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…