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.

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!

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.

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.

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.

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!

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?"

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.

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.

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.

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."

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!

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.

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.

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.

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!"

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.

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.

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.

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."

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.

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 cultures thesis 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

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!

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.

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!"

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.

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.

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!!

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.

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."

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.

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.

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."

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.

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?

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.

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.

Kids' Comments

These are some comments my fourth grade students made this week:


Me: "Most of the candidates have already started
running for President of the United States."
Thomas: "How fast do they have to run?"
(Some faster than others.)

Me: (during a life science class studying flower parts)
"What is a gymnosperm?"
Alex: "Isn't that a boy's body part?"
(Fill in your own cute remark here.)

Me: "Why do you think Little Willy
didn't tell everyone that Stone Fox
hit him in the face? (Pause)
Yes. Samantha."
Samantha: "My mother and I went to visit a
friend who lives in Rio Rancho, and she
doesn't have a kitchen. She told her husband
to build the house without a kitchen because
she didn't ever want to cook again, and so he
built the house without a kitchen."
Me: "Huh? What?"

Communication Skills

I just love teaching. Teaching is one of the few careers that you start at the top and work your way down.

I get to be in the classroom with a brand new group of fourth graders, and I am already having a great time. Lots of funny little things are said each day due to their unique communication skills.

On Friday I sent a student to the cafeteria to see if it was available for our class to use.

Damian came back and I asked him, "Damian, what's going on in the cafeteria?"

He replied, "Well, there are some kindergarteners or first graders in there."

"What are they doing in there, Damian?"

"Well, they're in there playing with each others' elbows."

I never did find out exactly what was going on in the cafeteria. By the time we got there, the kindergarteners of first graders had finished playing with each others' elbows and had already left.

I Want To Be A Mysterious Woman

I have a friend named Neal who thinks Christine Lavin is one of America's greatest songwriters. I don't exactly agree with that assessment, but I know that I sure appreciate almost every musical effort ever made by a human being, and Christine Lavin's music is unusually clever and enjoyable. One of her songs is titled, "I Want To be A Mysterious Woman." I thought of Christine Lavin's song when I was giving advice to an ex-student.

I keep in touch with one of my ex-students who is now in the ninth grade, and in our email correspondence, she told me that she went to Disneyland and had a horrible time because she was on her period.

Now I don't mind having a girl feel so comfortable with me that she can tell me this very personal information, but I also have a lot of reservations about knowing it. So I replied to her, and here is what I said.

"I am flattered that you feel so comfortable with me that you would tell me that you were on your period. I also feel concerned that you may be telling other people that information. It is none of your boyfriends' business when you are menstruating, and it isn't any of mine, either.

I want you to keep your menstrual cycle to yourself. Don't even tell me. And certainly don't tell any boys! In the matter of your menstrual periods, I want you to be a Mysterious Woman. I want the boys to wonder about you, but to have no idea what is going on. And that includes what you look like when you are naked. Keep your clothes on, and keep your periods to yourself. Be a Mysterious Woman. Keep boys and men wondering about your sexuality but don't let them find out anything, ever, because as soon as they find out, the mystery is over. Case closed. The "Mystery of You" will have been solved. Don't tell them anything. Don't show them anything. Remain Mysterious."

Some would say my advice doesn't actually fit the meaning of the lyrics of Christine Lavin's song, but on a simple level I think it certainly does. I hope it was good advice. It was advice to a girl whose father and mother don't talk to her properly, and certainly not about such etiquettte, and it was advice from a man who has never had a daughter.

I also have some alarm bells going off about our email correspondence. I am not sure anymore about the legality nor the safety and security of common sense truth.

Self Portraits

I love art, but I'm an idiot at art. To prove this wild statement as truth, I will relate a true story. I will not exaggerate, embellish, or in any way alter the facts as I remember them.

Many, many years ago, my sister Carolyn called me on the phone and said, "There is an art gallery on Westheimer Dr. that is selling paintings by Jackson Pollack. They have a few that you and I could afford. Do you want to drive over there, take a look at them, and maybe choose one and buy it together? We could go halvies?"

"Jackson Pollack? Isn't he that guy that throws paint and splashes it around and calls it motion art or some such garbage and they have monkeys that have duplicated his crap and one elephant that has done some doodling with his trunk that looks exactly like it?"

"Well, yes, some people can't appreciate it and have had some monkeys attempt to duplicate it, but his stuff is genuinely creative."

"How much does it cost?"

"Well, some of his large murals are probably ten or twenty thousand dollars. You and I would buy one of his smaller paintings, and it would only cost us four or five thousand. I don't know. In some ways it depends on the size of the painting."

"Five thousand dollars for monkey art? Do you think I'm stupid, Carolyn? Do you think I'm an idiot? Do you really think I'd spend thousands of dollars to buy monkey art? They got a monkey at the Lubbock Zoo that has already proven it's just monkey art."

"Are you sure? His art might be valuable some day, and it is really amazing in a lot of ways."

"Do you really think I'm that dumb? Don't you realize that them art critics are peddlin' junk and laughin' all the way to the bank? No thank you! I got more brains than that. Them art people are laughin' their asses off at all the idjuts that are buyin' that monkey art!"

"OK. I just thought I'd ask. It seemed like a good idea to me."

"No monkey art for me, thank you."

And now? After watching the lady who was a guest on David Letterman who found a Jackson Pollack painting in a garage sale and is fighting off wealthy, wallet-bearing art lovers who are throwing money at her to get their hands on one of his paintings? After stickin' my foot in my mouth and three-quarters o' the way down my esophagus?

I genuinely appreciate all art. Not because of the investment lost, but because of the lesson learned.

Here are some samples of my fourth graders' self portraits:

"The neck bone's attached to the....jaw bone.
The jaw bone's attached to the....arm bone"

"I have powerful upper body strength, Mr. R.!"

"I've never liked my doorknobs. One is bigger than the other."

"I am mesmerized by your charms."

"Gaze into my eyes. You are going deeper. And deeper."

"This caption confused the bejeebers out of my teacher.

I am cheering on Heatran, a Yu-Gi-Oh character."

"You'll never guess what I'm thinking."

"I am from the planet Zertron,

and I have come for your electric toasters."

But Some of My Best FRIENDS Are, I Swear

Olivia and I spent this morning biking around our neighborhood. Saturday mornings are the best times for this, as we live in a (mostly) Orthodox neighborhood and consequently the Sabbath is free of cars. Well, except for that awkward moment when I race over to Nordstrom, and not knowing how to be nonchalant with my auto, honk bye-bye at my neighbors.

She chattered to me happily during the ride. And as those who know my family will atest, Olivia is most verbal when it comes to food. I was speaking to my good friend the other day when O ran in from her bedroom. "CHOCOLATE CAKE" she screamed, prompting my friend to say, "I do that sometimes!" Another phone conversation with my friend had Olivia shout "MORE PANCAKE!" Over the wires, charming. But accompanied with Olivia's little finger, pointing at your face with accusations of starvation, and it just substantiates my claim that I have birthed a diminutive dictator.

After thirty minutes pedaling in the heat, I was ready to go home; Olivia was not. The only way to be able to even wheel towards my house without her screaming was to promise her a large glass of the precious blood orange juice I had in the refridgerator. She was thrilled. My neighbors however, were not. As we slowly bicycled past the Orthodox people making their way to Synagogue, my daughter joyously pointed at each and every one of them and shouted her oncoming bounty. "Juice!" she yelled "JUICE!"

That, assuredly, is NOT what they heard.

Redundant Chinese Fortune Cookies

Brandon is a sixteen year old teenager I mentor, and he and I are at a Chinese restaurant enjoying a pretty good meal. Brandon and I both love food, and Chinese food is particularly good to both of us, so we're talking and yakking away about love, women, and life in general. I, of course, am providing him with my deep insights and advice, and Brandon is thoughtfully pretending to listen in a way that leads me to believe he will actually follow up on all my pontifications.

We finished our kung pao chicken and moo shui pork, and the waiter brought us those endearing little fortune cookies that once cost me $5 because the lottery was started up in our state and so the fortune cookie companies began printing numbers at the bottom of their fortunes and my wife and I decided that maybe the numbers were some sort of mysterious omen of winnings to come, so I dash to the nearest convenience store and contribute a Lincoln to the state "kitty" and some of it is given to a lucky yokel in Bernalillo who actually won the damn lottery.

I opened my fortune cookie and read it out loud to Brandon.

"You are never selfish with your advice or your help."

Brandon nodded approvingly and responded, "Yeah. That's right."

"Open yours, Brandon."

Brandon opened his fortune cookie and said, "You are never selfish with your advice or your help."

I stated the obvious, of course. "Brandon! That's the exact same fortune as mine!"

Brandon paused briefly and then announced way too loud so that everyone could hear, "What is this crap?"

Come On In, The Water's Fine

For me, signs of insanity of any level are frightening. I heartily listened to my father when he preached to "live like video cameras are on you constantly". His meaning was actually to not be hypocritical--live at home with the same manners that you give to the outside world. What for him then was simply a preventative to say, nose-picking, turned into an intense paranoia for me that has led to forty-plus years of carefully edited The Real World, Laura.

Thusly, I have tried to teach my children my father's view, sans the performance. If you wouldn't do it in front of others, don't do it at all. So if you have some strange tendency or quirk, don't hide it, learn to not do it. And then I bear Olivia. A child who gains the most solace in life by her family, her stuffed chicken, and a furball.

A furball is a hand-picked, personal piece of OCD, comprised of the white wool carpet that covers our living room. At an early age, she rolled around on the rug and pushed herself up on it, triumphantly rising with a fist full of white fibers. As she learned to walk about the house, one furball in each hand aided her balance. I kept pulling them out of her stubborn little mitts, envisioning that the day would inevitably come when she wouldn't be able to attend freshman year without them. They are an uninvited guest everywhere, to wit:


Today I caved in. I threw away this morning's little ball and she looked at me so pitifully.

"Come on," I sighed. "Let's go make you a new furball."

My God Where Have You Been or, Somebody Give Me Joan Rivers' Phone Number

The last week has given me the opportunity to do previously neglected things. Small things, like the laundry, the dentist, and convincing three credit reporting agencies that I am NOT, I repeat emphatically, NOT Laurie A. Smith. (It was bad enough that she stole my identity and racked up substantial debt, but what really fired me up is that no, my birthday is NOT in 1943, Jesus Christ can't you tell, thank you very much.)

This abundance of time is due to a. an absolutely exceptional way that I have been attacking my chores around here; b. my son is away on vacation and what a time-zapper an eleven-year old's life turns out to be; and c. my daughter has grown into a toddler. I am able to breathe again.

This is not the section where I brag on Olivia's intelligence (although may I tell you that at 22 months she recognizes her alphabet, can count to twenty, and just finished Pride and Prejudice--since the sole reason I had a daughter was to marry her off to that perfect man Mr. Darcy, since I missed out on him). This is the section, however, where I tell you that I have been untethered from an infant with the accompanying jars of babyfood, two naps a day, and inability to go anywhere because of my own obsession with the fact that I am not having any more children and I don't want to miss one moment of this!

This WAS her.






And this IS her now:

Actually, this is her around three months ago. I am astounded (yet again, you would think I would remember from the first time) at how quickly the time flies by. One moment you're grinding up peas in a food processor and the next you're both perfecting her routine on skates while you toss grapes she catches in her mouth. (Agenda next month: teach her to strip her own crib and wash the sheets.)

I love, love, love, love, love being the mother to two children. It is so different than being the mother to one. I had time, before, to do things like shop, hang out with friends, work, blog. Now, none of it. And I have never loved life more.

Jake has gone through so many changes lately (I wish I could blog about them but this is my blog not his, and I don't want anyone to read this and find out too much about him). Let me just say that he has been a kind, respectful, stand-up kid through a time when he had to deal with someone challenging him and not saying kind things to him, defend his character staunchly twice, and stand by someone through a hard time and be completely selfless. His feelings still got hurt, and I will work hard to make sure the take-away moral for him is not that the nice guy finishes last, but rather the nice guy finishes happier. Meanwhile, if he would just clean his room.

This is him now:








And this, according to Equifax, is ME now: