A Pocket Full...

Sometimes I come home, empty my pockets, and surprise myself with what I've collected.
Oftentimes there are paper clips, rubberbands, paper scraps, marbles, math tools, bracelets.
Things that were handed to me and things that I've taken.
Things, though, that are not totally out of place in a pocket.

I was on a field trip today with my class and one of my students had something in his hand he was shoving into his pocket.
Ooohoohoo that kid sneaking things around... I thought.
So, as I often do, I held out my hand to take, whatever it was, from him.

As I held it in my hand I had a horrible thought...
So I turned to the lady next to me and asked,
"Oh my gosh, do I have his mother's underwear in my hand right now?"

And without much more thought,
I took those undies,
and put them in my pocket.

The next generation

I stopped a little boy on the way into art today.
We had just finished a little math "check in" and I noticed that after 30 minutes of work he had answered 2 of the 20 or so questions.
I stopped him, test in hand, to make sure things were ok. He's a bright kid, not exactly a self starter. This leads to some idling.
"You wait here" I motioned to him as he walked by.
When the rest of his classmates were inside, he looked at me.
"I failed you"
What?
"I failed you didn't I?"
"What? No. I just want to make sure you understand everything."
I thought quickly of his home life. It's nothing I could ever know for myself. It's nothing I have ever wanted and if truth be told, it's nothing I could ever wish on anyone.

I sat with him on the floor in the hallway outside the art room. He did a page of his test with relative ease. I find that he loves for me to watch him do his math. "Soooo... it's 2+3=5 because they haven't used the 2 yet?????(!!!)"
His chocolate eyes reflected his inner joy. Successful math + extra attention.

"You know you could never fail me.
I'm very proud of you."

His eyes nodded.

And with that, he was off to art.

A reason to smile

I had just been thinking that I take myself too seriously. I mean, last night my Mr. Tried to do some weird high five thing and I told him I couldn't because my hands were busy with some papers.
Really?
This morning I was chatting with a second grader. We were having a fine time until she said

"I don't believe what my brother says"
(he is in my class this year)
"what does he say?"
"he says you never smile".

He might be right. Good grief, if I can't lighten up with 6 year olds what's in store for me?

I hope that little boy caught a glimpse of me later in the afternoon when a student returned to the classroom after his hour with his therapist-buddy.
"I have to tell you something kind of inappropriate" he said to me.
Hm.
"ok. Do you need to whisper it?"
So he said, right into my ear
"my buddy" meaning his counselor. And so maybe you can imagine the horrific scantiois that zoomed through my head of a six year old boy in a room on the third floor with just a twenty something year old gal. Forgive me.
"made me laugh so hard that I peed in my pants".

And oh, was I ever smiling.
I just needed to be handed a reason to.

Overwhelming Responsibilities Realized. Hopefully not too late.

At 2:40 the bell rang. I thought I was in the clear.
And then there he was on the rug. Flopped on his back like an upside down turtle.
Refusing to put his jacket on (properly, mind you, which spurred this all) and leave the room. 

So close.

It took some coaxing to get him down the hall and under the watchful eye of his grandpa.

On days like that I feel relieved to go home to a childless house.

Later on, long after I was home and settling into my weekend, it hit me.
Just as the hard part of my day was ending, his was starting.

Little things for me, rationing water intake because I don't have a spare second until 11:30. Frantically getting papers from mailbox cubbies to folders to backpacks and out the door.
Big things for him, who will pick me up from school today. Will my dad be home when I wake up in the morning, or will he have decided to leave again.

I thought of the day just before, when he melted in the afternoon and I walked him down to the nurse for a nap. I asked him if he wanted me to sit with him for a minute while he closed his eyes.
He said yes, and grabbed my arms from his lying down position.
He looked at me like he was drowning and I a life vest being thrown to him.
The tiny smile you can muster up when you are so glad someone is there but it does not overtake the fear and sadness that is pulling you down. His eyes wide open, staring at me. Studying.
I sat on that bed until seconds before the tears would have come, from me, if I stayed there another second.
The sadness I had for his exhausted little body. For the confusion that starts when the school day is over. For the overwhelming feeling of responsibility that I know I have toward him, and the twenty-two others just like him in the other room. It hit me right on the plastic coated bed.

For some of these kids, this year, in years past and in years to come, maybe I am the only thing they've got. The only consistency they know. The only smile they get that day.

I realized, when I was back in my cozy house, that he might not have wanted to leave.
While I was looking at the clock, waiting for the bell,
maybe he was dreading it.
He wanted to stay here in this school, in this classroom. He knows where his desk is and his spot on the rug, right next to me.
"You know, everyone in this school likes me". He tells me at least once a day.
 What about at home?

That, that should be the way that I teach them.
From that completely selfish, overwhelmingly egocentric, unbelievably narcissistic piece of my heart that feels like I am the best thing they've got.

Some mantras that sit above my desk. 

I have a feeling there will be many more to come.

The night the strawberry drizzle fell on my head...

Two nights ago when I walked into the end of the year dinner, the vice principal made a comment about me being such a fashion plate.

"What's that, J.Crew page 7?" He asked.

If only he knew I stopped being about to afford J.Crew years ago. 

Later in the evening after we filled our bellies with steak (but before the waitress poured the strawberry sauce from the cheesecake all over my hair) the president of the board went around to each person in the room and said something about that person. It was a toast/roast depending on how well she knew the certain lady or gentleman. Most of the words were kind, misting the toast-ees eyes, speaking of their deep faith and commitment to the school and the children. I wondered what she would say about me. I didn't have any of her children or grandchildren (yes she has both in the school) in my class and so what could she know? The Wednesday sighting on lunch duty, the day she followed me around the school begging me to go eat the teacher's appreciation lunch (leftovers) outside in the windy parking lot, because I was secretly just trying to eat my yogurt in a quiet classroom.
I'd call it a roast, I suppose. As she started off by saying she couldn't believe the administration had hired a 13 year old to run a class of students. (You know, when I was 18 I minded that, now that I'm nearing the next decade I can appreciate the laugh). She went on to say something about how I can manage a classroom with the snap of a finger (I do run a tight ship) or something equally as impressive, and one or two other things before she got to the meat of it. When she switched gears and said above all, despite all those things, what she really admires about me are my accessories. The chiffon flowers and the peacock feather headpieces.
My accessories.
Luckily, for her case, I had chosen lovely coordinated earrings and bracelet for my teal dress. My bag matched, too.
So I got it. And you know what, I do put effort into it.
But maybe what she REALLY meant is that I accessorize the students with hope and patience. I accessorize their brains with a thirst for knowledge and their hearts with the love of self, others and God. I accessorize their dinner conversations with Drake stories or butchered sayings, about teaching men to fish and broken clocks being right twice a day.
I put effort into that, too. I know it doesn't go unnoticed. I am a type A perfectionist from my classroom to my jewelry. I am not done here because I haven't done my best here.
I know my teaching
and my outfits
aren't perfect.

Yet.
But you know I'll try. And when I get there, you know, to perfection, maybe I'll move on. Go somewhere else and start from scratch, climbing my way up the latter from newbie to veteran.
One well accessorized outfit at a time.

how not to teach science

We're going on a fieldtrip to Shelburne Farms tomorrow. It's absolutely one of my favorite places in Vermont.
We're supposed to do a lesson on pond life. With the lake flooded this year, the access road is closed and our location has changed. Hopefully they will find a last minute pond for us. With the weather we're having, we might just get caught in a downpour.
I'm not worried about either of those things. The educators from Shelburne Farms but on such phenomenal field trips. Last year with a group we hauled woodchips, made and drank fresh pressed apple cider and climbed the century old stairs to the clock tower with views of mountain beyond mountains.
It's a stunning breath of fresh air (with a hint of manure and chicken stank mixed it... which might make it EXTRA fresh).
So to prepare my kids for the glory that is SF, in all my science teaching glory, I popped in a some videos. Oh, and we're reading Charlotte's Web. Get it? Farmy.
I was elated to find a video in my local public library called "Farm Stories for Families" that featured Shelburne Farms. How awesome! Teacher of the Year!! The picture on the front was of cows, the description was of a man telling farm stories FOR FAMILIES. No less.
Well, it might have well been The Logger popping up on the screen. In his underwear. I mean, it was so bad. And bad, like inappropriate. And inappropriate like, it was a comedian (of sorts) in front of a room of people (families?) in a room of a barn at Shelburne Farms telling jokey stories.
And wouldn't the first story be about a boy who wanted to pee. His name. Outside.
I touched my forehead.
There was a bead of sweat.
The stories continued.
So did the sweat.

I gave it the old college try and fast forwarded to the ANIMAL part (is that too much to ask?).
Someone was milking a cow. I think they were showing the udders being rubbed in slow motion.
They might as well have been.
It was SO bad. 

"So raise your hand if you've ever milked a cow"
I tried to salvage some semblance of farm-life.

And with that... we are off to the farm.
Here's hoping the video is long forgotten by my little cherubs.
And if not? Well, I can always pull a Chris and shove them in some cow dung.

(Madds at Shelburne Farms circa 2009. Petting(?) a little lamby)

on conditional love

There is a chance I might be addressing the wrong crowd here
please excuse my rudeness.
I blame my insincerity on the lack of motherhood my life's resume.

It's just, sometimes I don't get kids. And sometimes, gosh, sometimes they bug me.
Is that okay to say?

I just wonder how you do it? As a mother? Because when my day is over all those kids who stared at me
and said my name over and over
and asked me questions they already knew the answer to
and made a mess on the floor
and didn't pick it up
at the end of my day they leave. And that's when I breathe.

And I come home and run with the dog and I shower and put on my pj's. I watch the news and get carried away in "open in new tab" world for minutes (hours) on end. I read my book and go to bed when I'M tired.

I love them. I do. They are sweet and growing and changing and caring and excited about life.
But at 2:40

they are gone.

And sometimes that makes me love them more.

A day in the strife I mean life

I remember a few years ago after a night of dancing and weekend of walking around San Fran, Emmajane woke up with the most insane case of sausage toes.
(Mind if I share that story?)

(Too late.)

Well, I've got them. My feet are throbbing and I think I know why.

Imagine if the Cousins Club were all in the same class at school. That would be so fun right?
Wrong.
It would be tiring. It would,
my dears,
get old.
Even after just 3 days.

If their teacher was Ms. Me,
Ms. Me would say things like,
"When Ms. Me does this" (show: closed eyes, take a deep breath, open eyes to check if they are still there.... note: they are) "You know you have gone too far".
And
"Ms. Me does not DO wiggly teeth"
and
"Ms. Me does not LIKE the pencil sharpener"
and
"Ms. Me will TAKE those scissors AWAY if you can't walk with them.

There is something so exciting about being a teacher. It's such an unwanted (maybe?) power-trip.
It's a LISTEN TO ME and an OR ELSE and a SIT OVER HERE day in and day out.
It's a GUESS WHAT MS. ME? and a WANT TO COME SEE WHAT I BUILT? and a WHAT COLOR WILL SHE TURN IF I OPEN AND CLOSE MY LOCKER ONE MORE TIME? kind of day.
Have I told you I don't like lockers?

It's not so bad. I make it sound like prison. It's not.
We have our fun. I am the tagger in our "octopus" game.
I tie shoes. I put on bandaids. I don't give "time outs" (yet). I wait until Grandma comes to pick them up after school even though I am hungry because I didn't eat lunch today. I say "don't worry" when their star looks like a smoosh. I share my cucumbers and goldfish when their parents forget to pack a snack. I open milks. I count to 3 at the water fountain. I think of clever book titles like "How did I get glitter on my cheek?"

It is ups and downs. It has to be. I celebrate the highs and mourn the lows. It's just that it all happens so fast.
Like a rollercoaster.
All day.

Well when I got off today's roller coaster (read: came home) there was a surprise in my driveway.
I have to explain myself to the burly construction workers who don't understand why I have tied my dog to the tree in front of my house to take a picture of a tractor.
"I thought my nephews would get a kick out of this in my front yard. And the dog is just making it cute".
This is much easier than explaining why I have to ask you to go use hand sanitizer after I catch you with your finger up your nose during snack.
Or why I confiscate your silly bands and wear them home.

I wish I could explain myself as well as my plants can.
I'm just droopy.
You see?
Must I explain all day?

Well,
this all explains why my feet are STILL throbbing.
Not to mention,
but to mention,
about 1 minute after getting home tonight,
my shoes quit.
But I won't.

Because (as I told my kids)
Thursday is the day first graders come to school and listen and follow directions all day.
And who knows.
They just might.