. *shudders with fear*

I'm not entirely sure when this happened, but it may have had something to do with the homecoming pep rally, in which the varsity cheerleaders were more involved than the varsity football players.

A few short days after this rally, I got my first, "Hey, Mrs. N! Look at us! Ok, ok, ready? Ok, WHO'S GOT THAT BEAT, THAT AWESOME COYOTE BEAT? THAT BEAT GOES...." followed by a blur of clapping, snapping, and leg patting, which may or may not include the solution to last Sunday's crossword puzzle.

But then, the fun really started. Two other girls, watching all this go down, snootily remark, "Well, we can do it faster, Mrs. N. See? Ok, ready? WHO'S GOT THAT BEAT....." and so it goes, until hummingbirds everywhere are quivering with envy.

I thought that would be the worst of it. That I'd have to listen to the Coyote Beat in varying speeds while waiting for the lunch ladies to be ready for our class. But I wasn't counting on the Stealth Cheerleaders.

These are the girls who, each time I take my eyes off of them, are undercover cheering. They lull me into a falsely believing I have their attention, and then, when I least expect it, I'll look around and discover that two or three of them have made eye contact with each other, and are silently mouthing, "who's got that beat," while air clapping.

I've had a lot of crazy experiences as a teacher, but nothing quite so creepy as the stealth cheerleaders.

Note To Self

To: Future Self (w/ children)
From: Present Teacher Self
Re: Things not to do to your future child

Dear Future Self,
Never ever....ever....show up in your fifth grader's classroom wearing a giant pig costume and oinking while video taping him/her watching Charlie Brown and the Great Pumpkin. Just don't.

Sincerely,
Present Teacher Self

A Little Much?

I walked into school after lunch to find I had been trapped by one hundred twenty third graders. Not only had they trapped me, they were also seranading me. One hundred twenty little voices, with a disembodied guitar coming from somewhere, singing "fa la la la la...la la la la." My first thought was that they sure were practicing for Christmas caroling a little early this year. My second thought was, "How in the world am I going to get to my classroom?"

And then I heard the words "pumpkin patch" mingling with all the fa la la-ing. Yup, not Christmas caroling....Halloween caroling. Eeesh. As if the costume wearing, sugar eating, worst party of the year day wasn't enough, we're now degrading and twisting songs from the hap-happiest time of the year to fit the theme.

My third thought, "What in the...."
Fourth thought, "Thank you, God, that I don't teach third grade."

loooooong sigh....

Woke up Tuesday morning with abdominal cramping, running back and forth from bed to toilet and back again. As I lay there, curled into a ball, I came to the slow realization that the state of Michigan has dictated four days during the year when I cannot be sick and stay home from school. So, I took a shower, took a ten minute nap, got dressed, took a five minute nap, did minimal hair and makeup, and staggered to work.

All to give the MEAP test.

Back in the day, we had a three week window. In fifth grade we had three different tests to give, and three weeks to do them whenever it fit with our schedule. Yes, imagine that, flexibility.

And then....

One little reporter from Jackson decided to print what the fifth grade writing prompt was. We all had to retake the writing test. And now the state of Michigan tells us the exact day we MUST give each specific test, so we avoid that kind of thing again.

Which means I drag my butt to work, sick or not, on those days, so my kids won't mess their tests up because they have a sub who can't find the pencils, or is unable to read the directions to the test, or decides that there's no reason they can't do the MEAP test in groups. If you think I'm exaggerating, read this. A substitute can't be left to give a test that is this important.

So, a big thank you to the state of michigan for creating such a rigid system that it leaves no room for actual human beings. Yup, good job.

Always another first

Teaching has many firsts - first year, first kid who calls you nasty name, first time you see that "lightbulb" go on. My latest first wasn't any of those, though. Last week was the first time I broke a kid's bone.

Now, before anyone calls CPS or my principal - let me explain. On Mondays and Fridays, our schedule gives us a four hour block with no breaks, no recesses, no nothing. So, I build a break in and we typically go outside and play some sort of running game. This gives them a chance to take a break, and entertains me. The game I like to come back to, the one that entertains me most, is called Army/Navy. Each line of a square gets labeled with a different branch of the armed services, and as I call out a branch, everyone runs toward that line. The last one there is out. I like to switch it up a bit and call out several different branches in a row, so the kids are wheeling around the field like a drunken flock of birds. Like I've said before, I'm in this career simply for the entertainment value.

So last week, as they're careening around the field, I see one of them trip over his own feet and go down. He pops up, grimacing and holding his hand. I immediately assume he has a small scrape, because of the asphalt, and call him over, cheerfully asking if there's blood. He holds his hand out and breathes a shaky "No," as I look down at his hand. I'm all ready with my "No blood? Then you're still in the game!" when I notice his pinky finger is laying on top of his ring finger.

"K! Does your finger always look like that?"

"Not really."

Off to the office he went, mom came and whisked him to the ER, he came back to school the next day with a nice red cast, and I had another first to put on my list.

*reflections on teaching* 6th year

VI.
Don’t Lick the Mushrooms
sixth year

I run into them almost everywhere I go. One of the Brookes walks out the door ahead of me at Meijer, Makaila sticks her hand out the window of a passing bus, Joe saunters by with Grandma at the park, Wyatt B., Holly, and Kayla stalk my house, befriending the cat. That year, my sixth year, I finally had the perfect class. The class with a personality that complemented my own. The Wyatts, Kayla, Kyle, the Brookes, Seth, and Tim. It was the first year I really felt able to let my whole personality shine through the teacher persona, because these kids didn’t take advantage of it.

I knew this class would be special two weeks in, on the first field trip of the year. We packed ourselves onto the bus and headed for a nature center about a half an hour away. The friendly staff took us on a nature hike to look at trees. Were these kids concerned about trees? Nope, they were obsessed with mushrooms. Now, I have to admit, there were some really vibrant, beautiful mushrooms in those woods, but these kids took mushroom hunting to a whole new place.
“Miss L! Look at that big yellow mushroom!! I think it’s poisonous!!” they hollered.
“Well, were you planning on licking it?”
“Eeew, no!”
“Well, then, let’s not worry about it,” I stated calmly, thinking that would be the end of it.
Not more than ten minutes later, I heard Kyle yell from the front of the line, “AH! There’s a big mushroom! It might be poisonous! Nobody lick it!!”

They weren’t the brightest kids I’ve ever taught. Most of them were of average intelligence, really. After two weeks of studying for a geography test entitled “Where Am I?” many of these kids failed miserably. But they were the most entertaining answers of any test I’ve ever given.
“What hemisphere do you live in?”
“Shape,” came the confident reply.
“What continent do you live on?”
“The lower peninsula,” they hazarded.
“What galaxy do you live in?”
“2006, of course.”
“What country do you live in?”
The prizewinning answer to this question was delivered by Mr. Mitch. What country does he live in? Mitchigan. Must be nice having your own country.

They were horrible at tests, and the common sense gene had missed some of them entirely. One confused child spoke with me one day about a broken pencil lead. She just didn’t know what to do until I pointed out that our generous Parent Teacher Organization had bought an electric pencil sharpener for our classroom. Brookie H. wondered why she wasn’t allowed to add something to her penpal letter five days after the due date. After I explained that those letters were on their way to Massachusetts, she looked at me with a wrinkled brow and said, “But I forgot to put the picture in. I need to put the picture in.” Makaila decided to wear strappy, four-inch, hooker heels to complete her Halloween costume. A glance at her feet after the half-hour long costume parade downtown revealed blood. I guessed her ears weren’t working when I gave my yearly teacher speech about wearing walking shoes for the parade.

This was the year I began to see that besides amazing health insurance, teaching also has a lot to offer in the way of entertainment value.
They volunteered to have themselves laminated.
They christened my black faux leather sandals the “lalligator sandals.” Their reasoning? They aren’t leather, but they look like alligator skin, therefore they are the lalligators.
Krysta folded every assignment into an accordion.
They humored me and played games purely for my entertainment. The Christmas party that year found them helping each other put thick, winter mittens on before attempting to unwrap a package sealed shut with heavy-duty packing tape.
They joked about me torturing them, but I think they secretly enjoyed our daily running games. Army/Navy tag, complete with last minute switches, aircraft carriers, and rowboats became our game of choice.

Those little things paled in comparison to their largest invention of the school year. They invented a high school boyfriend for me. They found it unbelievable that there was no man in my life and were curious about my dating past. When they learned I’d had no boyfriend during high school, they didn’t believe me. And so, they created Ben.

It all began when one of the Wyatts was having computer trouble. I was bent over the screen, trying to coax the problem out when James wandered up to turn in his assignment. On his way back to his seat, he meandered by the computer where I was working and said, “So, Miss L, tell me about Ben.”
I was only half listening to him, and confusedly said, “Ben Youngs, from across the hall? What happened to him?”
“No, not Ben Youngs,” he said, as if that were the most ridiculous thing he’d heard all day. “Your high school boyfriend Ben. Tell me about him.”
“What’s wrong with you? Are you a crackhead?” I said without thinking.
James hit the floor, shaking with laughter as I cringed at the thought of what I’d just said. I caught him alone later in the day and apologized, asking if I’d hurt his feelings. His response was, “Seriously, Miss L? I thought that was completely hilarious.” Any other class, a slip like that would have meant at least a fifteen minute calm down period, and probably a phone call from concerned parents. But not these kids.

That was just the beginning. As the year wore on, Ben continued to be treated as a real person, although he felt to me like an imaginary friend. They often greeted him when they came in the door at the beginning of the day and they waved to him while I was reading our class novel. My brow often furrowed as Sethie, or Joshie, or Krysta would walk up to my desk with a huge toothy grin. I would look up, ready to assist them in whatever way I could, only to see them do the “Hi, Mom” wave and say, “Hi Ben! How’s it going, Ben? Are you having a good day, Ben?” I would roll my eyes, turning back to the task at hand.
“Aw, Ben, is she ignoring you, Ben? I’m so sorry, Ben.”
“Don’t you have something to be working on? I think it’s due in about three minutes,” I’d warn.
“What’s that, Ben? You’re going to talk her into not collecting this assignment? Aw, Ben, you’re the best!” They would traipse off, happy to complete their work after their brief interlude with Ben.

Little did they know, I’d have the chance to return the favor. When I let it slip in March that I had spent the last weekend visiting my new boyfriend, my real boyfriend, their curiosity immediately spun out of control. On a walk down to the park, they flung questions at me.
“So where does your boyfriend live?”
“Somewhere.”
“No, seriously, where does he live?”
“In Boringville.”
“That’s not a real place! Well, if you’re not telling us where he lives, at least tell us what his name is.”
“Eggbert.”
“No, it’s not! Tell us his name!”
“Ok, if you guess the right name, I’ll tell you.”
“That’s not fair, there’s like a million names.”
“Then if you want to know you’d better start guessing.”
The torture continued for days, but eventually I shared the details with them. Their comment? “Your boyfriend is from Detroit and he lets you walk around with that old crappy cell phone?”

The year ended too soon for me. For the first time, I shed tears on the last day of school. We had enjoyed each other’s stories, successes, and quirks. We knew that Brookie P. loved frogs and Wyatt M. was the go-to guy for pet questions. We knew Joe had a bizarre sense of humor, Emily could organize anything, and Holly sometimes didn’t smell so good, and that was alright.

As a teacher, I’m blessed to have these kids in my life. They became a living reminder to me of the joys of my calling. They were the hot fudge sundae at the end of a five year liver and onions meal, coming along at just the right time to keep me dining for at least another six years.