Too Good for My Own Good

My little ones are sweet, precious, wonderful children who are constantly planning to overthrow the establishment and create anarchy in my classroom. I am the establishment, so I have to work diligently and continuously to keep things at a steady level of something close to calm in order to preserve my position in the delicate structure of our classroom. Our classroom is not a democracy. It is a dictatorship, but a loving and kind dictatorship where I try to take input when possible but often must impose rules and regulations that the subjects hate in order to keep them safe. One example is the rule that no children may exit the classroom via the windows. This edict was not met with much applause or cheering, but the dictator feels that it is necessary because those windows are expensive to replace. Oh, and there is that issue of children tumbling to a rather nasty landing or getting stuck part way. Apparently my constant scrambling to maintain order at the price of actually doing my prescribed occupation, teaching, is becoming a detriment. I was supposed to receive another assistant in September. It is now January. That assistant has yet to arrive in my classroom, although this week the principal finally interviewed someone. I was pissed off enough about the situation but she pushed a few more buttons when she came into my classroom this week. Now I am using every skill, trick, and muscle I have to keep calm in my room and keep my subjects engaged in activities that do not involve bloodshed or rioting and it is exhausting. When I am asking about the second assistant and stressing the importance, she has the nerve to look out at my children, whom I have finally coaxed into a few minutes of calm just before she entered the room (but who will riot the minute I attempt to work with children in small groups or individually and this let down the constant patrol), and say "well it looks good in here. They are all playing so nicely." Urgh! Yes, but do you know the theatrics, the wrestling, and the constant patrolling that is required to achieve this state of control? If I turn my back, within 60 seconds at least 2 children will be crying because someone just smacked them upside the head with a toy, someone will be standing on top of the shelves, someone else will try to exit via window or door, and my current assistant will sit there like a moron watching it all. I am too good for my own good, because I can juggle 10 chainsaws without causing a massacre. I can stomp 10 fires and keep them from becoming an inferno. I can herd 10 cats through a waterfall. But I can not do those things and teach!! Maybe I need to stop being so good and let things fall apart so that they can see that I need help and they will stop taking advantage of me every single year like this? Or maybe I need to take up cat herding as a new occupation.

Not a Goat

Dear Children,
I realize that you are trying to assist your teacher in her efforts to lose weight and that you only have her health in mind. I truly appreciate your kind intentions and generosity of spirit. Your willingness to sacrifice your own effort to benefit me is incredible. But for the love of everything holy these 500 yard dashes up the damn hill on the playground chasing you as you run away from the group are no longer amusing. My arse can not tear up that incline with the ease of a gazelle, and you always have a head start. You are only carrying your light, aerodynamic, and unbelievably flexible preschooler frame up the hill while I am carting my sturdy, not meant for flight, definitely not so flexible adult frame up that hill and usually not for the first or second time. You are wearing name brand running shoes, for which I will be sure to thank your parents. I am wearing cheap slip on flats most days, or cheap knock off brand sneakers. There is an advantage there, and there is a reason that you,a child who cannot reach a basketball net with a step ladder, should never be given Air Jordan's or Nike's or anything that might help them run faster than the little creatures already do. No one finds it cute when you stand at the top of the hill taunting me and wait until I am half way up to take off running further away. And I do mean no one - just ignore your little friends at the bottom of the hill cheering you on and laughing hysterically. They are the voice of evil. So please, if you are truly concerned about my health and welfare stop forcing me to sprint up and down the hill like a frickin' mountain goat and instead allow me to chase you around the playground in a friendly game of tag, or to push you on the swing or to play preschool soccer. I do not mind playing actively with you at recess, but that hill is more likely to lead to an early demise than it is to ever save my life. However, it may just result in you spending your recess lined up with your runaway buddies in a row of chairs watching your friends play those fun games. Just an idea to consider because I am so not above keeping plastic chairs outside for you to sit in as our spectators until you learn that I AM NOT A MOUNTAIN GOAT. You may wish to keep that in mind the next time you have the idea to run up that hill without my permission. I am the same teacher that has no problem making you stand up to eat lunch when you kick my table or keep scooting your chair around. Please don't test me. I don't like to go all Wicked Witch on you, but I will. I still love you guys more than you can imagine, even if you do exhaust me after four sprints up that hill in one 15 minute period. So truce?
Love, Teacher

Honey Doll

My classroom has been approved for a second assistant since the beginning of September, when I realized that rather than teaching I was performing some sort of ritual of organizing chaos into somewhat more structured and prettier chaos. It was also at that time that I realized were we to ever have a real emergency and need to evacuate the building instead of a drill, with plenty of warning, we would most likely end up throwing children out of the window to someone outside who may or may not actually catch them. It is now January and that second assistant is as real as the invisible people my niece kept talking to and having me put in my pocket during Christmas. The concept is fun, but they don't do a whole lot of good when they have no form. Yesterday someone was finally brought in for an interview, and I must say that I may end up having preferred it without her. Her first comment upon entering the room and seeing myself and a very temporary helper wrangling a child into submission was "Ohhh, so they are allowed to wear blue jeans here" with the most condescending attitude as if we were wearing tattered rags and begging for food. She surveyed the scene in her heels and pressed skirt suit for a few moments, most of which I ignored because I was up to my armpits in child. I did hear her comment in surprise on the fact that we were all on the floor with the children (did she expect them to levitate to our height and play suspended in air?) and that with her arthritic knees she was not sure if she could get up and down off the floor. Also, she can not longer lift with her knees and must use just her arms. Okay, hold up here. You are bringing in a woman old enough to be my grandmother who has just admitted that she can not easily sit on the floor with the children and will have trouble lifting them? I think we have a problem here!!! Preschool special education, especially with my little ones, is full contact teaching. You lift, you run, you hold, you get up and down off of the floor so many times you forget that chairs were invented, you carry squirming and wiggly children, and you are in constant motion. You get messy with snot, with drool, with dirt, with fingerpaint and regular paint and with their lunches, and with substances you would rather not consider, and with substances you never quite identify. I really do not need another assistant that is going to be more work than help. Then, THEN, she committed the fatal sin in my world. As she was leaving I asked very politely if she had any questions about the children or my classroom and she responded "No Honey Doll, I have had enough children that I know just about everything." It dripped with condescension and made me want to send one of my little ones over to initiate her immediately. I may be 40 years younger than you but in this classroom, I am the teacher. And you may have birthed a nation, but I guarantee you will not know everything about my little ones. So my principal is actually going to hire this wingnut dingbat and "give her a try" which means I am stuck with her. I may have to surrender the idea of actually teaching this year and become a glorified babysitting service. I already have glorious plans for the first few days of this new woman's work in our classroom - days of fingerpainting and shaving cream play and toy cars on the floor and messy foods and letting her work with my child who bites and the children who have no concept of language (thus making yelling "no" a pointless effort). I am so evil, but then again....she does know everything so she should be prepared for this. Honey Doll, welcome to my world!

Grits

Where I grew up, grits were not considered a food. I had vaguely heard of them as something consumed elsewhere in the country and considered them as one would consider the eating of monkey brains by other cultures, with a combination of repulsion and awe. I am unsure if any of the grocery stores that I shopped in during my childhood sold grits, but I am convinced that if they did these items were kept in some dark and dank corner that I never ventured into because my young and impressionable eyes never viewed such things. It was not until moving south for college that I beheld all that is grits, and was instantly disgusted. To my Yankee brain, grits are millimeters removed from wallpaper paste and that is after much effort to hide their gritness. Given the choice, I may just choose the wallpaper paste. So yesterday I was feeding one of my little ones not just grits, but this awful invention called cheese grits which meant that the already nasty product had been turned pumpkin-glowing-in-the-dark orange. It violated every rule of nature, and a few international laws. He was enjoying this awful substitute for nutrition and had just been given another big spoonful of glowing sin when it happened. I could see it coming when his little nose scrunched and twitched, but had no time to take evasive measures. With a mouth full of one of the most disgusting food substances, he sneezed. But before sneezing he made sure to turn so that he was facing me completely, because otherwise some of the flying grit projectiles might have just missed me and that would have been a disaster. It was something out of the worst horror movie, a shower of brilliant orange particles of grits raining down and spraying out at me. When I shrieked in disgust, he laughed. As I muttered while trying to pick grits out of my hair and wipe it off of my face, he laughed harder. If I did not despise grits before, I would after that. I cursed whoever discovered the existence of grits as I tried to comb them out of my hair and then wash them out in the shower. Now grits are no longer just a disgusting, inhumane food item but they are evil personified. Grits, be warned...I will seek revenge.

Monsters We Create

The drive through the inferno is going surprisingly well, which means that I am bound to drive straight into a towering inferno very soon. You have to love mixed metaphors, especially ones as bad as those. My little one has not sprung a leak on me, or anything else that I have to clean up, this week. Major bonus here in having one less diaper to check, change, and smell. However, she has come to expect that every single time she makes a deposit she will receive a reward. I don't mind occasionally reinforcing a behavior that I want to see in my little ones like coming when I call them, or sitting down nicely, or not killing each other (it so sounds like I am talking about training animals here) but this rewards two or three times a day thing is getting old. So I mentioned aloud, more to myself than to her, as she was demanding a prize for a deposit "I have created a monster". She looked all around very quickly and asked with a true fear 'Where?". Trying not to laugh, I told her that she was in fact the monster. She cocked her little head to one side, put her hands on her hips and sighed before informing me "No. I am not a monster. I. Am. A. Princess." I lost it then and had to turn my laughing into coughing. Her royal highness received a reward for the deposit and I shall have to create a crown for sitting on the throne for next week. Oh yes, I do believe that we are responsible for the monsters in our lives much of the time and that our worst monsters are the (cute, little, irrepresible, never quiet, still sweet) ones that we create.

Road Trip Through Inferno

One of my adorable, sweet little ones has begun the process of potty training. I am so thankful that her parents decided to start during the holiday break, but I still dread the process of timing bathroom breaks and the frantic drop everything and run bathroom dashes when she suddenly realizes that she has to go immediately. There is little room for error in potty training, and little warning before disaster. With occasionally explosive results and toxic waste, it seems like it would be some distant cousin of bomb disarmament and hazardous waste disposal. However, the best way I can explain it is that it is a road trip through Dante's Inferno. You believe that on the other side is a type of paradise, free from pull ups and accidents, from soiled pants and unbelievably nasty smells, and so you pack up the car for a trip through what initially seems mildly unpleasant. By the time the child is writhing on the floor, crying that they will not go near the potty, that the potty is evil and that they will wear pull ups to their own wedding, you realize that you are on a road trip through the inner circles of hell. The only way out is to keep going and to cling desperately to the fact that no child who is typically developing, or just quirky, has ever really worn pull ups to their own wedding...right? And you watch your money vanish into flames as you quickly resort to the "reward system" which is a nice name for flat out bribery. You pay the child to drop the loads in the toilet and not in their pants, or all over the floor, or on your nice clean sofa that you just finished having steam cleaned from last time. Sometimes it feels like hostage negotiations, with a full on SWAT team surrounding the bathroom, while other times it seems more like an auction with the successful potty trained child going to the highest bidder. In the end you emerge from the other side, smug and proud of yourself for the fact that you endured a road trip through the Inferno and emerged with a potty trained child. Just so you know, your child is smug and proud at the haul of goods they managed to extract in exchange for doing what all the cool big kids are doing now anyway and for having drug you through that Inferno. You have been at the mercy of a child who has yet to master the high tech device of the blue jean button. You should be so proud of yourself. As for me, I have a cardboard box of bribes, a folder of awards and certificates, and no delusions of any grandeur. I am at the mercy of a creature unable to reach the sink without a stool, unable to open her own juice box, and unable to fasten her own pants. It should be a long, strange trip. Anyone want to be copilot for this one?

Frozen Rituals

I am wearing mismatched pajamas inside out and backwards, I have flushed a handful of ice down the toilet, I considered throwing a handful outside before realizing that doing so while wearing pajamas inside out and backwards might just cross the line of sanity, and I have jumper around while flailing my arms and chanting. I am so very thankful that there was no video camera present to capture these moments for all of eternity or worse, to share them with the entire world via YouTube. So why am I dressed like a toddler who dressed themselves for the very first time, during a winter power outage, doing weird things with ice, and flailing around as if trying to wave down a rescue helicopter in the desert of my own insanity? The reason is quite simple. Tomorrow school is scheduled to start again and the weather forecast has mentioned the S word. However, the s is not supposed to begin until sometime around 5-6 am which is cutting it very damn close to impacting the start of school. It is supposed to begin as flurries or showers, and around here anything steady and consistent will give me another day off. Considering the fact that I seem to have caught some funky combination of mutant, immortal preschool germs that have not given in to my assault of cold medication, herbal remedies, and tylenol for over two weeks and airline germs that have joined forces to kick my ass. I do believe my eyeball has popped out of my forehead and rolled underneath the computer desk, where I will leave it until this blasted headache relents. I have used an entire box of kleenex. I will spare you further details, but now that the germs, they are not so kind. My children, who share nothing without tears and whining and occasional bloodshed have willingly shared this mutant germ with me. Then being trapped inside of a flying school bus provided it with friends and together, they are overthrowing the establishment and organizing a rebellion. I desperately could use a day in bed or on the couch tomorrow instead of chasing wild-beyond-measure, out of control preschoolers who are going to need a lion tamer more than a preschool teacher for the next week or so. Thus, the rituals of the s dance. First, do not speak the s word because it may jinx the entire routine. It is frozen precipitation, it is inclement weather, it is your salvation from school but never say the word. Second, the pajamas are to be worn inside out and backwards and the magic is best if they are mismatched. These rituals are apparently particular to this region because in Michigan there is an entirely different set of steps to be taken. Third, you throw ice outside on your street or driveway to welcome the inclement weather and for some reason that is beyond me you flush some down the toilet. Finally you do a top secret dance that includes a lot of jumping, wild arm movements, and flash backs to the 80s. I barely remember the 80s style of dancing, considering I was a child when they ended and still in elementary school myself, but luckily I am a decent student. Thus the ritual of the s- dance. Some sleep with paper s-flakes under their pillows, or wear lucky socks, or speak mystical words. I am not an experienced enough teacher to have broken in a lucky object or ritual so I go with the standard routine for now. Kids, they believe that they have the market on s-day fun and that those days were created just for them. We allow them to believe this, but really, it is all for the teachers. In the winter we hold our breath every time we see a storm approaching. Then we revert back to our childhood selves and do insane, crazy, superstitious rituals that make us laugh and just might, perhaps, hopefully will bring us the s. Oh the things we never teach you in school!!

Overstay My Welcome

I apparently had overstayed my welcome in Michigan because my plans to remain until today (New Year's Day) were quickly changed by the threat of a severe winter storm. Since I arrived just before a big storm that caused relative chaos, I decided that this was a sign that I needed to leave before I ended up sleeping in the airport for a few days and developing that temporarily homeless disheveled and desperate look about me. Perhaps learning from the disaster of Jet Blue, or perhaps trying to fill still empty flights, Northwest was announcing free flight changes. Not being one to turn down anything free (well, almost anything. When a three year old offers a free hair cut, it is always best to say no. And then hide the scissors somewhere very high and out of sight.), I rapidly changed my flight. Stupid snow. So much for my plans to celebrate with my brother and his wacky but precious family. Instead I rushed around preparing to make another quick exit, which seems to be becoming a norm for me. I had a chance for a last round of Wii with my niece and brother and sister in law before leaving. That game system/torture device is a whole separate post but lets just say that I suck. I not only suck, but I am embarrassingly awful and even the three year old points this our to me. Quite eloquently she will laugh hysterically and then inform me "Aunt B, you suck!". Thanks Little Bit, you still pee your pants and are too short for this darn game to even realize you are trying to play, so really, you have no room to talk. But thank you for your opinion. I then dashed to the airport 2 1/2 hours early only to make it through security in 5 minutes. Had I been running late, security would have chosen me for a random screening and I would have had a free physical courtesy of the federal government. So I was able to eat "dinner" at the airport (bowl of rice with sauce+ funky cool Japanese soft drink = $15=so not worth it), shop at the cool but also overpriced airport stores, and still be at the gate over an hour before boarding. I politely asked the ticket agent at the gate if I could change my seat, because when my flight changed I was given a middle seat and I hate being the monkey in the middle with elbows jabbing me from both sides and no escape route clearly available. Perhaps it was my sweet demeanor following the rude ass in front of me who was demanding that she somehow make his late flight arrive on time (because you know, she can do that if only she tries) or perhaps it was the fact that I willingly offered suggestions to help her son with some learning issues when she found out that I am a special education teacher, but she totally hooked me up. I was allowed to board early (guaranteed overhead luggage storage, no need to stand in line) and when she switched my seat to an aisle seat she gave me a seat in an empty row. I ended up with an entire row to myself. Oh yeah, that was awesome. I curled up across all three seats for most of the flight with my coat as a pillow and took a nice nap. Some of the other passengers were shooting me rather nasty looks as they sat elbow to elbow, but I just contentedly stretched out and enjoyed my sweet gift. It was better than first class any day. I safely escaped the snow, leaving just as it started snowing, and arrived home safely. However, to the baboon who decided to throw my duffel bag by its shoulder strap and thus not only broke the strap but must have dropped it rather hard I have a memo for you. What the Hell were you thinking? I realize that airport luggage transport does not require a high level of education, but come on! Even I know that you can not throw a 40 pound bag by a thin shoulder strap and expect it to actually be successful. I hope someone picks you up by your suspenders and we can see which happens...an incredible wedgie or broken suspenders. Idiot. Oh, and to the wonderful shuttle company that left me stranded at the airport on New Years Eve. I can not write what I am thinking, but may the fleas of a thousand camels infest you in places you can not scratch in public. My heroes, my best friends here, rescued my freezing and very desperate arse from the airport thus not resigning me to spending New Years at the airport or spending my entire paycheck on a cab ride. So I got the message from the snow storm (get out you vagabond. This is not home anymore, you are a gypsy.), and am back where home is for now. But really, was a foot of snow necessary for me to get the message? I hope everyone is having fun digging out from my message! Happy New Year!