And so we arrive at the third week of student teaching, the portion of our tour when the "teacher candidate" (that's me), is supposed to be fully acclimated to her environment, bonding with the classroom specimens (that's the kids), and establishing myself as the working professional that GCU so prides itself on producing. A leader, and I quote, "who possesses foundational knowledge, encourages student-focused learning, implements quality instructional design, uses effective classroom procedures, and engages in reflective practice."
Um....yeah, sure, great. Thanks.
Here's the facts. The ratio of what the students are learning, and thereby what you are teaching them, is directly proportionate to the rate at which information, maturity, and ability to articulate intelligent cognition, flees your own brain. You, upon whom the future of our nation's success depends, have turned into an idiot.
For instance.
Consider Child A and Child B on the playground, both of whom have arrived at your feet, one sniveling, the other looking righteously justified.
"What happened?" you say. Reasonable. Good job, teacher candidate.
"Child B just told me not to kick her new shoes," says sniveling Child A.
"Nuh-uh!" protests Child B.
"Well, Child A, that's true, it isn't nice to kick our friends new shoes," you reply.
"But I didn't kick her new shoes!" cries Child B.
*insert continued sniveling from Child A*
You feel yourself getting confused...
"Did she kick your new shoes?" you ask.
"No," sniffs Child A.
"Did she try to kick your new shoes?" You ask. Now you're really fumbling.
"No." replies Child A
"Well then what's the problem?" You feel as if you've missed something somewhere.
"I just don't want her to!" Child A looks at you as if she didn't think teachers this clueless were allowed to teach.
Here comes your ability to really shine, "to engage in effective procedures," or something like that. So you say something really brilliant, something you can pull out of your classroom management hat, a class you payed $2000 for. Here it comes.
"All right, listen. I don't want anybody to think about, look at, touch, scuff, or kick, Child A's new shoes. Ok?"
"But I wasn't going to!" Child B
"Well all right then!"
Impressive, huh?
Now because you're the adult, you're supposed to be above the level of the children in terms of the kind of things that bother you. That is to say that it's considered socially unacceptable to cry, whine or stomp at the things that the six year old's would cry, whine, or stomp at. And you would think that at this point, you would be choosing your battles more carefully, pacing yourself regarding matters you become upset about and feel the need to address with your students.
You'd think so, wouldn't you?
Instead, you become hopelessly annoyed by the most ridiculous things, which don't seem at all ridiculous to you until you try to explain to your family your level of vexation over Child F's purposeful twisting of a glue stick all the way up and then breaking it.
"And he did it on purpose!" you say, "Three times! Ugh!"
"Yes, dear," your patiently suspicious and now backing away slowly mother will say. "I can see how that would ruin your day."
Smart alec.
This decreasing level of reasonableness also explains why you spend two hours of you night creating a poster that you hang over your First Aid drawer, proclaiming to the world your new decree that you will no longer be bandaging anything that you cannot see. Meaning that the microscopic pin-prick flesh wounds that will lead to death if not immediately covered by a Tangled or Lego Man band aid will not be attended to. No more! You're putting your foot down! You're incensed over this! You are too being reasonable!
And so here we are. You knew it would come to this, but you had hoped not so soon.
You now talk like this...
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