Last day weepies

I've been looking forward to tomorrow for 16 weeks. The last day of student teaching. Every morning as I would slump out of my bed onto the floor, sludge into the bathroom, and catch sight of a full moon out my window, I would imagine the pitiful euphoria of waking up on purpose without swearing. When I would empty my pockets at night to find a squashed grape, uncapped marker, and used tissues, (not mine), I would imagine the pleasure of getting cleaned up in the morning and still looking half-way cleaned up at noon. Every lunch duty as I continued my never-ending battles with puddings that squirt and juice boxes without straws, I imagined breezy summer lunches on patios with adults who can cut their own meat and butter their own bread.

But there were a few things I didn't take into account being over.

The little girl who's convinced I have the same reflex as the Pillsbury dough boy, and therefore hides behind me so she can poke my belly button and giggle.

The little guy who reminds me every day that there's no school on Saturdays, that we haven't had a fire drill in a while, and that he's going to Colorado in six months and 10, 9, 8 days.

The way they all squeal in unison over the cuteness of the pre-school class that is approximately, oh, six months younger than they are.

The girls that bury their noses in my shirt and tell me I smell good, even at 3:30.

Having to get after them for plowing each other down so they can be the first to hold my hand. 

Telling them to keep their little light-up sneakers off the knealers in chapel.

Asking the standard, "Did you wash? Did you flush?" question.

Putting moleskin on a monkey bar callous that was "killing them" until I fixed it.

The little boy that used his whole recess waiting outside the classroom door, hoping I would come out and have a basketball dribbling contest with him.

Fixing the left hands over hearts during the Pledge.

Getting called Mom.

Trying to help them over the Ohio slump when they learned the Fifty Nifty song.

Asking "who's there" no matter how many times I've been glad orange who didn't say banana.

Falling for their April Fool's jokes.

Thirty minute impromptu conversations about heaven that were deeper than any I had in college philosophy.

Putting a black square of paper over a page in a book because they said the picture of Adam and Eve was "inappropriate."

Finding all the rice-crispy treats I've confiscated and forgotten to give back in my desk drawer.

Knowing that saying "hold your horses" will induce instant giggling.

Trying to work out 6 year-old girl drama while keeping a straight face.

Feeling foreheads.

The way they all cheered and yelled, "Be free! Have a good life!" when we released our butterflies.

The little girls that held each other and cried during the crucifixion in our animated Passion of the Christ movie.

Giving my hangman eye-lashes, birth marks, and jewelry so they win.

Being consistently late to specials because sometimes walking with them is like herding cats.

Those things, I didn't count on.

"Can't we go back to page one, and do it all over again?" ~ Winnie the Pooh

Snitch.

There has been little about this experience that I have not been able to at least get a small snicker of enjoyment out of: the boy's consistent inability to hit "the target" in the bathroom, the selective deafness, the gnawed on go-gurts, (nope, I'm not over that yet). But this week I seem to have encountered a kindergarten "issue" that so aggravated me that I have spent a good portion of my sleeping hours pondering it. Mostly because I am hearing voices in my head. What are they saying, you ask? Good question, I shall tell you. Here is what the voices say.

"I'm telling!!"

You see, it appears that a six year-old can experience no greater joy than the assurance that he has spotted an injustice of monumental proportions that  I, in my frustrating ineptitude, have failed to notice. A little person filled with the knowledge that he possesses a fat, juicy, drippingly scathing tid-bit of information is the happiest critter on the planet. It's euphoric. They come to you glowing. 

The same child that can't stay focused through Good Night Moon is able to observe and recall with journalistic accuracy an incident that happened 45 feet away from him 30 minutes ago. 

Amazing. 

Obnoxious.

For eleven weeks I've attempted to turn a deaf ear to this superhuman like quality my children seem to have all been born with. But yesterday I think my left eyebrow started to twitch. 

"Miss Martin Miss Martin Miss Martin!!!!!"

Surely the school is in the cross hairs of a nuclear bomb, I think. Child X  must have a leg so broken that there are shards of bone scattered on the basketball courts. A soda machine has been installed in the lunchroom. The Principal has declared this No Math For the Rest of Your Life day. Something that I will need to call Geraldo Rivera, Barbara Walters, AND Diane Sawyer about. Tonight!

But no, it was none of those things. What was it then?

Stuff like this:

"Miss Martin!! Um, Kid Y, um, he threw away his graham crackers before he was finished with 'em!!"

"Miss Martin!!  Kid M did this to me! *crosses his eyes* That's RUDE isn't it?!"

"Miss Marrrrtttiiiin!!!! Kid W put a pink lid on an orange marker! I saw it!!"

"Um, Miss Martin? Guess what?!? Kid Z didn't put the date on her paper!"

"Miss Martin!! She said my hair was sexy, and that's a bad word!!!"

I. Have had. Enough. Of this. Really.

 This morning. 8:21 am. The students have exploded into the classroom. A multitude of sins have already been committed in the distance from the parking lot to the classroom door. Child C has a rap sheet forming to rival Linsay Lohan. Everyone is hot and bothered. The bell rang 26 seconds ago. This cannot be.

"All right everybody, sit down!" There seems to be something in my tone that instigates quicker sitting than usual. There isn't a face in the crowd that isn't scowling. One looks concerned. I imagine that the playground scene looked something like this:

That's fine. I have a speech prepared.

"You know what kids, I have to tell you something that I'm concerned about. I know you don't think teachers have Moms, but we do, and every night when I come home from school, my Mom says, "Miss Martin, how was kindergarten?" (Yes, my mother calls me Miss Martin, because though I may be able to convince them I am not the product of miraculous conception, I will never be able to convince them that I have a first name).

"And last night, my Mom said, 'How was kindergarten today?' and I said, "Oh Mom! They are the smartest and the best kindergarten class ever! They are working so hard, their handwriting is beautiful, we're working on addition to 10, it's great!"

The children turn to give each other approving looks. Oh yeah. That's right. We're awesome.

"But."

I'm 99% positive the barometric pressure in the room dropped.

"I said, 'Mom, they have a snitch problem. It's really really bad! They snitch on each other all day long! And I'm afraid that they tell me things about other kids just to try to get them in trouble, not because they really need a teacher's help! Can you believe that? MY class acting like that? And you know what I'm really worried about, Mom? There's only about 40 days left before they're going to be 1st graders, and I KNOW that the 1st grade teachers don't let snitchers into class!"

What followed was an intensely debated list of scenarios specifically outlining the difference between tattling and telling. Do not be concerned that I am raising up a generation of adults who will not bear witness to hit-and-run car accidents.

And so, ladies and gentleman,  I give you the dawn of the Snitch Board. Five snitch points on the Snitch Board and we all stay in picking up microscopic scraps of paper off the floor, wiping tables,  washing glue bottle lids, and recapping markers. It's a scene something like this video, minus the lashes:

Watching a kindergartner stifle a snitch is the most ridiculous thing I've ever seen. They look like they've just swallowed a cheese stick whole. They have nothing to talk about anymore. There's an eerie silence.

Love it! I can graduate a happy woman.

For Mommies...and teachers:)

Picture this... A Survival Tactic

 

       "Kindergarten, huh?" says the dental hygienist, both fists in my mouth and I'm pretty sure her left foot balanced on my shoulder. "Jee I just love kids. They're so wise and truthful. Don't they say the darnedest things?"

I start to say, "Truthful? Have you met five year-olds?" But I don't. Partly because I'm afraid she'll suck up the tip of my tongue again, and partly because she's right. They do say the darnedest things. Things that in order to preserve my sanity, I have turned into a delightful little game.

The game is this: I picture everything they say, in the exact way they say it, as if it were coming out of the lips of a middle-aged adult.

Scene 1

A business woman in charcoal tweed suit, croco pumps and freshly highlighted hair in a banana clip. This woman has found a pink My Little Pony in the grass outside the classroo--er, office next to her own. She is caressing it in her hands, twirling it's bubblegum mane in her freshly French manicured hands. 

"Whatcha got there?" you say.

"Nothing," she says, hastily tucking it behind the folds of her skirt.

"Nothing, huh?" you prod. "Come on now, what do you have."

"It's mine," she says defensively. She is glaring at me.

"Was it with you when you got dropped off this morning?"

"I found it." 

"I see. So does it really belong to you then?"

"Yep." 

"Now wait a minute, honey. If somebody found your favorite pony, what would you want them to do with it?"

The woman pauses and looks at her shoes.

"Keep it." She is resolute.

"Really? Would you really want them to keep it? Even if it was your very very favorite?"

"Yep."

"Hmmm." you say. "How about you and I take a walk over to lost and found and if nobody picks it up by the end of the day, you can keep it. Deal?"

She is beginning to cry. 

"But it's mine and I love it! They'll hurt it!"

Now this scene continues for another 10 minutes. 

Real life: frustrating. 

Fantasy picturing of this child as an adult: ludicrously silly.

Made it through that scenario chuckling.

Scene 2

Three grown men run at full gate towards you and screech to a halt, one not stopping quite soon enough and stepping quite profusely all over your feet as he re-balances himself. They are all out of breath, all looking exasperated and a bit bleary eyed.

"Um, um, um, um!" one is panting. This is the Informer.

The other two men are killing each other with dirty looks. One is sniffling.

"Ok, what's the deal?" you say to the Informer. He is the eyes and ears of the premises. Nothing escapes his justice seeking eyeballs.

"Um, He said to Him that He's not Him's friend."

"Now He, that doesn't sound very kind. Did you say that to Him?" you push.

"Yeah, but Him was chasing me first and I told Him to stop!"

"Did you hear He tell you to stop chasing you, Him?" you say.

 "Nuh-uh! He started it!" Him sputters.

The Informer must clarify this situation.

"I was just gonna tattle on that!"

Scene 3

A man in line for ice-cream is sobbing. His silk tie is slowly getting ruined from his drippy crocodile tears. 

"What's going on?" you put your hand on his shoulder, comfortingly.

"My mom forgot my ice cream money!!" he bawls, wiping his nose on his shirt sleeve.

"Oh, I see," you say sympathetically. "Well, there'll be another chance to buy ice cream next Friday, don't worry. Maybe you can bring money then."

"Nooo!" he moans. "Everybody else is going to have ice cream today except me and I want to go home!" He buries his face in your shoulder.

See how the game works? It's wonderful really. You watch these ridiculous little people collapsing into a heap of emotion packed drama and mucus, envision them as adults, and the situation instantly becomes...um...entertaining. 

Ok, so it's not much, but it works for me.

You spend you're whole day with five year old angst, see how you handle it!

Paranonia activity

 

"This is ridiculous," I said to myself, slathering my chapped and bleeding hands with Vaseline and sliding them into a pair of gloves before bed. 

It was the second week of student teaching, and my germaphobic tendencies had reached their climax. Honestly, this had to stop. Hand sanitizer every few minutes, ducking under a desk to avoid the oncoming spray of a sneeze, removing all clothes in the garage before entering the house. (All right, I didn't really do that. Once. Maybe twice. Leave me alone). 

But the last cold I had gotten had only lasted a few days, so surely my white blood cells were finally acclimated to their new saliva/mucus/phlegm filled environment. 

It was time to lighten up. 

So I started to get purposefully careless. The two second rule became the to-heck-with-it rule. Drop a spoon on the floor en route to the classroom from the microwave--heck with it! Anti-venom for something, surely. Go ahead, use it! Particularly spit-filled kid experiencing his first realization that PoPcorn, PuPPY, Penguin, and Pencil all start with P, two inches in front of my face. Bring it. Even wet shoe laces, those I would admittedly pretend I didn't see, before suddenly becoming suspiciously enthusiastic and supportive of the child's autonomy in tying their own shoes, "Come on kiddo, I think you can! I think you can! (Forty minutes later) See I knew you could do it yourself! Good job!" 

No more! I was no longer phased by such foolishness. Really Katie, how small is a germ and how big are you? Honestly....

And then it happened. The one critter I could not talk myself out of. 

The nit. 

It starts as a dull rumble within the school, a leak out of the nurses office, talked about in hushed voices behind cupped hands. Teachers pass notes to each other on the playground. The black spot on a crumpled scrap of notebook paper. It's here. The outbreak. 

Holy Rid Batman! I touch those kids on the head all the time! Like, all the time! I'm a notorious hair tousler! 

"I'm proud of the way you two worked out that situation." tousle their hair.

"Hey! Look at that 1st grade quality name on your paper! Good for you!" tousle the hair.

"Do you think we'll need to amputate or will a kiss and a bandaid do?" tousle the hair.

I tap them each on the head counting them before P.E.

I tap them each on the head counting them on the way into lunch.

I tap them each on the head counting them on the way into library.

Computers.

Music. 

Recess. 

I'm sure I touched each one of those 20 little heads thirty times today. 

I start seeing possible breeding grounds everywhere. Hooded jackets on hooks within jumping distance of each other. The backpacks lined up. Touching each other. I picture the little creepy crawlies bounding from spot to spot, like the little ball on sing-along videos. 

Aiming for me. I experience phantom itch.

I can't hide. This is the career I've chosen for myself, in all its guts and glory. But let this be heard. I do not tuck my bangs behind my ear anymore. I let them hang in my face sticking to my lip gloss all day because I'm not touching any area on my person above the waist. I'm willing to embrace Obama's ridiculous fist-bump when praising particularly outstanding efforts.

And I'll go back to stripping in the garage.

Warning to CLS parents

Comforting reminder.....

"There's a table saw in the adult restroom" and other things that delight teachers

1. Having the keys to use the grown-up potty where you don't have to worry about where you step or what you might leave with trailing to your shoe.

2. Velcro shoes.

3. Kids that can punch the straw in their own juice boxes.

4. Paper towels that don't break off in itty-bitty pieces when you pull them out of the dispenser.

5. Diet coke. And more diet coke.

6. Finding a marker that's ink matches the color on the lid.

7. Markers that aren't dried out even when the color does match the lid.

8. Finding out that your kids are old enough to do errands for you: "Hey Child A, can you run back into the classroom and grab my sunglasses?" "Sure!" and they come back. With the glasses. Amazing.

9. Picking up a sweater off the ground and finding the name in the tag.

10. Finding a table saw in the adult restroom because it's the only room in the building maintence considers "child-proof."

11. Kids that look at you after you've said their name 34567876565678783 times.

12. Hearing teacher-isms come out of another teacher's mouth and knowing you aren't the only one that says, "You get what you get and you don't throw a fit," "Four on the floor," and "Excuse me, it's my turn to talk."

13. Finding the glue stick in your pocket BEFORE you wash it.

14. Counting 24 kids during a fire drill. Yeah, you're only supposed to have 20, but have too many  is better than not enough.

15. Reading the notes Mom's put on their kid's napkins. "Eat your healthy food first! Love, Mommy." Yeah right.

16. Having two tattler's stories jive at the same time about the same offense.

17. School nurses that don't laugh at you when you come in just to hide. 

18. Having to wait five minutes to finish your story because one of the characters in the book's name is Mr. Martin and no that is not my husband. No really, it's not. Because I'm not married. No, I'm really not, see my hand? Because I haven't met the right person yet. Sure you can be a flower girl. You can all be my flower girls. And ring bearers. Well, you can share the pillow or I'll get ten rings. No, probably not this weekend. No, not next weekend either. I promise I won't get married over Spring Break. May I finish this story please?

19. Realizing that one of your kids can sneeze behind and you and you recognize who it was. 

20. Knowing that 12 years from now, when they're pimply and driving with girlfriends and they're standing in line to pick up their cap and gown, they're going to remember your name.
21. Knowing that 12 years from now, when you run into them at Target, you will pretend you remember their name and it will wake you up in the middle of the night when you actually do. And then you'll feel like it was all worth it.

What a Teacher Makes