First Grade is a Whizz

You may or may not be aware that I student taught in three grades.  Couldn’t get the hang of teaching so I had to keep trying, you ask?  While a completely plausible scenario, the real truth is, I was trying to satisfy more than one educational goal during those four months of hell on earth (oops!  I MEANT happy, joyful journey…). 

My stupidity and overconfidence impelled me to pursue the required undergraduate elementary degree, while simultaneously beginning a master’s degree in early elementary education.  I have been chugging away at the graduate degree for three summers now, and can see the light at the end of the proverbial tunnel.  Part of the requirements of that degree is an internship in an early childhood classroom for an extended amount of time.  My faculty adviser (God bless her!) suggested I kill (or merely stun briefly) two birds with one stone.  If I divided my student teaching semester between kindergarten and an elementary classroom, I would satisfy all requirements.  Sounded good to me.  Sign me up!  The other eight weeks I spent in a combined third and fourth grade classroom.  Such a great, busy, exhausting semester that was.  I learned a lot about what I wanted in my own future classroom, and few things I did not.

I have just laid the foundation for why I do not wish to ever teach kindergarten.  Here it is; I mothered four children, I do not feel the need to play mother to more.  The educational truth is, kindergarten teachers are three percent educator and ninety-seven percent mother/nanny/doctor/shoe finder/nose wiper/and soiled underwear changer.  It is true.  Just ask your friendly, neighborhood kindergarten teacher.  She’ll be the one talking to herself in the local A & P.

Please don’t misunderstand me.  I enjoyed my eight weeks in kindergarten.  My cooperating teacher was fabulous and thrives in her role.  But it is less actual teaching experience than I had aspired to.  I know just what you are thinking (oh, don’t pretend you weren’t…). You want to know… what is the difference between kindergarten and first grade, right??  HA!!  I knew it!  What is the difference, you ask?  I answer with, what is the difference between Motel 6 and the Ritz-Carlton?  What is the difference between a hot dog and a Porterhouse steak?  What is the difference between a tender kiss and a punch in the nose?  The difference, my uninformed friend, is night and day.  That one year of maturity and school experience between kindergarten and first grade is unequivocally enormous.

I am not implying that there is not a fair amount of mothering that must be doled out to my darlings.  But it is limited and infrequent, at least in comparison to those babes one room down the hall.  Really, kindergarten teachers everywhere should be given their own national holiday, and possibly a commemorative postal stamp.

First graders need less mothering.  That’s what I THOUGHT. 

Picture it…

We are sitting in reading intervention group.  Mrs. Dahl’s group is supposed to be tackling phonemic awareness.  But Mrs. Dahl is a quasi-hippie, free-spirited, fun-loving soul, therefore her group is clustered in pairs and threes on the floor in the Magic Tree House, absorbing their book-of-choice and sharing with each other interesting pictures and tidbits found in the treasures in their grimy little hands.  I believe, after all, that learning to read proficiently will not happen until they are internally motivated to learn to read.  Reading is hard work.  It is not a fun process.  The brain is unconditioned to decipher the strange and mysterious markings that are our alphabet.  If a child does not see a reason to rise above those obstacles, what good is my forcing them into activities that are stressful?  Therefore, my first action as a reading teacher is to help them fall in love with books and the IDEA that reading the words in a book will be infinitely interesting and beneficial.  Sometimes it’s a hard sell.

To that end, I make it my mission to discover what jazzes a kid and makes them sit up and take notice.  Then I provide as many books on the topic as our limited school library and budget will allow.  Where books are limited due to the aforementioned reasons, I call upon magazines and catalogs found in my mailbox to help fill in the gap.  Printed word is printed word.  I would drag the water bill from the school office, for goodness sakes, if that’s all there was.

On this particular day, the soft hum of children in the throes of discovery etched a satisfied half-smile on my middle-aged face.  There were books open to pictures of dolphins and zebras and tsunamis.  Grass-stained blue jeans wandered around showing exciting pictures to friends and teachers.  I loved every minute of it.

Off in the corner, Class Clown was just getting wound up.  I do not mind a certain degree of silliness.  For goodness sakes, I am the personification of silly.  A Facebook friend recently reminded me that in high school I had added leopard print leggings and metallic gold high tops to my ugly red PE uniform and then challenged a classmate to a smack down during PE.  I hope I won.  I can’t remember.  I do silly very well.

So as Jerry Lewis was getting the crowd warmed up, a loyal fan at the worktable got the giggles.  The kind of giggles that are completely infectious.  You know what I mean.  The others around may have not a clue as to what is funny, but the laugh is so entirely contagious that soon everyone is joining in.  I live for moments like that.  Laughing is just the best, is it not?

The Mad Giggler was really out of control now.  And the rest of us were equally tickled.  Bubbling laughter was filling the classroom space and seeping into the very walls.  All of a sudden The Giggler’s hand shot straight into the air.  “Mrs. Dahl!”  he exclaimed.  “I just wet my pants!”  You know…. I would have let you whisper that into my ear…

Without missing a beat he says, “Should I change pants?”  At that moment I had no doubt that I was certainly the most forward-thinking first grade teacher that had ever lived.  I had asked each child to bring an extra set of clothes for just such an occasion or for wet winter recesses, or for whatever.  I nearly broke my arm patting my own back.

I assured him that it would be a good idea to change and pulled focus back to reading.  I fell in to another round of suppressed giggles when he stepped back into the classroom five minutes later, holding his wet Transformer briefs in his hand.  He stopped directly in front of me.  “Here, Mrs. Dahl.”  He tried to shove the soggy Fruit of the Looms into my hand, but possessing cat-like reflexes, I blocked his move (I AM a wrestler, don’t forget).  At superhero speed I located an empty plastic bag and had him make his deposit directly into the Bank of Send It Home To Mom. 

OK, maybe first graders need more mothering than I had realized.

I marvel at the uninhibited psyche of young children.  Marvel and am just a bit jealous.  They simply accept life as it comes, warts and all.  If they have a booger sticking out of their nose, someone points it out and everyone moves on.  Farting is worthy of fifteen seconds of giggles and then they are distracted to something else.  Little boys crying like little girls is nothing to be ashamed of. 

At what point in life does minutia suddenly become life or death to us?  A zit on the face of a fifteen-year-old becomes the leprosy of high school.  Not wearing the right clothes or driving a new car can feel like eternal stigma.  Why do we do this to ourselves and to each other?  Personally, I like the norms and mores of first grade society.  Life is simple here.  Maybe we should all take a page from their self-generated rules and live a little less uptight about those things that really do not matter in the grand scheme of things. 

Today ended with a perfect example to make my point. 

I stepped into the hallway to fetch a couple of short people who had fallen into unconsciousness at the water fountain, apparently.  As I was urging them to hurry, a second grader and one my students last year, walked boldly up to me.  “Mrs. Dahl, do you want to smell my breath?”  Before I could activate my cat-reflexes, he stepped towards me and opened his jack-o-lantern-missing-teeth mouth.  “No, I really do NOT want to smell your breath!”  He was stunned.  It was incomprehensible to him.  Why not??He was sure it smelled like the nectar of the gods and would entirely make my day.

Maybe a few societal cues would be beneficial after all….

All the King's Horses...

“…and all the King’s men couldn’t put Humpty together again.” 

There are some things in this world that are simply too fragile to capture.  A butterfly would be a perfect example.  Its beautiful wings allow it to flutter and fly and capture the imaginations of children and artists, and not a few adults.  One must be careful when capturing such a creature.  To touch its wings might result in damage to the scales that protectively cover it.  Butterflies are best observed from a respectful distance.

I have a similarly fragile creature in my care this year.  She is beautiful, intelligent, nervous, and held together with sheer willpower.  Her ethereal beauty transcends the outward physical appearance.  There is something about her eyes that tattle her secret of being an old soul in a twiggy body.  She is a fairy-sprite hovering on the periphery of our classroom society. She watches others with serious eyes and waits to be invited into the warm light of acceptance.  Always observing, but never quite inside the circle. 

I watch the interactions from a respectful distance as our individuals forge themselves into a bonded group.  Even at such an early age, it is easy to see the distinct personalities creating their niche in what will surely be a school career of knowing one another.  I do not allow mean-spirited actions to go unchecked or even thoughtless slights.  These are all learning opportunities for the young.  But being silent witness to their uninhibited interaction is interesting at least, and fascinating at best.  They are both wise and immature. 

My Fairy Butterfly has allowed very little entrance into the dark tunnels of her memory.  When she allows those revelations, they are usually unexpected and heartbreaking.  One such glimpse happened very recently.

I was having one of THOSE DAYS.  You know what I mean.  The kind of day that seems to unravel the moment you pry open your crusty eyeballs in the morning.  This particular day had seemed to spin out of control exponentially for hours.  We were in the middle of MAP testing, which in and of itself shouldn’t be a huge schedule wrench, but for whatever reason, it was.  Those disruptions in our day seemed to throw me off my game and make me feel out of control.  It was making me a hair grumpy, if you want to know the truth.

The day was nearly finished and I couldn’t have been happier about it.  I was tired, frustrated and willing the clock to fast-forward itself to three fifteen.  I remember standing by the worktable trying to get homework sorted out and I swear, all eight voices were talking simultaneously.  It was like a gaggle of geese flying low, honking, casting large shadows, and just generally adding to my annoyance. 

I stand corrected.  There were seven voices at full-volume.  Fairy Butterfly sat silent in the midst of that cacophony.  I am not sure I can explain this, but out of that chaos, she chose to speak, and inexplicably, my ears heard her.  Like the most indiscernible sound waves that a Monarch makes as its wings flutter, so I became aware that she was speaking to me. 

Those sad, serious eyes of hers were fixed on my face as I heard her say, “That song makes me think of my puppy that died.”  My mind began to race through mental file folders of information trying to recall what song she might be referring to.  I came up a blank.  “What song?” I asked.  “The song we sang in music today,” she replied softly.  “My dad ran over him.  He was drunk and I saw it happen.”  The noise of The Seven faded into the background as the import of her words sank into my addled brain.  I understood that she was sharing a traumatic memory with me.  This did not happen often.  I needed to listen. 

When she saw that she had my attention, the dam gates opened a little further.  “And he had guns.  I saw them.”  Her careful mask was torn away now and I saw the raw pain that contorted her face.  She needed to tell me all of it and the gates were lifted completely.  “And you know the place where you can buy beer?  He stayed there all night, and the next morning Foster Care came and took me away.”  I was on my knees in front of her now, tears stinging my eyes and threatening to flow as I pulled her into my embrace.  Homework and noisy first graders were forgotten for the moment as I wrapped my mind and heart around her pain.  I asked her quiet and pointed questions about that time and she either confirmed or denied my fears.  Then out of the blue, she wanted to know about lock down.  We had discussed that drill and at the time I had tried to carefully answer all those questions that came with such a horrid topic, but at this moment, she needed assurances.  Where had that come from?  I looked her in her tiny face and promised her that if we had a real lock down crisis, I would do everything I could to protect her.  She relaxed slightly in my arms and for the moment, her confessions seemed to have brought a measure of release. I let her leave my aching arms and I stepped into the stairwell for a moment so that my tears could run unchecked as a storm of emotions washed over me.

How does one person begin to know how to apply the salve of healing to such a fragile, broken creature?  I instinctively think of my own children.  What if my sweet daughter was taken by force and placed in the home of a stranger to live indefinitely?  That thought is literally, physically painful for me.  It is unbearable to think of her confused, lonely, and crying herself to sleep at night. 

And yet, that is little Butterfly Fairy's reality.  She is here with me, placed in my path for whatever reason.  I try to envision her twenty years from now, an adult with a life of her own.  Will she have successfully overcome the obstacles placed in her path?  Will she be happy?  Will she remember her first grade teacher whose heart was ripped out by a solemn little sprite?  I wish future happiness for her with every fiber of my being, but I cannot know her destiny, of course.  I can only hope.  And I can love.  I’m good at loving.  I really am.  If love propels her to healing and prosperity, then I’m the gal for the job.  But I am not naive enough to think it is that simple.  There are a thousand different influences, circumstances, and voices that will play into what will become of her. 

I only know that I am one small piece of the puzzle of her life.  OK then, I hope to be a shiny, sparkling, standout piece.   No matter what muck life flings at this tender babe, my prayer is that when she is further down the road, every once in awhile, she will have a faint recollection of a teacher that cooked eggs in the classroom, lead her into a lifelong love of reading and learning, and promised to protect her for the short time their paths crossed.

Will you remember me, Little Butterfly?

I am sure I will never forget you…

Mrs. Dahl Gets a Tat and Becomes a Short Order Cook

Mister Dahl is a huge Louis L’Amour fan.  Huge.  Huger than huge.  Huge as in, he has read every paperback he can get his hands on and often craves beans cooked over the fire.  He can also put his ear to the ground and tell you from which direction the stagecoach is coming.  My husband once told me that before the profoundly successful author began writing western novels, he paid his way traveling the world by doing odd jobs.  He sailed the oceans as a deckhand, among other things, and built his repertoire of interesting life adventures by grabbing whatever he thought would make his world just a little broader.  His education was informal, his classroom, the world.

I too have held a variety of jobs.  Nothing on the scale of Mr. L’Amour, to be sure, but I have met some interesting people and toiled in my own living laboratory well outside my first earned degree of psychology.  One of those jobs was working locally in a restaurant just minutes from our farm.  I had waitressed in college ( the FIRST college experience), so I was familiar with the food service industry.  Part of my duties included prep cooking in the back.  My boss tried to get me proficient on the grill, but alas, I was too slow.  I took the “short” out of short order.

I have also done janitorial work, been a daycare provider, labored in a ski resort (OK, that one was just plain selfish.  Free season ski passes for my entire family??  Yeah, I’ll sacrifice for that…).  Like Louis, I truly believe that there is no wasted experience in life.  I learned something from each job that helped form my character and create interest in my hungry brain.  I chose part-time employment for all those years of mothering so that I could be home for most my children’s waking hours.  That, and I have lived most of my parenting years in rural areas, where jobs were scarce.  You take what you can get.

To set the scene even further, let me spend a brief moment sharing my educational views on classroom environment.  I am an adherent of several models of education, which I have rolled into one big wad of educational chewing gum and stuck on my proverbial desk.  I adore Maria Montessori and her holistic approach to each child.  I bow at the feet of such broad thinking partly because I am ninety-eight percent mother and two percent primary grade teacher.  But it also makes perfect sense to me that a child cannot learn at peak capacity if their most fundamental needs are not met; food, sleep, shelter, and love.  There is only so much I can do, obviously, but at the same time, there are a few things  I can do to look after those critical areas.

I may or may not have spent time (I don’t go back and reread these posts.  Probably should, but I don’t) describing the morning I scrambled eggs in the classroom to illustrate blending the individual sounds of a word.  I plugged in my handy dandy hot plate, pulled a cast iron skillet out of my bag (I only ever cook in a cast iron skillet), and harkened back to my restaurant days.  The children were ecstatic.  They slurped eggs, and visited amongst themselves like old timers at the local café.  And then they declared me the best teacher in the whole world (they were drunk on warm food and scandalous cooking in the classroom.  They were sure it had never been done before).  Then they began to wonder aloud why we couldn’t all just LIVE at school?  We had pillows for story time, bathrooms for well, you know, and now we had hot food right in the classroom.  “I’m asking my mom tonight,” one declared with yellow egg sticking to the side of his face.  Someone else volunteered in my direction, “And you could be our mom.”

This topic surfaced again on Friday when I hauled my trusty, ancient Crockpot into the room and sliced apples from my very own tree to make homemade applesauce.  We took turns stirring the bubbling brew, were intoxicated with its aroma all day, and added our sugar and cinnamon near the end.  The lesson they were completely unaware I was reinforcing was our science unit on the senses.  We used all five during course of that afternoon (well, OK, hearing was a stretch, but one of them helpfully offered that they had heard a plane earlier.  Let’s go with that.  Yeah, good enough…).

As we spooned our spiced cooked apples from cups, the Title reading teacher wandered in to claim a few students for their reading time.  She stopped dead in her tracks when she took in the focused eaters and near empty Crockpot.  Before I knew it, she had found a spot at the table and was spooning still-warm apples from her own cup.  It suddenly felt like a family, of sorts.  We could have been any farm family in Iowa or Kansas sitting around the dinner table, sharing simultaneously about our day and the going rate of corn prices.  We WERE the Waltons.  It felt nice.

The child who had previously been determined to move lock-stock- and-the-proverbial-barrel into the school suddenly paused his plastic spoon in the midair and asked, “Can we have pancakes tomorrow?”  I began to laugh.  “I’m serious,” he persisted.  “We could all bring the stuff for it and then we could just stay and live here.”  I guess he had decided that my cooking was good enough that he and his classmates would not starve, at any rate.

The mental image of that is too hilarious, really.  Me teaching them all day, looking after them when school is done, stooped over my two burner hot plate cooking for them every meal… sounds like a dream come true, no?? Uh, no.  Not really.

I mean, don’t get me wrong.  I love them.  Truly I do.  But wow…… I… no, I can’t even mentally go there.

My short order cook image was further gelled by the small peace sign tattoo that adorned my left bicep.  A gift from a certain precocious fourth grader who showers me daily with little proofs of her undying love and devotion.  It might be a feather found on the playground, or a rock that is chipped on one end revealing sparkling minerals inside.  She has proffered a caterpillar, a frog and would gladly bring a snake, if she thought I would accept it (I won’t).  Her “happy place” is found in nature and she desires to share those things with those she feels will appreciate them with her.

On this particular morning she laid a tiny temporary tattoo on my desk in front of me.  “It’s for you,” she always begins with.  “Do you like it?”  is without fail the second question.  “Yes, I like it very much.  I think I should wear it today.”  She nodded solemnly.  Yes, of course I should wear it today.  There had never been any question in her mind about that.  Moments later I emerged from the restroom inked and suddenly wishing I owned a Harley.  Mrs. Dahl’s cool factor had just spiked enormously.

As my students arrived for the day, they each noticed my new body art and commented appreciatively.  All except for one, that is.  He gave a cursory glance at my arm and announced matter-of-factly, “Should have got a dragon.” 

And so, as we ended our week on the first day of Fall, savoring the best offerings that Autumn has to give, my darlings dreamed of a Utopia right here in the Magic Tree House, and I silently thanked the Good Lord that such a thing was impossible.  I do think it would be a fantastic premise for a class book.  When I mentioned it to the students, they agreed but thought it should also have zombies and talking skeletons woven into the story line, so we shall see.  I do not want to scare the stuffing out of younger sibling who would get the idea the once they enter the front doors of school as a first grader they are never leaving again, stuck 24/7 with the tattoo covered Mrs. Dahl.

My, oh my.  Sailing the high seas as a merchant marine is suddenly becoming incredibly attractive…

Shades of Gurple

One of Arnold's get well cards.  "Mrs. Dahl+computer=love"

I have been in rehab for the last 10 days.  Oh, not the sort you are probably imagining (“Mrs. Dahl, I never KNEW.  You hid your problem so well…”).  No, my source of cold turkey withdrawal has its roots in the very thing I am typing furiously on right at this moment.  Yes, that’s right.  My computer and I were forced into separation and it felt like an eternity.  My laptop began to show symptoms of being ill a couple of weeks ago, then things became critical, and after a rushed trip to the computer ER, I have been forced to wander blindly through my days trying to get by on the ancient beasts located both at home and in my classroom.  The desktop model in my room at school is so slow, I’m pretty sure there are actual files inside it and little people run around inside there retrieving and doing my bidding.  It was almost too frustrating to even attempt to do anything other than check my email .   Anything else left me hyperventilating.

How and when did I get so spoiled?  Really, I thought my kids’ generation were the only ones hyper-dependent on their electronic toys.  I am amazed and a little ashamed that I too fall into that classification.  To be fair, I use my computer for much of my classroom business.  I do my lesson plans on it, I keep track of grades on an Excel spreadsheet, I write letters to parents, I plug the projector in when using the document camera or showing an educational video, and the list goes on and on.  The bottom line is, I use my computer constantly.  It was a bit like when you lose your power at home, or have plumbing issues and are forced to think of alternative ways of going about your daily life.  It is doable, just harder.

I pulled my students into my sense of loss and they felt my pain deeply.  They went home with daily status updates to share with parents and guardians, I heard, and even made homemade “get well” cards for Arnold.  Yes…. we named my computer.  Gender is male, apparently.  He is now and forevermore, Arnold. 

It took three surgeries and ten days, but he is now back home, resting comfortably.  

Not really.  I’ve been working him pretty hard since he got here.  He’ll probably need a follow-up visit from sheer fatigue.

I probably could have saved myself the anxiety and several hundred dollars if I had just let my resident superhero have a go at him.  Turns out, one of my first graders has the vision of Superman.  No, really….

We were sitting outside waiting for our turn in the Bismarck Public Library’s Bookmobile.  Clark Kent says to me, “Mrs. Dahl, did you know that I can see two hundred miles away?”  I arched an eyebrow.  “Really.”  He knew he had me hooked so he rushed ahead.  “Yeah, I can see to Medora right now” (a tourist town on the western edge of the state).  I was game.  “Oh yeah? What’s happening right now?”  (This the part that just kills me.  I laugh every time I think about it).  He looks away in the opposite direction and squints his eyes so that they are nearly shut, his face a mask of concentration.  He stared into the distance for several seconds then answered with confidence, “They’re putting on a daytime musical today.”  Against all logic, I found myself looking in the same direction he was as if maybe he really could see that far, and if I squinted enough I might catch a glimpse too.  He turned back to me and smiled.  Little Clark had made his teacher giggle and he was most satisfied with himself.

We nearly needed a superhero intervention a few minutes later when our turn for the bookmobile arrived.  My students were busy poring over any book that had a dinosaur or puppy on its cover and were being assisted by the very friendly, smiling librarian.  A line quickly formed at the counter for the magical time of checking books out and being allowed to take them home for a whole month. 

I have to backtrack briefly. 

The day before Bookmobile day, I just happened to read aloud to my Darlings the story, “Beverly Billingsly and the Overdue Book.”  Genre:  fiction (we know this, boys and girls, because mice can’t really speak).  It was about a cute little mouse who gets her very first library card and loves her library book about dinosaurs so much that she fails to get said book back to the library by the due date.  She frets about what her consequences may be and asks several school chums if they are familiar with library policy on such a grievous sin as an overdue book.  Her very wise classmates assure her that the penalty is, indeed, severe and life altering.  One boy is sure that he had an uncle that did hard time for being a week late with library books.  Little Beverly dreams that night that the dinosaur in her library book comes to life and tries to eat her for being tardy with the return.  The story ends, of course,  cheerily and assurances that it is merely wise to return books on time, it will not stain your “permanent record.”

Fast forward to our moment at the checkout counter on the Book Bus.  Superman is standing there with a sloppy stack of four or five books in his steely arms when it is finally his turn at the counter.  I am busy dispensing library cards for each child and making sure I receive their printed slip of checked books and not paying much attention to The Man of Steel.  He plops his books down and waits patiently to be cleared for take-off from the bus.  He will, of course, fly back to the classroom.  The librarian clicks a few keys then looks at me nervously.  She says quietly, “He has books still out from last year.  His fine is $82.00 at this point.”  I wanted to shout out, “EIGHTY-TWO DOLLARS???? HOW IS THAT EVEN POSSIBLE?!?”  However, I am trained professional, so I responded with a completely professional, “Huh?”  I look over at S.M. and see that his face has gone completely white.  Mr. Kent has just encountered Kryptonite and was weakening quickly.  I could tell that our story from the previous day was now screaming in his brain.  He just knew the librarian was mentally measuring him for a tiny orange jumpsuit and open-toed sandals.  Quick, what does a first grader use for prison currency?  He wasn’t sure and neither was I. 

I tried to be sunny and reassuring.  I asked if he remembered those books and could he try to find them and bring them back?  There would be no fine if he simply returned them.  I ended with, “I’ll call mom.  We’ll see what we can do.  But for today, you cannot check any books out.  I’m sorry…”

I could see tears forming in his bionic eyes but he stubbornly refused to let them fall.  He turned away with slumped shoulders and empty arms and left noiselessly.  The librarian had her thumping heart lying bloody and exposed on the counter just like I did.  We had to do something!  She offered hopefully, “If he leaves his books at school, he may still check them out.  You will just have to be responsible for them.”  Oh, boundless joy!  I ran to the door and shouted after my little Marvel Comic, “Come back!  You can check them out!”  He came running back and I quickly explained the terms of his parole, which he embraced enthusiastically.  We still need to track down those prodigal books, but for today, he is all smiles.  And so am I.

Art brought another chuckle.  I laid out paper mache boxes, paint, brushes, paint shirts, newspapers for covering the workspace, and Pepto Bismol for the teacher.  We were still working from our book, “When This Box is Full” by Patricia Lillie.  The next step in our yearlong time line project was to paint our individual boxes any color we chose – an extension of our own individual personality.

Paintbrushes flew and so did the paint (hence the reason for the Pepto), and masterpieces were created that day.  Most of the boys chose John Deere colors for their priceless treasure boxes.  But not Little Sallie Sue.  She is my Willow from the book of the same name.  When she closes her eyes, she sees blue apples and pink trees.  Her world is as unique as she is.  Little Sallie Sue called to me with great pride, “ Hey, Mrs. Dahl.  You like my box?  I painted it Gurple!”  Her arms swung gracefully in the direction of the dripping box in a beautiful Vannah White move.  I gazed at her Piece de Resistance.  Sure enough, it was a glorious shade of gurple.  I smiled and unofficially added gurple to the color wheel.

Don’t ever change, Sallie Sue.  Even the Supermen of the world need women who see life in shades of gurple.

If You Give a Moose a Jar of Turquoise Blue Paint...

WARNING:  THE EVENTS DEPICTED IN THIS BLOG MAY BE DISTURBING.  HOWEVER, NO ACTUAL SUNDAY SCHOOL CHILDREN WERE HARMED IN THE MAKING OF THIS POST.

In the book "If You Give a Moose a Muffin" by Laura Neumeroff, one catastrophe leads to another.  Read on...

You may not be aware that I am also a Sunday School teacher.  I teach children,  (of course, what else?), ages 5 – 12.  A very large age gap, yes, but we have a very small demographic of children in our church.  Consolidation is a necessity.  I know my posts usually involve my experiences in the public school classroom, but last Sunday proffered a story I just have to share.  I HAVE TO.  You’ll know why in a moment.

Even in such a wide range of ages, my class usually only consists of one or two boys.  Nice, well-behaved boys.  I enjoy them and their honest questions very much.  On this day, however, as I entered the church foyer, I was greeted by the grandchildren of a church member.  A lovely lady with equally lovely grandchildren.  “Good morning, Mrs. Dahl.” was her sunny greeting.  She introduced me to her smiling, beautiful, charming grandchildren.  “They will be in your class today, I believe.”  Good thing I had brought more materials than I thought I would need.  This teaching gig as a career was really paying off.

The two girls and a boy headed down to the church basement with me, completely at ease and chattering away like they had known me their entire short lives.  My faithful attendee soon showed up and now we were a party of five.

We went through the lesson on John, the Apostle of Love, and talked about what it means to show love to others.  They asked great questions, seemed engaged in the discussion, and I felt really good about the spiritual manna that had been imparted that day.  Then my student who is there every week asked THE question (cue to start humming the theme song to Jaws).  “Mrs. Dahl, can we start on the mural like we talked about last week?’  I looked in his expectant face and couldn’t say no.  I SHOULD have said no, but I didn’t.  The rest, as they say, is history.

Before I could say, “Jesus wept’” (as I would soon be doing myself), four children were pulling supplies from shelves and closets in anticipation of creating a mural akin to something Michelangelo would have attempted.  I hardly knew what was happening.  I suddenly had lost all control of my students.  There were only four of them, for crying out loud!  I’m a licensed teacher with the state of North Dakota.  How could I be so inept at this moment??  A roll of butcher paper had been found and a long sheet now stretched the length of our table.  Brushes were dipping into bright paint colors like mad, colored sand left over from VBS was being poured onto glue dribbles, and four beaming faces were having the time of their lives.  I was still trying to fake it in the role of competent teacher when Little Suzanna Marie suddenly let out a tiny “eeek!”  I looked up just in time to see her topple off of her beige-colored church basement folding chair, do a backwards flip and land under the church basement folding potluck table.  Brushes froze mid-air and chatter ceased as we waited for word on the status of Little Suzanna Marie’s health and well being.  Right on cue a small voice under the church basement folding potluck table announced, “I’m OK.”  I realized I had literally been holding my breath and now exhaled with relief.

As I headed towards her to help her get up from the church basement beige carpet, my line of vision was drawn to a splotch of turquoise blue paint on that beige carpet.  Oh no.  That’s not gonna’ want to come out, I knew.  As I took in that blue splotch, my eyes caught another blue splotch a few inches away.  Little Suzanna Marie was now completely forgotten.  I followed the splotches like a 747 following the runway lights on a foggy night.  Every time I found a new puddle or splat of paint it only led to another and then another.  Turns out, Little Suzanna Marie had done her Olympics quality backwards flip with an open jar of blue paint in her sweet little hand.  Turquoise blue to be precise.  I grabbed the near empty jar and frantically read the label.  “Washable” it proudly proclaimed in big, block letters.  Well, that was a good omen anyway. 

I continued my crime scene investigation so I would have an idea where to start cleaning and realized with horror that our mess had gone beyond the safe confines of our classroom.  We had left the door to the hallway open (go figure), and the Trail of Tears extended clear across the hallway, where the nursery wall had kindly stopped the assault.  There were globs of paint on the floor, the partition, on the nursery outer door, on the wall, and even a brave drip on the ceiling and its twin on the light fixture.  People, believe me when I say, it nearly broke the laws of physics with how wide spread that paint had gone. 

I was in shock.

The children were silently waiting to see how I would respond.  We became a black hole of sound.  Teacher trying to mentally process the enormity of our mess and children waiting for Hurricane Vonda to strike with fury. 

It suddenly struck me how utterly, impossibly funny this was and I began to laugh.  I heard a giggle behind me and then four Sunday School angels and their teacher stared at turquoise blue paint drips and laughed their heads off.  I got the giggles so bad I leaned my head against the offending nursery door with the new blue polka dots and laughed till I was near tears.  When I looked up, one of the boys had his new ipod out and was taking a video of his Sunday School teacher having a nervous breakdown in the beige hall of the church basement.  I’m sure it has been posted on Youtube by now.

Still laughing, I announced that we better think about cleaning our mess up before we got into trouble.  My little Oompa Loompa’s went into action again, and before I could sing “Jesus Loves the Little Children,” wet rags were being swished around and paint-covered brushes tossed into sinks.  I announced that I would take charge of the carpets and went hunting for anything that might attack turquoise blue paint with a vengeance.  Armed with what I could find, I began my Get Blue Paint Out of Beige Carpet campaign and soon realized this was going to harder than anticipated.  The more I scrubbed, the more it seemed to spread.  Washable, my eye!  This stuff had hardcore staining power.

I was vaguely aware that my charges were going after whatever glowed blue with wet, drippy rags.  At least they were occupied.  I scrubbed, they sloshed, we all giggled.

The Hour of Power was soon over and I told my students that they were free to go.  I would continue scrubbing until all was well.  They offered to stay.  I declined.  That was sweet of them, yes?

With foot traffic safely ensconced upstairs in the sanctuary for the Sunday morning service, I was free to get Down and Dirty.  I headed back to the church kitchen for more rags and soapy water.  Carbs.  I needed carbs for energy.  Spotting a container of mini muffins, I devoured one in two bites.  I could feel strength coursing through my rattled nerves.  OK, Dahl.  You can do this.  Now get out there and show that non-washable turquoise blue paint who’s boss!!  I searched my purse for a hair band, threw my long hair into a sloppy ponytail, took off my sandals and my big bracelets. I was ready.  On my hands and knees I scrubbed and I prayed.  I prayed for four sweet children who had had a Sunday School experience probably like non other.  And I prayed that in a weird way, maybe they had seen Jesus in me.  “Got anything you want me to pray for while I’m down here?” I shouted to the nursery volunteers.  No?  I guess they’re having a better day than I am.

How long do you think it took me to finish my task?  Anyone?  You in the back, yeah you.  You nailed it.  It took me one hour and forty-five minutes to remove WASHABLE turquoise blue paint from my beigey church basement.  I dumped out my very blue soapy water, stowed the cleaning voodoo potions back under the kitchen sink and threw all the rags into a sink of water to soak.  As I stood there watching those rags turn their watery bath a vivid blue, my eyes were drawn to a sign posted on the cupboard door just above the dishrag drawer. It stated in bold letters, “Please do NOT use the dishrags for messes.  Cleaning rags can be found under the sink. “  The word NOT was bolded AND underlined.  It was very effective.  I was instantly afraid, as the bolded, underlined word intended.  I could feel a Shunning of Amish proportions headed my way.

I made it in time for the last fifteen minutes of the service and collapsed into a chair in the back of the sanctuary.  I looked like I had just gotten out of the gym after a hard workout.   I was disheveled, sweaty, and still seeing blue dots.  As the service came to a conclusion and the last prayer was prayed, I made my way over to the beaming children around which this tale centers.  One of girls looked me in the face and proclaimed, “I’ll never forget you!”  I laughed.  “I’m pretty sure I’ll never forget you either.”  She smiled broader still and accepted my hug as did all the beaming cherubs around her.

I had verbally taught them what love looks like.  But theory doesn’t really go very far, does it?  Maybe God knew they needed a visual aid.  Feet put to faith, if you will.  I only know that our catastrophe taught me as much as it taught them.

And today I am hiding the turquoise blue paint.

What the Hail?

This is probably not the best time for me to be writing.  It is now 11:00 p.m. on the Friday night of my second week of school.  I am tired.  No, wait.  Back up the bus.  Not tired.  Not even exhausted.  I am comatose, possibly even borderline psychotic.  You know how you feel once the Nyquil kicks in?  That’s me at this very moment.  A few quick words on the laptop and then its Lights Out for Bonzo. 

I am quickly coming to understand why schools tend to hire fresh-out-of-college twenty-two year-old's to teach the primary grades.  I mistakenly thought it had to do with school boards trying to save a few bucks.  Ha!  Naive little me.  I realize now it has more to do with the energy levels of the very young.  They know little about real life yet, but they can keep up with the most hyperactive Energizer Bunnies in their care.  And they have good knees.  And they don’t need to use the bathroom fourteen times a day.  Tonight I feel every single one of my 49 years.  That said, it gives me more than a little satisfaction to see my younger coworkers also draggin’ butt by Friday.  Teaching is hard work.  Just try it sometime. 

Complain Fest is now officially over.  Do I still love my job, you ask?  Oh my, yes.  I AM tired.  But it’s the satisfied sort of tired that comes with good old-fashioned hard work.  Like when the garden is ready for harvest and you put up 20 quarts of green beans in a single day.  You fall into bed totally whipped but with a satisfied sort of half smile on your granola face.  It just feels GOOD to work hard, you know?

I had my first evaluation this week.  The elementary principal gave fair warning that he would begin his fall evals sometime during the week, but of course, he doesn’t give all his secrets away.  Otherwise, we desperate teachers would hire marching bands and cater a full brunch if we thought it would impress The Boss.  He popped in just as I was starting my reading lesson.  Well, that’s fair.  If I’m to be entrusted with the first grade I should probably be a solid reading teacher, don’t you think?  We were wrapping up our daily newspaper sight word search and the room was being crisscrossed with humming little first grade bees all working around the Queen (me).  Highlighters were being shoved back in the drawer with lids half on (a chronic first grade failing), and sloppily folded newspapers were being stuffed into the recycling bin.  I was standing in the middle of the floor watching my hive in goofy enjoyment (I LOVE this time of day and this activity), when said employer strode in.  Shucks.  Wish I had had a vibe about this today.  I maybe would’ve spent a little more time on my hair than settling for the hastily thrown up ponytail that adorned my exhausted head. 

With newspapers put away, we moved into our 24-Hour Word activity and within about fifteen minutes he was gone.  Was that a good sign?  Bad sign?  Felt compelled to go hunt down a comb for his slovenly first grade teacher?  I don’t know.  I haven’t received my copy of the evaluation yet.  Nor have I spent too much time stressing over it.  I am simply too tired.

We also had received word that our first fire drill of the year would be conducted this morning.  The fine print on that edict is, get your kids ready by going over procedures and, for we primary grades – PRACTICE.  If you haven’t spent a lot of time with young children, that may sound like overkill to you.  Why can’t you just TELL them what to do and expect that they’ll do it?  That’s like saying, “Why not just tell your dog to stop pooping in the yard and expect he’ll learn to use the indoor plumbing?”  It doesn’t work that way.  Kids need time to process information.  They need someone to model for them what is expected and they need to have anxiety removed by discovering that they can do whatever it is that is asked of them.

To that end, I sat my little darlings down on the reading rug, methodologically explained what a fire drill is and why we need to have them.  As expected, eight little hands shot into the air simultaneously and we began the “What If’s.”  “Mrs. Dahl, what if our room is on fire?  Mrs. Dahl, what if I’m in the bathroom when the fire drill starts?  Mrs. Dahl, what if you’re not in the room with us?  Mrs. Dahl, what if my shoes are untied and I trip trying to get into line and then I become invisible and you can’t see me and I’m yelling for help but you can’t hear me either because there is a rock concert going on next door?”  I patiently tried to validate each question with a plausible response, but I threw my head back and laughed out loud when Little Sally Sue looked at me with big, sincere eyes and asked with a straight face, “Mrs. Dahl, what if the school is on fire and we run outside and then it starts to hail on our heads and the hail is bonking us so hard it hurts our heads?  What do we do then?”  “Well,” I said through my guffaw, “That would be a really bad day.”  

Kids just couldn’t be any cuter if they tried, could they??  I really do have the perfect job for me.  Everyday brings priceless new gems to marvel over and tuck away in the Best Line Ever Heard vault.  They bring gut-busting laughter and they bring a few tears too.

This morning my sweet foster child student walked in with her usual somber face.  “Mrs. Dahl, I’m going to another foster home today,” she blurted.  I’m pretty sure my heart skipped a beat.  “What do you mean?” I asked with quiet alarm.  “For the weekend,” she clarified.  I could feel relief washing over me.  “So you’ll be back on Tuesday (holiday weekend).”  She nodded in confirmation and turned away to head towards the coat racks with her usual quiet solemnity.  As the day wore on, I became acutely aware that she was agitated.  Not in a frenzied, hyperactive, or grumpy way, as some would react, but more a quiet desperation.  At frequent intervals she would approach me silently, like a sleek house cat who noiselessly appears against your leg, startling you just a bit.  “Mrs. Dahl.  I’m going to miss you.”  This same scene was replayed I don’t know how many times throughout the day.  My response was always the same.  “I will miss you too.  But I will see you again on Tuesday.”  Then I would give her a quick, warm hug.  About one o’clock, she appeared noiselessly at my side again.  “Mrs. Dahl, I’m going to give you hug before I get on the bus.”  There was something about the tone of her voice that caused me to look her full in the face and lend my complete attention.  “Ok.” was all I could think of to say.  But the seriousness on her countenance bothered me just a little.  What prompts a child to announce that they will say goodbye to you two hours beforehand?

After our art lesson that launched our yearlong theme centered on the book, “When This Box is Full” by Patricia Lillie, and after our TIP incentive program party, complete with microwave popcorn and part of the movie Despicable Me, it was time to start the process of getting ready to leave.  If you’ve never sat in a first grade classroom during that bewitching time of Load and Leave, well, you have never experienced all that life has to offer.  It is chaos, confusion, sometimes a tear or two, always noise and bustle, and near stroke level stress on the part of the teacher.  The ticking moments before I calmly begin that process is like the back draft of a raging house fire.  All is serene, and then WHOOSH, all hail breaks loose (sorry, I just had to…).

Lest you read these penned words and think smugly, “Does this woman have a CLUE as to what classroom management looks like?”  I reassure my troubled reader that I do indeed, have a system in place that seems to be working beautifully.  Because we are small, we can take the time to get our jackets and backpacks, and empty cubbies, one at a time while others are busy doing end-of-day things.  This seems to have greatly reduced the pandemonium.  But STILL, there is a certain level of frenetic hum that cannot be entirely removed.  Or so it seems to this newbie anyway.

In all of that movement and mayhem, my somber child is watching me and waiting quietly with backpack on.  My Cat is poised and ready to spring at a moment’s notice.  When all backpacks are stuffed with papers and important notes for parents that will never reach the light of day (such an imperfect system!) are folded and set UNDER the full water bottle in their backpacks, and crayon boxes are safely tucked back into storage boxes, and P.E. shoes tossed in a heap under the coat room bench, and tired Mrs. Dahl is mentally yelling at her synapses to “keep firing already,” I am aware that my Quiet Flower is hovering just at the periphery of my orbit.  She is watching me with those blue, sad eyes.  Suddenly, the bell jars us into action and now little bodies, all hyped up on popcorn and Hawaiian Punch are leaning over one another to grab packs and be the first out the door.  I look at her in time to see the quickly passing panic on her face.  Without a word, she flew into my embrace and says for the umteenth time today, “I will miss you, Mrs. Dahl.”  Again, “I will miss you too, but I WILL see you on Tuesday.”  And with that, she is gone.

As I stooped to pick up a broken crayon off the very popcorny floor, it hits me like a baseball-sized hailstone.  She thinks she’s never coming back!  I had asked her in casual conversation earlier how many foster homes she has been in.  She quickly responded that she had lived in ten foster homes.  I will have to confirm that number.  It seems unbelievable that a first grader would already have been shuffled around so much.  But stranger things have happened, I guess.  A bit of detective work on my part will confirm or deny it.  The long and the short of it is, even one foster home is one too many.  A child is wired to be with their biological parents, period.  In a perfect world that’s how it works anyway.  But we don’t live in a perfect world, do we?  Sometimes a sweet kid has to endure the consequences of a parent who stinks at parenting.  I guess I better toughen up and accept that hard reality.  But it’s hard, you know?  This is where the mother in me struggles.  Every child should be adored and considered the darlingest, most precious thing on the face of the earth.   And sacrifices should be made on the part of the parent to ensure that those things happen.  Sometimes it just doesn’t.  I am not judging.  I have not been in her mother’s or father’s shoes.  Sometimes grown adults are still suffering the consequences of their own parent’s folly.  I get that, I really do.  But in all that complicated Freudian mish mash, there remains a somber little girl with sad, blue eyes that needs to be adored and considered the darlingest, most precious thing on the face of the earth.  Sigh…   wish I could wave that magic wand I’ve misplaced and make all things right.

When I had finished setting the room to right order again, I wandered out into the hall to seek adult company.  The kindergarten and second grade teachers were standing in their doorways quietly conversing about the day.  I joined them and was responding to a question when the second grade teacher suddenly blurted, “Are you wearing two different earrings?”  Huh?  The kindergarten teacher began to laugh.  I reached up to my tired ear lobes and felt my earrings.  Sure enough, two different earrings.  Two VERY different pieces of jewelry.  And these are not tiny earrings, no indeed.  These are good sized, dangly earrings.  Big enough to not be confused with anything but their mates.  I ran to the girls bathroom to peek in the mirror as a belly laugh bubbled to the surface.  Oh yeah.  Total accessory failure.  Lookin’ good, Mrs. Dahl.  How in the world…..?  The kindergarten teacher grabbed her iphone and snapped a picture, then posted it on my Facebook wall, as any true friend would do (thanks, Gayla.  I so owe you!) 

Mrs. Dahl is tired.  My body, my brain, and my wardrobe all bear it out.  I am looking forward to a three day weekend and renewal.  My oldest son, Trevor, is home for the weekend and I am ready for some great family time, lots of sleeping in, and whatever else strikes my fancy.  Will I have to go back to school at all?  Oh, don’t be a cotton-headed ninny muggings.  Of course I will!  But I’ll have the luxury of going when I want and for however long or short I want to stay there.  Lesson plans are nearly done for next week and I brought stuff home with me to do.  It will be a much-needed break.

I’m not so tired that I’ve lost all perspective.  There is an easy fix for tired.  A couple nights of decent sleep will set me to rights.  The fix for hating your job is a little more complicated.  I love what I do.  I’m feeling more and more like an educator every day.  I’m exactly where I want to be.  I’ll be ready for Tuesday when it arrives. 

And I’ll be waiting at the door to greet my little Cat with a hug and a smile.

Welcome back, my luv…