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

And what have you learned, Miss Martin?

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...

Brain damage

I think one of the most refreshing parts about kindergarten is the kid's total innocence, or oblivion, regarding where things came from. The phrase, "You don't know where that's been," is totally lost on them, because it's true, they don't know where aforementioned item in question has been, and consequently, could care less. That might be a childlike purity, or it might be brain damage that I think all five year olds are naturally born with. I haven't decided yet.

So I shouldn't have been surprised about the pigeon incident. Gosh darn it, these poor Arizona kids will cling to every pathetic bit of the winter experience they can get. Puddles the size of paper plates are cause for a Singin' in the Rain jubilee, and ice...ICE! Oh my goodness, ICE! Which leads again to the question of cleanliness and where something comes from, and why that should matter if you are going to interact with it. 

The third day of official student teaching the overnight temperature in Phoenix dropped below freezing. Obnoxious when you have early morning playground duty, a providential miracle when you're a kid. So we watched the kids happily exploring the wonderment of their newly ice laden wonderland: the crunch in the grass, the ability to write in the frost on the picnic tables, the freezing cold monkey bars. It was all Christmas movie-magical.

Then first recess came.

Now this is where I think the childlike innocence ends and the brain damage begins. Because these perfectly intelligent children, who knew two hours ago that the slide had ice on it, are now completely shocked that when you slide down a formerly frozen slide, you consequently have wet pants! Shocked! Brain damage!

And if you stick you're tongue on a always grimy picnic table, even when it's frosty, it's going to taste like grime, just cold grime. Again shocked! Brain damage!

But truly the most obvious evidence of kindergarten brain damage was found in the pigeon problem. Now our school has a metal roof, which was understandably covered with a slick coating of ice when the first bell rang. No one gave it a second thought. And being in Phoenix, the roof is quite often home to a line up of mangy looking pigeons soaking up some heat from the metal's reflection. This also shouldn't require a second thought.

So at first recess, as the ice on the roof is beginning to melt, we find these brain damaged children lined up underneath the awning of the roof, heads back, mouths open, blissfully catching the yellow/brown drops of rain water onto their tongue.

"Stop!!" we say, "Do you know where that water's been?!"

And they look at us with the sympathetic, poor-teacher-has-lost-her-marbles look on their faces and say ever so patiently, "Yeah. The sky."

And I suppose they're technically right. Rain, no matter where it ends up in between, ultimately comes from the sky. Who am I to tell them any different? 

Children are a gift from the Lord. Psalm 127:3

Germy...

Curse you homeschooling! You gave me the crappiest immune system ever! 

And thus we arrive at day 4 of student teaching, well, day 3 and 1/2, since I got sent home sick today. I guess I got cocky, thinking that after four years of being in and out of classrooms I would have built up some kind of superhuman immunity to kindergarten grime. I'd like to blame it on my sterile sheltered childhood, my mom never arranged play dates with kids possessing or with the possibility to contract chicken pox, malaria, or west nile. Terrible mother, really.

But kindergarten has a reputation for having petrie dish qualities, and no matter how I try to avoid them, six year-olds have an uncanny way of making sure you have no choice but to handle every contaminated surface in the building. 

For instance.

Consider Child A, who we'll call....Child A, (I'm no fool).  Every single day, standing outside shivering during morning duty, Child A will skip/run/trip over to me and plunk down her shoe in front of me. Child A's shoe laces have never in the course of the entire semester, been dry. I don't know how they get wet, even on the sunniest of sunny days, her shoe laces are always soaked. Soaked! Now tell me why a child who cannot open a sandwich bag, zip up her jacket, punch a straw through a juicebox, or "unzip" a banana can deftly untie the best double knot I can make? And I say to Child A at afternoon recess when the incident repeats itself, "Child A, you are the only person in the whole wide world that can undo one of Miss Martin's super duper double knots. How?" And she'll say, "You're funny Miss Martin," and skip/run/trip away.

Another for instance.

Kinders have to use counters for math to help them with one-to-one correspondence and make sure that they're able to connect the number on the page with the number of objects in front of them. In our room, we use these little penguins as counters. Remember now, they are "Tools, not Toys," so the purpose of these penguins is to be taken from the "ice burg" (Styrofoam bowl), onto the table, and back. No inbetweeners. 

But today I look up and see the bottom half of a penguin protruding from Child B's nose. The little black and white feet balanced nicely on a sticky milk mustache. "Child B!" I say, "Take that penguin out of your nose, that's nasty!" 

Child B complies, very politely handing me the penguin. Thanks.

 Finally we have Child C, who knows that she can't open her own go-gurt. She has go-gurt everyday, and I fully understand how tricky those are to open for little fingers. And she knows that too. So tell me why, WHY, she has to suck and chew on the go-gurt first before she hands it to me? Hmm?

So it caught up with me today. Yay for a half-day! 

Create in me a clean heart, O God; and renew a right spirit within me. Psalm 51:10