My previous blog was about children making accurate musical discernments. I have another story about their abilities to be more judicious and Scripturally wiser than many adults in matters of theology.
When I was a child growing up in the 1950's, I was raised in Catholicism. That meant Pope Pius XII was my theological superior, as were all his minions, including all the priests, nuns, and laity, which I was a minor member. I did not know the meaning of a heretic, but I was warned about them and knew they were dangerous and up to no good. They weren't going to Heaven. That was bad. Still is.
Down the street from our Catholic church was another church where heretics did whatever it is they did. What a shame. It was such a beautiful building and looked like a church, but what went on inside was heretical, and though I didn't know what that meant, I was to avoid it like the plague. The people inside that church were not going to Heaven. That was bad. Still is.
An interesting family lived two houses down from our childhood home. There was the lovely girl and her older brothers. The older brothers did stuff like build and fly homemade model airplanes whose propellers could take off your finger if you weren't careful starting it. They put an airplane motor on a handmade basal wood boat that literally did fast, huge "donuts" on the little pond by the bayou, and they built go-carts that went thirty miles per hour and always started. They blew up firecrakers and built firecracker cannons that fired rocks that stuck into tree trunks. It was reported that the oldest had climbed up the outside of the church tower down the street by using a corner of the building. This family was cool, and my siblings and I liked and respected them.
Then we found out they went to the Lutheran church. They were heretics and were going to Hell! That's bad. Still is.
I'll always remember a conversation my older sister Carolyn, 16, my older brother, William, 14, my younger brother Jack, 4, and I (9) had in the oyster shell driveway of our home.
Carolyn: "I think the Pope is wrong. Joe and Bill aren't going to Hell. How could God send good people like that to Hell?"
William: "They're going to Heaven. They've got to! It wouldn't be fair!"
Me: "Mary Ann is going to Hell? No way!"
Jack: "The Pope is wrong!"
William: "That means the priests are wrong too!"
Me: "That means all the nuns are wrong too!"
Carolyn: "I think that they are going to Heaven. I'm sure of it!"
Jack: "Good!"
Me: "So they're not going to Hell?"
William: "That's right. The Pope is wrong."
After a few more years of living and growing in my theological wisdom, I discovered that Lutherans worship Jesus Christ as their Lord and Savior, minus the judgemental influence of Rome and the Holy See.
Recently Pope Benedict revived the old, nasty claim that Catholicism was the One, True Church, and you had to be Catholic to get to Heaven. Shame on him! I knew four children who were theologically wiser than the present, well-educated leader of millions of Christians. Our only mistake was in judging that we knew they were going to go to Heaven. How could we possibly know?
"Judge not lest you be judged."
Friday, June 19, 2009
Thursday, June 18, 2009
THE KING OF ROCK-N-ROLL
This blog isn't about kids, but it is about my childhood opinions on rock-n-roll.
Elvis Presley is considered the "King" of rock-n-roll. This wasn't the case when rock-n-roll was King. I was there. I was a fan when it came into being, when the first rockers started rolling. I listened to rock-n-roll when parents feared it.
I remember my brother and sister arguing who was the greatest rock-n-roller. My sister Carolyn believed it was Chuck Berry, and she would rattle off all his great hits and talk about his guitar playing. Then my older brother William would pipe up about Little Richard being so out-there, so wild, so crazy, so fresh and inventive. I sided with Carolyn at the time and still do. The thing I remember the most is what wasn't said. To the kids in our household, Elvis wasn't the King.
My cousins talked about Elvis, but it wasn't about the music. It was about the sexuality, the handsomeness, the whiteness. At their house, it was either Elvis or Pat Boone. At our house, Ricky Nelson was the better musician, and upon reflection, one of the most underrated rock-n-rollers ever.
Looking back on it, I am proud of my brother and sister for being so passionate about music and so open-minded and non-judgemental about who was great. Nothing against Elvis, but the King of rock-n-roll is Chuck Berry, unless Little Richard is around. All Elvis fans can make nasty comments, but it won't change my mind. I made up my mind as a child, and after decades of reflection, I believe I was correct from the start.
It's funny how the King of rock-n-roll is an ornery black man, and the greatest rock group was four British guys who were singing with an American accent, thus topping Americans in their own creation.
Elvis Presley is considered the "King" of rock-n-roll. This wasn't the case when rock-n-roll was King. I was there. I was a fan when it came into being, when the first rockers started rolling. I listened to rock-n-roll when parents feared it.
I remember my brother and sister arguing who was the greatest rock-n-roller. My sister Carolyn believed it was Chuck Berry, and she would rattle off all his great hits and talk about his guitar playing. Then my older brother William would pipe up about Little Richard being so out-there, so wild, so crazy, so fresh and inventive. I sided with Carolyn at the time and still do. The thing I remember the most is what wasn't said. To the kids in our household, Elvis wasn't the King.
My cousins talked about Elvis, but it wasn't about the music. It was about the sexuality, the handsomeness, the whiteness. At their house, it was either Elvis or Pat Boone. At our house, Ricky Nelson was the better musician, and upon reflection, one of the most underrated rock-n-rollers ever.
Looking back on it, I am proud of my brother and sister for being so passionate about music and so open-minded and non-judgemental about who was great. Nothing against Elvis, but the King of rock-n-roll is Chuck Berry, unless Little Richard is around. All Elvis fans can make nasty comments, but it won't change my mind. I made up my mind as a child, and after decades of reflection, I believe I was correct from the start.
It's funny how the King of rock-n-roll is an ornery black man, and the greatest rock group was four British guys who were singing with an American accent, thus topping Americans in their own creation.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
I AM POSITIVE!
Human nature, left unchecked, can lead one to be sure of oneself far beyond what is reasonable.
Case in point:
Me (Mr. R.): "Does anyone know what is the definition of a smuggler?"
(Student raises his hand immediately.)
Mr. R.: "Now be careful. We've had a lot of kids guessing the wrong definition lately. We have talked about this. You have to learn how your brain works, and recognize what is the difference between something that you tell yourself you know and something you really do know."
(Student begins frantically windshieldwipering their hand.)
Mr. R.: "Some of you may think you know what a smuggler is, but you are only telling yourself that you know. You don't really know. It's a word that children won't run into very often, so don't raise your hand unless you have learned about smugglers and studied them. What is a smuggler?"
(Student begins to wave their hand like a castaway shipwrecked on a desert island for seven years and now sees an airplane.)
Mr. R.: "I'll call on you if you are not just guessing. Please. No guessing."
(Student begins rising out of their chair and making noises. Loud ones.)
Mr. R.: "O--K. I'll call on you, Mario, if you are absolutely positive you know the definition of a smuggler."
Mario: "I am sure, Mr. R."
Mr. R.: "O--K, Mario. What is a smuggler?
Mario: "A smuggler is a guy who dresses up in white and goes into beehives and smokes the bees with a smoking machine so that the bees will get sleepy."
As my wife, Peggy, would say, "There is a reason this child is in your classroom."
Case in point:
Me (Mr. R.): "Does anyone know what is the definition of a smuggler?"
(Student raises his hand immediately.)
Mr. R.: "Now be careful. We've had a lot of kids guessing the wrong definition lately. We have talked about this. You have to learn how your brain works, and recognize what is the difference between something that you tell yourself you know and something you really do know."
(Student begins frantically windshieldwipering their hand.)
Mr. R.: "Some of you may think you know what a smuggler is, but you are only telling yourself that you know. You don't really know. It's a word that children won't run into very often, so don't raise your hand unless you have learned about smugglers and studied them. What is a smuggler?"
(Student begins to wave their hand like a castaway shipwrecked on a desert island for seven years and now sees an airplane.)
Mr. R.: "I'll call on you if you are not just guessing. Please. No guessing."
(Student begins rising out of their chair and making noises. Loud ones.)
Mr. R.: "O--K. I'll call on you, Mario, if you are absolutely positive you know the definition of a smuggler."
Mario: "I am sure, Mr. R."
Mr. R.: "O--K, Mario. What is a smuggler?
Mario: "A smuggler is a guy who dresses up in white and goes into beehives and smokes the bees with a smoking machine so that the bees will get sleepy."
As my wife, Peggy, would say, "There is a reason this child is in your classroom."
Wednesday, June 03, 2009
HISTORICAL MISNOMER AND GOODBYES
The school year is over, and like I have blogged before, I am not thrilled as is commonly perceived to be a teacher's reaction to be when beginning the summer vacation. I'll miss my students, those children who have made a huge impact on me for a whole school year. Suddenly they are gone, some never to be seen again.
I was thinking of something one of them wrote in their New Mexico Report that was due at the end of the year. I thought I'd write the quote exactly as written:
"Los Alamos National Laboratory was made in 1948 by President Harriet Tubman."
I'll miss those little things they say, but not as much as the kids themselves.
I was thinking of something one of them wrote in their New Mexico Report that was due at the end of the year. I thought I'd write the quote exactly as written:
"Los Alamos National Laboratory was made in 1948 by President Harriet Tubman."
I'll miss those little things they say, but not as much as the kids themselves.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Sanitation Flunkee. Men!
Boys become men, and judging by their behavior when they're boys, men are downright lucky to be alive. The continued propagation of homo sapiens is impossible without men, but judging by the behavior of the male of the species, it is a miracle that homo sapiens is not extinct.
Here are two exquisite examples:
This week my class had a pizza party. Everyone was happy and carefree, keeping one eye on the pizza heading into their mouths and the other eye on the remaining slices. Suddenly, a Dr. Pepper was spilt. The precious, sugary, dyed liquid was flowing rapidly across a desk laden with boogers, bacteria, retroviruses, and swine flu, and heading for its ultimate overflow onto the classroom carpet.
My decades long training in the the internal Chinese martial arts system, Tai Chi and Chi Gung, and the external system, a combination of Northern and Southern Shaolin Kung Fu, kicked into high gear with an adrenaline rush that sent my body and mind, now in complete sync with the motions and reactions of those around me, into a heightened state of realization, and I cried out, "For Heaven's sakes! Somebody do something!"
One of the boys in my class, whose name will go unmentioned, immediately leapt from his desk, ran to the desk that was flowing with precious Dr. Pepper, dropped to his knees, turned his head sideways, opened his mouth, held it underneath the desk, and waited in great anticipation and readiness for the Dr. Pepper waterfall to begin. He caught quite a bit of it before I finally "came to," jumped up, and used paper towels to sop up the liquid off the desk, thus spoiling the boy's supply of someone else's Dr. Pepper.
Now it should be mentioned again that this student was a boy. Most fourth grade girls, having matured to the approximate level of a sixty year old male teacher (me), never even thought of such a solution. But that's being unfair to the girls. For a brief second, I actually thought of getting down on my knees and fighting for Dr. Pepper waterfall space. I could see an ensuing shoulder pushing contest, with me winning, of course. Ah! The conquest!
A few days later, Janice accidentally spilled a package of dyed sugar candy crud on the carpet. Our classsroom carpet was designed by rug experts......adults who were told by their customers, "Look, let's be honest. We're puttin' this carpet into an elementary school classroom. We ain't looking for good or even nice. What we want is a carpet that will hide every conceivable piece of fourth grader waste and yet not be noticed. When the custodians come into the room to vacuum at night, we don't even want them to notice it. They'll think everything in the room is perfect. We don't want anything, and we mean anything, to be noticeable when it hits this carpet. Not a spot of blood, boogers, vomit, snot, or anything. We want the perfect floor camouflage for nine year olds' excretions, overflows, and waste."
Then the architects and rug experts said, "Eureka! This is it! Look at this stuff! This carpet design will hide everything!" That's what they put in my room.
Janice spilled that sugary, purple, candy crystals on our carpet, and I knew if we used water to clean it up, the dye from the candy would seep out and leave an indelible mark. Without the advantage of hindsight, yet thinking rapidly and seizing the moment to pass onto my students all my knowledge, I yelled out, "Oh no! Look at that. How are we gonna clean that up?"
A different boy, whose name shall go unmentioned, dropped to his knees, licked his finger, stuck it into the powder, then lifted his finger and licked the powder off in his mouth, and then did this rapidly, over and over again, at about seventy times faster than Lebron James attacks the basket for a layup in an NBA semifinal game.
I watched in fascination as the size of the powdery pile diminshed in size without creating a stain. However, eventually, my sixty-year old mature mind kicked in, and I yelled, "No! Don't do that! That's gross! Stop!"
He did. But I am still mystified that, "It's a man's world" (see James Brown).
Here are two exquisite examples:
This week my class had a pizza party. Everyone was happy and carefree, keeping one eye on the pizza heading into their mouths and the other eye on the remaining slices. Suddenly, a Dr. Pepper was spilt. The precious, sugary, dyed liquid was flowing rapidly across a desk laden with boogers, bacteria, retroviruses, and swine flu, and heading for its ultimate overflow onto the classroom carpet.
My decades long training in the the internal Chinese martial arts system, Tai Chi and Chi Gung, and the external system, a combination of Northern and Southern Shaolin Kung Fu, kicked into high gear with an adrenaline rush that sent my body and mind, now in complete sync with the motions and reactions of those around me, into a heightened state of realization, and I cried out, "For Heaven's sakes! Somebody do something!"
One of the boys in my class, whose name will go unmentioned, immediately leapt from his desk, ran to the desk that was flowing with precious Dr. Pepper, dropped to his knees, turned his head sideways, opened his mouth, held it underneath the desk, and waited in great anticipation and readiness for the Dr. Pepper waterfall to begin. He caught quite a bit of it before I finally "came to," jumped up, and used paper towels to sop up the liquid off the desk, thus spoiling the boy's supply of someone else's Dr. Pepper.
Now it should be mentioned again that this student was a boy. Most fourth grade girls, having matured to the approximate level of a sixty year old male teacher (me), never even thought of such a solution. But that's being unfair to the girls. For a brief second, I actually thought of getting down on my knees and fighting for Dr. Pepper waterfall space. I could see an ensuing shoulder pushing contest, with me winning, of course. Ah! The conquest!
A few days later, Janice accidentally spilled a package of dyed sugar candy crud on the carpet. Our classsroom carpet was designed by rug experts......adults who were told by their customers, "Look, let's be honest. We're puttin' this carpet into an elementary school classroom. We ain't looking for good or even nice. What we want is a carpet that will hide every conceivable piece of fourth grader waste and yet not be noticed. When the custodians come into the room to vacuum at night, we don't even want them to notice it. They'll think everything in the room is perfect. We don't want anything, and we mean anything, to be noticeable when it hits this carpet. Not a spot of blood, boogers, vomit, snot, or anything. We want the perfect floor camouflage for nine year olds' excretions, overflows, and waste."
Then the architects and rug experts said, "Eureka! This is it! Look at this stuff! This carpet design will hide everything!" That's what they put in my room.
Janice spilled that sugary, purple, candy crystals on our carpet, and I knew if we used water to clean it up, the dye from the candy would seep out and leave an indelible mark. Without the advantage of hindsight, yet thinking rapidly and seizing the moment to pass onto my students all my knowledge, I yelled out, "Oh no! Look at that. How are we gonna clean that up?"
A different boy, whose name shall go unmentioned, dropped to his knees, licked his finger, stuck it into the powder, then lifted his finger and licked the powder off in his mouth, and then did this rapidly, over and over again, at about seventy times faster than Lebron James attacks the basket for a layup in an NBA semifinal game.
I watched in fascination as the size of the powdery pile diminshed in size without creating a stain. However, eventually, my sixty-year old mature mind kicked in, and I yelled, "No! Don't do that! That's gross! Stop!"
He did. But I am still mystified that, "It's a man's world" (see James Brown).
Sunday, March 29, 2009
LITTLE LAWMAKERS
I have previous experience teaching fourth graders about the establishment of our United States government under the Constitution by pretending to be the King, having the students overthrow me, setting up a Constitutional government of their own, and culminating the lesson with a trial. I have blogged about it previously: A Lesson in American Justice Gone Astray.
The lawmakers in our class came up with these ideas:
- chewing gum is allowed in class at all times
- food is allowed except for chips and other "noisy" snacks
- a field trip every month
- a class party every week
- a walking field trip to the nearby National Monument every week
- cable tv watching during Wednesday lunches in the classroom
- music, played during quiet writing times and parties, to be chosen by the class and not the teacher
- more computer lab time, and it's to be used playing "games"
- more "self-selection' (wasted free time)
"Congress" has already passed the "Gum Chewing Resolution" and I hate it. It rattles my innards to watch those precious children turned into cud-chewers. Gum just doesn't seem apropo in an elementary classroom. Of course, it could be my 1950's upbringing, but that's my "culture." I respect their "culture," so why don't they respect mine? I hate to say it, but I am itching to arrest all of the little cud-chewers before the week is up. I want to hire one of the best prosecuting attorneys in the class and send them all upriver.
I would be better off, however, preventing them from passing the rest of their bills into law. If all of them are implemented, we won't have time for the Three R's: reading, 'riting, and 'rithmetic. Of course, that's where their parents come in.
FIBER ONE BUNNIES
When you spend time with someone for six and a half hours a day, five days a week for nine and a half months, you are going to get to know them pretty well. At the beginning of each school year I tell my fourth grade students exactly that. I also add that we will probably "blow bunnies" in front of each other.
Blowing bunnies is a British nom de plume for farting, at least according to my British sister-in-law, Maggie. Maggie used that slang term for farts many years ago when I first met her. Many years later I reminded her of the expression and much to my surprise, she told me she had never heard it before and I didn't know what I was talking about. Now normally I would accept that as a fact, but this time I asked my wife, Peggy, if I had imagined it, and she said no, I was not imagining it. Peggy had heard her say it too. Maggie had forgotten, or had made it up, or was playing with me. We'll never know. But I don't care. The expression "blowing bunnies" is cute, and the kids love it.
Last week we got to know each other a little better. Someone in our class, whose name will go unmentioned, let loose a rip-snorter, a thundering powerhouse of a fart normally developed and released by a seasoned longshoreman. The class roared with laughter out of the normal embarrassment but with an added shock value. This was a long, deep, titanic blast of gastronomical methane. I have never heard a fourth grader, or any elementary student fart like that, ever. Normally the guilty party is difficult to detect. When a child blows a bunny, it's small, cute, and discreet. This was different. Everyone knew who the guilty party was.
The guilty party stood up, spread their arms wide, and exclaimed, "But guys! I had Fiber One for breakfast!"
Having lifted weights and supplemented my diet with Hoffman's High Protein powder, I knew exactly what had happened. Your diet can affect your ability to blow bunnies.
A new commercial:
"Fiber One. Generating the loudest fart ever heard in a fourth grade classroom."
Blowing bunnies is a British nom de plume for farting, at least according to my British sister-in-law, Maggie. Maggie used that slang term for farts many years ago when I first met her. Many years later I reminded her of the expression and much to my surprise, she told me she had never heard it before and I didn't know what I was talking about. Now normally I would accept that as a fact, but this time I asked my wife, Peggy, if I had imagined it, and she said no, I was not imagining it. Peggy had heard her say it too. Maggie had forgotten, or had made it up, or was playing with me. We'll never know. But I don't care. The expression "blowing bunnies" is cute, and the kids love it.
Last week we got to know each other a little better. Someone in our class, whose name will go unmentioned, let loose a rip-snorter, a thundering powerhouse of a fart normally developed and released by a seasoned longshoreman. The class roared with laughter out of the normal embarrassment but with an added shock value. This was a long, deep, titanic blast of gastronomical methane. I have never heard a fourth grader, or any elementary student fart like that, ever. Normally the guilty party is difficult to detect. When a child blows a bunny, it's small, cute, and discreet. This was different. Everyone knew who the guilty party was.
The guilty party stood up, spread their arms wide, and exclaimed, "But guys! I had Fiber One for breakfast!"
Having lifted weights and supplemented my diet with Hoffman's High Protein powder, I knew exactly what had happened. Your diet can affect your ability to blow bunnies.
A new commercial:
"Fiber One. Generating the loudest fart ever heard in a fourth grade classroom."
TEE SHIRT SAYINGS
We deck our kids out in tee shirts with funny sayings and then send them out in public. I thought I'd make a note of some seen worn at the elementary school where I teach. It's not even summer yet, and as soon as the temperature increases, so will the number of tee shirts with clever sayings on them.
Everyone in my family drives me nuts
I love candy
Five reasons I wear pink:
Everyone in my family drives me nuts
I love candy
Five reasons I wear pink:
- I make this color look good
- My Mom made me wear it
- It's a fashion statement
- Rock stars wear pink
- I am tough enough to wear pink
(Dopey is pointing to the right and saying) "I'm with Grumpy"
You can agree with me or you can be wrong
My way or the highway
May I be excused? My brain is full
Super hero
I gave up video games. It was the worst 15 minutes of my life.
Be thankful I'm not your kid
My attitude....Your problem
I belong to the Dark Side
What would Tinkerbell do?
How to stay out of trouble:
- Don't do anything wrong
- Don't get caught
- Blame your friends
For a minute there you bored me to death
I'm not lucky....I'm good
It's not easy looking this good
How can I get better at video games when I am stuck at school for seven hours a day?
I wasn't sleeping. I was in a deep state of thinking.
No, I don't want to play video games all day. I also want to eat junk food, tease my sister and watch TV.
Simple math: stupid + dumb = my sister
Parents just don't understand
Spoiled but worth it
I'm a keeper
(front) The flying monkeys stole my sister (back) but they brought her back for talking too much
I'm Mom's favorite
My Mom Rocks!
The cops just pulled me over for carrying these huge guns (arrows pointing to the wearers biceps)
(front) Santa thinks I'm nice (back)because I don't get caught
Adults don't normally wear this type of clothing, probably in order to avoid stares, verbal abuse, and physical assaults, but I have a neighbor across the street who has a jagged edge and I saw him wear out a tee shirt that said something unrepeatable on this blog site. For the exact tee shirt wording, please send a self addressed, stamped envelope to: Rafael's Silver Cloud Motel, Room 163, 4500 Rockwell Blvd., Los Angeles, CA 90909
Saturday, March 07, 2009
NEW AGE GEOGRAPHY
The other day one of my fourth graders was reading aloud from a science textbook. He was a doing a fine job of reading with inflection, expression, and following all the punctuation. However, one of his sentences had a pronunciation error.
"Many of the invasive fish and mussels that are damaging the ecosystem of the Great Lakes were carried in ballast tanks on ships that traveled from Europe across the Atlantic Ocean and through the St. Lawnmower Seaway."
"Many of the invasive fish and mussels that are damaging the ecosystem of the Great Lakes were carried in ballast tanks on ships that traveled from Europe across the Atlantic Ocean and through the St. Lawnmower Seaway."
BABY TEETH LOSERS
Fourth graders are at an age when baby teeth fall out as readily as bolts and parts off a 1970 Chevrolet Vega. I make sure my fourth grade students get their baby teeth home safely so they can put them under their pillow for the Tooth Fairy by placing them in a tissue, then stapling the tissue inside a large piece of folded over construction paper, thus making it hard to lose.
This year I have had an exceptional class in many ways, and certainly their statistics on losing teeth is one of the best I have ever seen. They lead their grade level (4th) in the greatest average of lost teeth per student (1.24), the smallest tooth (3 mm), the most in one day (3), the most in one week (5), and the most in one year (31, still counting, and it's only March!!). One boy lost two teeth in one day, one girl lost half of a tooth one day and the other half three days later, another kid swallowed his tooth, another gave it up while in the planetarium, and another said, "Mr. W., my tooth is loose," and then proceeded to have me get a good close-up look at it while she simultaneously pulled it out and completely grossed out her squeamish teacher.
I am aware that in the grand scheme of things, those baby teeth don't qualify as an accomplishment, but I'll put my class of Baby Teeth Losers up against any class in the country. Their reading and math levels aren't too shabby either.
This year I have had an exceptional class in many ways, and certainly their statistics on losing teeth is one of the best I have ever seen. They lead their grade level (4th) in the greatest average of lost teeth per student (1.24), the smallest tooth (3 mm), the most in one day (3), the most in one week (5), and the most in one year (31, still counting, and it's only March!!). One boy lost two teeth in one day, one girl lost half of a tooth one day and the other half three days later, another kid swallowed his tooth, another gave it up while in the planetarium, and another said, "Mr. W., my tooth is loose," and then proceeded to have me get a good close-up look at it while she simultaneously pulled it out and completely grossed out her squeamish teacher.
I am aware that in the grand scheme of things, those baby teeth don't qualify as an accomplishment, but I'll put my class of Baby Teeth Losers up against any class in the country. Their reading and math levels aren't too shabby either.
Monday, March 02, 2009
A SUCCESSFUL PLANETARIUM VISIT
I would like to toot my own horn, pat myself on the back, slap my own butt, high-five myself, and congratulate me for a successful planetarium field trip with my fourth grade class.
You take a bunch of fourth graders and what is a likely but easily overlooked problem when visiting the planetarium? Leaving a kid there? That's amateur stuff. It doesn't happen to a veteran like myself, although I am always cautious. It's not a problem easily overlooked unless you're asleep at the wheel. A kid disappears? Again, not likely or easily overlooked. Someone vomits on your lap. Been there. Done that.
How about this for a worst case scenario:
The teacher comes home the day before the field trip pretty strung out from dealin' with twenty-five children, hits the ol' Cabernet Sauvignon a little too eagerly, stays up late and watches a Terminator movie ("All be bach"), then goes on a field trip the next day at 10:30 in the morning and lays in a luxuriously comfortable, tilting recliner in a dark room with the lights out and some lady starts mumblin' something like, "...and as you can see on our ceiling, between Mars and Jupiter is the asteroid belt, an area full of rocks ranging in size from one mile in diameter to 3 centimeters in diameter, all traveling in an orbit that ish betwixt twelve and midnight your eyes are getting heavy sleep deep shleep night night z zz zzz
when suddenly some ten year old jasper wakes you up sayin', "Mr. W! You're sleeping and snoring! Wake up!" and you look around and fifty-two, ten-year old eyes are starin' at you and grinnin' because you, the teacher, the infallible, the perfect example, the hypocrite, the Snoozer, has fallen asleep! Then the little rugrats torture you by not paying attention to the lady but instead they stare at you intently, waiting for you to fall asleep again, you hypocrite! All eyes are no longer on the eternal beauties of the infinite, night skies, but instead are focused on your attentiveness, or rather lack of it, and the little rugrats are no longer listening to the lady who is now talking about the Milky Way. "If you get far enough away from the city where the huge number of lights block the view of the stars similar to what happens in the daytime with the sun, you will be able to see our own galaxy, the Milky Way stars far away distant galax sleep night bye-bye z zz zzz
And then you'll know how humilating it is to take a class of fourth graders to the planetarium, unless you do like I did:
1. Go straight home. Do not pass Go. Do not collect 200 anythings.
2. Stay away from the hootch. No decaffeinated coffee. No nothing.
3. Go to bed early. Beat the little nippers to the mattress. Don't even think about Jay Leno or David Letterman.
4. Wake up on time. Be ready. Be prepared. Be alert.
5. Drink huge amounts of coffee or Mountain Dew.
6. Go to the bathroom. A lot. Pace your intake of caffeine so that a maximum amount of chemical caffeine alertness is achieved with the least amount of pressure on the bladder.
7. Concentrate. Focus. Forge your mind in the fire of your will. Stay awake!
Success! I did it!!
You take a bunch of fourth graders and what is a likely but easily overlooked problem when visiting the planetarium? Leaving a kid there? That's amateur stuff. It doesn't happen to a veteran like myself, although I am always cautious. It's not a problem easily overlooked unless you're asleep at the wheel. A kid disappears? Again, not likely or easily overlooked. Someone vomits on your lap. Been there. Done that.
How about this for a worst case scenario:
The teacher comes home the day before the field trip pretty strung out from dealin' with twenty-five children, hits the ol' Cabernet Sauvignon a little too eagerly, stays up late and watches a Terminator movie ("All be bach"), then goes on a field trip the next day at 10:30 in the morning and lays in a luxuriously comfortable, tilting recliner in a dark room with the lights out and some lady starts mumblin' something like, "...and as you can see on our ceiling, between Mars and Jupiter is the asteroid belt, an area full of rocks ranging in size from one mile in diameter to 3 centimeters in diameter, all traveling in an orbit that ish betwixt twelve and midnight your eyes are getting heavy sleep deep shleep night night z zz zzz
when suddenly some ten year old jasper wakes you up sayin', "Mr. W! You're sleeping and snoring! Wake up!" and you look around and fifty-two, ten-year old eyes are starin' at you and grinnin' because you, the teacher, the infallible, the perfect example, the hypocrite, the Snoozer, has fallen asleep! Then the little rugrats torture you by not paying attention to the lady but instead they stare at you intently, waiting for you to fall asleep again, you hypocrite! All eyes are no longer on the eternal beauties of the infinite, night skies, but instead are focused on your attentiveness, or rather lack of it, and the little rugrats are no longer listening to the lady who is now talking about the Milky Way. "If you get far enough away from the city where the huge number of lights block the view of the stars similar to what happens in the daytime with the sun, you will be able to see our own galaxy, the Milky Way stars far away distant galax sleep night bye-bye z zz zzz
And then you'll know how humilating it is to take a class of fourth graders to the planetarium, unless you do like I did:
1. Go straight home. Do not pass Go. Do not collect 200 anythings.
2. Stay away from the hootch. No decaffeinated coffee. No nothing.
3. Go to bed early. Beat the little nippers to the mattress. Don't even think about Jay Leno or David Letterman.
4. Wake up on time. Be ready. Be prepared. Be alert.
5. Drink huge amounts of coffee or Mountain Dew.
6. Go to the bathroom. A lot. Pace your intake of caffeine so that a maximum amount of chemical caffeine alertness is achieved with the least amount of pressure on the bladder.
7. Concentrate. Focus. Forge your mind in the fire of your will. Stay awake!
Success! I did it!!
Sunday, October 19, 2008
A CHANGE IN STANCE: FREEDOM FROM THE PRESS
I am an elementary schoolteacher, and politics are verboten and useless in the classroom. Children merely articulate what they have heard at home, and they don't have the background or the verbal and conceptual foundation to discuss, much less understand, politics.
I love politics. Even at an early age I was passionate about politics. Unfortunately, my family mistook my passion for irrationality, so the first ten years of my political discussions at home (age 16 - 26) were spent trying to deflect my facial expressions and verbal tone rather than the gist of what I was saying. I always resented that. I suppose my family would have allowed me to discuss politics with them if I were on Prozac or Valium, but as I recall, they hadn't been invented.
Outside of the home, I found myself knowledgeable, well read, and ahead of the game. I am still proud of my efforts to elect Barry Goldwater for President in 1964, my shared disregard with Senator Goldwater for Ronald Reagan's military-backed, conservative deceit, my mutual respect for both William Buckley and Hubert Humphrey, my abandonment of the conservative Republican ideal due to its death by internal poisoning from an overdose of Protestant fundamentalism, and my growing disillusionment with the length of a presidential campaign, which has at least helped me in some ways understand previously incomprehensible mathematical concepts, such as my newfound grasp of infinity, especially when applied to elapsed time.
However, I have a new political philosophy, and it pretty much agrees with Christopher ("Christo") Buckley. It doesn't seem that November 4 will ever get here. Until that time comes, I live by my new motto, "All Americans should have the right to freedom from the press."
I love politics. Even at an early age I was passionate about politics. Unfortunately, my family mistook my passion for irrationality, so the first ten years of my political discussions at home (age 16 - 26) were spent trying to deflect my facial expressions and verbal tone rather than the gist of what I was saying. I always resented that. I suppose my family would have allowed me to discuss politics with them if I were on Prozac or Valium, but as I recall, they hadn't been invented.
Outside of the home, I found myself knowledgeable, well read, and ahead of the game. I am still proud of my efforts to elect Barry Goldwater for President in 1964, my shared disregard with Senator Goldwater for Ronald Reagan's military-backed, conservative deceit, my mutual respect for both William Buckley and Hubert Humphrey, my abandonment of the conservative Republican ideal due to its death by internal poisoning from an overdose of Protestant fundamentalism, and my growing disillusionment with the length of a presidential campaign, which has at least helped me in some ways understand previously incomprehensible mathematical concepts, such as my newfound grasp of infinity, especially when applied to elapsed time.
However, I have a new political philosophy, and it pretty much agrees with Christopher ("Christo") Buckley. It doesn't seem that November 4 will ever get here. Until that time comes, I live by my new motto, "All Americans should have the right to freedom from the press."
Saturday, October 18, 2008
SPEAKING YOUR MIND OR THE TRUTH SHALL SET YOU FREE
About 99% of my favorite people on the planet are under the age of ten, and one of the many reasons why is due to their natural ability to speak the truth, even in public. With the Presidential and Senate campaigns in high gear, it is a relief to be able to go to an elementary school each day and hear someone, even if it's children, speak the truth. Here are some exact quotes from the mouths of babes:
"Mr. W., you're wearing too much cologne."
"I don't like school."
"You're just saying that to make me feel better."
"What happened to your hair?"
"You look old."
"You look terrible. Are you sick?"
"You do it too, sometimes!" (I hate that one.)
One of my fellow teachers, Greg, has a son who says things like this in earshot of the offender:
"Daddy, that man's cigarette smoke stinks!"
"Look at that man, Daddy. He pushed his cart into that lady's car and dented the paint. Isn't that against the law?" (The man looks accusingly over at Greg but is unable to say anything because it was a child who spoke the truth and not an adult who could then be physically threatened.
"That lady just said a naughty word. She has a dirty mouth."
"Look, Daddy! That lady opened that package of candy. Is she going to pay for it or is she just stealing?"
We should treasure the truth. Someone very great once said, "The truth shall set you free." How right He was.
"Mr. W., you're wearing too much cologne."
"I don't like school."
"You're just saying that to make me feel better."
"What happened to your hair?"
"You look old."
"You look terrible. Are you sick?"
"You do it too, sometimes!" (I hate that one.)
One of my fellow teachers, Greg, has a son who says things like this in earshot of the offender:
"Daddy, that man's cigarette smoke stinks!"
"Look at that man, Daddy. He pushed his cart into that lady's car and dented the paint. Isn't that against the law?" (The man looks accusingly over at Greg but is unable to say anything because it was a child who spoke the truth and not an adult who could then be physically threatened.
"That lady just said a naughty word. She has a dirty mouth."
"Look, Daddy! That lady opened that package of candy. Is she going to pay for it or is she just stealing?"
We should treasure the truth. Someone very great once said, "The truth shall set you free." How right He was.
Saturday, September 20, 2008
NEVER QUIT LEARNING
I never tell my fourth grade students that they are never too old to learn. I tell myself that sometimes, and I try to put it into practice.
All my life, and we're talking quite a span of time, I have envied people who could whistle real loud. They put their fingers in their mouth, take a huge breath of air, and then blow a whistle that snaps your head back, and you can see other people duck their head and wince.
I know that in my pre-retirement years I should be lifting the spirits of the downtrodden, donating my time and services at the Rescue Mission, and making the world a better place for my fellow man, but this summer I could stand it no longer. I yearned to be able to make that whistle with my fingers in my mouth, and my friend and fellow teacher, Greg, was just the fellow to show me. Greg is a teacher, for one thing. Teacher is his name and instruction is his game. And his whistle is so loud it affects your intestines.
Greg and I taught summer school, and several times he put his fingers in his mouth and called over a hundred children to their classroom with one "blow."
I asked Greg if he would be my mentor and teach me how to whistle. I began my apprenticeship with a barely audible air release, like the sound of a grown man at his kid's swimming pool party blowing up the seventeenth air mattress of the day. Pitiful.
A month later, not even a whisper of a whistle had emerged, and my mentor, Greg, disgustingly said, "You'll never be able to do it." I was stunned! Was I a washed up has-been? Was I a dog that was too old to learn a new trick? I started practicing more often. Slowly, whistles emerged. By the beginning of the regular school year, I was able to make a faily loud whistle half of the time. Other teachers with the rare ability to make finger whistles whistled with me.
Kids on the playground were noticing. Some even winced a little and told me I had a loud whistle. Oh, the pride! But I told them that my whistle was not nearly as loud as Greg's, so we went to Greg and had a showdown, a duel, a whistler's contest, and I went first. I let out a good one. Then I carefully watched my mentor. He took a much larger breath, positioned his fingers a little deeper into the mouth, and ripped an ear shattering whistle that beckoned me to greater heights. I continued my studies.
Then today, Thursday, September 19, 2008, at an assembly in front of our school honoring National Pledge of Allegiance Day, the principal was trying in vain to get everyone's attention. I leaped at the chance, and before Greg could even lift his hands to his mouth, I let out a fairly good one, and the kids quieted down. My finger whistle wasn't in the same league as my mentor's, but for a brief moment there was a feeling of accomplishment, of attention getting control of a crowd, and the sense that I was a young dog learning a new trick.
You're never too old to learn, even if it appears to be a worthless talent. The next time Peggy and I are in New York and need a cab, I'll be ready.
All my life, and we're talking quite a span of time, I have envied people who could whistle real loud. They put their fingers in their mouth, take a huge breath of air, and then blow a whistle that snaps your head back, and you can see other people duck their head and wince.
I know that in my pre-retirement years I should be lifting the spirits of the downtrodden, donating my time and services at the Rescue Mission, and making the world a better place for my fellow man, but this summer I could stand it no longer. I yearned to be able to make that whistle with my fingers in my mouth, and my friend and fellow teacher, Greg, was just the fellow to show me. Greg is a teacher, for one thing. Teacher is his name and instruction is his game. And his whistle is so loud it affects your intestines.
Greg and I taught summer school, and several times he put his fingers in his mouth and called over a hundred children to their classroom with one "blow."
I asked Greg if he would be my mentor and teach me how to whistle. I began my apprenticeship with a barely audible air release, like the sound of a grown man at his kid's swimming pool party blowing up the seventeenth air mattress of the day. Pitiful.
A month later, not even a whisper of a whistle had emerged, and my mentor, Greg, disgustingly said, "You'll never be able to do it." I was stunned! Was I a washed up has-been? Was I a dog that was too old to learn a new trick? I started practicing more often. Slowly, whistles emerged. By the beginning of the regular school year, I was able to make a faily loud whistle half of the time. Other teachers with the rare ability to make finger whistles whistled with me.
Kids on the playground were noticing. Some even winced a little and told me I had a loud whistle. Oh, the pride! But I told them that my whistle was not nearly as loud as Greg's, so we went to Greg and had a showdown, a duel, a whistler's contest, and I went first. I let out a good one. Then I carefully watched my mentor. He took a much larger breath, positioned his fingers a little deeper into the mouth, and ripped an ear shattering whistle that beckoned me to greater heights. I continued my studies.
Then today, Thursday, September 19, 2008, at an assembly in front of our school honoring National Pledge of Allegiance Day, the principal was trying in vain to get everyone's attention. I leaped at the chance, and before Greg could even lift his hands to his mouth, I let out a fairly good one, and the kids quieted down. My finger whistle wasn't in the same league as my mentor's, but for a brief moment there was a feeling of accomplishment, of attention getting control of a crowd, and the sense that I was a young dog learning a new trick.
You're never too old to learn, even if it appears to be a worthless talent. The next time Peggy and I are in New York and need a cab, I'll be ready.
NATIONAL "TALK LIKE A PIRATE DAY"
I can't believe it! I totally forgot about "Talk Like a Pirate Day!" Every year I confound the li'l deck swabbers (fourth graders) by talking like a pirate all day, except, of course, if the principal happens to drop in to visit.
I was all ready with me accent and me black, eye patch and clever pirate jarrrgon like,"Avast ye there! Heave ho on the math book and open her to page 58, maties!" or "'Are ya wid me, mates? We're talking periods now, and they goes at the end of all yer sentences, aarrrg!" or "You'll be walkin' the plank if ye keeps on talkin' matie," or "Aye, me wee buckoes, and you can feel the heat being released by the chemical reaction. Put yer hands here on the flask," or "Easy there matey. Don't squeeze that pencil so that ye strangles it to death. Let yer hand relax and just let the currrsive flow out o' yer pencil. Aarrrrrg."
I hates to say the words, but I, the Cap'n, done forgots me pirate talk! I'll be keelhauled 'fore I forgets again!
I was all ready with me accent and me black, eye patch and clever pirate jarrrgon like,"Avast ye there! Heave ho on the math book and open her to page 58, maties!" or "'Are ya wid me, mates? We're talking periods now, and they goes at the end of all yer sentences, aarrrg!" or "You'll be walkin' the plank if ye keeps on talkin' matie," or "Aye, me wee buckoes, and you can feel the heat being released by the chemical reaction. Put yer hands here on the flask," or "Easy there matey. Don't squeeze that pencil so that ye strangles it to death. Let yer hand relax and just let the currrsive flow out o' yer pencil. Aarrrrrg."
I hates to say the words, but I, the Cap'n, done forgots me pirate talk! I'll be keelhauled 'fore I forgets again!
Monday, September 15, 2008
Good News: No Foot in the Grave
There's an idiomatic expression everyone knows that says, "They've got one foot in the grave," meaning that one is approaching the beginning of the prelude of the introit to the introduction of the precursor to death. A nasty business. Especially for one like me who likes to think he has a few more kids to teach and a few more ramblings to ramble.
With this in mind, I would like to proudly announce that I do NOT have one foot in the grave. I may be catching a glimpse of the hole every now and then, but I still have a few more days left in me.
An earlier blog titled, "Keeping Secrets From Kids," alluded to some serious health problems that the doctors felt may have something to do with my brain. Much to my wife's surprise and joy, there is nothing wrong with my brain, at least that the doctors can detect. It seems I am fit in every mental way except for that talking to myself business and twitching ever time I get near some pastry.
That's good news, at least for me.
With this in mind, I would like to proudly announce that I do NOT have one foot in the grave. I may be catching a glimpse of the hole every now and then, but I still have a few more days left in me.
An earlier blog titled, "Keeping Secrets From Kids," alluded to some serious health problems that the doctors felt may have something to do with my brain. Much to my wife's surprise and joy, there is nothing wrong with my brain, at least that the doctors can detect. It seems I am fit in every mental way except for that talking to myself business and twitching ever time I get near some pastry.
That's good news, at least for me.
Saturday, September 13, 2008
A NATION'S PREOCCUPATION
When I was a boy growing up in the United States in the 1950's, it seemed that the national preoccupation was with women's breasts, tits, jugs, hooters, knockers, melons, or blouse biscuits, whichever you prefer. The brassiere had been invented, modified, and perfected, and with this technology came a fascination that "peaked" with the Persian Points.
My generation, the hippies of the sixties, is transfixed on a different body part, and after years of personal observation and study, I have decided that our nation is now preoccupied with the rear end, the derriere, the tush, the seat, the keister, the bu77, the a$$.
Have you ever noticed that no one wants to sue your neck or your wallet or even your bank account, which would be the ultimate prize? No! They want to sue your a$$.
Nobody wants to beat your face in anymore; they want to kick yer a$$, or whup yer a$$.
No one crashes into an automobile anymore. They crash into his, her, or your a$$.
Doesn't anyone tell anyone else to forget about it? Doesn't anyone say, "I disagree with you vehemently!"? No! They say, "Kiss my a$$." I don't want anybody kissing my a$$, especially an enemy. How do you know what they're gonna do back there? They could change their mind and do something else.
No one beats someone in a race anymore. Now you beat their a$$.
No one says, "I want you to leave immediately! Get your face and your knees out of my office!" No! They tell you to get your a$$ out of their office. At least that's what I hear most of the time.
No one in the United States is a broken elbow, a fractured brain or a tongue. Nope! They're an a$$hole. Or a bu77wipe.
No one kowtows anymore. Instead, they're an a$$ ki$$er or a brown no$er.
You don't get in trouble anymore. And you don't get your neck in a wringer. You get your a$$ in trouble, or your bu77 in a wringer. At least I do. I'd rather have my bu77 in a wringer than my neck. Of course, that's just me.
My generation, the hippies of the sixties, is transfixed on a different body part, and after years of personal observation and study, I have decided that our nation is now preoccupied with the rear end, the derriere, the tush, the seat, the keister, the bu77, the a$$.
Have you ever noticed that no one wants to sue your neck or your wallet or even your bank account, which would be the ultimate prize? No! They want to sue your a$$.
Nobody wants to beat your face in anymore; they want to kick yer a$$, or whup yer a$$.
No one crashes into an automobile anymore. They crash into his, her, or your a$$.
Doesn't anyone tell anyone else to forget about it? Doesn't anyone say, "I disagree with you vehemently!"? No! They say, "Kiss my a$$." I don't want anybody kissing my a$$, especially an enemy. How do you know what they're gonna do back there? They could change their mind and do something else.
No one beats someone in a race anymore. Now you beat their a$$.
No one says, "I want you to leave immediately! Get your face and your knees out of my office!" No! They tell you to get your a$$ out of their office. At least that's what I hear most of the time.
No one in the United States is a broken elbow, a fractured brain or a tongue. Nope! They're an a$$hole. Or a bu77wipe.
No one kowtows anymore. Instead, they're an a$$ ki$$er or a brown no$er.
No one goes fast anymore. You aren't picking your feet up and puttin' 'em down. Nowadays, yer haulin' a$$.
A woman no longer has a great set o' knockers. Instead, she has a sweet a$$. Or a tight a$$. Or a hot a$$.
No one gets knocked on their back. They get knocked on their a$$. It's in the same area. Why does it have to be the a$$?You don't get in trouble anymore. And you don't get your neck in a wringer. You get your a$$ in trouble, or your bu77 in a wringer. At least I do. I'd rather have my bu77 in a wringer than my neck. Of course, that's just me.
No one gets out of a chair anymore. They get off their a$$.
How come we don't want to shove anything down someone's throat anymore? When I was a kid, we were taught that you were supposed to shove stuff down your enemies throat. Not anymore. Now you gotta shove it up their a$$, which is a slightly more pleasant experience for your enemy and a much more excrutiating experience for yourself.
It's not an important observation about our society. I might not even be correct. I just thought I'd mention it.Monday, September 01, 2008
KEEPING SECRETS FROM KIDS
I think I am brutally honest with kids. However, there are some things I never tell a child.
I have been calling in sick lately, and I tell the kids that a substitute teacher will be here. Kids don't ask questions. Good.
I have some serious health issues. Eight years ago I was diagnosed with prostate cancer. I had a radical prostatectomy, just a few years before prostatectomies were done orthroscopically. I went under the Big Knife, and it left a big scar. I joined the Prostate Cancer Support Group. They seemed concerned for me that I had been diagnosed at such a young age. The earlier you get it, the greater a chance it will get you.
My PSA is going up and no "hot spots" could be found in my abdominal area. Recently I have had a few incidents of fainting, accompanied by dizziness and nausea. My family physician sent me to a neurologist, who said that it could be the cancer has metastized itself in my brain. That seemed to him the most likely diagnosis. He has me undergoing an MRI and an EEG to see what's in my brain.
I thought of a joke at the time he said it. I could've said, "Well let's hope they find SOMETHING in my brain" (Yuk! Yuk!), or "After so many years of having people tell me I should have my head examined, when I finally do have it examined, I hope you don't find anything wrong." (Ha! Ha!)
However, I didn't joke about it. If they find something, it won't be good.
I haven't been talking to myself as much as to God Almighty. We'll see what's going to happen, what He's got going down.
Life is far out!
I have been calling in sick lately, and I tell the kids that a substitute teacher will be here. Kids don't ask questions. Good.
I have some serious health issues. Eight years ago I was diagnosed with prostate cancer. I had a radical prostatectomy, just a few years before prostatectomies were done orthroscopically. I went under the Big Knife, and it left a big scar. I joined the Prostate Cancer Support Group. They seemed concerned for me that I had been diagnosed at such a young age. The earlier you get it, the greater a chance it will get you.
My PSA is going up and no "hot spots" could be found in my abdominal area. Recently I have had a few incidents of fainting, accompanied by dizziness and nausea. My family physician sent me to a neurologist, who said that it could be the cancer has metastized itself in my brain. That seemed to him the most likely diagnosis. He has me undergoing an MRI and an EEG to see what's in my brain.
I thought of a joke at the time he said it. I could've said, "Well let's hope they find SOMETHING in my brain" (Yuk! Yuk!), or "After so many years of having people tell me I should have my head examined, when I finally do have it examined, I hope you don't find anything wrong." (Ha! Ha!)
However, I didn't joke about it. If they find something, it won't be good.
I haven't been talking to myself as much as to God Almighty. We'll see what's going to happen, what He's got going down.
Life is far out!
TALKING TO YOURSELF
When I was a boy I talked to myself. Lots of adults who would catch me doing it would jokingly say, "That's OK, as long as you don't answer yourself." That comment always troubled me quite a bit, because I did have two way conversations all the time. As a boy, I had imaginary conversations with Mickey Mantle and Jack Parr, but I gave award acceptance speeches to large crowds, mostly, and all they did was applaud.
My fourth graders talk to themselves. Sometimes, during transitions in class from one subject to the next, I will hear at least eight kids diligently chattering. I'll watch the class carefully and see no one listening. Then I will ring my little bell for silence, everyone will quiet down, I'll inform the class that no one will be in trouble for talking, I'll ask the class who was talking, and not one single person will confess. I'll call students who were talking over to my desk, one by one, and quietly ask them who they were talking to, and each student will, without fail, question my question.
"I wasn't talking."
"I saw you talking. Who were you talking to?"
"I'm talking to myself. Does that count?"
I'm not a blogger; I'm a writer, and no one talks back. Is there anyone out there reading this? If you are, you don't have to blog a comment. I have come to grips with the fact that I still talk to myself. I talk to myself in my blogs, and as I look back on the gist of this blog site, it really says, over and over again, that I like kids, and I strive to look for the good and the funny and the quirky odd and the rewarding in the classroom, and in general, life itself.
As a child, I used to talk to myself. Like the students in my fourth grade classroom, I still do, but my talking to myself has morphed and hybridized itself into writing. If anyone is out there overhearing this, I hope you enjoy listening as much as I do talking. If no one is listening, it doesn't matter. I'm like the kids in my classroom. "I am talking to myself. Does that count?"
My fourth graders talk to themselves. Sometimes, during transitions in class from one subject to the next, I will hear at least eight kids diligently chattering. I'll watch the class carefully and see no one listening. Then I will ring my little bell for silence, everyone will quiet down, I'll inform the class that no one will be in trouble for talking, I'll ask the class who was talking, and not one single person will confess. I'll call students who were talking over to my desk, one by one, and quietly ask them who they were talking to, and each student will, without fail, question my question.
"I wasn't talking."
"I saw you talking. Who were you talking to?"
"I'm talking to myself. Does that count?"
I'm not a blogger; I'm a writer, and no one talks back. Is there anyone out there reading this? If you are, you don't have to blog a comment. I have come to grips with the fact that I still talk to myself. I talk to myself in my blogs, and as I look back on the gist of this blog site, it really says, over and over again, that I like kids, and I strive to look for the good and the funny and the quirky odd and the rewarding in the classroom, and in general, life itself.
As a child, I used to talk to myself. Like the students in my fourth grade classroom, I still do, but my talking to myself has morphed and hybridized itself into writing. If anyone is out there overhearing this, I hope you enjoy listening as much as I do talking. If no one is listening, it doesn't matter. I'm like the kids in my classroom. "I am talking to myself. Does that count?"
Friday, August 29, 2008
RAMBLINGS ABOUT CALLING IN SICK
Teaching is not a second career for me; it's a fourteenth career. Years ago, before I became a school teacher, one of my jobs was as an inside salesman for a wholesale millwork company.
The boss, Stan, was a great guy, and you could clown around with Stan. For example, Stan interviewed a very young man, almost a kid, and before his interview, I casually told him that Stan was a great fellow and had a good sense of humor. Stan hired the young man, and on his first day on the job, Stan told him his initial task would be to enter inventory information into the computer. The kid said, "No problem. I think I can do that," and he sat down at the computer and started staring at the keyboard.
Stan turned and headed to his office. Just as he got to his door, the kid yells out, "Wait a minute! We have a problem!"
Stan turns around and says, "What's the matter?"
The kid yells, "This computer doesn't have an I!"
Stan just shook his head, said, "I hope you're joking," turned around and walked off.
I was talking about calling in sick, or at least the title of this blog suggests I was planning on it. Because of Stan's ability to take a joke, one morning I called the office and asked to speak to Stan. Stan picks up his phone and says, "Yeah."
In my very best frequently practiced, sickly and hoarse voice, I whispered, "Stan? (short pause) Stan, is that you?"
Without hesitation Stan barks, "Get into the office right now and quit foolin' around."
(voice back to normal) "Yes sir," I replied.
So as you can see, I am sensitive to the needs of a boss and a company to have employees on the job, ready to go, never ruining efficiency by needlessly using sick leave time. A good employee will save their sick leave for a real emergency, like maybe when they get to be sixty.
Our school system, Albuquerque Public Schools (APS), is a behemoth bureaucracy and sometimes, I am sure, the teachers take advantage of the generous sick leave package we have in place for medical emergencies. In fact, the local scandal rag, the Albuquerque Journal, did a story on the nefarious teachers who were calling in sick on Mondays and Fridays in excessive amounts.
I can tell you what's a possibility. If you are a school teacher, it is impossible to get a dental or a doctor's appointmemt in this town on Tuesday, Wednesday, or Thursday. I am about to have two medical "procedures" "performed" on me, and I told the receptionist, "I'm a school teacher. You've seen the articles on the front page of the newpaper complaining about and badgering teachers for their Monday and Friday sick days. The whole community is up in arms over the lazy, no-account, ne'er do well teachers who supposedly extend their weekends. Is there any possibility I can get an appointment in the middle of the week?"
"Let's take a look. Let's see here. OK. It's coming up on the computer. Here we go. Yes! How about Tuesday, June 24?"
"June!? That's ten months from now. No, I need something sooner."
"Well I'm sorry but if you want something sooner, the only thing I have is a Friday."
So here I am, blogging away instead of teaching because I have to go see the doctor later today (Friday). I think I'll send this blog to the local newspaper so they can see the real issue is not teachers deceptively extending their weekend. Why do teachers call in sick on Monday and Friday? That's the only time they can get an appointment.
However, the newspaper could claim a different theory why doctors are not available on Mondays and Fridays. All the teachers are out in public, goofing around, generating traffic, and clogging up the golf courses. Doctors like to play golf, right? Because of the teachers, the only availability of a slot on the golf course for a doctor is mid week. So lots of people have to take a Friday appointment time.
Medical procedures! I'd rather just call in and pretend to be sick, and maybe go to the dollar movie theater.
The boss, Stan, was a great guy, and you could clown around with Stan. For example, Stan interviewed a very young man, almost a kid, and before his interview, I casually told him that Stan was a great fellow and had a good sense of humor. Stan hired the young man, and on his first day on the job, Stan told him his initial task would be to enter inventory information into the computer. The kid said, "No problem. I think I can do that," and he sat down at the computer and started staring at the keyboard.
Stan turned and headed to his office. Just as he got to his door, the kid yells out, "Wait a minute! We have a problem!"
Stan turns around and says, "What's the matter?"
The kid yells, "This computer doesn't have an I!"
Stan just shook his head, said, "I hope you're joking," turned around and walked off.
I was talking about calling in sick, or at least the title of this blog suggests I was planning on it. Because of Stan's ability to take a joke, one morning I called the office and asked to speak to Stan. Stan picks up his phone and says, "Yeah."
In my very best frequently practiced, sickly and hoarse voice, I whispered, "Stan? (short pause) Stan, is that you?"
Without hesitation Stan barks, "Get into the office right now and quit foolin' around."
(voice back to normal) "Yes sir," I replied.
So as you can see, I am sensitive to the needs of a boss and a company to have employees on the job, ready to go, never ruining efficiency by needlessly using sick leave time. A good employee will save their sick leave for a real emergency, like maybe when they get to be sixty.
Our school system, Albuquerque Public Schools (APS), is a behemoth bureaucracy and sometimes, I am sure, the teachers take advantage of the generous sick leave package we have in place for medical emergencies. In fact, the local scandal rag, the Albuquerque Journal, did a story on the nefarious teachers who were calling in sick on Mondays and Fridays in excessive amounts.
I can tell you what's a possibility. If you are a school teacher, it is impossible to get a dental or a doctor's appointmemt in this town on Tuesday, Wednesday, or Thursday. I am about to have two medical "procedures" "performed" on me, and I told the receptionist, "I'm a school teacher. You've seen the articles on the front page of the newpaper complaining about and badgering teachers for their Monday and Friday sick days. The whole community is up in arms over the lazy, no-account, ne'er do well teachers who supposedly extend their weekends. Is there any possibility I can get an appointment in the middle of the week?"
"Let's take a look. Let's see here. OK. It's coming up on the computer. Here we go. Yes! How about Tuesday, June 24?"
"June!? That's ten months from now. No, I need something sooner."
"Well I'm sorry but if you want something sooner, the only thing I have is a Friday."
So here I am, blogging away instead of teaching because I have to go see the doctor later today (Friday). I think I'll send this blog to the local newspaper so they can see the real issue is not teachers deceptively extending their weekend. Why do teachers call in sick on Monday and Friday? That's the only time they can get an appointment.
However, the newspaper could claim a different theory why doctors are not available on Mondays and Fridays. All the teachers are out in public, goofing around, generating traffic, and clogging up the golf courses. Doctors like to play golf, right? Because of the teachers, the only availability of a slot on the golf course for a doctor is mid week. So lots of people have to take a Friday appointment time.
Medical procedures! I'd rather just call in and pretend to be sick, and maybe go to the dollar movie theater.
WE'RE NOT THAT CLOSE YET
I have a new class of fourth graders, and yesterday I realized that though they are a great group of kids, we haven't quite bonded yet.
Yesterday was my sixtieth birthday. Normally, I would be feeling a mixture of boredom and mild repulsion with the whole idea of turning sixty, but I'm developing some serious health issues that warrant a more thoughtful approach to aging, and maybe I'll blog about them later. Just know that I'd rather not think about another birthday, especially now when I think of my age, the first number is a 6.
I tried to keep my birthday a secret at the elementary school where I teach. I didn't even turn in the Personal Information Form to the office, because it contained my birth date. However, someone got wind of it, and two kind and thoughtful parents brought warm, delicious, homemade, chocolate cupcakes. I have blogged about surprise birthday parties before, and these parents know about my birthday parties, so they surprised me like I surprise the kids. The class sang "Happy Birthday," and we had a quick, impromptu party.
Kids were wishing me a Happy Birthday, and one of them, Jamie, came up to me and said, "Here, Mr. W. Here's a present for you. Happy Birthday!" He was proudly holding a dollar bill or two rolled up like a cigarette. I'm not gonna take a kid's money, so I looked at Jamie and said, "I think it's wonderful and generous of you to want to give me a present, Jamie, but I don't want your money. You know what I want?"
Jamie smiled at me and asked, "What?"
There were a couple of parents nearby, so I gave him a warm smile back and said, "I want a hug."
You should have seen his face drop. His happy, cheerful smile just slid right off his face like watered down pancake syrup off a cold, short stack. There was an awkward silence, followed by an intermission, so to speak, of the fun and festivities, so to save him from further agony, I asked, "Jamie, would you rather just give me the money?"
He perked right back up and said, "Oh yeah!"
I laughed, and I'm sure he didn't know why. I told him thanks, but I wasn't going to take his money.
I think Jamie and I need a whole year before its hug time, and even then, it'll be a Man Hug.
Yesterday was my sixtieth birthday. Normally, I would be feeling a mixture of boredom and mild repulsion with the whole idea of turning sixty, but I'm developing some serious health issues that warrant a more thoughtful approach to aging, and maybe I'll blog about them later. Just know that I'd rather not think about another birthday, especially now when I think of my age, the first number is a 6.
I tried to keep my birthday a secret at the elementary school where I teach. I didn't even turn in the Personal Information Form to the office, because it contained my birth date. However, someone got wind of it, and two kind and thoughtful parents brought warm, delicious, homemade, chocolate cupcakes. I have blogged about surprise birthday parties before, and these parents know about my birthday parties, so they surprised me like I surprise the kids. The class sang "Happy Birthday," and we had a quick, impromptu party.
Kids were wishing me a Happy Birthday, and one of them, Jamie, came up to me and said, "Here, Mr. W. Here's a present for you. Happy Birthday!" He was proudly holding a dollar bill or two rolled up like a cigarette. I'm not gonna take a kid's money, so I looked at Jamie and said, "I think it's wonderful and generous of you to want to give me a present, Jamie, but I don't want your money. You know what I want?"
Jamie smiled at me and asked, "What?"
There were a couple of parents nearby, so I gave him a warm smile back and said, "I want a hug."
You should have seen his face drop. His happy, cheerful smile just slid right off his face like watered down pancake syrup off a cold, short stack. There was an awkward silence, followed by an intermission, so to speak, of the fun and festivities, so to save him from further agony, I asked, "Jamie, would you rather just give me the money?"
He perked right back up and said, "Oh yeah!"
I laughed, and I'm sure he didn't know why. I told him thanks, but I wasn't going to take his money.
I think Jamie and I need a whole year before its hug time, and even then, it'll be a Man Hug.
Monday, August 25, 2008
TOOTH FAIRY UNDER SCRUTINY
A fourth grade teacher next door to my class has a boy in her class who is very cynical, and probably for good reason. He had been tossed around like a cheap rag most of his life until he was adopted by his new family, who happens to live in our neighborhood.
This boy is the Captain of Cynicism, the Duke of Derision, and the Sultan of Skepticism. This boy doesn't believe in Santa, not because Santa can't fly around the world in one day and fit down any chimneys, but because, if he could, why didn't he stop at his house those two or three years.
He's a little like my younger brother Jack. Our older sister Carolyn, who by the ripe old age of sixteen had decided to inform me and Jack about some of life's Great Mysteries, told us that Santa was not real. How could some dude carry all the presents for every kid in the world in some flying sleigh pulled by deer, and then do it all in one night. I remember telling Carolyn, "You're lyin'! Mom said he's real. He does it with magic!" I looked over at Jack, who was five years old and four years younger, who replied, "I think Carolyn is correct. Santa doesn't make any scientific sense. I think Santa is what adults call a myth. Santa isn't real." Now I'm ten years old, and smart enough to know that Jack is smarter than me, so I went along with both of them. It's a good thing. too. It turns out they're right.
This boy doesn't believe in lots of things because he has seen too much negativity, but he is also very intelligent. He approaches this teacher on Friday and says, "Mrs. B., do you believe in the tooth fairy?"
"Why do you ask, Mario?"
"Because I have a loose tooth and I don't think that there's a Tooth Fairy. I think that adults put money under your pillow."
"Well, that could be. How could you find out if you are right?"
"I could make sure this loose tooth I have in my mouth comes out here at school. Then I could go home and not tell my parents. Then I could put the tooth under my pillow and they won't know it's there. If there is no money, that means there is no Tooth Fairy."
Mrs. B. doesn't think much about it until after recess. Mario had gone out on the playground and involved all the other children in her class in his scheme to determine if adults are dupin' 'em. They all come in excited, and she can tell some of them are already giving up on the idea of the Tooth Fairy. There are some heated exchanges, and she tells everyone that the class will have to let Mario's experiment decide if the Tooth Fairy is real.
However, Mrs. B. decides to call Mario's parents and inform them of his experiment and tells them that the outcome will affect other children in the class. She told the father that she had no suggestions for him as to what he should do, but that she would back any decision he made, no matter what it was. It's just that she wanted him to have this information so that he could make an informed decision as to how to handle the problem.
Mario came back to school on Monday with a couple of dollars in his hand, and those who believed in the Tooth Fairy were very pleased. Howver, Mrs. B. informed me that Mario was still skeptical, and he told her, "Mrs. B., I think my Dad found out. I think he could see something in my eyes that told him I had lost a tooth. I still don't believe in the Tooth Fairy."
Smart Boy.
This boy is the Captain of Cynicism, the Duke of Derision, and the Sultan of Skepticism. This boy doesn't believe in Santa, not because Santa can't fly around the world in one day and fit down any chimneys, but because, if he could, why didn't he stop at his house those two or three years.
He's a little like my younger brother Jack. Our older sister Carolyn, who by the ripe old age of sixteen had decided to inform me and Jack about some of life's Great Mysteries, told us that Santa was not real. How could some dude carry all the presents for every kid in the world in some flying sleigh pulled by deer, and then do it all in one night. I remember telling Carolyn, "You're lyin'! Mom said he's real. He does it with magic!" I looked over at Jack, who was five years old and four years younger, who replied, "I think Carolyn is correct. Santa doesn't make any scientific sense. I think Santa is what adults call a myth. Santa isn't real." Now I'm ten years old, and smart enough to know that Jack is smarter than me, so I went along with both of them. It's a good thing. too. It turns out they're right.
This boy doesn't believe in lots of things because he has seen too much negativity, but he is also very intelligent. He approaches this teacher on Friday and says, "Mrs. B., do you believe in the tooth fairy?"
"Why do you ask, Mario?"
"Because I have a loose tooth and I don't think that there's a Tooth Fairy. I think that adults put money under your pillow."
"Well, that could be. How could you find out if you are right?"
"I could make sure this loose tooth I have in my mouth comes out here at school. Then I could go home and not tell my parents. Then I could put the tooth under my pillow and they won't know it's there. If there is no money, that means there is no Tooth Fairy."
Mrs. B. doesn't think much about it until after recess. Mario had gone out on the playground and involved all the other children in her class in his scheme to determine if adults are dupin' 'em. They all come in excited, and she can tell some of them are already giving up on the idea of the Tooth Fairy. There are some heated exchanges, and she tells everyone that the class will have to let Mario's experiment decide if the Tooth Fairy is real.
However, Mrs. B. decides to call Mario's parents and inform them of his experiment and tells them that the outcome will affect other children in the class. She told the father that she had no suggestions for him as to what he should do, but that she would back any decision he made, no matter what it was. It's just that she wanted him to have this information so that he could make an informed decision as to how to handle the problem.
Mario came back to school on Monday with a couple of dollars in his hand, and those who believed in the Tooth Fairy were very pleased. Howver, Mrs. B. informed me that Mario was still skeptical, and he told her, "Mrs. B., I think my Dad found out. I think he could see something in my eyes that told him I had lost a tooth. I still don't believe in the Tooth Fairy."
Smart Boy.
Monday, August 18, 2008
THE PERPLEXING CONVERSATION
I have blogged about children's communciation skills before. Here is another example of a bewildering conversation I had with a child. George Burns heard Gracie Allen say lots of things this silly, but it was always a joke. He played her straight man. This wasn't a joke; this child was serious.
One day after school, I called another teacher on the phone to see if she was in her room so I wouldn't have to walk all the way to her classroom only to discover she was somewhere else. Her son, Max, answered the phone. Here is the exact conversation:
"Hello?"
"Hello, Max, this is Mr. W. Is your mother there?"
"No, she's not."
"Do you know where she is?"
"No...........................but I know where she is at."
"Well, where is she...at?"
(Then there was a long pause.)
"I don't know."
One day after school, I called another teacher on the phone to see if she was in her room so I wouldn't have to walk all the way to her classroom only to discover she was somewhere else. Her son, Max, answered the phone. Here is the exact conversation:
"Hello?"
"Hello, Max, this is Mr. W. Is your mother there?"
"No, she's not."
"Do you know where she is?"
"No...........................but I know where she is at."
"Well, where is she...at?"
(Then there was a long pause.)
"I don't know."
Sunday, August 17, 2008
HOW LONG CAN YOU HOLD IT, BLADDERMAN?
My new fourth grade class this year has the potential to be very entertaining and clever, a very underrated quality in our NCLB (No Child Left Behind) society.
On Friday I had just about had it. It seems that about ten to fifteen minutes after every, single recess, a student or two or three of four needed to go to the bathroom. I thought it was time we talk about the efficient, practical, and efficacious use of the restroom during a break.
"You need to start using the restroom during your recess and not during class time!! How many of you have seen Kobe Bryant in the last few seconds of a NBA basketball game call a timeout and then head to the potty? He doesn't do that, and neither should you!!"
Without raising his hand, Michael proudly pipes up this little tidbit of information. "Mr. W., I can go four hours withour discharging my bladder!"
I was more flabbergasted than impressed, and I roared with laughter, because Michael seemed so proud and nonchalant about such a unique talent. That is a long time for a little kid!
On Friday I had just about had it. It seems that about ten to fifteen minutes after every, single recess, a student or two or three of four needed to go to the bathroom. I thought it was time we talk about the efficient, practical, and efficacious use of the restroom during a break.
"You need to start using the restroom during your recess and not during class time!! How many of you have seen Kobe Bryant in the last few seconds of a NBA basketball game call a timeout and then head to the potty? He doesn't do that, and neither should you!!"
Without raising his hand, Michael proudly pipes up this little tidbit of information. "Mr. W., I can go four hours withour discharging my bladder!"
I was more flabbergasted than impressed, and I roared with laughter, because Michael seemed so proud and nonchalant about such a unique talent. That is a long time for a little kid!
Saturday, August 16, 2008
MISCOMMUNICATION (IT COULD BE ME)
Kids make the oddest statements. Statements that make sense, once you've done some research and figured out what they meant.
I was heading out to do recess duty, and our principal wants me on that playground on time. Teachers live by a bell. A bell rings, you have to be somewhere. Another bell rings, you have to relocate and be somewhere else. Schools are in some ways like little factories in the business of producing workers, and one of those ways is the bell that goes off like a factory whistle. You have to be punched in on time for your shift.
I was heading out to do recess duty, and I had my mind on getting there on time. A student in a third grade classroom next to mine said, "Mr. R., I found out I'm allergic to Shaespeare."
I muttered something quickly like, "What? You're allergic to Shakespeare?" What are you talking about?"
"I'm allergic to Shakespeare."
"Well I gotta go. I have recess duty. I'll talk to you about this later."
And I did. I wanted to know what in tarnation she was talking about. The next day I sought her out and asked her, "What did you mean when you said you were allergic to Shakespeare? Shakespeare the playwright? The guy that writes the plays like Romeo and Juliet and Hamlet?"
"No, Mr. R. Shakespeare. My dog. I'm allergic to Shakespeare."
"Oh. Shakespeare's your dog. I get it now."
This didn't turn out nearly as interesting as I was hoping. Can you see a third grader getting hives and sneezing during Romeo and Juliet? Now that's interesting.
A week earlier, Hannah and I were talking about diets. I have lost over twenty pounds, and I am feeling pretty . . . . . . . . . . . . well, how should I put it. I'm feeling pretty . . . . . . . . . . . . hungry. Hannah and I were talking about diets and she said, "Well I tried to diet, but I can't go without candy or electricity for more than a week."
"What?! What do you mean, Hannah? How can you eat electricity?"
"Oh I don't eat it. I was camping in the Pecos Mountains with my Mom and Dad and we didn't have candy or electricity for a week. It was horrible!"
Kids. They'll make great adults.
I was heading out to do recess duty, and our principal wants me on that playground on time. Teachers live by a bell. A bell rings, you have to be somewhere. Another bell rings, you have to relocate and be somewhere else. Schools are in some ways like little factories in the business of producing workers, and one of those ways is the bell that goes off like a factory whistle. You have to be punched in on time for your shift.
I was heading out to do recess duty, and I had my mind on getting there on time. A student in a third grade classroom next to mine said, "Mr. R., I found out I'm allergic to Shaespeare."
I muttered something quickly like, "What? You're allergic to Shakespeare?" What are you talking about?"
"I'm allergic to Shakespeare."
"Well I gotta go. I have recess duty. I'll talk to you about this later."
And I did. I wanted to know what in tarnation she was talking about. The next day I sought her out and asked her, "What did you mean when you said you were allergic to Shakespeare? Shakespeare the playwright? The guy that writes the plays like Romeo and Juliet and Hamlet?"
"No, Mr. R. Shakespeare. My dog. I'm allergic to Shakespeare."
"Oh. Shakespeare's your dog. I get it now."
This didn't turn out nearly as interesting as I was hoping. Can you see a third grader getting hives and sneezing during Romeo and Juliet? Now that's interesting.
A week earlier, Hannah and I were talking about diets. I have lost over twenty pounds, and I am feeling pretty . . . . . . . . . . . . well, how should I put it. I'm feeling pretty . . . . . . . . . . . . hungry. Hannah and I were talking about diets and she said, "Well I tried to diet, but I can't go without candy or electricity for more than a week."
"What?! What do you mean, Hannah? How can you eat electricity?"
"Oh I don't eat it. I was camping in the Pecos Mountains with my Mom and Dad and we didn't have candy or electricity for a week. It was horrible!"
Kids. They'll make great adults.
Friday, August 15, 2008
CURING A CHILD BY BEING GROSSED OUT
Yesterday on the playground while I was on duty, several kids ran up to me with horrified looks on their faces; there was an injury, and someone was seriously hurt. My instinctual love and concern for a child in distress kicked into hyperdrive, and I followed the children in a furious race to a little girl, who was laying on the ground sobbing.
It's a new year, and I'm kind of, how shall we call it, a babe in the woods all over again. I'm beginning to think my wife, Peggy is right. She's claims that every day is a new day for me, and I've heard her many times refer to some turnip truck that I keep falling off of, which doesn't make sense, because not only do I not like turnips, I don't think I've ever been on a turnip truck.
The sobbing, little girl down on the ground had taken off her shoe and sock on her right foot and was squeezing it like one of them doctors on television in the emergency room holding onto a dying man's neck to keep the blood from squirting out like a sprinkler watering a city park lawn.
I got on the ground and as calmly as possible croaked, "What's the matter?!?! She said, "I'm bleeding!" I screamed out, "Where? Where are you bleeding?"
She reaches down to her feet and pulls the big toe and the toe next to it so far apart that my initial diagnosis was that her toe bones had almost been ripped apart. Then she points to a teeny-tiny, itty-bitty, minuscule minute drop of what might be considered blood if examined under a miscroscope by a highly trained blood recognizer person.
What mystifies me is the incredible angle of the two toes. Her big toe is at an angle of over 180 degrees from the toe next to it. I ask her, "Do your toes hurt?" She says, "No, Mr. R., it's the blood. Look!" Well I can't see any blood, thank heavens, because if I did, I'd probably pass out, and then everyone would know my secret. (I faint at the sight of blood.) Instead of seeing blood, I am staring at two toes that have been bent to a 200 degree angle from each other, and it's freakin' me out, man. I tell her to let go of her toes, which she does, and then I ask her to bend her toes back again. She bends them a little, but not like before. I have to see it again, so I tell her, "Turn 'em back real far again like you did before." She does it, and I gave an audible moan. "Awwww. Uhhhh. Oh that's gruesome!"
I realize the little girl isn't crying anymore. She said, "What's the matter, Mr. R.?" I told her that her toes are very flexible, and if I had bent my toes like that, they'd have broken like little twigs. That's when she let all hell break loose. She bent those two toes so far back, they almost touched each other at the nail. I shrieked, "No! No! Oh! Stop it! Oh that's awful!" She thought my reaction was funny and did it again.
I had to get up and leave. I don't want to pass out in front of a kid I'm trying to wrench from Death's Door.
I thank our Gracious Lord I am not a doctor, and that, in His Infinite Wisdom, He has seen to it that I am a teacher instead.
But I did inadvertently do some doctoring. I think I distracted that sobbing, little girl so much with my antics, she forgot she was hurt.
It's a new year, and I'm kind of, how shall we call it, a babe in the woods all over again. I'm beginning to think my wife, Peggy is right. She's claims that every day is a new day for me, and I've heard her many times refer to some turnip truck that I keep falling off of, which doesn't make sense, because not only do I not like turnips, I don't think I've ever been on a turnip truck.
The sobbing, little girl down on the ground had taken off her shoe and sock on her right foot and was squeezing it like one of them doctors on television in the emergency room holding onto a dying man's neck to keep the blood from squirting out like a sprinkler watering a city park lawn.
I got on the ground and as calmly as possible croaked, "What's the matter?!?! She said, "I'm bleeding!" I screamed out, "Where? Where are you bleeding?"
She reaches down to her feet and pulls the big toe and the toe next to it so far apart that my initial diagnosis was that her toe bones had almost been ripped apart. Then she points to a teeny-tiny, itty-bitty, minuscule minute drop of what might be considered blood if examined under a miscroscope by a highly trained blood recognizer person.
What mystifies me is the incredible angle of the two toes. Her big toe is at an angle of over 180 degrees from the toe next to it. I ask her, "Do your toes hurt?" She says, "No, Mr. R., it's the blood. Look!" Well I can't see any blood, thank heavens, because if I did, I'd probably pass out, and then everyone would know my secret. (I faint at the sight of blood.) Instead of seeing blood, I am staring at two toes that have been bent to a 200 degree angle from each other, and it's freakin' me out, man. I tell her to let go of her toes, which she does, and then I ask her to bend her toes back again. She bends them a little, but not like before. I have to see it again, so I tell her, "Turn 'em back real far again like you did before." She does it, and I gave an audible moan. "Awwww. Uhhhh. Oh that's gruesome!"
I realize the little girl isn't crying anymore. She said, "What's the matter, Mr. R.?" I told her that her toes are very flexible, and if I had bent my toes like that, they'd have broken like little twigs. That's when she let all hell break loose. She bent those two toes so far back, they almost touched each other at the nail. I shrieked, "No! No! Oh! Stop it! Oh that's awful!" She thought my reaction was funny and did it again.
I had to get up and leave. I don't want to pass out in front of a kid I'm trying to wrench from Death's Door.
I thank our Gracious Lord I am not a doctor, and that, in His Infinite Wisdom, He has seen to it that I am a teacher instead.
But I did inadvertently do some doctoring. I think I distracted that sobbing, little girl so much with my antics, she forgot she was hurt.
History Misexperts
Americans believe that the school system is dumbing down the curriculum. As proof, we point out the declining background knowledge that college freshman have of history and geography as they enter universities.
Teachers believe that the federal government's No Child Left Behind Initiative forces them to teach to the test, which emphasizes reading comprehension and mathematics, leaving very little time for social studies. That doesn't explain why history and geography knowledge was lagging before the "No Child Left Behind Initiative" was passed, but that's a whole 'nother ball o' wax.
Let's just say that I pride myself on teaching my fourth graders the fifty states, their location, a little information about each one, and some general information about each region of the United States. I also take pride in my fifth grade American history classes and my required history of the state of New Mexico.
However, something recently happened in class that let me know that even I have made a change in what subject matter we are teaching in American history. The history books deemphasize Anglos and stress all cultural influences on our country. This is good, to a point. I don't think that replacing Thomas Edison with Lonnie G. Johnson is a marvelous idea, but I'm sure at least some teachers have.
Last week in class, one of my students, Robert, told me he couldn't pick out a book to read. He just couldn't decide. I told him I would pick one out for him, and I chose "The Story of Daniel Boone."
Robert read the title and said, "Mr. R., who is Danielle Boone?"
I need to work on my history and reading classes a little more, I suppose.
Teachers believe that the federal government's No Child Left Behind Initiative forces them to teach to the test, which emphasizes reading comprehension and mathematics, leaving very little time for social studies. That doesn't explain why history and geography knowledge was lagging before the "No Child Left Behind Initiative" was passed, but that's a whole 'nother ball o' wax.
Let's just say that I pride myself on teaching my fourth graders the fifty states, their location, a little information about each one, and some general information about each region of the United States. I also take pride in my fifth grade American history classes and my required history of the state of New Mexico.
However, something recently happened in class that let me know that even I have made a change in what subject matter we are teaching in American history. The history books deemphasize Anglos and stress all cultural influences on our country. This is good, to a point. I don't think that replacing Thomas Edison with Lonnie G. Johnson is a marvelous idea, but I'm sure at least some teachers have.
Last week in class, one of my students, Robert, told me he couldn't pick out a book to read. He just couldn't decide. I told him I would pick one out for him, and I chose "The Story of Daniel Boone."
Robert read the title and said, "Mr. R., who is Danielle Boone?"
I need to work on my history and reading classes a little more, I suppose.
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
MEN AND THEIR INFLUENCE ON DELICATE LITTLE FLOWERS
One of the teachers I work with is Greg. Greg is a little like myself in that we both didn't get married until we were in our thirties, which means we both sowed a lot of wild oats, and although I cannot speak for Greg, I think he would agree with me when I say that wild oats are tasty, but not very nutritious.
Greg has two children, a second grade girl named Shayna, and a kindergarten boy named CJ. I was at Greg's house guzzlin' a Moosehead, when Greg says, "CJ, show Mr. W. your karate." So CJ gets in a little boy's long stance and starts blocking Greg's punches. I can tell Greg is proud of little CJ. He's a blockin' Daddy's punches left and right and I'm dazzled. I'm complimenting little CJ with remarks like, "Look at him go! That's a karate man! Look at those blocked punches! What a karate man!"
All this time Shayna is just watching and observing, but she gets to thinking, "Hmmm. Why is little CJ gettin' all the attention? I'm special, too. What is it that I, Daddy's Delicate Little Flower, can do to bedazzle Mr. W.? I need the spotlight on me. Think, girl, think!"
I guess it hit her, for about two minutes later she comes into the room and yells, "Mr. W.! Look what I can do!!" She then proceeds to tug at the neck of her blouse with her right hand, pulling the V-neck opening all the way over to her right bicep. She then slips her left hand under her right armpit, and then slams her right elbow down to her right side and makes what is known as an armpit fart. She then proceeds to rip off seven or eight prize winners in a row. I haven't seen anyone do that in years! I am floored, and proceed to lavish praise on Shayna.
"Shayna, I haven't seen or heard an armpit fart in years! Those are some beauties! You are incredible! I haven't done one in years. Wait a minute. Let me try."
I then proceed to barely make an air noise, much less a little ripper, and then I discover that my left hand now stinks, and I am taken aback and embarrassed. Oh, I could've blamed the "dry heat" of New Mexico. I learned armpit farts back in the '50's in a Houston, Texas "summer sauna," fer cryin' out loud, when your armpit was drippin' wet and you could goose it loud enough to be heard across the yard. But I accepted defeat, resigned myself to the accomplishments of a new generation of armpit farters, told her she is a much better armpit farter than I am, and Shayna proudly walked off, but not until she had goosed her armpit a dozen more times, jus' fer show. For Shayna, mission accomplished!
I look over at Greg and say, "I wonder who taught her that?" Greg says, "That's Shayna, my Delicate Little Flower!"
Greg has two children, a second grade girl named Shayna, and a kindergarten boy named CJ. I was at Greg's house guzzlin' a Moosehead, when Greg says, "CJ, show Mr. W. your karate." So CJ gets in a little boy's long stance and starts blocking Greg's punches. I can tell Greg is proud of little CJ. He's a blockin' Daddy's punches left and right and I'm dazzled. I'm complimenting little CJ with remarks like, "Look at him go! That's a karate man! Look at those blocked punches! What a karate man!"
All this time Shayna is just watching and observing, but she gets to thinking, "Hmmm. Why is little CJ gettin' all the attention? I'm special, too. What is it that I, Daddy's Delicate Little Flower, can do to bedazzle Mr. W.? I need the spotlight on me. Think, girl, think!"
I guess it hit her, for about two minutes later she comes into the room and yells, "Mr. W.! Look what I can do!!" She then proceeds to tug at the neck of her blouse with her right hand, pulling the V-neck opening all the way over to her right bicep. She then slips her left hand under her right armpit, and then slams her right elbow down to her right side and makes what is known as an armpit fart. She then proceeds to rip off seven or eight prize winners in a row. I haven't seen anyone do that in years! I am floored, and proceed to lavish praise on Shayna.
"Shayna, I haven't seen or heard an armpit fart in years! Those are some beauties! You are incredible! I haven't done one in years. Wait a minute. Let me try."
I then proceed to barely make an air noise, much less a little ripper, and then I discover that my left hand now stinks, and I am taken aback and embarrassed. Oh, I could've blamed the "dry heat" of New Mexico. I learned armpit farts back in the '50's in a Houston, Texas "summer sauna," fer cryin' out loud, when your armpit was drippin' wet and you could goose it loud enough to be heard across the yard. But I accepted defeat, resigned myself to the accomplishments of a new generation of armpit farters, told her she is a much better armpit farter than I am, and Shayna proudly walked off, but not until she had goosed her armpit a dozen more times, jus' fer show. For Shayna, mission accomplished!
I look over at Greg and say, "I wonder who taught her that?" Greg says, "That's Shayna, my Delicate Little Flower!"
Monday, July 14, 2008
Miscellaneous Ideas
School is out, and, being an elementary school teacher, I am in the throes of ecstasy. My house is all painted, all important chores are done, I have gained five pounds, and I have gained them watching videos and resting instead of working.
The down side is that I needed the money so I am teaching summer school, but that's easy. The class is full of children who either can't or won't learn. I have four weeks to fix them? I don't think so!
Because it's summer, I have no kids around to provide me fodder for blogs, so I am going to throw out a few ideas that don't have anything to do with kids.
By the way, I wrote these with a couple o' beers in me, and I'm laughin' my head off. Maybe they'll be funnier if you also have a couple o' somethings in you.
Miscellaneaous Ideas:
There is a human being on this planet, whose name shall go unmentioned, who once discovered a marijuana plant growing out of the floorboard of their car. It seems a stray cannabis seed landed in a fertile area of the rotting, rear floorboard carpeting where a broken window above provided moisture. This person either kept a very busy lifestyle or was so stoned they just didn't notice that the plant was doing quite well, thank you. A friend pointed it out to them when they looked in the backseat. It was high enough (pun intended) to be seen, hypothetically, from, say, the driver's seat of a patrol car.
I am on a health food kick. I drink Diet Coke Plus with Vitamins and Minerals (niacin, vitamin B-6 and B-12, magnesium, and zinc).
I'm gettin' butt cancer from all the smoke that's bein' blown up my ass by all the politicians runnin' for President, and later, I'll be footin' the bill for "treatments," too.
The down side is that I needed the money so I am teaching summer school, but that's easy. The class is full of children who either can't or won't learn. I have four weeks to fix them? I don't think so!
Because it's summer, I have no kids around to provide me fodder for blogs, so I am going to throw out a few ideas that don't have anything to do with kids.
By the way, I wrote these with a couple o' beers in me, and I'm laughin' my head off. Maybe they'll be funnier if you also have a couple o' somethings in you.
Miscellaneaous Ideas:
There is a human being on this planet, whose name shall go unmentioned, who once discovered a marijuana plant growing out of the floorboard of their car. It seems a stray cannabis seed landed in a fertile area of the rotting, rear floorboard carpeting where a broken window above provided moisture. This person either kept a very busy lifestyle or was so stoned they just didn't notice that the plant was doing quite well, thank you. A friend pointed it out to them when they looked in the backseat. It was high enough (pun intended) to be seen, hypothetically, from, say, the driver's seat of a patrol car.
I am on a health food kick. I drink Diet Coke Plus with Vitamins and Minerals (niacin, vitamin B-6 and B-12, magnesium, and zinc).
I'm gettin' butt cancer from all the smoke that's bein' blown up my ass by all the politicians runnin' for President, and later, I'll be footin' the bill for "treatments," too.
My wife wants to commission a scientific study on why, when you are microwaving a mug of coffee, the microwave spinning platter ALWAYS stops with the mug handle pointing at the back of the microwave.
How come some people get away with so much foolishness, and others are in deep doo for simple little nothing stuff? I think we ought to go ahead and decide who these people are that can get away with stuff and give them a license plate that reads, "R O M E". That stands for Royal Order of the Most Exempt. Let's get this injustice out in the open and acknowledge it for what it is. Let 'em get away with their stuff, and then the people who are not in the Royal Order of the Most Exempt won't feel so bad. For example, I don't care that I can't go the River Oaks Country Club. I'm not a member, fer cryin' out loud. And if that dude in Washington, D.C. got away with something worse than what I get in big trouble for, well, it's because I'm not a member of the Royal Order of the Most Exempt.
I have a new pet word for women's breasts: blouse biscuits. As in, "My, I sure would love to spread some butter on your blouse biscuits." It's not something I'll ever say to anyone but my wife, Peggy, but I will add, it works magic on her.
When you are on vacation, eating out at all the great restaurants is a real balancing act. You don't want to eat so much that you're so full you have to skip a meal.
The mirror is not our friend.
Money talks, and mine says, "Guhbye."
That's enough of this nonsense.
Monday, July 07, 2008
FIFTH GRADE PUBERTY UNIT
I have blogged about the state required fifth grade puberty unit before. Unfortunately, last year I taught fourth grade and was unable to get an earful of the fifth graders' unusual and sometimes hilarious comments and questions.
I was talking to one of the fifth grade teachers, who I will refer to as "Mrs. Smith." Mrs. Smith is a relatively new teacher, and this is her first year teaching fifth grade. Mrs. Smith is not a young girl, pink and fresh out of college, no sir! Mrs. Smith has been around for awhile, and in fact, she has three children of her own. But Mrs. Smith is "old school," and women just don't go around saying all kinds of cuss words and talking about genitalia, except during Happy Hour. I was talking to Mrs. Smith about the upcoming fifth grade puberty unit, and she said, "In order to prepare for the puberty unit, I have been standing in front of the bathroom mirror and practicing saying the word 'penis' without turning red, and I just about have it."
Amateur. Someone needs to take her to the Happy Hour where I have heard the women talking. Good heavens, they are worse than the men, although that does not count the longshoremen I heard blister an ear in Houston, Texas.
I was talking to one of the fifth grade teachers, who I will refer to as "Mrs. Smith." Mrs. Smith is a relatively new teacher, and this is her first year teaching fifth grade. Mrs. Smith is not a young girl, pink and fresh out of college, no sir! Mrs. Smith has been around for awhile, and in fact, she has three children of her own. But Mrs. Smith is "old school," and women just don't go around saying all kinds of cuss words and talking about genitalia, except during Happy Hour. I was talking to Mrs. Smith about the upcoming fifth grade puberty unit, and she said, "In order to prepare for the puberty unit, I have been standing in front of the bathroom mirror and practicing saying the word 'penis' without turning red, and I just about have it."
Amateur. Someone needs to take her to the Happy Hour where I have heard the women talking. Good heavens, they are worse than the men, although that does not count the longshoremen I heard blister an ear in Houston, Texas.
Thursday, July 03, 2008
Rebecca, Power Tools (Compensators), and Paranoia
I have been having some nightmares lately, and I mentioned them to Rebecca. Rebecca is one of my favorite fellow teachers at school. She has a clever sense of humor and has become a very good friend.
One time I helped her move, and then easily talked her into tearing down a shed in her new backyard that was an ugly affair that hindered an otherwise wonderful view of a golf course on the other side of her fence. I also took offense to its low entry door that managed to clobber me on the head as I entered. ("Clobber me once, shame on you. Clobber me twice, shame on me. Clobber me three times, you're goin' down.") We made good use of Rebecca's cordless electric drill while demolishing the hideous shed, and we took numerous pictures of each other standing on the rubble holding the electric drill and slyly grinning like Schwarzennegger right after he laid siege on and machine gunned ninety-six drug dealers and meth manufacturers in their cement manufacturing plant/stronghold just outside the city of Megalopolis.
I refused to accept payment for helping her, so Rebecca gave me a present of an electric drill even bigger than hers. It's a DeWalt DC759 Cordless Adjustable Clutch Driver/Drill with two (2) battery packs and a charger. It's a yellow and black masterpiece of workmanship and power, making light of any home projects I have around the house. Trucks driving by my house slow down when I am out in the front yard using my DeWalt DC759 Cordless Adjustable Clutch Driver/Drill with two (2) battery packs and a charger. Envy is written all over the drivers' faces as I screw and unscrew and screw again the screws holding the pickets on my fence with the mighty power of my DeWalt DC759 Cordless Adjustable Clutch Driver/Drill with two (2) battery packs and a charger.
I was telling Rebecca recently that in my frightening nightmares, someone is trying to kill me. Rebecca casually replied, "I won't try to kill you........except in the heat of the moment."
One time I helped her move, and then easily talked her into tearing down a shed in her new backyard that was an ugly affair that hindered an otherwise wonderful view of a golf course on the other side of her fence. I also took offense to its low entry door that managed to clobber me on the head as I entered. ("Clobber me once, shame on you. Clobber me twice, shame on me. Clobber me three times, you're goin' down.") We made good use of Rebecca's cordless electric drill while demolishing the hideous shed, and we took numerous pictures of each other standing on the rubble holding the electric drill and slyly grinning like Schwarzennegger right after he laid siege on and machine gunned ninety-six drug dealers and meth manufacturers in their cement manufacturing plant/stronghold just outside the city of Megalopolis.
I refused to accept payment for helping her, so Rebecca gave me a present of an electric drill even bigger than hers. It's a DeWalt DC759 Cordless Adjustable Clutch Driver/Drill with two (2) battery packs and a charger. It's a yellow and black masterpiece of workmanship and power, making light of any home projects I have around the house. Trucks driving by my house slow down when I am out in the front yard using my DeWalt DC759 Cordless Adjustable Clutch Driver/Drill with two (2) battery packs and a charger. Envy is written all over the drivers' faces as I screw and unscrew and screw again the screws holding the pickets on my fence with the mighty power of my DeWalt DC759 Cordless Adjustable Clutch Driver/Drill with two (2) battery packs and a charger.
I was telling Rebecca recently that in my frightening nightmares, someone is trying to kill me. Rebecca casually replied, "I won't try to kill you........except in the heat of the moment."
Sunday, December 02, 2007
But When I Stand On It, My Weight Looks More Proportionate To My Height
Catching up today over coffee, my friends and I were (gasp!) discussing our children. And one of the threads was so interesting to me that I thought I would continue the conversation, albeit by myself and without the three-dollar latte, guess where we were.
We were talking about authority--specifically kid's lack of automatic respect of. My friend's son had disobeyed a teacher and we were talking about how he viewed the situation. Now don't get me wrong: I struggle constantly with my internal Because I Said So voice, and there isn't a day that goes by that I don't give Jake the if-you-don't-play-by-
the-rules-you-won't-get-to-play-and-that's-just-the-way-life-is-
and-quit-cracking-your-knuckles-it's-annoying talk. But I have to wonder about the world that we're presenting to children. And are my rules their rules?
It's not just that I think this kid is cool in a Question Authority tee-shirt wearing kind of way (which I do), it's that I also believe fervently that it isn't all his fault. This is a great, respectful kid whose young brain can't completely wrap around our notion of "do what the teacher says" and his generation's notion of "why should I when what he wants me to do is stupid?" When I step outside of my old, floater-filled eyes and purvey the world with their vision, I see it all a little differently. To an adult, OJ's acquittal upset us with a disappointing shock, a huge example of how the system sometimes seemingly fails us. But to a child or a teen, is it merely another time proving the rules are different now?
I was pulling into a store the other day and, with a car behind me also looking for a spot, chose to pull ahead of an empty place and wait for a car that would soon be backing out. I wasn't in a hurry in that moment--she could have the open spot. But she misunderstood my magnanimous act for one of stupidity. With my blinker on, she could see she was stuck behind the loser waiting for a space. With all her hand gestures and horn blowing behind me, she missed the open spot. She finally did see it, and whipped into it angrily.
I rolled down my window, as I had not received my space yet, this is Boca and the woman pulling out was clearly one hundred and ten. "Hi," I called to her. "I was just letting you have that spot."
Her moment of contrition was non-existent. She was around twenty years old and had no time for my over forty nonsense.
"I KNOW." She rolled her eyes. "It was obvious that's what you were doing. I'm not an idiot."*
Rude? Yes, to me. And to anyone else to whom I tell the story. But when I think about it, it had some elements of generational discordance to it. I am not saying that I wouldn't have appreciated something more genteel, nor am I saying that all young people are this way. She hasn't thought about it since, I am sure, and probably didn't even mean it as insidiously as I took it. It wasn't much different than the flippant comments she grew up hearing on sitcoms, it's just that she said it to me. I have a face that I attach to every conversation I have. She probably online dates and text messages her friends. I was a nobody to her at that moment--why should we even talk?
Okay, I'll get off my soapbox. But there's an advantage of my looking at it this way. Certainly I am not embracing a society that speaks to each other with such a lack of compassion. But the fact is that people are talking like that. And while I can try to present another style to my children, maybe I can take it a little less personally when Jake says his "Whatever", or Olivia--when I tell her she can not have a cookie in the car--says, "Turn around and drive, Mom," small finger pointing in the air. They are polite most of the time, but sometimes they talk to you the way they are hearing all of society talk.
Or maybe, by tomorrow, I will again hit Jake in the back of the head, Italian-style. Because I said so.
*You so are.
We were talking about authority--specifically kid's lack of automatic respect of. My friend's son had disobeyed a teacher and we were talking about how he viewed the situation. Now don't get me wrong: I struggle constantly with my internal Because I Said So voice, and there isn't a day that goes by that I don't give Jake the if-you-don't-play-by-
the-rules-you-won't-get-to-play-and-that's-just-the-way-life-is-
and-quit-cracking-your-knuckles-it's-annoying talk. But I have to wonder about the world that we're presenting to children. And are my rules their rules?
It's not just that I think this kid is cool in a Question Authority tee-shirt wearing kind of way (which I do), it's that I also believe fervently that it isn't all his fault. This is a great, respectful kid whose young brain can't completely wrap around our notion of "do what the teacher says" and his generation's notion of "why should I when what he wants me to do is stupid?" When I step outside of my old, floater-filled eyes and purvey the world with their vision, I see it all a little differently. To an adult, OJ's acquittal upset us with a disappointing shock, a huge example of how the system sometimes seemingly fails us. But to a child or a teen, is it merely another time proving the rules are different now?
I was pulling into a store the other day and, with a car behind me also looking for a spot, chose to pull ahead of an empty place and wait for a car that would soon be backing out. I wasn't in a hurry in that moment--she could have the open spot. But she misunderstood my magnanimous act for one of stupidity. With my blinker on, she could see she was stuck behind the loser waiting for a space. With all her hand gestures and horn blowing behind me, she missed the open spot. She finally did see it, and whipped into it angrily.
I rolled down my window, as I had not received my space yet, this is Boca and the woman pulling out was clearly one hundred and ten. "Hi," I called to her. "I was just letting you have that spot."
Her moment of contrition was non-existent. She was around twenty years old and had no time for my over forty nonsense.
"I KNOW." She rolled her eyes. "It was obvious that's what you were doing. I'm not an idiot."*
Rude? Yes, to me. And to anyone else to whom I tell the story. But when I think about it, it had some elements of generational discordance to it. I am not saying that I wouldn't have appreciated something more genteel, nor am I saying that all young people are this way. She hasn't thought about it since, I am sure, and probably didn't even mean it as insidiously as I took it. It wasn't much different than the flippant comments she grew up hearing on sitcoms, it's just that she said it to me. I have a face that I attach to every conversation I have. She probably online dates and text messages her friends. I was a nobody to her at that moment--why should we even talk?
Okay, I'll get off my soapbox. But there's an advantage of my looking at it this way. Certainly I am not embracing a society that speaks to each other with such a lack of compassion. But the fact is that people are talking like that. And while I can try to present another style to my children, maybe I can take it a little less personally when Jake says his "Whatever", or Olivia--when I tell her she can not have a cookie in the car--says, "Turn around and drive, Mom," small finger pointing in the air. They are polite most of the time, but sometimes they talk to you the way they are hearing all of society talk.
Or maybe, by tomorrow, I will again hit Jake in the back of the head, Italian-style. Because I said so.
*You so are.
Friday, November 16, 2007
Bring In The Red Cross, And Why Is Panettone So Expensive?
I have become One Of Those People, and unfortunately do not have the money to back it up. Let me explain: I have always tried to be an organized mother. When Jake was a toddler, I never once--not once--ran out of diapers. I was the neighbor that people called when they needed something last minute, like Pedialyte. "Mine's out of date!" they'd tell me, in a panic. No worry, I had some. Heck, I had a first aid kit in every bathroom that had a check up date (making sure all needed components were restocked) Sharpied on to it. So I never felt I had to run out shopping last minute, or purchase unnecessary products (like gum at the checkout counter) to appease a screaming child. I was superior to that.
Fast forward about ten years. And I'd welcome you into our home, except I don't have an extra Hazmat suit for you to don. Because we have been sick.
For the past two and a half weeks, Jake has been absent almost everyday. And in sixth grade, there are important, age-appropriate studies to make up. Things like algebra, and a world culturesthesis paper on the development of Latin America and its current effect on our environment (WTF?). I have been semi-homeschooling to keep up, all while developing the flu myself and caring for a toddler. So ignore the typos during this post, it's 10:57 and I'm typing this one-handed, the other fist being occupied by an apple martini and don't say I don't deserve it.
Then Olivia, who has not yet, at two, had so much as a stuffy nose, became really sick. And because I am no longer this woman*, I had nothing at home for her. So even though she's crying and feeling like she would like to just stay home and be cuddled, I take her with me to the store. I grab--while cooing to her to please stop crying and to not remember this moment of parenting instead please recall an hour later from now when we'll be home and I'll be rocking her--all the items that we NEED to make her feel better. You know: the aforementioned Pedialyte, chicken soup (ugh--canned), fruit, juices, children's Motrin, tissues. Oh, and a few extra items that she has pointed to while crying: crayons, markers, cupcakes, pack of bubbles, new toothbrush with a Hello Kitty handle, balloons, ice cream sandwiches, and at the point of checkout, a large box of imported Italian Panettone.
I won't admit to you what the bill was, all to appease my sick daughter and restock my home with items that thirty-four year old Laura would have already had in the house. But I will tell you that thirteen dollars and ninety-nine cents of that bill was for a box of Italian raisin bread that she had to have. I guess it's okay, Eric was looking into working at a mini-mart in his spare time anyway.
*Organized Mother
Fast forward about ten years. And I'd welcome you into our home, except I don't have an extra Hazmat suit for you to don. Because we have been sick.
For the past two and a half weeks, Jake has been absent almost everyday. And in sixth grade, there are important, age-appropriate studies to make up. Things like algebra, and a world cultures
Then Olivia, who has not yet, at two, had so much as a stuffy nose, became really sick. And because I am no longer this woman*, I had nothing at home for her. So even though she's crying and feeling like she would like to just stay home and be cuddled, I take her with me to the store. I grab--while cooing to her to please stop crying and to not remember this moment of parenting instead please recall an hour later from now when we'll be home and I'll be rocking her--all the items that we NEED to make her feel better. You know: the aforementioned Pedialyte, chicken soup (ugh--canned), fruit, juices, children's Motrin, tissues. Oh, and a few extra items that she has pointed to while crying: crayons, markers, cupcakes, pack of bubbles, new toothbrush with a Hello Kitty handle, balloons, ice cream sandwiches, and at the point of checkout, a large box of imported Italian Panettone.
I won't admit to you what the bill was, all to appease my sick daughter and restock my home with items that thirty-four year old Laura would have already had in the house. But I will tell you that thirteen dollars and ninety-nine cents of that bill was for a box of Italian raisin bread that she had to have. I guess it's okay, Eric was looking into working at a mini-mart in his spare time anyway.
*Organized Mother
Sunday, October 28, 2007
Shot Down in May!
I have blogged before about excrutiatingly difficult dinner times when I was a child, and the memory of a certain breakfast meal came to mind from my last blog, "Mystery Breakfast Food."
When I was a child, you were on your own for breakfast. Breakfast was OverLord/overseer free. You could eat what you wanted. Except there's a loophole, an asterisk the size of Texas on that last statement. My mother stocked only health food. That meant there were no cookies. No doughnuts. No sugar coated cereals.
My younger brother, Jack, and I yearned for Post Sugar Crisps. They were peddled with cute commercials starring a snuggly little bear, the Sugar Bear, and he looked so happy and plump eating those tasty treats of sugary, wheaty goodness. Jack and I had tasted them at other children's houses, but that meant diddly-squat. We ate breakfast at our house. That meant Kellogg's All Bran. At first, All Bran ripped through me like a gallon of Metamucil through a two year old. By the time I was twelve, my intestines had developed the capacity to digest enough roughage to contipate a horse.
We yearned for Sugar Crisps.
Finally, one day, a miracle happened. Jack and I were with our mother at the grocery store and with the inspired amount of cajoling, tears, and persuasion, our mother relented and bought us a box of Sugar Crisps.
We ate the whole box in one morning. We were like those cowboys in the western movies that had been stranded in the desert for two weeks and were dyin' o' thirst, and their horses had crumpled in the last scene, and the cowboys were mumblin' incoherent crap, and their lips were all crudded over and whitish, and the people that found them had to keep them from taking too big a swig of water all at once because their parched throats would swell up. Except we had no one to grab the canteen and keep us from drinking too much water. We were alone in the breakfast room. Alone. All by ourselves. Only the two of us.......and a box of Sugar Crisps.
Our rugged little constitutions couldn't handle that much pleasure, that much joy, that much sugar all in one morning. Hell, we couldn't have handled a whole box of All Bran. We squirted hot broth out our bung holes until we were in a state of exhaustion and compliance, and then our mother informed us we were never to eat those diabolical diuretics ever again.
You're ridin' high in April. Shot down in May!
When I was a child, you were on your own for breakfast. Breakfast was OverLord/overseer free. You could eat what you wanted. Except there's a loophole, an asterisk the size of Texas on that last statement. My mother stocked only health food. That meant there were no cookies. No doughnuts. No sugar coated cereals.
My younger brother, Jack, and I yearned for Post Sugar Crisps. They were peddled with cute commercials starring a snuggly little bear, the Sugar Bear, and he looked so happy and plump eating those tasty treats of sugary, wheaty goodness. Jack and I had tasted them at other children's houses, but that meant diddly-squat. We ate breakfast at our house. That meant Kellogg's All Bran. At first, All Bran ripped through me like a gallon of Metamucil through a two year old. By the time I was twelve, my intestines had developed the capacity to digest enough roughage to contipate a horse.
We yearned for Sugar Crisps.
Finally, one day, a miracle happened. Jack and I were with our mother at the grocery store and with the inspired amount of cajoling, tears, and persuasion, our mother relented and bought us a box of Sugar Crisps.
We ate the whole box in one morning. We were like those cowboys in the western movies that had been stranded in the desert for two weeks and were dyin' o' thirst, and their horses had crumpled in the last scene, and the cowboys were mumblin' incoherent crap, and their lips were all crudded over and whitish, and the people that found them had to keep them from taking too big a swig of water all at once because their parched throats would swell up. Except we had no one to grab the canteen and keep us from drinking too much water. We were alone in the breakfast room. Alone. All by ourselves. Only the two of us.......and a box of Sugar Crisps.
Our rugged little constitutions couldn't handle that much pleasure, that much joy, that much sugar all in one morning. Hell, we couldn't have handled a whole box of All Bran. We squirted hot broth out our bung holes until we were in a state of exhaustion and compliance, and then our mother informed us we were never to eat those diabolical diuretics ever again.
You're ridin' high in April. Shot down in May!
Mystery Breakfast Food
My fourth graders were having a discussion of what constitutes a healthy breakfast. This discussion was brought on by an onslaught of weakness and anemia just before lunch time. I thought a group discussion would be of some instruction to my students who think two bites of a Pop Tart is a nutritious meal. We went over all the different foods that would be bad to eat, including junk, sugary breakfast cereals, then we discussed more positive choices.
At the end of the discussion I asked if there were any questions. Mark raised his hand.
"Yes, you have a question, Mark?"
"Yeah. I was wonderin'.....what exactly is 'shreaded meat?' "
"I think you misunderstood, Mark. The class was taking about Shreaded Wheat."
"Oh. What's Shreaded Wheat?"
"It's a breakfast cereal. It's a healthy breakfast cereal made from whole grain wheat. You've never heard of Shreaded Wheat?"
"No. I eat Count Chocula!
Mmmm. Chocolate for breakfast. Lucky Mark.
At the end of the discussion I asked if there were any questions. Mark raised his hand.
"Yes, you have a question, Mark?"
"Yeah. I was wonderin'.....what exactly is 'shreaded meat?' "
"I think you misunderstood, Mark. The class was taking about Shreaded Wheat."
"Oh. What's Shreaded Wheat?"
"It's a breakfast cereal. It's a healthy breakfast cereal made from whole grain wheat. You've never heard of Shreaded Wheat?"
"No. I eat Count Chocula!
Mmmm. Chocolate for breakfast. Lucky Mark.
Thursday, October 25, 2007
A.K.A. Michael Myers
A fourth grade student in my class, Nicole, was talking to me at lunch about Halloween and some scary movies she enjoys. In a very excited voice, Nicole described her favorite scary movie.
"My favorite scary movie is that one where the guy wears the hockey mask, and the mask is kinda white, and he chases after this girl and he won't die, and he has this knife, and it's on Halloween, and it is so scary!"
I'm thinking that this is definitely 'Halloween,' the original thriller starring a young Jamie Lee Curtis.
"Is it 'Halloween'?" Is that the name of the movie?"
"I don't know, Mr. R. But the bad guy's name who wears the hockey mask is Michael Marion Stinkbaum."
Being of older mind and even slower thinking, I asked, "What's the guy's name again?"
"Michael Marion Stinkbaum."
Then Nathan, who was sitting with us interjects, "No it's not. It's Michael Myers!"
"My favorite scary movie is that one where the guy wears the hockey mask, and the mask is kinda white, and he chases after this girl and he won't die, and he has this knife, and it's on Halloween, and it is so scary!"
I'm thinking that this is definitely 'Halloween,' the original thriller starring a young Jamie Lee Curtis.
"Is it 'Halloween'?" Is that the name of the movie?"
"I don't know, Mr. R. But the bad guy's name who wears the hockey mask is Michael Marion Stinkbaum."
Being of older mind and even slower thinking, I asked, "What's the guy's name again?"
"Michael Marion Stinkbaum."
Then Nathan, who was sitting with us interjects, "No it's not. It's Michael Myers!"Nicole looks at Nathan confusedly and says, "I thought his name was Michael Marion Stinkbaum."
I had to guess at the spelling of the pseudonym Nicole has given Michael Myers. Michael Marion Stinkbaum is his alias, I suppose.
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Endless Love
We fully comprehend our future parents-in-law responsibility that came part and parcel with birthing Olivia. The pre-wedding talk with her intended will be well-rehearsed. It will point out the benefits of marrying a girl with a demanding nature, the plus sides of forming a partnership with a girl who is decisive and sure of her wants, and the obvious financial upsides of her still sporting an inexpensive size 6X as an adult. But where we will be of no assistance to the young man will be in the affection department.
As I drove Olivia to school this morning, I reminded her that I loved her a great deal. "Nooooo!" she screamed, as usual. "Yes, Olivia," I persisted. "And you love Mommy, too."
She looked out the window and sighed. "What's goin' on here?" she muttered.
You're on your own, dear son-in-law.
As I drove Olivia to school this morning, I reminded her that I loved her a great deal. "Nooooo!" she screamed, as usual. "Yes, Olivia," I persisted. "And you love Mommy, too."
She looked out the window and sighed. "What's goin' on here?" she muttered.
You're on your own, dear son-in-law.
Saturday, October 20, 2007
An Incredible Resume
I sent out a volunteer form to all the parents of the students in my fourth grade classroom. I use this form to find parents who are willing and able to tutor math and writing, and I schedule them to come together in groups of three of four at a specific, appropriate time when they can assist in the classroom. The volunteer form also has a survey that asks parents if they have an area of expertise they would like to share with the classroom. Any parent who is unable or unwilling to come into the classroom on a regular basis but who would like to talk to the kids about their hobby or their area of expertise are welcome.
Nathan's father responded, and I was amazed at what I read. I mentioned his response to Nathan.
"Nathan, you're father is really somethin', isn't he."
"What do ya mean, Mr. R.?"
"Well, for one thing, your father is a colonel in the United States Air Force."
"He is?"
"Yes, he is. Did you know that he was a colonel?"
"No."
"Do you know what that means?"
"No."
"That means your father has very many people that he gives orders to, but very few people who give him orders. He is very high up in the chain of command. He is an important person. Did you know that?"
"No."
"That isn't all, Nathan. He flies some of the greatest fighter and bomber jets in the world. He flies F-117 Stealths, F-4s and F-4 Phantoms, F-15s, the F-22 Raptor! Did you know he flew the fastest jets in the world?"
"No. I knew he flew stuff."
" 'Stuff?' Nathan! Your father flew F-16s in Operation Desert Storm! He is a fighter ace! He teaches Air Force pilots how to fly all kinds of incredible aircraft, and now he is involved in some kind of project involving a new jet that has new technology....the F-22 or something. Did you know that about your father?
"No." Then with an excited, suddenly animated voice, Nathan exclaims, "He plays football and bakes cookies!"
I guess I'm with Nathan. My eating disorder precludes me from asking his father to discuss the boring aircraft he flies. Nah! Let's get him to bake cookies!!
Nathan's father responded, and I was amazed at what I read. I mentioned his response to Nathan.
"Nathan, you're father is really somethin', isn't he."
"What do ya mean, Mr. R.?"
"Well, for one thing, your father is a colonel in the United States Air Force."
"He is?"
"Yes, he is. Did you know that he was a colonel?"
"No."
"Do you know what that means?"
"No."
"That means your father has very many people that he gives orders to, but very few people who give him orders. He is very high up in the chain of command. He is an important person. Did you know that?"
"No."
"That isn't all, Nathan. He flies some of the greatest fighter and bomber jets in the world. He flies F-117 Stealths, F-4s and F-4 Phantoms, F-15s, the F-22 Raptor! Did you know he flew the fastest jets in the world?"
"No. I knew he flew stuff."
" 'Stuff?' Nathan! Your father flew F-16s in Operation Desert Storm! He is a fighter ace! He teaches Air Force pilots how to fly all kinds of incredible aircraft, and now he is involved in some kind of project involving a new jet that has new technology....the F-22 or something. Did you know that about your father?
"No." Then with an excited, suddenly animated voice, Nathan exclaims, "He plays football and bakes cookies!"
I guess I'm with Nathan. My eating disorder precludes me from asking his father to discuss the boring aircraft he flies. Nah! Let's get him to bake cookies!!
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
School Days 2007
Olivia was one of the last to get photographed. It was a horrific twenty minute wait, as Olivia watched the children before her become more and more upset with every camera click. She sat down, nervously, and just there on the right, at her knee level, I think you can see a portion of my shirt.After a substantial amount of flashes, the photographers asked me to please remove her from the bench; they had enough pictures already.
I had the only child who screamed as she was being taken away from the big bad picture man by her mother. As we passed the next terrified child waiting in line, she stuck out her index finger to him. "Don't be scared," she said with the authoritative voice of experience.
Add about 40 years on you and see how much you love that camera, O.
Sunday, October 14, 2007
Funny, And I Always Try To Lay Everything On Eric
Simon has been an amazing surprise from the day we brought home Olivia. He was so intensely...uh, playful with Jake that we assumed that around the first of September 2005 it was going to have to be a decision between keeping him or Olivia. We wanted to see if she was a colicky baby before we committed to a decision.
But not to worry. Simon took his charge of Olivia very seriously. Even while running through the house after Jake with his maddest pace--and not that I am screaming at them or anything while this is occurring--he avoids her completely. She can take his bone from his mouth, try to stick a finger at his fascinating rear end, or pull his body hair to help her stand up; he just patiently licks her. His only ill behavior is a rabid consumption of her puzzle pieces. She will bring us another mangled piece, with a sad expression, and we take it from her. "Oh Olivia," we say. "How sad. Simon ate the puzzle."
We were driving to school the other morning, and we passed a snarl of traffic due to a stalled auto. "What is that, Mom?" she pointed to the disabled car.
"That car is broken, Olivia."
"Oh," she said knowingly and sadly. "Simon got it."
Friday, October 12, 2007
The Can-Can
I have a little tradition that every class loves, especially at the beginning of the year when it's fresh. Whenever a child has a birthday, the parents and I plan a surprise party. They bring the cookies, cupcakes, or whatever, and sometimes I supply the drinks. They arrive with these goodies during the kids' last, afternoon recess. Then, when I go get the students who are lined up to come in, I have one of them "rat" or tattle on the birthday child. The "stoolie" will complain about something the birthday child did during recess, and while I am "chewing them out" in the hallway, the other kids line up at the front of the room and sing "Happy Birthday," "The Birthday Rap," and "The Army Birthday Sound-Off Song" to them when the birthday child enters the room.
John and Damian share a birthday, so I contacted both of their parents, plotted and planned the surprise birthday party, the day of the party arrived, the last recess came, the goodies arrived via one of the parents, the recess ended, and I set out on my last contribution to the celebration: to get John and Damian in trouble. Sure enough, Bailey had a complaint about both of them as plotted and planned, and I was out in the hallway giving the two birthday boys a bit of "advice" about playground behavior.
Only I notice they both of them seemed totally unconcerned, and I thought, "Well, we've only done this twice, but Damian is pretty sharp, may have seen this coming, and may have warned John about the possibility of a secret party." I finished my speech, headed into the classroom, and when Damian and John entered, the class started singing our three birthday songs. Except little Damian had figured it out, and he and John had practiced the Can-Can. We watched them dance the Can-Can while we sang to them.
It was a bizzare moment, witnessed by a fifth grade teacher, Mr. N., who came into our classroom to talk to me about a girl in the Chamiza Chorus. I don't know if he told anyone what he saw, but if he did, it must have been a peculiar tale: two, fourth grade boys, arm-in-arm, dancing the Can-Can, with music provided by everyone else in the class singing three birthday songs.
John and Damian share a birthday, so I contacted both of their parents, plotted and planned the surprise birthday party, the day of the party arrived, the last recess came, the goodies arrived via one of the parents, the recess ended, and I set out on my last contribution to the celebration: to get John and Damian in trouble. Sure enough, Bailey had a complaint about both of them as plotted and planned, and I was out in the hallway giving the two birthday boys a bit of "advice" about playground behavior.
Only I notice they both of them seemed totally unconcerned, and I thought, "Well, we've only done this twice, but Damian is pretty sharp, may have seen this coming, and may have warned John about the possibility of a secret party." I finished my speech, headed into the classroom, and when Damian and John entered, the class started singing our three birthday songs. Except little Damian had figured it out, and he and John had practiced the Can-Can. We watched them dance the Can-Can while we sang to them.
It was a bizzare moment, witnessed by a fifth grade teacher, Mr. N., who came into our classroom to talk to me about a girl in the Chamiza Chorus. I don't know if he told anyone what he saw, but if he did, it must have been a peculiar tale: two, fourth grade boys, arm-in-arm, dancing the Can-Can, with music provided by everyone else in the class singing three birthday songs.
Tuesday, October 09, 2007
Just Sittin' Back Watching Every Adult Die
Damian is one of my fourth grade students, and what a fine, young man he is. One of his recent stories that he wrote and that I was helping him edit during Writer's Workshop class has me still laughing. After you read this blog, you'll either laugh with Damian and me, worry about me, or worry about both of us.
I assigned a prompt, an idea that gets the writer's mind to thinking, and it starts every classroom writer off with the same idea. The prompt was, "You are on a class field trip to the zoo. While walking by the duck pond, you see something glistening under the water. Upon closer inspection you find.........." Each child is then asked to finish the story.
I was checking Damian's prewriting, and he wrote that he saw something shiny under the water, sneaked into the pond, looked under the water, saw a doorknob that looked like a gigantic diamond, pulled on the doorknob, and opened a door that led to a vortex that started sucking all the adults into it. The story continued, but I was intrigued by this unusual development, so I inquired further.
"Damian, did anybody else get sucked into the vortex, or was it just the adults?
"It was just the adults, Mr. W."
"Was it the adults that were in the zoo, all the adults in Albuquerque, or all the adults in the United States?"
"No, it was ALL the adults."
"All the adults in the whole, wide world?"
"Yeah. All the adults."
"Well Damian, your story leaves out some of the details. If every adult in the whole, wide world got sucked in, how long did it take for them to get sucked into this vortex?"
"I don't know. A couple of hours, I guess."
"Well, your story is missing these details. Let's write this down in your prewriting plan...........OK. We have that written down. Now tell me, what did you do during those two hours?"
"I just sat there and watched."
"So every adult in the world, every, single one of them, are being sucked into this vortex, and you sat there and watched for TWO HOURS?"
"At this point, Damian started giggling. "Yeah. Heh, heh, heh! I just sat there."
"What were all the other kids at the zoo doing while all these adults were disappearing? Were they watching too?"
"Heh, heh, heh. Yeah. They were sitting there watching too. Heh heh!"
"So when all the Chinese adults were pouring into this vortex, you looked at all your classmates and the other kids and said, 'Well, there goes all the adults from China.' "
Damian is, by this time, in stitches. He's laughing pretty hard, and I'm starting to get a kick out of this, too.
"Heh heh! Yeah. I guess we just sat there watching 'em go in!"
"Damian, did any kids go get popcorn or a corn dog while all this was happening, or did they just sit there with you and watch?"
Damian is really laughing now. "Mr. W., they just sat there. All the kids just sat there and Ha! Ha! Ha! just watched the adults get sucked into this alternate universe! Ha ! Ha! Ha!"
Damian is an African-American, so I went for the jugular. "When all the adults from Africa got sucked into the vortex, did every kid say, 'Oh look! there goes all the Africans!' "
Damian is unable to stifle his giggles, and said, "Hah! Hah! Hah! Oh my God! I think I need to rewrite this part."
I said, "Damian, I think you're pretty smart for getting my offbeat sense of humor. Let's just say that your story needs detail. We'll let this part go as it is, for now."
Damian, still laughing, says, "No, let me try changing it."
I gave him his story and he went back to his desk. I am really curious as to how his story will play out.
PS. I am referring Damian for the Enriched (Gifted) program. His academic and thinking skills, combined with his abilty to "get" his teacher's unusual sense of humor, make me think that this is one smart boy.
Or, like me, a nimnut with a wacked sense of humor.
I assigned a prompt, an idea that gets the writer's mind to thinking, and it starts every classroom writer off with the same idea. The prompt was, "You are on a class field trip to the zoo. While walking by the duck pond, you see something glistening under the water. Upon closer inspection you find.........." Each child is then asked to finish the story.
I was checking Damian's prewriting, and he wrote that he saw something shiny under the water, sneaked into the pond, looked under the water, saw a doorknob that looked like a gigantic diamond, pulled on the doorknob, and opened a door that led to a vortex that started sucking all the adults into it. The story continued, but I was intrigued by this unusual development, so I inquired further.
"Damian, did anybody else get sucked into the vortex, or was it just the adults?
"It was just the adults, Mr. W."
"Was it the adults that were in the zoo, all the adults in Albuquerque, or all the adults in the United States?"
"No, it was ALL the adults."
"All the adults in the whole, wide world?"
"Yeah. All the adults."
"Well Damian, your story leaves out some of the details. If every adult in the whole, wide world got sucked in, how long did it take for them to get sucked into this vortex?"
"I don't know. A couple of hours, I guess."
"Well, your story is missing these details. Let's write this down in your prewriting plan...........OK. We have that written down. Now tell me, what did you do during those two hours?"
"I just sat there and watched."
"So every adult in the world, every, single one of them, are being sucked into this vortex, and you sat there and watched for TWO HOURS?"
"At this point, Damian started giggling. "Yeah. Heh, heh, heh! I just sat there."
"What were all the other kids at the zoo doing while all these adults were disappearing? Were they watching too?"
"Heh, heh, heh. Yeah. They were sitting there watching too. Heh heh!"
"So when all the Chinese adults were pouring into this vortex, you looked at all your classmates and the other kids and said, 'Well, there goes all the adults from China.' "
Damian is, by this time, in stitches. He's laughing pretty hard, and I'm starting to get a kick out of this, too.
"Heh heh! Yeah. I guess we just sat there watching 'em go in!"
"Damian, did any kids go get popcorn or a corn dog while all this was happening, or did they just sit there with you and watch?"
Damian is really laughing now. "Mr. W., they just sat there. All the kids just sat there and Ha! Ha! Ha! just watched the adults get sucked into this alternate universe! Ha ! Ha! Ha!"
Damian is an African-American, so I went for the jugular. "When all the adults from Africa got sucked into the vortex, did every kid say, 'Oh look! there goes all the Africans!' "
Damian is unable to stifle his giggles, and said, "Hah! Hah! Hah! Oh my God! I think I need to rewrite this part."
I said, "Damian, I think you're pretty smart for getting my offbeat sense of humor. Let's just say that your story needs detail. We'll let this part go as it is, for now."
Damian, still laughing, says, "No, let me try changing it."
I gave him his story and he went back to his desk. I am really curious as to how his story will play out.
PS. I am referring Damian for the Enriched (Gifted) program. His academic and thinking skills, combined with his abilty to "get" his teacher's unusual sense of humor, make me think that this is one smart boy.
Or, like me, a nimnut with a wacked sense of humor.
Sunday, October 07, 2007
Saved By A Technicality
I ask the kids to fill out questionnaires on the first few days of school that help me get to know them, and we use them to get to know each other. One group of questions are:
"Do you believe that Santa Claus is real? Answer yes or no."
"Do you believe that the Easter Bunny is real? Answer yes or no."
"Do you believe that the Tooth Fairy is real. Answer yes or no."
I'm sitting there watching the kids eagerly fill out this questionnaire that has them writing about hobbies, loves, favorite things, etc., but in the middle of the writing, Hannah looks up somewhat distressed and raises her hand. I go over to Hannah's desk and quietly ask her if she has a question.
"Yes. I want to know if I can change one of my answers."
"Of course, Hannah. Which one do you want to change?"
"This one," pointing to her "No" answer as to whether Santa Claus is real.
"Do you want to change these two?" I asked, pointing to her "No" answers on the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy.
"No. I don't want to change those. I want to change this one," she said, pointing to her "No" answer to Santa Claus.
"You go right ahead and change your answer, Hannah."
But when I go back to my chair, I see Hannah writing away on her paper. The word "Yes" doesn't take that much time to write, so when I get her paper back, I go straight to the question, "Do you believe that Santa Claus is real? Answer yes or no." Here is her new, revised response.
"Tecknikally yes. tecknikally he is real. He isnt really real but he is real on a technikality.
This is heavy. "I think. Therefore I am on a technicality."
"Do you believe that Santa Claus is real? Answer yes or no."
"Do you believe that the Easter Bunny is real? Answer yes or no."
"Do you believe that the Tooth Fairy is real. Answer yes or no."
I'm sitting there watching the kids eagerly fill out this questionnaire that has them writing about hobbies, loves, favorite things, etc., but in the middle of the writing, Hannah looks up somewhat distressed and raises her hand. I go over to Hannah's desk and quietly ask her if she has a question.
"Yes. I want to know if I can change one of my answers."
"Of course, Hannah. Which one do you want to change?"
"This one," pointing to her "No" answer as to whether Santa Claus is real.
"Do you want to change these two?" I asked, pointing to her "No" answers on the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy.
"No. I don't want to change those. I want to change this one," she said, pointing to her "No" answer to Santa Claus.
"You go right ahead and change your answer, Hannah."
But when I go back to my chair, I see Hannah writing away on her paper. The word "Yes" doesn't take that much time to write, so when I get her paper back, I go straight to the question, "Do you believe that Santa Claus is real? Answer yes or no." Here is her new, revised response.
"Tecknikally yes. tecknikally he is real. He isnt really real but he is real on a technikality.
This is heavy. "I think. Therefore I am on a technicality."
Saturday, October 06, 2007
The Indiscernible Conversation
Hannah is a girl who was born to converse. She is in my fourth grade class, and her third grade teacher warned me that she was a talker. Talkative in class? No. This girl was born to talk.
Last week, during a quiet work time in class, she came up to me and whispered so quietly that I was unable to even hear her.
"Mr. R., I was woing se whisper you widolf whisper hail moo sif ydjhd blah blah whisper whisper whisper?"
I was struck by the fact that Hannah could even consider the possibility that another human being with the limitations of homo sapiens' physiological auditory capabilities could ever hear anything that quiet. I have blogged about my hearing loss before but it's not THAT bad, so I thought, let's find out if Hannah really even heard what SHE said. Whispering as quietly as possible so that no human ear could possibly hear, I replied in total gibberish.
"Hannah, i dunt whisper whisper no nanhe blah blah gibberish nonsense blak blah blah whisper."
Hannah looks at me without batting an eye and says, "Oh! OK. I see."
And then she walks off! For Hannah, it's not the quality of conversation, it's about the quantity, and I had satisfied her need, for the time being.
Last week, during a quiet work time in class, she came up to me and whispered so quietly that I was unable to even hear her.
"Mr. R., I was woing se whisper you widolf whisper hail moo sif ydjhd blah blah whisper whisper whisper?"
I was struck by the fact that Hannah could even consider the possibility that another human being with the limitations of homo sapiens' physiological auditory capabilities could ever hear anything that quiet. I have blogged about my hearing loss before but it's not THAT bad, so I thought, let's find out if Hannah really even heard what SHE said. Whispering as quietly as possible so that no human ear could possibly hear, I replied in total gibberish.
"Hannah, i dunt whisper whisper no nanhe blah blah gibberish nonsense blak blah blah whisper."
Hannah looks at me without batting an eye and says, "Oh! OK. I see."
And then she walks off! For Hannah, it's not the quality of conversation, it's about the quantity, and I had satisfied her need, for the time being.
Saturday, September 29, 2007
Einstein, Nick and I
When I was a child, I heard or read somewhere that Albert Einstein once checked out a library book, used a fifty dollar bill as a bookmark, and then returned the book to the library with the fifty dollar bill still in it. The honest person who later checked out the book returned it to the library, informed the library of the mistake made by the previous borrower, and the library used their card system to find out who had last used the book. It turned out to be the absent-minded professor, Albert Einstein.
I loved that story and clung to it as the absolute truth, thus easing myself of much guilt and ensuring myself of an almost tiny pleasure in any evidence that might suggest I am a little forgetful.
I am happy to announce that I may have a little genius in my class. He came into the classroom on Thursday wearing only socks, and I inquired, "Nick, where are your shoes?" Nick looks down at his feet, looks up at me and says, "I don't know. Oh! Wait a minute! I must have left them on the bus."
I buzzed the office, the bus driver was contacted, held onto Nick's shoes for the rest of the day, and Nick got his shoes back. I'm hoping that he has not only Einstein's absent-mindedness, but his mathematical skills as well. I will be teaching Nick differential equations by the end of the year.
Uh-oh. Wait a minute. I forgot how to do differential equations. That's kinda like shoes, isn't it?
I loved that story and clung to it as the absolute truth, thus easing myself of much guilt and ensuring myself of an almost tiny pleasure in any evidence that might suggest I am a little forgetful.
I am happy to announce that I may have a little genius in my class. He came into the classroom on Thursday wearing only socks, and I inquired, "Nick, where are your shoes?" Nick looks down at his feet, looks up at me and says, "I don't know. Oh! Wait a minute! I must have left them on the bus."
I buzzed the office, the bus driver was contacted, held onto Nick's shoes for the rest of the day, and Nick got his shoes back. I'm hoping that he has not only Einstein's absent-mindedness, but his mathematical skills as well. I will be teaching Nick differential equations by the end of the year.
Uh-oh. Wait a minute. I forgot how to do differential equations. That's kinda like shoes, isn't it?
Friday, September 28, 2007
THE LARGEST, PUBLIC, ELEMENTARY SCHOOL CHORUS IN THE U.S.A.
I have been pretty busy lately. Besides teaching a great class of fourth graders, I have been overseeing what I believe is the largest, elementary, public school chorus in the United States.
The local newspaper, the Albuquerque Tribune, recently did a front page, five column, lead-in photo of the chorus, and a front page of the second section article on our chorus, with two additional, five column photos, one in color and one in black and white.
I made a claim to the paper that we had the largest public school chorus in the nation right here in our city, and they checked it out. Turns out they believe I'm correct. I think that impressed them, and they went with the story.
For the article and a video, check out these two websites:
http://abqtrib.com/news/2007/sep/27/albuquerques-chamiza-elementary-chorus-thought-hav
or
http://abqtrib.com/search/?q=chamiza+chorus
I've been so busy I've haven't had time to complain about NCLB (No Child Left Behind) and its negative impact on teachers at our school. Lucky me. Lucky you.
The local newspaper, the Albuquerque Tribune, recently did a front page, five column, lead-in photo of the chorus, and a front page of the second section article on our chorus, with two additional, five column photos, one in color and one in black and white.
I made a claim to the paper that we had the largest public school chorus in the nation right here in our city, and they checked it out. Turns out they believe I'm correct. I think that impressed them, and they went with the story.
For the article and a video, check out these two websites:
http://abqtrib.com/news/2007/sep/27/albuquerques-chamiza-elementary-chorus-thought-hav
or
http://abqtrib.com/search/?q=chamiza+chorus
I've been so busy I've haven't had time to complain about NCLB (No Child Left Behind) and its negative impact on teachers at our school. Lucky me. Lucky you.
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
Red Glitter Shoes
One of my favorite human beings on the planet Earth is Emma. Emma is the five year old daughter of Mary Catherine, a third grade teacher in the classroom next door to mine. Emma is a precocious, darling, kindergarten charmer who first won my heart when I held her as a baby during teachers' meetings.
I saw Emma recently and saw that she had on Red Glitter Shoes. I told her, "Oh, Emma! Those shoes are so wonderful and sparkly. Wow!"
Emma looked so proud in her Red Glitter Shoes.
Then Mary Catherine said, Mr. R., those are special shoes. Those are her Red Glitter Shoes. I bought a pair of Red Glitter Shoes many years ago when it looked like George and I weren't going to be able to have children. We had tried and tried, but it was pretty obvious that we weren't going to have any children, and I was so upset and depressed about it. Then, one day in the Wal-Mart I saw a pair of Red Glitter Shoes. My heart just sank thinking about how I would never be able to buy shoes like that for my real daughter, so I bought them anyway. I don't know why. I just wanted to be able to buy them, even if they were for a little girl I would never have. I put them in the closet and they sat in there for a few years. Then Emma was born, and I was so happy I bought those shoes!"
I looked at Emma's shoes and said, "Are these the pair you bought and put in the closet?"
She laughed and said, "Oh no! She wore out those shoes long ago. These are her third pair of Red Glitter Shoes!"
Emma looked so proud of her Red Glitter Shoes. Almost as proud as her mother.
I saw Emma recently and saw that she had on Red Glitter Shoes. I told her, "Oh, Emma! Those shoes are so wonderful and sparkly. Wow!"
Emma looked so proud in her Red Glitter Shoes.
Then Mary Catherine said, Mr. R., those are special shoes. Those are her Red Glitter Shoes. I bought a pair of Red Glitter Shoes many years ago when it looked like George and I weren't going to be able to have children. We had tried and tried, but it was pretty obvious that we weren't going to have any children, and I was so upset and depressed about it. Then, one day in the Wal-Mart I saw a pair of Red Glitter Shoes. My heart just sank thinking about how I would never be able to buy shoes like that for my real daughter, so I bought them anyway. I don't know why. I just wanted to be able to buy them, even if they were for a little girl I would never have. I put them in the closet and they sat in there for a few years. Then Emma was born, and I was so happy I bought those shoes!"
I looked at Emma's shoes and said, "Are these the pair you bought and put in the closet?"
She laughed and said, "Oh no! She wore out those shoes long ago. These are her third pair of Red Glitter Shoes!"
Emma looked so proud of her Red Glitter Shoes. Almost as proud as her mother.
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