I spent much of yesterday leaning over the shoulders of my third-graders, trying to telepathically remind them that sentences need capital letters at the beginning and periods at the end. They didn't notice me, though. They were too deeply ensconced in the state-mandated writing assessment, which requires students to read a brief prompt and then respond with their own perspective in five correctly-spelled, appropriately-punctuated paragraphs.
The test was miserable. It was two and a half hours of nervous mumbling and restless shifting and hovering teachers trying to prevent computer glitches. I'll say this for my little troopers: they hung in. For two and a half long, grueling hours, they scribbled, erased, typed, backspaced, searched for commas, searched their souls, and filled up computer screens. I am ashamed to say I wasn't sure they had it in them.
Their teacher, on the other hand, had to pee. Which made two and a half hours seem like five.
Eventually, my little group completed their tests and I was permitted to release them onto the playground, where fingers that only moments ago were "about to fall off" became recharged with spring air and gripped swing chains. Birds sang and pebbles flew from under scuffing sneakers. The kids were once again permitted to be kids. For fifteen minutes, anyway.
And their teacher was permitted to run to the bathroom.
Afterward, I picked up one of my younger, as-yet-un-writing-assessed children and got him ready for inclusion. One of my inclusion periods is a P.E. class in which I provide behavior support, which means I get to watch nineteen first-graders circle the gym at high speeds and bounce basketballs off each other's heads. I'm not exactly sure some days whose behavior I'm supposed to be supporting, but we've all come through it alive and well so far.
Because of make-up picture day in the gym, though, today we were supposed to be going to the art classroom instead. I had my charge next to me and the other eighteen P.E. students behind him in a line. We made it halfway to the art room when their regular ed teacher popped out of her classroom and announced, "The gym's free. They're supposed to be going there now."
"Oh. Okay." So I turned the line around and walked them back up the hall to the gym (which is, of course, at the furthest point possible from the art room). Sneakers squeaked on linoleum and little voices whispered. My own charge walked next to me because he so doesn't do lines.
But there was no gym teacher in the gym.
So I turned the nineteen restless children around and headed them back down the hall. This time, there was a lot more whispering and muttering -- bad, since a few students from another group were still finishing up the writing assessment. I worked on getting the children quiet without raising my own voice -- quite a feat, to telepathically tell nineteen children to quiet down, but it seemed to work -- and took them back toward the art room.
Halfway there, their regular ed teacher met us in the hall again. "The gym teacher's on her way."
Oh. So back up the hallway we went toward the gym. The whispers grew like wind in the trees. My telepathy failed me and I had to clear my throat several times, but we managed to stay quiet, and my own little charge handled this string of changed plans quite well. He was still calm and seemed to think the whole thing was rather funny.
The gym teacher met us in the gym and announced, "I'm so glad everyone's finished testing!"
Uh ...
I broke the news to her, gently, that there were still a few students testing, and she informed me that we weren't supposed to be in the gym if there was testing going on in the building because we make too much noise. So we lined them all back up and we walked them back down the hallway toward the art room. By this time, half the class period was over.
The gym teacher walked at the beginning of the line and I brought up the rear with my little charge. Just as we at the caboose passed the computer lab, the exhausted computer teacher burst into the hallway and announced:
"DONE! Thank God!"
Oh, Lord Jesus.
I signaled the gym teacher and we stopped our line, turned them around again, and marched them back to the gym. The gym teacher permitted them to skip their exercises and just play a well-earned game of duck-duck-goose, since they'd already gotten their workout marching up and down the hallway.
Ten short minutes later, gym class ended and I returned the first-graders to their teacher. My little charge and I retreated to our classroom.
"That was a fun gym class," he said, kicking off his gym sneakers and pulling on his street shoes. "I liked that gym class."
I gave him a smile and sat him down with a phonics box, more than a little tired. At least he enjoyed the confusion! I guess it's a matter of perspective.
My little positive-thinker worked on the phonics box silently for a while, matching plastic objects to the pictures they rhyme with. Then I heard a small, worried giggle, and I approached him.
"Everything going all right?"
He held up a plastic plum and a plastic pear. "What rhymes with mango?"
I don't think I even knew what a mango was till I was twenty, but here this child thought both the plum and the pear were mangoes. Worn out as I was, this struck me as beautiful.
I nudged the plastic ants off of the card with the picture of two people dancing. "Tango," I told him. "Tango rhymes with mango." Because we can work on fruit tomorrow. Today, I'm going to try to see things the way he does.
Showing posts with label school. Show all posts
Showing posts with label school. Show all posts
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
This is my new shirt!
Question. Why would you put a snow-white, long-sleeved, brand-spanking-new shirt on your second-grader with autism and then send him into the den of ketchup, chalk crayons, and nose blood that is a special education classroom in springtime?
I have been following this child around all morning with a Shout wipe. Because, here's the thing about second-graders (with or without autism):
1. They are natural magnets for ketchup, markers, mustard, chalk crayons, and the grubby little hands of their classmates.
2. Their noses sometimes bleed during allergy season.
3. They can't stand to have spots on their clothing.
"This is my new shirt." That's the mantra of the day.
"Sweetie," I tell him, "Don't rub at it. Let me get the Shout wipes."
"This is -- this is my new shirt." Followed by a nervous giggle. Which tends to be followed by a mega-meltdown.
Quickly, I drop the third-grade spelling list and swoop in with the Shout wipe. Disaster is averted. For the moment.
I turn back to the third-graders and resume their spelling test. "Setting. The setting of my story is in rural West Virginia in the present day. Setting."
Just as my third-graders, without exception, write S-I-T-T-I-N-G on their papers, I hear a very nervous giggle behind me. I turn to find my second-grader surrounded by markers with no lids. He is a rainbow in shades of green -- lime, forest, kelly. He looks perhaps like he was pleased with himself for a moment. But then it sinks in and the giggle pops out.
"This is -- this is my new shirt."
I am out of Shout wipes. We teeter on the brink of crisis.
"This is my new shirt, too," I lie, tugging at my own worn old green school shirt. "See? We match."
The giggle fades. A true smile blooms.
"We match. We must be best buddies."
Crisis averted. At least until his parents see what's become of his brand-new shirt!
I have been following this child around all morning with a Shout wipe. Because, here's the thing about second-graders (with or without autism):
1. They are natural magnets for ketchup, markers, mustard, chalk crayons, and the grubby little hands of their classmates.
2. Their noses sometimes bleed during allergy season.
3. They can't stand to have spots on their clothing.
"This is my new shirt." That's the mantra of the day.
"Sweetie," I tell him, "Don't rub at it. Let me get the Shout wipes."
"This is -- this is my new shirt." Followed by a nervous giggle. Which tends to be followed by a mega-meltdown.
Quickly, I drop the third-grade spelling list and swoop in with the Shout wipe. Disaster is averted. For the moment.
I turn back to the third-graders and resume their spelling test. "Setting. The setting of my story is in rural West Virginia in the present day. Setting."
Just as my third-graders, without exception, write S-I-T-T-I-N-G on their papers, I hear a very nervous giggle behind me. I turn to find my second-grader surrounded by markers with no lids. He is a rainbow in shades of green -- lime, forest, kelly. He looks perhaps like he was pleased with himself for a moment. But then it sinks in and the giggle pops out.
"This is -- this is my new shirt."
I am out of Shout wipes. We teeter on the brink of crisis.
"This is my new shirt, too," I lie, tugging at my own worn old green school shirt. "See? We match."
The giggle fades. A true smile blooms.
"We match. We must be best buddies."
Crisis averted. At least until his parents see what's become of his brand-new shirt!
Friday, March 19, 2010
Is it Friday yet?
I just got hit in the head with the teacher's lounge door.
And I mean, I got hit with some considerable force! The teacher coming out of the lounge was on the run, having dashed to the restroom between classes. She was hurrying back to meet her class of twenty first-graders, and I was walking with a hand on my little repeat-offender runaway's shoulder to make sure I didn't lose him, when I spotted one of my other students hiding behind a door down a hallway.
I knew he was supposed to be with the speech therapist, who was standing nearby, seemingly looking for him. Because this child is also a repeat-offender runaway (I have three runners this year), I knew I needed to check with the speech therapist and make sure she knew where he had gone.
Let me paint the picture for you. Second-grader darts full-speed down one hallway. First-grader hides behind a door down a different hallway. Special education teacher, in heels and a skirt, charges full-speed after the second-grader while looking over her shoulder to check on the first-grader. First-grade teacher bursts from the teacher's lounge at top speed. Speech therapist shouts a belated warning.
Door collides with special education teacher. Door wins. Teacher nearly falls.
Second-grader stops running and first-grader comes out of hiding -- they are laughing too hard to continue plotting escape.
My ears have been ringing ever since. Or maybe they were already. So far today, I've broken up two fights and three screaming arguments, taken the same child to the office twice, been shouted at by an irate parent, kept two kids in at recess to finish a test (which is totally against my religion, so you know I had to be desperate) -- and then watched a third-grader LITERALLY EAT the test paper he'd just stayed inside twenty minutes to complete.
And then I ran into a door.
So let me ask again: Is it Friday? Because I barely know where I am at this point, let alone what day it is! Please tell me it's Friday!
It is? Pshew!
Uh oh, I pshewed too early. Here comes my next group. Too bad that door didn't knock me out!
And I mean, I got hit with some considerable force! The teacher coming out of the lounge was on the run, having dashed to the restroom between classes. She was hurrying back to meet her class of twenty first-graders, and I was walking with a hand on my little repeat-offender runaway's shoulder to make sure I didn't lose him, when I spotted one of my other students hiding behind a door down a hallway.
I knew he was supposed to be with the speech therapist, who was standing nearby, seemingly looking for him. Because this child is also a repeat-offender runaway (I have three runners this year), I knew I needed to check with the speech therapist and make sure she knew where he had gone.
Let me paint the picture for you. Second-grader darts full-speed down one hallway. First-grader hides behind a door down a different hallway. Special education teacher, in heels and a skirt, charges full-speed after the second-grader while looking over her shoulder to check on the first-grader. First-grade teacher bursts from the teacher's lounge at top speed. Speech therapist shouts a belated warning.
Door collides with special education teacher. Door wins. Teacher nearly falls.
Second-grader stops running and first-grader comes out of hiding -- they are laughing too hard to continue plotting escape.
My ears have been ringing ever since. Or maybe they were already. So far today, I've broken up two fights and three screaming arguments, taken the same child to the office twice, been shouted at by an irate parent, kept two kids in at recess to finish a test (which is totally against my religion, so you know I had to be desperate) -- and then watched a third-grader LITERALLY EAT the test paper he'd just stayed inside twenty minutes to complete.
And then I ran into a door.
So let me ask again: Is it Friday? Because I barely know where I am at this point, let alone what day it is! Please tell me it's Friday!
It is? Pshew!
Uh oh, I pshewed too early. Here comes my next group. Too bad that door didn't knock me out!
Friday, January 29, 2010
My Writing Routine
Do you find it helpful to have a routine to your writing? A rhythm?
I feel like I'm supposed to develop one. I mean, that's what I tell kids when they ask for homework tips. Designate a specific time and place for your homework. That way, it will become routine and it won't seem like such a chore.
So I try to follow my own advice and develop a writing rhythm. Up at four, feed the dogs, make coffee, write from 4:15 till 6:30, get ready for work, go to work.
Some days, that's how it looks.
This morning, it looked like this:
The alarm goes off at 4. Hit the snooze button three times.
Get up at 4:30.
Let three dogs out to go potty. Bring two of them back in. Holler myself hoarse for the third, who likes to lurk in the furthest and darkest part of the frozen yard and not come in.
Pour the last drip of water from the jug into the coffee pot, then search for the half-empty water bottles I know are lying around somewhere. Did I mention we have a water leak, so our water is shut off? Yup, no running water in the Dooley/Lilly house.
Call for dog again. To no avail.
Feed the cats.
Get chewed out by cats for not having any wet food.
Fill cat and dog waterer with the next-to-the-last of the half-empty bottles.
Step in waterer. Replace socks.
Call for dog again. To no avail.
Remember to put coffee in the filter.
Pin blanket that serves as office door open so the heat can travel, since the space heater is currently in the bedroom.
Plug in computer.
Call for dog. To no avail. Remember to push "start" on the coffee pot.
Re-tape computer with painter's tape so it will stay open.
Visit Yahoo mail, Google mail, 1 and 1 mail, Facebook, Twitter, Myspace, Verla Kay's Blueboards, Absolute Write, and Livejournal. Realize that 45 minutes have passed.
Hear an odd squeaking noise outside. Get scared. Then realize it's Dog Number 3. Let him in and feed him. Give other two now-whiny dogs an extra handful of breakfast to appease them.
Trip over angry cats.
Remember to pour a cup of coffee.
Now that so much time has passed, visit Yahoo mail, Google mail, and Facebook again to see if anything has changed. Squeeze in another trip to the Blueboards and LJ. Realize that another twenty minutes have passed.
Take a sip of coffee. Notice that it's lukewarm. Add hot coffee to warm it up.
Visit 1 and 1 mail and Twitter in case anything has changed.
Remove cat from revision notes.
Open novel file. Re-read two chapters to find your place and get your momentum.
Remove cat from revision notes.
Realize your fingers are too cold to type.
Take computer to bedroom. Sit on floor in front of space heater and type slowly and quietly to keep from waking partner.
Remove cat from revision notes.
Write one paragraph.
Remove cat from revision notes.
Write three more paragraphs. Remove cat from revision notes. Then realize it is 6:58.
Hurry to splash cold water on face from the last bottle, brush teeth, brush hair, and try to find some clothes that aren't covered in dog and cat hair. Put on pants. Remove cat from shirt. Put on shirt. Dust cat hair off of shirt. Remove cat from shoes. Put on shoes. Remove cat from jacket. Put on jacket.
Frantically look for coffee. Realize that it's cold. Chug it anyway.
Go to car.
Go back inside and turn off coffee pot.
Go to car.
Go back inside to get lesson plan book. Remove cat from lesson plan book. Go back to car.
Go to work.
Speaking of work, I want to share a couple more quotes from that nifty place with you, because they're totally worth it:
-----------------------
ME: "Hello!"
STUDENT: "Ms. Dooley, I'm sorry, but you're a terrible computer guy. 'Cause one time, on the bicycle computer game, you went straight instead of turning. But don't worry. I'll show you. You're not a terrible bicycle guy, you just have to learn to ride a bicycle. Just a bicycle on computer. And don't wreck when you, uh ... uh ... What was that word I was looking for? Oh, yeah. Just learn tricks and then just call ... just call ... Hey, do you know my phone number? Well, call me and I'll tell you how. I just live right up the holler if you need help."
ME: " ..." Cue crickets, chirp chirp!
STUDENT: "Hello! What are you doing? Why aren't we working?"
-------
And my favorite quote from today:
STUDENT: "Miss Dooley, if you promise to leave, I'll fill in for you!"
I feel like I'm supposed to develop one. I mean, that's what I tell kids when they ask for homework tips. Designate a specific time and place for your homework. That way, it will become routine and it won't seem like such a chore.
So I try to follow my own advice and develop a writing rhythm. Up at four, feed the dogs, make coffee, write from 4:15 till 6:30, get ready for work, go to work.
Some days, that's how it looks.
This morning, it looked like this:
The alarm goes off at 4. Hit the snooze button three times.
Get up at 4:30.
Let three dogs out to go potty. Bring two of them back in. Holler myself hoarse for the third, who likes to lurk in the furthest and darkest part of the frozen yard and not come in.
Pour the last drip of water from the jug into the coffee pot, then search for the half-empty water bottles I know are lying around somewhere. Did I mention we have a water leak, so our water is shut off? Yup, no running water in the Dooley/Lilly house.
Call for dog again. To no avail.
Feed the cats.
Get chewed out by cats for not having any wet food.
Fill cat and dog waterer with the next-to-the-last of the half-empty bottles.
Step in waterer. Replace socks.
Call for dog again. To no avail.
Remember to put coffee in the filter.
Pin blanket that serves as office door open so the heat can travel, since the space heater is currently in the bedroom.
Plug in computer.
Call for dog. To no avail. Remember to push "start" on the coffee pot.
Re-tape computer with painter's tape so it will stay open.
Visit Yahoo mail, Google mail, 1 and 1 mail, Facebook, Twitter, Myspace, Verla Kay's Blueboards, Absolute Write, and Livejournal. Realize that 45 minutes have passed.
Hear an odd squeaking noise outside. Get scared. Then realize it's Dog Number 3. Let him in and feed him. Give other two now-whiny dogs an extra handful of breakfast to appease them.
Trip over angry cats.
Remember to pour a cup of coffee.
Now that so much time has passed, visit Yahoo mail, Google mail, and Facebook again to see if anything has changed. Squeeze in another trip to the Blueboards and LJ. Realize that another twenty minutes have passed.
Take a sip of coffee. Notice that it's lukewarm. Add hot coffee to warm it up.
Visit 1 and 1 mail and Twitter in case anything has changed.
Remove cat from revision notes.
Open novel file. Re-read two chapters to find your place and get your momentum.
Remove cat from revision notes.
Realize your fingers are too cold to type.
Take computer to bedroom. Sit on floor in front of space heater and type slowly and quietly to keep from waking partner.
Remove cat from revision notes.
Write one paragraph.
Remove cat from revision notes.
Write three more paragraphs. Remove cat from revision notes. Then realize it is 6:58.
Hurry to splash cold water on face from the last bottle, brush teeth, brush hair, and try to find some clothes that aren't covered in dog and cat hair. Put on pants. Remove cat from shirt. Put on shirt. Dust cat hair off of shirt. Remove cat from shoes. Put on shoes. Remove cat from jacket. Put on jacket.
Frantically look for coffee. Realize that it's cold. Chug it anyway.
Go to car.
Go back inside and turn off coffee pot.
Go to car.
Go back inside to get lesson plan book. Remove cat from lesson plan book. Go back to car.
Go to work.
Speaking of work, I want to share a couple more quotes from that nifty place with you, because they're totally worth it:
-----------------------
ME: "Hello!"
STUDENT: "Ms. Dooley, I'm sorry, but you're a terrible computer guy. 'Cause one time, on the bicycle computer game, you went straight instead of turning. But don't worry. I'll show you. You're not a terrible bicycle guy, you just have to learn to ride a bicycle. Just a bicycle on computer. And don't wreck when you, uh ... uh ... What was that word I was looking for? Oh, yeah. Just learn tricks and then just call ... just call ... Hey, do you know my phone number? Well, call me and I'll tell you how. I just live right up the holler if you need help."
ME: " ..." Cue crickets, chirp chirp!
STUDENT: "Hello! What are you doing? Why aren't we working?"
-------
And my favorite quote from today:
STUDENT: "Miss Dooley, if you promise to leave, I'll fill in for you!"
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
What a child told me
One of my students just informed me, "You're not magic anymore. And you're not cool."
After six hours of pouring snow, the same child left his desk to stare out the window for five solid minutes. At the end of this time, he whirled around, slapped his hands to his cheeks, and screamed, "Dear God Jesus! It's finally snowing!"
During a refusal to come to his desk, he informed me that his imaginary friend wouldn't let him work. I asked him to tell his imaginary friend that his teacher needed him at his desk. He stared at me for a full minute -- so help me, unblinking -- and then said, "Uh, Miss Dooley? He's imaginary?"
Feeling quite foolish, I replied, "Well, that's why I need you to tell him for me. Because he can't hear me."
He sat down slowly, shaking his head in wonder. "He gots ears ..." he muttered under his breath.
After six hours of pouring snow, the same child left his desk to stare out the window for five solid minutes. At the end of this time, he whirled around, slapped his hands to his cheeks, and screamed, "Dear God Jesus! It's finally snowing!"
During a refusal to come to his desk, he informed me that his imaginary friend wouldn't let him work. I asked him to tell his imaginary friend that his teacher needed him at his desk. He stared at me for a full minute -- so help me, unblinking -- and then said, "Uh, Miss Dooley? He's imaginary?"
Feeling quite foolish, I replied, "Well, that's why I need you to tell him for me. Because he can't hear me."
He sat down slowly, shaking his head in wonder. "He gots ears ..." he muttered under his breath.
Friday, January 22, 2010
Five Things you Don't Want to Hear
Five things you don't want to hear in an elementary school classroom:
1. "Uh oh!" (This is usually preceded by a crash, a splash, or a scream from another child.)
2. "Miss Dooley, I think I gots fleas on my head!" (It turned out to be a shred of paper from a spiral notebook, and not what I thought he meant at first, thank goodness!)
3. "Miss Dooley, my tummy hurts --" (Because they never tell you until they are at the furthest point away from the trashcan.)
4. "My mommy says I can --"/"My mommy says I don't hafta --" (This is usually followed by a description of whatever it is you've just told the child she can't do/must do.)
5. Silence. (They're either sick, missing, or hatching a plan. Occasionally all three.)
Unfortunately, all five happened yesterday in my classroom -- numbers 1 and 3 more than once. Five was definitely the most frightening, as it resulted in a school-wide game of hide-and-seek. I'm hoping that one drops off the list entirely today, but I know I can expect to hear at least three or four of them. I love my kids, but I'm really glad it's Friday!
1. "Uh oh!" (This is usually preceded by a crash, a splash, or a scream from another child.)
2. "Miss Dooley, I think I gots fleas on my head!" (It turned out to be a shred of paper from a spiral notebook, and not what I thought he meant at first, thank goodness!)
3. "Miss Dooley, my tummy hurts --" (Because they never tell you until they are at the furthest point away from the trashcan.)
4. "My mommy says I can --"/"My mommy says I don't hafta --" (This is usually followed by a description of whatever it is you've just told the child she can't do/must do.)
5. Silence. (They're either sick, missing, or hatching a plan. Occasionally all three.)
Unfortunately, all five happened yesterday in my classroom -- numbers 1 and 3 more than once. Five was definitely the most frightening, as it resulted in a school-wide game of hide-and-seek. I'm hoping that one drops off the list entirely today, but I know I can expect to hear at least three or four of them. I love my kids, but I'm really glad it's Friday!
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
My Day in Quotes
STUDENT: "Did you leave my game open?"
ME: "Yes, it's still open."
STUDENT: "Good, because I'd hate to have to call your parents and get you s'pended. Then who would play wif me?"
------------------------
STUDENT: "Miss Dooley, can I make a suggestion?"
ME: "Sure thing."
STUDENT: "Zip it!"
------------------------
STUDENT: "Mr. Dooley? I mean -- Miss Dooley?"
------------------------
Also, why do students never aim for the trash can -- or at least the linoleum floor -- when they get sick? Why must they aim for the beautiful, brand-new alphabet rug?
ME: "Yes, it's still open."
STUDENT: "Good, because I'd hate to have to call your parents and get you s'pended. Then who would play wif me?"
------------------------
STUDENT: "Miss Dooley, can I make a suggestion?"
ME: "Sure thing."
STUDENT: "Zip it!"
------------------------
STUDENT: "Mr. Dooley? I mean -- Miss Dooley?"
------------------------
Also, why do students never aim for the trash can -- or at least the linoleum floor -- when they get sick? Why must they aim for the beautiful, brand-new alphabet rug?
Monday, January 11, 2010
Ten Ways to Get Off-Task
After a two-week winter break and seven snow days in a row, it's Monday. A school day. And a two-hour delay day (which means an alternate schedule -- and let me tell you how much my kids with autism love schedule changes. They don't. At all).
In case you find yourself going back to elementary school for any reason (and I hope for your sake that you don't), allow me to pass on some wisdom I've picked up today from my students.
Ten Ways to Get Off-Task
1. Untie your shoe so you can ask your teacher to tie it for you. Do this at least six times per hour.
2. Untie your shoe and then trip over the laces. Fall. Fake a cry and say you "broke yourself" and you are "gonna dead."
3. Ask your teacher for a hug. Give your teacher a hug. Then tell your teacher you are made of Velcro and she is made of felt and you are stuck.
4. Choose an object from the "draw box" to inspire you at the writing center. Make sure it's something that rolls, like a miniature basketball. Roll it out of sight. Then tell your teacher you lost it and you need to find it so you can finish.
5. Place your pencil on the blue rug. Tell your teacher your pencil is at the bottom of the ocean. When she tells you to "swim over and get it, please" (read: when she gives you an inch), tell her you have to "dress appropriately" and then procede to suit yourself up in imaginary "flippy feet," "jar of breath," and "snorkel nose," one garment at a time (read: you take a mile).
6. Tell her you are "simply exhausted" and you must sleep. Then, when she directs you to your quiet space, stop at every desk on the way to tell each student to "keep your stupid voice down" because you need to rest.
7. Be six years old and imitate an extremely inappropriate scene from South Park.
8. Pick up the fake bird's nest from the phonemic awareness kit and burst into tears. Announce that your teacher is the meanest lady in the world for killing the baby birds and taking their home. Then repeat this to the principal when you pass her in the hallway.
9. When walking down the hallway, stop to hug every single teacher you see, especially the subs who don't know that this is your M.O. Then tell them you are made of Velcro and he or she is made of felt and you are stuck.
10. Read nineteen of the twenty words assigned. Then skid to a halt before the last word, which is your name, and tell the teacher that you never learned to read.
In case you find yourself going back to elementary school for any reason (and I hope for your sake that you don't), allow me to pass on some wisdom I've picked up today from my students.
Ten Ways to Get Off-Task
1. Untie your shoe so you can ask your teacher to tie it for you. Do this at least six times per hour.
2. Untie your shoe and then trip over the laces. Fall. Fake a cry and say you "broke yourself" and you are "gonna dead."
3. Ask your teacher for a hug. Give your teacher a hug. Then tell your teacher you are made of Velcro and she is made of felt and you are stuck.
4. Choose an object from the "draw box" to inspire you at the writing center. Make sure it's something that rolls, like a miniature basketball. Roll it out of sight. Then tell your teacher you lost it and you need to find it so you can finish.
5. Place your pencil on the blue rug. Tell your teacher your pencil is at the bottom of the ocean. When she tells you to "swim over and get it, please" (read: when she gives you an inch), tell her you have to "dress appropriately" and then procede to suit yourself up in imaginary "flippy feet," "jar of breath," and "snorkel nose," one garment at a time (read: you take a mile).
6. Tell her you are "simply exhausted" and you must sleep. Then, when she directs you to your quiet space, stop at every desk on the way to tell each student to "keep your stupid voice down" because you need to rest.
7. Be six years old and imitate an extremely inappropriate scene from South Park.
8. Pick up the fake bird's nest from the phonemic awareness kit and burst into tears. Announce that your teacher is the meanest lady in the world for killing the baby birds and taking their home. Then repeat this to the principal when you pass her in the hallway.
9. When walking down the hallway, stop to hug every single teacher you see, especially the subs who don't know that this is your M.O. Then tell them you are made of Velcro and he or she is made of felt and you are stuck.
10. Read nineteen of the twenty words assigned. Then skid to a halt before the last word, which is your name, and tell the teacher that you never learned to read.
Friday, October 23, 2009
Rounding to the Nearest Headache
My third-graders are learning how to round to the nearest hundred.
Wait. Let me rephrase that. My third-graders are supposed to be learning how to round to the nearest hundred.
More...Two Mondays ago, we studied rounding to the nearest 10. We used a variety of hands-on strategies to accomplish this goal, and it was mastered fairly quickly by all students. (That isn’t as impressive as it might be, by the way; I’ve only got three third-graders.)
This past Monday, we started rounding to the nearest hundred.
They did fine. For the first few lessons.
I swear. They knew how to round to the nearest hundred when they left on Monday. And they knew how to round to the nearest hundred when they left on Tuesday.
But when they came back on Wednesday? It was GONE. As if we had never studied rounding before.
Today, it was even worse than that. Today, it was as if they had never even been to school before. They didn’t know how to put their names on their papers. They didn’t know which desk belonged to who. And they DID NOT know how to round to the nearest hundred.
I kept my patience … for a while.
I showed them how to narrow their choices down to two possibilities – the two multiples of hundred that are nearest to the number in question. When they didn’t seem to remember this concept, I made it even easier.
“The two choices,” I said, “are 600 and 700.”
“I know!” shouted Student A. “5,000!”
Just as Student B shouted, “27!”
“Guys,” I said, bewildered, “the answer is either 600 or 700. Those are the only two choices. The number you say either needs to be 600 or 700. So no other answer has even a chance of being correct. So … which is it? 600 or 700?”
“94!” shouted Student B.
“400!” shouted Student A.
Luckily the students left for lunch about that time, saving me from pulling out chunks of my own hair in frustration. They returned half an hour later, refreshed and ready to tackle rounding anew.
Yeah.
After fifteen minutes of rounding torture, I decided I’d better return to safer waters. I put a few two-digit numbers on the board and asked students to round them to the nearest 10. So imagine my surprise when the answers ranged in length from a single digit to six.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
The Mean Green Thief
Buddy, I tell ya! What a week it's been!
Oh, sorry. That didn't sound like me. It's just that all stories in my classroom begin the same way. A six-year-old raises his hand in the middle of the spelling test, and when I call on him, he says, "Buddy, I tell ya! I studied, but I just don't know what to make of that one word!" -- or, better yet -- "Buddy, I tell ya! That dog I seen this weekend, he was somethin' else!" To which I say, "That's interesting, but what does it have to do with your spelling test?" To which he usually says something along the lines of, "What spelling test?"
But let me start again.
Buddy, I tell ya! It may only be Wednesday, but I'm just about ready for the weekend!
Before I explain why, let me ask you this: If you were a teacher and you had a child in your class who loved chocolate, would you leave Hershey's bars laying about all over the classroom?
What if you had a child who adored music? Would you play his music so loud he couldn't concentrate on working? In the background, sure, but so loud he couldn't focus?
No, right?
Okay. So I'm justified. I think.
Yesterday, I de-greened my classroom.
More...
All the green -- and I mean ALL the green -- has been taken. Green crayons out of their boxes. Green sentence strips off the word wall. Green icons off the picture schedules. Green stickers off the sticker charts. I swapped green pencil boxes for blue ones. Green computer tickets for red ones.
And all this green contraband, these confiscated green crayons and stickers and second-grade words, they're all locked in the top drawer of my filing cabinet with the other things too dangerous for the kids to touch. Medications, for example. And push pins.
What would possess a grown woman, and a teacher at that, to rob her students of the color green?
Buddy, I tell ya. I got this one kid, he just don't do his work if there's anything green around.
Oops. Sorry. I've been in class too long. Let me rephrase that.
I am entrusted with the education of a pupil who is so intensely interested in the color green, he is unable to focus on learning if there is anything of that particular hue in his field of vision.
There, that sounded a little bit more professional.
My little green-obsessed student has been having trouble this week. And I mean trouble in almost every area of classroom life. The skills it takes to exist in second grade, those are the very skills he seems to have lost over the weekend. Not flipping your chair over backwards, for instance. And not poking your neighbor in the eye with a pencil. Pretty much all the skills you need to practice if you want to be a successful second-grader and not spend every recess stuck against the brick wall beside the teacher.
Which is not my rule, by the way. The last thing I want is for my most energetic students to not run around in circles for fifteen minutes. But I don't have recess duty, so there isn't much I can do about that.
What I can do -- or at least what I try to do -- is motivate my students using what interests them. If it's chocolate, hey, as long as the parent doesn't mind, that's fine with me. If it's music, fantastic. If it's stickers, or computer time, or a coloring sheet, that's great. And if it's doing all of your work with a green colored pencil, well, does it really matter if your spelling words aren't gray like everybody else's?
I think it makes the place a little brighter, actually. A bright spot of green in my ordinarily dreary grade book.
Only sometimes, if there is green in the room, the child just can't concentrate. And this was one of those weeks. And the other kids were pulling their hair out. And, to be honest, so was I. It's difficult to teach -- and especially difficult to learn! -- your spelling words or expanded notation or your reading strategies if somebody is cantering around the room on all fours howling like a wolf, or squeezing his hands over his ears and singing "Slow Ride," or scooting your chair out from under you and laughing when you fall on the rug.
Not cool, green man. I don't like falling on the rug.
At the end of my rope, I finally reclaimed green. I took control of it. I confiscated an entire color. Kids in my classroom have to color leaves yellow. That's okay this time of year, right? But they also have to color pumpkin stems purple and they have to color green traffic lights blue.
It's just for a day or two.
I hope.
Meanwhile, the little green guy, he's working. He's trying to earn back his green. But in his free time, he's also got a project of his own. He's trying so hard to find his missing color. He's looking in every crayon box and under every marker lid. He's checking under the other word wall words. He's looking in the bottoms of the trash cans. In fact, I think the only place he hasn't checked is in the locked top drawer of my filing cabinet.
I'm almost tempted to give him the key -- and to remove the medications and the push pins, of course. I'm almost rooting for the little guy. If I were seven and some mean old teacher took away my green, I would hunt for it, too. I'm very proud of him for trying.
There is a chance that green will reappear tomorrow. I'm not sure. I haven't decided. I want the other kids to get a little peace so they can concentrate, and if it takes having the little green guy work in blue until he earns a green marker, well, that almost seems worth it. Green's not gone forever, after all.
On the other hand, I haven't stolen chocolate from this kid. I haven't taken away a song he likes. That's all I thought I was doing, but now I realize I've stolen his oxygen. I've moved the earth out from under him.
Not cool, Ms. Dooley. Even if it's not forever.
Buddy, I tell ya. I studied hard in college. But I just don't know what to make of this one kid. He sure brightens up my classroom, though.
As for me, I've got some homework to do. Some decisions to make.
I'll let you know what color they turn out.
Oh, sorry. That didn't sound like me. It's just that all stories in my classroom begin the same way. A six-year-old raises his hand in the middle of the spelling test, and when I call on him, he says, "Buddy, I tell ya! I studied, but I just don't know what to make of that one word!" -- or, better yet -- "Buddy, I tell ya! That dog I seen this weekend, he was somethin' else!" To which I say, "That's interesting, but what does it have to do with your spelling test?" To which he usually says something along the lines of, "What spelling test?"
But let me start again.
Buddy, I tell ya! It may only be Wednesday, but I'm just about ready for the weekend!
Before I explain why, let me ask you this: If you were a teacher and you had a child in your class who loved chocolate, would you leave Hershey's bars laying about all over the classroom?
What if you had a child who adored music? Would you play his music so loud he couldn't concentrate on working? In the background, sure, but so loud he couldn't focus?
No, right?
Okay. So I'm justified. I think.
Yesterday, I de-greened my classroom.
More...
All the green -- and I mean ALL the green -- has been taken. Green crayons out of their boxes. Green sentence strips off the word wall. Green icons off the picture schedules. Green stickers off the sticker charts. I swapped green pencil boxes for blue ones. Green computer tickets for red ones.
And all this green contraband, these confiscated green crayons and stickers and second-grade words, they're all locked in the top drawer of my filing cabinet with the other things too dangerous for the kids to touch. Medications, for example. And push pins.
What would possess a grown woman, and a teacher at that, to rob her students of the color green?
Buddy, I tell ya. I got this one kid, he just don't do his work if there's anything green around.
Oops. Sorry. I've been in class too long. Let me rephrase that.
I am entrusted with the education of a pupil who is so intensely interested in the color green, he is unable to focus on learning if there is anything of that particular hue in his field of vision.
There, that sounded a little bit more professional.
My little green-obsessed student has been having trouble this week. And I mean trouble in almost every area of classroom life. The skills it takes to exist in second grade, those are the very skills he seems to have lost over the weekend. Not flipping your chair over backwards, for instance. And not poking your neighbor in the eye with a pencil. Pretty much all the skills you need to practice if you want to be a successful second-grader and not spend every recess stuck against the brick wall beside the teacher.
Which is not my rule, by the way. The last thing I want is for my most energetic students to not run around in circles for fifteen minutes. But I don't have recess duty, so there isn't much I can do about that.
What I can do -- or at least what I try to do -- is motivate my students using what interests them. If it's chocolate, hey, as long as the parent doesn't mind, that's fine with me. If it's music, fantastic. If it's stickers, or computer time, or a coloring sheet, that's great. And if it's doing all of your work with a green colored pencil, well, does it really matter if your spelling words aren't gray like everybody else's?
I think it makes the place a little brighter, actually. A bright spot of green in my ordinarily dreary grade book.
Only sometimes, if there is green in the room, the child just can't concentrate. And this was one of those weeks. And the other kids were pulling their hair out. And, to be honest, so was I. It's difficult to teach -- and especially difficult to learn! -- your spelling words or expanded notation or your reading strategies if somebody is cantering around the room on all fours howling like a wolf, or squeezing his hands over his ears and singing "Slow Ride," or scooting your chair out from under you and laughing when you fall on the rug.
Not cool, green man. I don't like falling on the rug.
At the end of my rope, I finally reclaimed green. I took control of it. I confiscated an entire color. Kids in my classroom have to color leaves yellow. That's okay this time of year, right? But they also have to color pumpkin stems purple and they have to color green traffic lights blue.
It's just for a day or two.
I hope.
Meanwhile, the little green guy, he's working. He's trying to earn back his green. But in his free time, he's also got a project of his own. He's trying so hard to find his missing color. He's looking in every crayon box and under every marker lid. He's checking under the other word wall words. He's looking in the bottoms of the trash cans. In fact, I think the only place he hasn't checked is in the locked top drawer of my filing cabinet.
I'm almost tempted to give him the key -- and to remove the medications and the push pins, of course. I'm almost rooting for the little guy. If I were seven and some mean old teacher took away my green, I would hunt for it, too. I'm very proud of him for trying.
There is a chance that green will reappear tomorrow. I'm not sure. I haven't decided. I want the other kids to get a little peace so they can concentrate, and if it takes having the little green guy work in blue until he earns a green marker, well, that almost seems worth it. Green's not gone forever, after all.
On the other hand, I haven't stolen chocolate from this kid. I haven't taken away a song he likes. That's all I thought I was doing, but now I realize I've stolen his oxygen. I've moved the earth out from under him.
Not cool, Ms. Dooley. Even if it's not forever.
Buddy, I tell ya. I studied hard in college. But I just don't know what to make of this one kid. He sure brightens up my classroom, though.
As for me, I've got some homework to do. Some decisions to make.
I'll let you know what color they turn out.
Saturday, September 5, 2009
I'm home -- and almost home -- in a number of ways.
There is an odd sort of disconnect this week between the environment in which I've spent my days and the one in which I've spent my evenings. It stands to reason, since the two environments are more than an hour and a half's drive apart, but still, the dissonance is staggering.
More...
First things first. I am buying a house. This is especially significant if you refer to this post, in which I list the 42 (it's now 44, though) places I have lived. Owning a home will mean that number 45 (actually, 46, since I've got to find a place to stay next week) will likely stick. At least for a while. And my number might not change so quickly or so desperately as it has in the past.
This little house I'm buying from a family friend is precious. It's a small, sweet two-bedroom house with a quarter acre yard for the dogs to play in.
But once we started cleaning up the yard and hauling trash out of the living room, we learned that the people who used to live in this house lost it because of personal problems. And some of the neighbors aren't happy about the change.
Not that I'm happy about the change either -- at least, not the part where someone else lost a home. But my mother's earliest memory is of her mother sneaking her out the back door of their former home while the new tenants moved in the front. On my birth certificate, my address is simply listed as "General Delivery, Mt. Nebo, W.Va." I have been evicted from trailers without plumbing. I have pulled my panicked cat out of a gaping hole in a hotel wall on a school night. I have shampooed my hair in the Summersville lake. I have lived 44 places in my life and I want to go home now.
All of that is serving a double purpose -- simultaneously making me feel guilty and easing my guilt about someone else losing the home that has become mine.
So what does that mean for my house? It means I should be able to move in next week. It also means the house is surrounded by neighbors who may or may not accept me.
In the meantime, school started Monday.
I am in heaven.
My kids are cantankerous little counry kids with attitudes taller than their diminutive statures. But my partner still works two hours from my school, so we've been staying in a motel and I've been commuting an hour and a half to work. Flood plains and country kids during the day. Hot tubs and 70 channels at night. Dissonance. Fortunately, I'm too sleepy to dwell on it.
Between driving and teaching, teaching and driving, I feel like I've spent much of the week in a fog. I haven't even really thought about the fact that by next week, I will be living in a home of my own.
Instead, I've spent the week having conversations like this:
ME (to second-grader pretending a ruler is a guitar): "If your guitar is going to distract you, I'm going to have to put it out of sight for a bit."
STUDENT (pointing to spelling test): "If my spelling test is going to distract me, can you put it out of sight for a bit?"
and like this:
ME (to six-year-old student): "I love how you came in and got right to work!"
STUDENT: "Lady, that's how I come into this world!"
So I haven't stopped to think about the pros and the cons of home ownership in a community that might not initially embrace me.
I'm not that worried about it, though. The house will be great, and I'm excited -- don't get me wrong. But every time I walk into my classroom, I know I've already come home.
More...
First things first. I am buying a house. This is especially significant if you refer to this post, in which I list the 42 (it's now 44, though) places I have lived. Owning a home will mean that number 45 (actually, 46, since I've got to find a place to stay next week) will likely stick. At least for a while. And my number might not change so quickly or so desperately as it has in the past.
This little house I'm buying from a family friend is precious. It's a small, sweet two-bedroom house with a quarter acre yard for the dogs to play in.
But once we started cleaning up the yard and hauling trash out of the living room, we learned that the people who used to live in this house lost it because of personal problems. And some of the neighbors aren't happy about the change.
Not that I'm happy about the change either -- at least, not the part where someone else lost a home. But my mother's earliest memory is of her mother sneaking her out the back door of their former home while the new tenants moved in the front. On my birth certificate, my address is simply listed as "General Delivery, Mt. Nebo, W.Va." I have been evicted from trailers without plumbing. I have pulled my panicked cat out of a gaping hole in a hotel wall on a school night. I have shampooed my hair in the Summersville lake. I have lived 44 places in my life and I want to go home now.
All of that is serving a double purpose -- simultaneously making me feel guilty and easing my guilt about someone else losing the home that has become mine.
So what does that mean for my house? It means I should be able to move in next week. It also means the house is surrounded by neighbors who may or may not accept me.
In the meantime, school started Monday.
I am in heaven.
My kids are cantankerous little counry kids with attitudes taller than their diminutive statures. But my partner still works two hours from my school, so we've been staying in a motel and I've been commuting an hour and a half to work. Flood plains and country kids during the day. Hot tubs and 70 channels at night. Dissonance. Fortunately, I'm too sleepy to dwell on it.
Between driving and teaching, teaching and driving, I feel like I've spent much of the week in a fog. I haven't even really thought about the fact that by next week, I will be living in a home of my own.
Instead, I've spent the week having conversations like this:
ME (to second-grader pretending a ruler is a guitar): "If your guitar is going to distract you, I'm going to have to put it out of sight for a bit."
STUDENT (pointing to spelling test): "If my spelling test is going to distract me, can you put it out of sight for a bit?"
and like this:
ME (to six-year-old student): "I love how you came in and got right to work!"
STUDENT: "Lady, that's how I come into this world!"
So I haven't stopped to think about the pros and the cons of home ownership in a community that might not initially embrace me.
I'm not that worried about it, though. The house will be great, and I'm excited -- don't get me wrong. But every time I walk into my classroom, I know I've already come home.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Stepping back into the rain
I wrote this a few weeks ago, before I gave notice at my current job. I never posted it, because I wasn’t even sure enough about the decisions I was making to talk about them on my blog.
But now I’m sure.
I’ve put in a bid on a job that just popped open in the county where I’m about to live. It’s a special education classroom. You know, the type of job I ran screaming from, not two months ago? Well, I think I’m ready to go back.
Here’s why.
More...
-----------------------------------
It’s raining.
I used to know some kids who would stand shoulder to shoulder with me and watch the rain. Together we pulled the blinds up, turned off the fluorescent lights, and enjoyed how stone gray and gorgeous the outside was. Unlike a lot of people who hunch their shoulders and put up umbrellas, these kids got it. They understood about the rain. How it was necessary. How it was beautiful if you looked at it right.
Today it’s raining and my office has no windows. I keep sneaking out to the lobby to stare at the storm. I pass office after office, each with voices droning, telephones ringing, pagers beeping, papers shuffling. In each office, there are people talking, arguing, maneuvering, complaining when the fluorescent lights flicker.
But I’m all alone out here by the windows.
Outside I see rain so thick I can barely see the interstate, nearby as it is, cutting through the warehouse district. All I can see out there are headlights going from someplace, to someplace. Just like I thought I was doing, back when I loaded up the car and headed out.
The noise behind me is distracting because it isn’t the noise I know. There’s no humming. No singing. No arguing over pencils or popcorn or which movie we’re going to watch on reward day. Nobody is repeating herself about her favorite actor or his favorite type of microwave dinner. Nobody cares about things like that here.
A couple of months ago, I made this post, and in it, I mentioned how you want the rain back once the sun comes out. But the truth is, the sun hasn’t ever come out, not all the way. There have been rays here and there, and once in a while, a silver lining. But while the rain has definitely stopped, the ground is still wet, months later, no chance to get dry.
I left teaching for a lot of reasons. Family reasons. Mental health reasons. I left teaching because I felt there was a bigger difference to be made elsewhere. Because the saying goes, doing an impossible job over and over again, expecting it to become possible, is the very definition of insanity.
But there is safety in numbers. That’s a saying, too. And I used to have numbers. I used to have a whole troop of gutsy kids willing to go shoulder to shoulder with me and do an impossible job together.
I’ve been fighting it for a while, but it’s time to admit that I’ve made a mistake. I've known since the minute I turned my back on teaching that I'm facing the wrong direction.
It's time to turn around. And there's no shame in it, no matter how ridiculous it might look on my increasingly-lengthy resume. There are so many problems in the world that aren't fixable. But this one, I can fix.
Just watch.
But now I’m sure.
I’ve put in a bid on a job that just popped open in the county where I’m about to live. It’s a special education classroom. You know, the type of job I ran screaming from, not two months ago? Well, I think I’m ready to go back.
Here’s why.
More...
-----------------------------------
It’s raining.
I used to know some kids who would stand shoulder to shoulder with me and watch the rain. Together we pulled the blinds up, turned off the fluorescent lights, and enjoyed how stone gray and gorgeous the outside was. Unlike a lot of people who hunch their shoulders and put up umbrellas, these kids got it. They understood about the rain. How it was necessary. How it was beautiful if you looked at it right.
Today it’s raining and my office has no windows. I keep sneaking out to the lobby to stare at the storm. I pass office after office, each with voices droning, telephones ringing, pagers beeping, papers shuffling. In each office, there are people talking, arguing, maneuvering, complaining when the fluorescent lights flicker.
But I’m all alone out here by the windows.
Outside I see rain so thick I can barely see the interstate, nearby as it is, cutting through the warehouse district. All I can see out there are headlights going from someplace, to someplace. Just like I thought I was doing, back when I loaded up the car and headed out.
The noise behind me is distracting because it isn’t the noise I know. There’s no humming. No singing. No arguing over pencils or popcorn or which movie we’re going to watch on reward day. Nobody is repeating herself about her favorite actor or his favorite type of microwave dinner. Nobody cares about things like that here.
A couple of months ago, I made this post, and in it, I mentioned how you want the rain back once the sun comes out. But the truth is, the sun hasn’t ever come out, not all the way. There have been rays here and there, and once in a while, a silver lining. But while the rain has definitely stopped, the ground is still wet, months later, no chance to get dry.
I left teaching for a lot of reasons. Family reasons. Mental health reasons. I left teaching because I felt there was a bigger difference to be made elsewhere. Because the saying goes, doing an impossible job over and over again, expecting it to become possible, is the very definition of insanity.
But there is safety in numbers. That’s a saying, too. And I used to have numbers. I used to have a whole troop of gutsy kids willing to go shoulder to shoulder with me and do an impossible job together.
I’ve been fighting it for a while, but it’s time to admit that I’ve made a mistake. I've known since the minute I turned my back on teaching that I'm facing the wrong direction.
It's time to turn around. And there's no shame in it, no matter how ridiculous it might look on my increasingly-lengthy resume. There are so many problems in the world that aren't fixable. But this one, I can fix.
Just watch.
Monday, July 6, 2009
New Job Starts Today
New job starts today. Ugh. Or maybe yay. I don't know yet. This is a new situation, not teaching, and I don't know what to expect.
Of course, with teaching, when you walk in on day one, you hit the ground not just running, but hurtling yourself head-first with desperation. You have to stay a step ahead of eight or ten people you've never met before, already pretending like you know their likes and their dislikes and the things that will motivate them. You call them "Class" or "Boys and Girls" and the words slip out familiar, as if you know each of the boys and each of the girls individually. They never notice the cheat sheet of names sticking out of your pocket. It never occurs to them that they are strangers.
More...
The funny part is, they pretend to know you, too. You are Teacher. Teacher might change names and faces every year, and certainly every teacher has a different management style and reward system (mine's best. So there.) -- BUT -- Teacher can be anyone, that first day, as far as the kids are concerned. It doesn't matter who she is, as long as she can tie shoes and dry tears and wipe noses and call mommy if need be.
Last August, on my first day of my last teaching job, I arrived at school at 5:30 a.m. It was my tenth day in a row working, because I had spent the end of the summer building a sensory room for my students who needed a calm place to be. By the time the students started arriving at 7:25, everything was in place. Desks were clean and facing the board. Chairs were pushed in. Lights were set low and soothing. "WELCOME BACK!" was printed on the board in giant block letters, even though most of my kids weren't readers. I picked up nine cartons of milk and nine blueberry muffins from the kitchen. I smoothed my outfit one more time. And I opened the classroom doors.
Twenty minutes later, the board had been halfway erased by an elbow. The lights were being flicked on and off. Two of the nine milks were spilled on the floor and three others had been gulped by the same person. My skirt had blueberry smushed into it. Desks were askew. And nine people scattered themselves about the room with the same question etched on their features:
"Just what are you going to do about it?"
Little by little, a milk and a desk and a muffin at a time, we put that classroom back into order, and then into a much better order than it was ever in before. We learned things together that nobody thought any of us could learn. We wrote novels together. We sang songs and made paintings. We learned about our government when there were those in the school who thought my kids couldn't even learn their names. We were a team, me and this rough and tumble bunch of kids who gave me such a challenge on our first day together.
Today, on the first day in my new job, I will mostly just be turning in paperwork and watching training videos. There will be no milk and no muffins. No paints and no boards to erase. I do think I'm going to make a positive difference at this job, or I wouldn't have applied for it. I'm going to be helping adults and children with disabilities in a new and perhaps more effective sort of way.
I just hope I know what I'm getting into. And what I'm getting out of.
Of course, with teaching, when you walk in on day one, you hit the ground not just running, but hurtling yourself head-first with desperation. You have to stay a step ahead of eight or ten people you've never met before, already pretending like you know their likes and their dislikes and the things that will motivate them. You call them "Class" or "Boys and Girls" and the words slip out familiar, as if you know each of the boys and each of the girls individually. They never notice the cheat sheet of names sticking out of your pocket. It never occurs to them that they are strangers.
More...
The funny part is, they pretend to know you, too. You are Teacher. Teacher might change names and faces every year, and certainly every teacher has a different management style and reward system (mine's best. So there.) -- BUT -- Teacher can be anyone, that first day, as far as the kids are concerned. It doesn't matter who she is, as long as she can tie shoes and dry tears and wipe noses and call mommy if need be.
Last August, on my first day of my last teaching job, I arrived at school at 5:30 a.m. It was my tenth day in a row working, because I had spent the end of the summer building a sensory room for my students who needed a calm place to be. By the time the students started arriving at 7:25, everything was in place. Desks were clean and facing the board. Chairs were pushed in. Lights were set low and soothing. "WELCOME BACK!" was printed on the board in giant block letters, even though most of my kids weren't readers. I picked up nine cartons of milk and nine blueberry muffins from the kitchen. I smoothed my outfit one more time. And I opened the classroom doors.
Twenty minutes later, the board had been halfway erased by an elbow. The lights were being flicked on and off. Two of the nine milks were spilled on the floor and three others had been gulped by the same person. My skirt had blueberry smushed into it. Desks were askew. And nine people scattered themselves about the room with the same question etched on their features:
"Just what are you going to do about it?"
Little by little, a milk and a desk and a muffin at a time, we put that classroom back into order, and then into a much better order than it was ever in before. We learned things together that nobody thought any of us could learn. We wrote novels together. We sang songs and made paintings. We learned about our government when there were those in the school who thought my kids couldn't even learn their names. We were a team, me and this rough and tumble bunch of kids who gave me such a challenge on our first day together.
Today, on the first day in my new job, I will mostly just be turning in paperwork and watching training videos. There will be no milk and no muffins. No paints and no boards to erase. I do think I'm going to make a positive difference at this job, or I wouldn't have applied for it. I'm going to be helping adults and children with disabilities in a new and perhaps more effective sort of way.
I just hope I know what I'm getting into. And what I'm getting out of.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Wet pants, wet roads, wet cheeks
It was a damp sort of day from beginning to end.
Even the grass was wet when I tiptoed through it in my turquoise flip-flops to start my morning commute. It was early -- although not as early as I'd planned on leaving, since I needed to stop at Wal-Mart to buy each child in my class something special for the last day of school. Bubbles for one. A fancy pen for another. For the child who wishes it could always be either November or February, a daily planner -- one she can crease open to her favorite months and make-believe to her heart's content, ten months out of the year. For the child who is happiest with the simple things in life, a coveted orange soda. For each child, I searched for some special little something so they would know how much I appreciate them.
Except it's hard to shop for a kid with autism who likes exactly two things in life: his squishy ball and his flip-flops -- and he owns both of those already.
One magnificent giant bubble wand and ten dollars later, I sped out of Wal-Mart now fifteen minutes behind schedule. Having stood in line behind an old man buying a rotisserie chicken (at 6:57 in the morning? Really?), I was starving and ripped open my Slim-Fast bar as I pulled onto the highway.
Slim-Fast bars make me thirsty. So I balanced my giant bottle of water between my thighs and began to work on unscrewing the lid one-handed.
Just as a car slammed on its brakes in front of me.
More...
I slammed on my own brakes just as the lid came loose, and, lo and behold -- an eruption of ice-cold water. Right in my lap. If I were one of my students, I would have adjusted my schedule to include an extra bathroom break at the mere sight of me.
Of course, because it was the last student day and we would spend much of it stacking chairs and sweeping floors, I had dressed casually in a T-shirt and jeans. I couldn't find my belt this morning, and the denim, now heavy with water, sagged mercilessly. All I wanted was to stop somewhere and shake the spare water loose from my outfit, but I was mired in morning traffic and it took 15 minutes to find a place to stop. By then, my jeans were soaked through, all the way up to the back pockets and nearly down to my knees.
Now twenty minutes late, there was no time to give in to temptation and stop at Wal-Mart to buy dry pants. Instead, I rushed into the school building, carrying a half-empty water bottle and wearing the rest of it on my clothing. Luckily, one of my students who wasn't quite toilet-trained yet wore roughly the same size as me and kept spare pants at school. I wore his baggy blue shorts all morning while my sopping jeans were in the dryer.
"It's okay, Miss Dooley," one student commented when she noticed my ordeal. "Everybody has accidents sometimes."
Speechless, all I could do was shake my head and give her a hug.
Just after ten, one of my students was picked up early. The minute I said goodbye to him, I knew I was going to lose it at some point today. But I held it together, gave him his gift (a daily planner so he can keep track of the weather over the summer) and waved goodbye.
We didn't do much work today, opting to play Yahtzee and stack chairs and dust shelves in the classroom. The rest of the school was locked down silent, taking end-of-year exams, so we couldn't leave our classroom, but that was okay; we didn't want to. Although the children didn't know yet that I wouldn't be coming back next year, I think they could sense something was amiss. We all took the day slow, basking in each other's company for one last long high school day.
Just after two, another student was picked up early. I gave him his orange soda and sent him on his way.
On Fridays, we watch movies. Or I guess I should say, on Fridays, we used to watch movies. You know, back when I was a teacher. The students worked all week for the privilege and then they took turns bringing in films. Today was Wednesday, but it was the last day of school and the general consensus was that it was sort of like a Friday, so we watched Twilight, which one child had been begging for months to watch. Normally, I spend movie time at my desk, using it as my weekly planning time. But today, I sat with my kids to watch the movie. There was nothing left to plan.
At two forty-five, a third student was picked up early. He didn't like hugs and couldn't wait to get home and play with his new bubble wand. So he wouldn't say good-bye. My eyes were starting to water. I gave the remaining kids their presents, packed book bags, changed diapers, untied knots in shoelaces, brushed hair, found missing earrings, and tried to deny that the clock was carrying us all closer and closer to 3:01.
At 2:59, teachers got an e-mail saying school would not let out until 3:05 because of testing. Sweet reprieve, a whole four minutes.
But the bell's ring came anyway, and with it, a tide of parents and buses taking children away from me before I got to say a proper good-bye. Before I knew it, one student was out the door with her new poster, and another with her coloring book, and another with his Yahtzee game. This last, I followed down to make sure he got on the right bus, and we sat outside playing Yahtzee in the post-three-o'clock-on-Wednesday-June-10 chaos that was the end of the school year.
Three fives. He rolled again and got a fourth. Then again and got a fifth -- the first and only true "Yahtzee" of the whole school year.
"Rockin'!" he screeched, hands in the air.
There was something yellow in the distance. I tried to deny it till it pulled up and flashed its stop sign. No matter how hard I ignored the bus, it wouldn't go away.
And wouldn't you know it, this kid didn't like hugs, either.
Blurry-eyed, I somehow ended up back in my classroom, lost, looking around in bewilderment at the stacks of papers and supplies. Worksheets I ran off that we never got to finish. Craft supplies for a group time unit that never got taught. There were books with bookmarks in them, half-read, and someone left their cake on the table, half-eaten.
There was still a half-empty bottle of water on the table, too. But that wasn't the cause of the dampness in the room, not this time.
I dried my eyes when I heard the assistants coming. Things were always tense between me and my classroom assistants, and try though I did, again and again, I was never able to make things right. That's okay. Three more days of entering grades, boxing up materials, filing papers, and Clorox-wiping surfaces, and they can go back to plastering Easter crosses all over the classroom and requiring the kids to pray before meals. It won't be any of my business anymore.
Still, when one of the assistants accused me of procrastination because of my messy desk -- a desk buried in the paperwork that just didn't top the priority list when there were so many other things to do -- I lost it a little. Which is why, when ten after four rolled around, I was still in my classroom, boxing and bagging and sorting, determined to prove her wrong.
Because she wasn't wrong -- at least -- not entirely. My desk was messy. Ridiculously messy, in fact. But that's what happens when you are teacher to eight kids who are always moving. There are always problems that need solved, diapers that need changed, children who need encouraged, tears that need dried. And sometimes, even as the tower of papers on my desk climbed sky-high, I just couldn't do anything except stand, and watch, and enjoy my kids while I had them, knowing that it wouldn't last forever.
Of course, if I hadn't stayed late to prove wrong something that may well have been right, I would have made it home before the sky broke open. The storm hit halfway home, so sudden and with such force that my Bonneville nearly slid off the side of the highway. I pulled it straight and slowed to fifteen, inching through the torrents of rain that bounced back up off the road so thick, it was like both Heaven and Hell were raining.
I found shelter in a gas station, where old men in flannel stood lined up in front of the window with their coffee, gabbing about cattle feed and taking in the storm. I sipped coffee, too, and borrowed a phone to call home and let my partner know I would be later, even, than usual. Did you know old guys in flannel talking about cattle feed carry cell phones? Once the call was made, I holed up in my car with my coffee.
The storm kept pounding for almost an hour before I felt like it was safe again to make the remainder of the drive. There was a time, once, when I would have been impatient for the end of the storm. After a long day at work, I would have wanted nothing more than to get home, take a shower, and have things go my way without a hitch. I wouldn't have wanted to spend an hour outside the Texaco, watching shoppers dash to and from their cars as the sky got darker and darker.
But there was streak lightning blasting sideways, just over the mountains, and I'd never seen rain blow quite so sideways before. So I sat and I sipped and I watched the whole world get watered down to match my day.
Of course, because I had those rare moments for quiet reflection, my mind kept going over the goodbyes -- and the lack thereof -- that had punctuated my day. It hurt to say goodbye to those kids. Supposedly, according to wise men, I was supposed to take comfort in all that I had taught them. Calendar facts. Time-telling skills. How to go to the restroom, tie their shoes, and do the laundry.
But sitting in my car at the end of the last day of the privilege of being their teacher, I was much more concerned with the things they had taught me. To write a novel, for one. To play Yahtzee. To care about the weather. To draw accurate Beauty and the Beast characters. They taught me that sometimes it's okay to count on your fingers, and that sometimes you need to have cake even if you're watching your waistline. They taught me that anyone can dance, to any song, any time, no matter what people think.
And they taught me that when it's raining, there's no point in getting impatient and there's no point pretending it's not beautiful just because it's a tad inconvenient. You might as well give into it and sit. And watch. And enjoy it while you've got it. 'Cause you're not going to have it forever, and no matter how tired and frustrated it made you, you're going to want it back once the sun comes out.
Even the grass was wet when I tiptoed through it in my turquoise flip-flops to start my morning commute. It was early -- although not as early as I'd planned on leaving, since I needed to stop at Wal-Mart to buy each child in my class something special for the last day of school. Bubbles for one. A fancy pen for another. For the child who wishes it could always be either November or February, a daily planner -- one she can crease open to her favorite months and make-believe to her heart's content, ten months out of the year. For the child who is happiest with the simple things in life, a coveted orange soda. For each child, I searched for some special little something so they would know how much I appreciate them.
Except it's hard to shop for a kid with autism who likes exactly two things in life: his squishy ball and his flip-flops -- and he owns both of those already.
One magnificent giant bubble wand and ten dollars later, I sped out of Wal-Mart now fifteen minutes behind schedule. Having stood in line behind an old man buying a rotisserie chicken (at 6:57 in the morning? Really?), I was starving and ripped open my Slim-Fast bar as I pulled onto the highway.
Slim-Fast bars make me thirsty. So I balanced my giant bottle of water between my thighs and began to work on unscrewing the lid one-handed.
Just as a car slammed on its brakes in front of me.
More...
I slammed on my own brakes just as the lid came loose, and, lo and behold -- an eruption of ice-cold water. Right in my lap. If I were one of my students, I would have adjusted my schedule to include an extra bathroom break at the mere sight of me.
Of course, because it was the last student day and we would spend much of it stacking chairs and sweeping floors, I had dressed casually in a T-shirt and jeans. I couldn't find my belt this morning, and the denim, now heavy with water, sagged mercilessly. All I wanted was to stop somewhere and shake the spare water loose from my outfit, but I was mired in morning traffic and it took 15 minutes to find a place to stop. By then, my jeans were soaked through, all the way up to the back pockets and nearly down to my knees.
Now twenty minutes late, there was no time to give in to temptation and stop at Wal-Mart to buy dry pants. Instead, I rushed into the school building, carrying a half-empty water bottle and wearing the rest of it on my clothing. Luckily, one of my students who wasn't quite toilet-trained yet wore roughly the same size as me and kept spare pants at school. I wore his baggy blue shorts all morning while my sopping jeans were in the dryer.
"It's okay, Miss Dooley," one student commented when she noticed my ordeal. "Everybody has accidents sometimes."
Speechless, all I could do was shake my head and give her a hug.
Just after ten, one of my students was picked up early. The minute I said goodbye to him, I knew I was going to lose it at some point today. But I held it together, gave him his gift (a daily planner so he can keep track of the weather over the summer) and waved goodbye.
We didn't do much work today, opting to play Yahtzee and stack chairs and dust shelves in the classroom. The rest of the school was locked down silent, taking end-of-year exams, so we couldn't leave our classroom, but that was okay; we didn't want to. Although the children didn't know yet that I wouldn't be coming back next year, I think they could sense something was amiss. We all took the day slow, basking in each other's company for one last long high school day.
Just after two, another student was picked up early. I gave him his orange soda and sent him on his way.
On Fridays, we watch movies. Or I guess I should say, on Fridays, we used to watch movies. You know, back when I was a teacher. The students worked all week for the privilege and then they took turns bringing in films. Today was Wednesday, but it was the last day of school and the general consensus was that it was sort of like a Friday, so we watched Twilight, which one child had been begging for months to watch. Normally, I spend movie time at my desk, using it as my weekly planning time. But today, I sat with my kids to watch the movie. There was nothing left to plan.
At two forty-five, a third student was picked up early. He didn't like hugs and couldn't wait to get home and play with his new bubble wand. So he wouldn't say good-bye. My eyes were starting to water. I gave the remaining kids their presents, packed book bags, changed diapers, untied knots in shoelaces, brushed hair, found missing earrings, and tried to deny that the clock was carrying us all closer and closer to 3:01.
At 2:59, teachers got an e-mail saying school would not let out until 3:05 because of testing. Sweet reprieve, a whole four minutes.
But the bell's ring came anyway, and with it, a tide of parents and buses taking children away from me before I got to say a proper good-bye. Before I knew it, one student was out the door with her new poster, and another with her coloring book, and another with his Yahtzee game. This last, I followed down to make sure he got on the right bus, and we sat outside playing Yahtzee in the post-three-o'clock-on-Wednesday-June-10 chaos that was the end of the school year.
Three fives. He rolled again and got a fourth. Then again and got a fifth -- the first and only true "Yahtzee" of the whole school year.
"Rockin'!" he screeched, hands in the air.
There was something yellow in the distance. I tried to deny it till it pulled up and flashed its stop sign. No matter how hard I ignored the bus, it wouldn't go away.
And wouldn't you know it, this kid didn't like hugs, either.
Blurry-eyed, I somehow ended up back in my classroom, lost, looking around in bewilderment at the stacks of papers and supplies. Worksheets I ran off that we never got to finish. Craft supplies for a group time unit that never got taught. There were books with bookmarks in them, half-read, and someone left their cake on the table, half-eaten.
There was still a half-empty bottle of water on the table, too. But that wasn't the cause of the dampness in the room, not this time.
I dried my eyes when I heard the assistants coming. Things were always tense between me and my classroom assistants, and try though I did, again and again, I was never able to make things right. That's okay. Three more days of entering grades, boxing up materials, filing papers, and Clorox-wiping surfaces, and they can go back to plastering Easter crosses all over the classroom and requiring the kids to pray before meals. It won't be any of my business anymore.
Still, when one of the assistants accused me of procrastination because of my messy desk -- a desk buried in the paperwork that just didn't top the priority list when there were so many other things to do -- I lost it a little. Which is why, when ten after four rolled around, I was still in my classroom, boxing and bagging and sorting, determined to prove her wrong.
Because she wasn't wrong -- at least -- not entirely. My desk was messy. Ridiculously messy, in fact. But that's what happens when you are teacher to eight kids who are always moving. There are always problems that need solved, diapers that need changed, children who need encouraged, tears that need dried. And sometimes, even as the tower of papers on my desk climbed sky-high, I just couldn't do anything except stand, and watch, and enjoy my kids while I had them, knowing that it wouldn't last forever.
Of course, if I hadn't stayed late to prove wrong something that may well have been right, I would have made it home before the sky broke open. The storm hit halfway home, so sudden and with such force that my Bonneville nearly slid off the side of the highway. I pulled it straight and slowed to fifteen, inching through the torrents of rain that bounced back up off the road so thick, it was like both Heaven and Hell were raining.
I found shelter in a gas station, where old men in flannel stood lined up in front of the window with their coffee, gabbing about cattle feed and taking in the storm. I sipped coffee, too, and borrowed a phone to call home and let my partner know I would be later, even, than usual. Did you know old guys in flannel talking about cattle feed carry cell phones? Once the call was made, I holed up in my car with my coffee.
The storm kept pounding for almost an hour before I felt like it was safe again to make the remainder of the drive. There was a time, once, when I would have been impatient for the end of the storm. After a long day at work, I would have wanted nothing more than to get home, take a shower, and have things go my way without a hitch. I wouldn't have wanted to spend an hour outside the Texaco, watching shoppers dash to and from their cars as the sky got darker and darker.
But there was streak lightning blasting sideways, just over the mountains, and I'd never seen rain blow quite so sideways before. So I sat and I sipped and I watched the whole world get watered down to match my day.
Of course, because I had those rare moments for quiet reflection, my mind kept going over the goodbyes -- and the lack thereof -- that had punctuated my day. It hurt to say goodbye to those kids. Supposedly, according to wise men, I was supposed to take comfort in all that I had taught them. Calendar facts. Time-telling skills. How to go to the restroom, tie their shoes, and do the laundry.
But sitting in my car at the end of the last day of the privilege of being their teacher, I was much more concerned with the things they had taught me. To write a novel, for one. To play Yahtzee. To care about the weather. To draw accurate Beauty and the Beast characters. They taught me that sometimes it's okay to count on your fingers, and that sometimes you need to have cake even if you're watching your waistline. They taught me that anyone can dance, to any song, any time, no matter what people think.
And they taught me that when it's raining, there's no point in getting impatient and there's no point pretending it's not beautiful just because it's a tad inconvenient. You might as well give into it and sit. And watch. And enjoy it while you've got it. 'Cause you're not going to have it forever, and no matter how tired and frustrated it made you, you're going to want it back once the sun comes out.
Friday, June 5, 2009
Losing touch with eight unique souls.
For months, I’ve been looking forward to the end of the school year. It’s been a rough year and I’ve been tired and burnt out. Most of the problems – eviction, loss of friends, financial difficulty – did not originate at school, but they certainly took their toll on my school performance. I’ve been tired and a little short tempered in situations that used to make me laugh. Instead of calm, collected Ms. Dooley, the kids have seen another side of me – a side that prompted one student, when playing a vocabulary game, to answer the question “Do teachers have feelings?” with “Yeah, they feel tired!”
More...
So the end of the school year has been shimmering in the distance as a very good thing, something I couldn’t wait to reach. The end of the school year signaled freedom from my two daily hours of commute time and the sore feet, dehydration, and stress headaches that come from teaching all day with no planning, lunch, or other down time. I’ve been rushing headlong toward the end of the school year for months, unwilling to look back.
Until today.
Today is when it hit. Today I realized something awful.
I will, in all likelihood, never see these children again.
I will never again see James, who plays the air drums and answers the daily question “How are you?” with “Not much.” I will never see Dana, who speaks of herself in the third person and writes knock knock jokes on the board in her spare time. After Wednesday, I won’t get to spend any more mornings scrubbing purple marker chicken pox off Eliza, who keeps hoping I’ll fall for it and send her home early. I won’t get to talk about High School Musical with Leah or sign about horses in the hallways with Simon. Garret won’t get to apologize in advance before uttering curse words about me anymore. Robert won’t start the morning by shouting, “Dooley! Shut up!” and then kissing me on the cheek. Brett won’t look me in the eye and say, “No, I don’t have gum! I swear!” thirty seconds before blowing a bubble.
My life is about to get boring. Or at least a whole lot more boring than it is right now.
I thought that was what I wanted.
I’ve decided to move home because I want to live closer to my family and because something about living in West Virginia just feels right, in a way that living in other states never has. I know the social rules in West Virginia. I know when to wave back and when to look the other way. I know how to drive on the back roads. I know the lingo. Other states are nice and I’m glad I’ve lived in a few of them, but the Mountain State is home and I’ll be glad to return to it.
Only there are eight extraordinary people here I’m going to miss once I’ve gone away. And I know, although there will be other children in my life, that there is no one, anywhere, that will take the place of these eight unique souls.
God. Why didn’t I spend more time teaching them to write so we could stay in touch?
More...
So the end of the school year has been shimmering in the distance as a very good thing, something I couldn’t wait to reach. The end of the school year signaled freedom from my two daily hours of commute time and the sore feet, dehydration, and stress headaches that come from teaching all day with no planning, lunch, or other down time. I’ve been rushing headlong toward the end of the school year for months, unwilling to look back.
Until today.
Today is when it hit. Today I realized something awful.
I will, in all likelihood, never see these children again.
I will never again see James, who plays the air drums and answers the daily question “How are you?” with “Not much.” I will never see Dana, who speaks of herself in the third person and writes knock knock jokes on the board in her spare time. After Wednesday, I won’t get to spend any more mornings scrubbing purple marker chicken pox off Eliza, who keeps hoping I’ll fall for it and send her home early. I won’t get to talk about High School Musical with Leah or sign about horses in the hallways with Simon. Garret won’t get to apologize in advance before uttering curse words about me anymore. Robert won’t start the morning by shouting, “Dooley! Shut up!” and then kissing me on the cheek. Brett won’t look me in the eye and say, “No, I don’t have gum! I swear!” thirty seconds before blowing a bubble.
My life is about to get boring. Or at least a whole lot more boring than it is right now.
I thought that was what I wanted.
I’ve decided to move home because I want to live closer to my family and because something about living in West Virginia just feels right, in a way that living in other states never has. I know the social rules in West Virginia. I know when to wave back and when to look the other way. I know how to drive on the back roads. I know the lingo. Other states are nice and I’m glad I’ve lived in a few of them, but the Mountain State is home and I’ll be glad to return to it.
Only there are eight extraordinary people here I’m going to miss once I’ve gone away. And I know, although there will be other children in my life, that there is no one, anywhere, that will take the place of these eight unique souls.
God. Why didn’t I spend more time teaching them to write so we could stay in touch?
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
One of those days.
The first student to arrive was cussing when she entered. Students two and three argued heatedly all morning, while students four, five, and six fought over breakfast, even though it was plentiful and all the same. Student seven came in crying, and student eight (who came in wearing fuzzy zebra slippers) sat down just off the school bus and refused to enter the building.
So of course, it was IEP day -- a major meeting, mid-morning. Promising a reluctant student she could paint with me when the 11: 15 bell rang, I ran to the office for my meeting. Upon returning -- at 11:17 -- she was waiting and grabbed me as I came through the door. We started painting together, but that was when another student started crying and cussing on the other side of the room.
Of course by this time, one of my two classroom assistants had left for a doctor's appointment, and they had been unable to find a sub. There was no one to leave for supervision, so I leveled a gaze at my little painter and said, "Paint goes on paper. Not on you. Promise?"
More...
She nodded and gave me a big thumbs-up and a winning smile, so I crossed the room to help a student deal with a tragic loss at UNO which, apparently, was grounds for heartbreak. Ten minutes later, the UNO loser was still in tears and pounding the table, refusing to wash his hands or to budge from the table for lunch. Meanwhile, my artist was purple to the elbow and grinning guiltily. I confiscated paints, dunked her hands in the sink, and scrubbed her, while calling over my shoulder to my remaining assistant that if she would stay with the UNO-er, I would take the others to lunch and send back-up.
Balancing three styrofoam trays at a time, I managed to get most of the kids settled, and, as promised, I sent a member of the administration as back-up to help with UNO-kid, one of my few kids verbal and aware enough to benefit from administration back-up. Soon after, my assistant and my heartbroken student arrived. I had to beg the child to get a lunch, since he insisted food would give him a headache and that food was stupid and probably responsible for his loss at UNO. Eventually, he picked up some pizza, took a bite, and immediately became all smiles. Low blood sugar, perhaps?
Meanwhile, another student, finished with his lunch, began to run around the table, snatching bits off of other students' trays. And my little artist, still vaguely purple, thought it would be funny to snatch napkins from the assistant principal rather than getting some from the napkin holder.
Back in the classroom, I settled four kids in the kitchen doing laundry, and four others in front of the TV to work on sign language vocabulary. One child, quite mysteriously, grabbed her backpack and ran for the restroom. When she returned, she was clad in pink fuzzy pajamas to match her slippers. This was one of those moments where I wished I could subscribe to the "can't beat 'em, join 'em" philosophy; unfortunately, I don't keep a set of PJs at school.
After the sign video, I popped in a reward movie one child had brought with her from home. It turned out to be the magic of WEE SING IN SILLYVILLE, a video with which I am intimately familiar, thanks to a college buddy of mine who also happened to be a ten-year-old Wee Sing fanatic. My student signed, "Green frog," and seemed immensely shocked when I understood that she meant "Frugy Frogs." So then she added, "Red baby," and I asked, "Baby Bitty Bootie?" She was thrilled. I was horrified that I still remembered these details after three years.
By the time I sent the kids home, I had myself convinced that it must be Friday by now. Unfortunately, convincing me and convincing the calendar are two separate things.
So of course, it was IEP day -- a major meeting, mid-morning. Promising a reluctant student she could paint with me when the 11: 15 bell rang, I ran to the office for my meeting. Upon returning -- at 11:17 -- she was waiting and grabbed me as I came through the door. We started painting together, but that was when another student started crying and cussing on the other side of the room.
Of course by this time, one of my two classroom assistants had left for a doctor's appointment, and they had been unable to find a sub. There was no one to leave for supervision, so I leveled a gaze at my little painter and said, "Paint goes on paper. Not on you. Promise?"
More...
She nodded and gave me a big thumbs-up and a winning smile, so I crossed the room to help a student deal with a tragic loss at UNO which, apparently, was grounds for heartbreak. Ten minutes later, the UNO loser was still in tears and pounding the table, refusing to wash his hands or to budge from the table for lunch. Meanwhile, my artist was purple to the elbow and grinning guiltily. I confiscated paints, dunked her hands in the sink, and scrubbed her, while calling over my shoulder to my remaining assistant that if she would stay with the UNO-er, I would take the others to lunch and send back-up.
Balancing three styrofoam trays at a time, I managed to get most of the kids settled, and, as promised, I sent a member of the administration as back-up to help with UNO-kid, one of my few kids verbal and aware enough to benefit from administration back-up. Soon after, my assistant and my heartbroken student arrived. I had to beg the child to get a lunch, since he insisted food would give him a headache and that food was stupid and probably responsible for his loss at UNO. Eventually, he picked up some pizza, took a bite, and immediately became all smiles. Low blood sugar, perhaps?
Meanwhile, another student, finished with his lunch, began to run around the table, snatching bits off of other students' trays. And my little artist, still vaguely purple, thought it would be funny to snatch napkins from the assistant principal rather than getting some from the napkin holder.
Back in the classroom, I settled four kids in the kitchen doing laundry, and four others in front of the TV to work on sign language vocabulary. One child, quite mysteriously, grabbed her backpack and ran for the restroom. When she returned, she was clad in pink fuzzy pajamas to match her slippers. This was one of those moments where I wished I could subscribe to the "can't beat 'em, join 'em" philosophy; unfortunately, I don't keep a set of PJs at school.
After the sign video, I popped in a reward movie one child had brought with her from home. It turned out to be the magic of WEE SING IN SILLYVILLE, a video with which I am intimately familiar, thanks to a college buddy of mine who also happened to be a ten-year-old Wee Sing fanatic. My student signed, "Green frog," and seemed immensely shocked when I understood that she meant "Frugy Frogs." So then she added, "Red baby," and I asked, "Baby Bitty Bootie?" She was thrilled. I was horrified that I still remembered these details after three years.
By the time I sent the kids home, I had myself convinced that it must be Friday by now. Unfortunately, convincing me and convincing the calendar are two separate things.
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
The Funny Thing About Leaving
One of my students is on a joke-telling kick, except he hasn't quite gotten the hang of it yet.
"Why did the cow cross the road?"
"I don't know. Why?"
"To eat the grass."
In fact, several of my students are interested in the joke-telling process, but few have mastered the art. They're sitting around this morning, listening to the rain and kicking joke attempts back and forth.
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"Knock, knock!"
"Who's there?"
"My grandma!"
"My grandma who?"
"Just my grandma! She visits every Sunday!"
The funny part is, they all dissolve into laughter at the end of every joke, whether or not it made any sense at all. To my kids, it's enough that an effort has been made. This is another reason why I love them.
Speaking, by the way, of the rain, it has been coming down in buckets all morning. A toad-strangler, my best-elementary-school-friend's father used to call it. A gauly-washer. Except it was pronounced "golley-warsher." I share this term with the kids and they shriek with delight, then return to their jokes.
"Why did Ms. Dooley run down the hall?"
"Why?"
"'Cause she was late for a meeting!"
How well they know me. He's right, too; I am late for a meeting. I scoop up an armload of IEP paperwork and run for the front office.
The conference room is dark because of the rain, and everyone is a little bit sluggish. We all laugh lazily and talk softly, until the self-care portion of the meeting rears its ugly head and I'm forced to utter the phrase "complete the feminine hygiene repertoire independently" in front of my middle-aged, male school-to-work coordinator. He blushes to where he used to keep his roots and I rush to get back on safe ground, which, in this case, is cooking skills.
By the time the meeting is over, the lights have dimmed twice and thunder literally rattles the windows. I hear in passing that the auditorium has flooded, and think of those little theater students -- clothes dampened, spirits not -- huddled in the hallways, telling more traditional, and somewhat raunchier, jokes than my kids have thought up.
Back in class, I hear,
"Why did Ms. Dooley buy an umbrella?"
"Why?"
"Because it's raining!"
and
"Why did the fire truck go to the house?"
"Why?"
"To put out the fire!"
and
"Why did the lady go to the doctor?"
"Why?"
"Because she was sick!"
and more torrents of laughter and rain, and I think, no matter what choices I've made about leaving public school teaching, that there is nowhere I would rather be at this particular moment than here.
"Why did the cow cross the road?"
"I don't know. Why?"
"To eat the grass."
In fact, several of my students are interested in the joke-telling process, but few have mastered the art. They're sitting around this morning, listening to the rain and kicking joke attempts back and forth.
More...
"Knock, knock!"
"Who's there?"
"My grandma!"
"My grandma who?"
"Just my grandma! She visits every Sunday!"
The funny part is, they all dissolve into laughter at the end of every joke, whether or not it made any sense at all. To my kids, it's enough that an effort has been made. This is another reason why I love them.
Speaking, by the way, of the rain, it has been coming down in buckets all morning. A toad-strangler, my best-elementary-school-friend's father used to call it. A gauly-washer. Except it was pronounced "golley-warsher." I share this term with the kids and they shriek with delight, then return to their jokes.
"Why did Ms. Dooley run down the hall?"
"Why?"
"'Cause she was late for a meeting!"
How well they know me. He's right, too; I am late for a meeting. I scoop up an armload of IEP paperwork and run for the front office.
The conference room is dark because of the rain, and everyone is a little bit sluggish. We all laugh lazily and talk softly, until the self-care portion of the meeting rears its ugly head and I'm forced to utter the phrase "complete the feminine hygiene repertoire independently" in front of my middle-aged, male school-to-work coordinator. He blushes to where he used to keep his roots and I rush to get back on safe ground, which, in this case, is cooking skills.
By the time the meeting is over, the lights have dimmed twice and thunder literally rattles the windows. I hear in passing that the auditorium has flooded, and think of those little theater students -- clothes dampened, spirits not -- huddled in the hallways, telling more traditional, and somewhat raunchier, jokes than my kids have thought up.
Back in class, I hear,
"Why did Ms. Dooley buy an umbrella?"
"Why?"
"Because it's raining!"
and
"Why did the fire truck go to the house?"
"Why?"
"To put out the fire!"
and
"Why did the lady go to the doctor?"
"Why?"
"Because she was sick!"
and more torrents of laughter and rain, and I think, no matter what choices I've made about leaving public school teaching, that there is nowhere I would rather be at this particular moment than here.
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Good News
What a great week for the writers!
First of all, my students got their galley copy to look over on Thursday. I was thrilled to learn that they were more interested in seeing their characters' names in print than their own! I can't wait to get back from spring break so we can pick up our final copies and go out into the world with them. First stop? The local indy bookstore for a book signing. The kids have made posters and prepared a short reading. They've been working so hard on this project!
Then yesterday, on the first day of spring break, my wonderful agent, Laura Langlie, sold my own novel, LIVVIE OWEN LIVED HERE, to Feiwel and Friends! This is the novel I wrote right alongside the kids during our NaNoWriMo project. How perfect that I got this news in time to share it with this year's class!
I am just over the moon about all of this!
First of all, my students got their galley copy to look over on Thursday. I was thrilled to learn that they were more interested in seeing their characters' names in print than their own! I can't wait to get back from spring break so we can pick up our final copies and go out into the world with them. First stop? The local indy bookstore for a book signing. The kids have made posters and prepared a short reading. They've been working so hard on this project!
Then yesterday, on the first day of spring break, my wonderful agent, Laura Langlie, sold my own novel, LIVVIE OWEN LIVED HERE, to Feiwel and Friends! This is the novel I wrote right alongside the kids during our NaNoWriMo project. How perfect that I got this news in time to share it with this year's class!
I am just over the moon about all of this!
Friday, February 20, 2009
I didn't get my spaghetti and meatballs.
Field trip day! I love field trip day. I love taking seven kids who I'm not sure I have any control over in the classroom, and moving the whole shebang outside.
Walking to the bus -- "walking" being relative, of course -- is an adventure. My tallest student is in the lead, at a run. A few feet back is student #2, who has been out sick all week. He helpfully volunteers information about his mucus to a passing teacher. Meanwhile students #3 and #4 have veered off from the group because there is a) a cool reflection on a windshield, and, b) a dropped piece of bubble gum.
More...
I am rushing to catch up, so students #5 and #6 have decided it is the perfect time to lag behind. They rattle the doorknobs to classrooms and shuffle their feet. And student #7? Holding my hand and being sweet as pie, of course. I think they must consult one another before major outings. "It's your turn to be the good one today! If we're all bad, she'll make us skip movie day!"
Remarkably, we make it onto the bus and get seated. One student grabs another and chucks him like a Frisbee out of her favorite seat. I have to sit with her and have a conversation about bus manners. For the third time. This week. By the time she utters a grudging apology to her stand-in Frisbee, Mrs. J has the bus moving and we're pulling out of the parking lot.
A truckload of teenagers careens around the building and almost takes us out, eliciting a scream from the half of my kids who notice. The other half continue to enjoy their own personal worlds, much safer and calmer than the bus.
At the restaurant, one student who is being allowed off her diet for today launches herself at the complimentary chips and salsa, polishing off four before I can stop her. She takes a bite of one chip, then dips it again into the salsa, immediately claiming one whole basket for herself. When her chip supply runs out -- as far as she knows, although I have sereptitiously slid about half the chips from the basket and whisked them into my napkin -- she grabs the salsa bowl and upends it, gulping the salsa like spring water. Beside her, her classmate grabs the lemon from my sweet tea and takes a bite, then begins to cry.
We order using pictures. This is to say, the students order using pictures, and I am so busy helping them choose and articulate their choices that I nearly forget to order for myself. When the food comes, Salsa Girl takes one sweet bite and smiles at me, as though to remind me that she does, in fact, possess table manners. I turn to help Lemon Boy, who has taken a huge bite of sour cream because he isn't sure how to mix the ingredients of his Taco Salad. Together we break the shell into manageable bites and stir them into the lettuce, sour cream, and guacamole. I turn back to find that Salsa Girl has completely finished her enchilada and rice. She is on the last bite of beans. In amazement, I glance back at Lemon Boy, who has taken the tomatoes from his taco salad and dropped them square on my quesadilla.
Across the table, one of my verbal students is attempting to order a side of spaghetti and meatballs. All week, she has been singing a song about this particular dish, and now she is determined that this restaurant will serve it. In front of her, a perfectly good enchilada grows cold. She is near tears. I rescue the poor server, who appears near tears himself, and talk her into trying the food on her plate. She lifts one tiny forkful to her lips. Then prompty takes three bites and forgets all about spaghetti.
When dinner has been eaten and spills mopped up, each student takes a turn visiting the cashier with her changepurse, counting out the bills and coins for her meal. No one can remember the name of what they ate. They tell the cashier, "I had that thing. The one that was wrapped up." Or "I ate something that was green and yellow." Or "I didn't get my spaghetti and meatballs."
Outside, we pile onto the bus again. I run interference with the student who likes to play Frisbee with her classmates. By the time we reach the school, I have burned off every calorie I packed in, and then some.
The minute we reach the classroom, Salsa Girl turns to me and beams. "Want cookie," she signs.
We are never leaving the building again.
(Till next week, of course.)
Walking to the bus -- "walking" being relative, of course -- is an adventure. My tallest student is in the lead, at a run. A few feet back is student #2, who has been out sick all week. He helpfully volunteers information about his mucus to a passing teacher. Meanwhile students #3 and #4 have veered off from the group because there is a) a cool reflection on a windshield, and, b) a dropped piece of bubble gum.
More...
I am rushing to catch up, so students #5 and #6 have decided it is the perfect time to lag behind. They rattle the doorknobs to classrooms and shuffle their feet. And student #7? Holding my hand and being sweet as pie, of course. I think they must consult one another before major outings. "It's your turn to be the good one today! If we're all bad, she'll make us skip movie day!"
Remarkably, we make it onto the bus and get seated. One student grabs another and chucks him like a Frisbee out of her favorite seat. I have to sit with her and have a conversation about bus manners. For the third time. This week. By the time she utters a grudging apology to her stand-in Frisbee, Mrs. J has the bus moving and we're pulling out of the parking lot.
A truckload of teenagers careens around the building and almost takes us out, eliciting a scream from the half of my kids who notice. The other half continue to enjoy their own personal worlds, much safer and calmer than the bus.
At the restaurant, one student who is being allowed off her diet for today launches herself at the complimentary chips and salsa, polishing off four before I can stop her. She takes a bite of one chip, then dips it again into the salsa, immediately claiming one whole basket for herself. When her chip supply runs out -- as far as she knows, although I have sereptitiously slid about half the chips from the basket and whisked them into my napkin -- she grabs the salsa bowl and upends it, gulping the salsa like spring water. Beside her, her classmate grabs the lemon from my sweet tea and takes a bite, then begins to cry.
We order using pictures. This is to say, the students order using pictures, and I am so busy helping them choose and articulate their choices that I nearly forget to order for myself. When the food comes, Salsa Girl takes one sweet bite and smiles at me, as though to remind me that she does, in fact, possess table manners. I turn to help Lemon Boy, who has taken a huge bite of sour cream because he isn't sure how to mix the ingredients of his Taco Salad. Together we break the shell into manageable bites and stir them into the lettuce, sour cream, and guacamole. I turn back to find that Salsa Girl has completely finished her enchilada and rice. She is on the last bite of beans. In amazement, I glance back at Lemon Boy, who has taken the tomatoes from his taco salad and dropped them square on my quesadilla.
Across the table, one of my verbal students is attempting to order a side of spaghetti and meatballs. All week, she has been singing a song about this particular dish, and now she is determined that this restaurant will serve it. In front of her, a perfectly good enchilada grows cold. She is near tears. I rescue the poor server, who appears near tears himself, and talk her into trying the food on her plate. She lifts one tiny forkful to her lips. Then prompty takes three bites and forgets all about spaghetti.
When dinner has been eaten and spills mopped up, each student takes a turn visiting the cashier with her changepurse, counting out the bills and coins for her meal. No one can remember the name of what they ate. They tell the cashier, "I had that thing. The one that was wrapped up." Or "I ate something that was green and yellow." Or "I didn't get my spaghetti and meatballs."
Outside, we pile onto the bus again. I run interference with the student who likes to play Frisbee with her classmates. By the time we reach the school, I have burned off every calorie I packed in, and then some.
The minute we reach the classroom, Salsa Girl turns to me and beams. "Want cookie," she signs.
We are never leaving the building again.
(Till next week, of course.)
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Starch
Yesterday, the kids cooked Thanksgiving dinner. While shopping for ingredients, one child who is on a strict diet actually hugged the box of macaroni and cheese before she would scan it. Not wanting to break her heart, I got permission from her mom to let her eat the meal, which included a lot of delicious starchy foods. Her mother said she could eat it, but that starchy foods sometimes give her mood swings.
A while after the student was watching her favorite video. Suddenly she went charging across the room, flung herself into the classroom assistant's arms, and started sobbing. It took us a while to figure out what it was that was breaking her heart. Turns out she was upset that on "The Little Engine that Could," the little engine couldn't yet. She kept signing "train up" and sobbing, heartbroken that that poor little engine couldn't make it to the top of the mountain.
We had to fast-forward to the end to reassure her that "The Little Engine that Could," in fact, does.
A while after the student was watching her favorite video. Suddenly she went charging across the room, flung herself into the classroom assistant's arms, and started sobbing. It took us a while to figure out what it was that was breaking her heart. Turns out she was upset that on "The Little Engine that Could," the little engine couldn't yet. She kept signing "train up" and sobbing, heartbroken that that poor little engine couldn't make it to the top of the mountain.
We had to fast-forward to the end to reassure her that "The Little Engine that Could," in fact, does.
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