by Jo Noelle
P.S. Sorry this post is a day late. I was snowed in yesterday. Long story.
Flu season is here, and it’s spreading faster than fresh gossip. Plug in a humidifier and stock up on tissues with lotion. I have two or three kids absent each day, and it’s the same in the other teachers’ classes. I’m running around with Clorox wipes, obsessively spouting, “Clean your desk,” to my students a couple of times a day while I wash doorknobs, tables and sink fixtures. It’s truly a miracle I’ve made it to Friday without getting sick.
On this past Monday, Lani, a new student, moved in. She’s beautiful with long, thick, wavy brown-black hair and almond-shaped eyes. Although she’s only beginning to get to know the students in our class, she’s very caring toward them.
Lani sits on the same team as Archer. During writing time, I’m talking with a student in the next team over, when I overhear a conversation between Archer and Lani. Archer is frustrated while writing his story and is scratching his pencil hard over a word.
“Are you okay, Archer?” Lani asks. He ignores her and keeps scratching back and forth. I’m pretty sure a hole is worked into his paper and possibly the laminate layer of the desk, but Lani pats him on the back and leans toward him saying, “It’s okay Archer. You have a very nice picture for your story.” She gives him a generous smile and another little pat, then turns back to her own writing.
After school, I hurry home to help Scarlet pack. I haven’t been around much this week to help her load or haul boxes. Our real estate business is crazy—I’ve had one or two appointments every night, and I’ll have two more on Saturday. Tonight Scarlet’s moving her furniture and the remaining boxes. She’s been packing and hauling boxes for a couple of weeks, so very little is left in her room or in the bathroom. She hugs me and Mina, then leaves with the last box. So far, we’ve only had two people interested in renting the room. Mina is showing it to them tomorrow while I’m at my partnership meeting.
As I drive to the meeting, I feel a little bit of flutter. I haven’t talked to Kevin since he dropped me off on Sunday morning. I’ve been extremely busy, for one thing. For another, I don’t know what to say to him, or if I should just ignore his speculation that I want more than a professional relationship. If I’m being truthful, I have to admit I’ve been glad to be busy this week, so I didn’t have to think about it.
The hostess shows us to a table, and our server takes our order right away. “You look beautiful,” Kevin says, staring over the top of the whipped cream on my hot chocolate.
I stare into my mug, wondering what to say. Immediately, I’m reminded of Kevin’s skin in the moonlight. Okay, I can never order hot chocolate in Kevin’s presence again.
I’m going to ignore his compliment. We, you and I, Kevin, have a business relationship. “I listed the townhouse downtown last night,” I say.
He nods and tries again. “Turquoise flatters you.”
Or you flatter me. “Thank you. The paperwork for the other two listings this week is in these folders,” I say, handing them over.
He opens the first. “Just one date.”
“What? We dated them all before initialing at the bottom of each page,” I dutifully reply, looking toward the folder he has open in his hands.
“I mean you and me.” His golden eyes lift to mine and hold my gaze. “Have dinner with me. Just one date. I’ll pick you up and we’ll go out to eat. . .”
“We eat out every Saturday for breakfast.” Keep. It. Light.
“Then maybe a movie.”
“No. Thanks.”
“If it doesn’t go well, then we’ll know, but I think we should find out, one way or the other.”
Except that it would probably go well, and I’m not masochistic. “I’m seeing Liam right now.” My stomach is tight with … maybe anxiety, maybe excitement, maybe curiosity. Kevin is exactly the type of guy I usually go for. He’s gorgeous, successful, driven. We do make a great team. Past experience has taught me that soon, the team is just held together by convenience and shop talk. That’s been safe for me—no chance of losing my heart.
“You’re not married, engaged, or exclusive. Just one date.”
No, Liam and I aren’t married or engaged. “I. . .” But we are exclusive, aren’t we? I think we are. I am. “don’t think so. Back to business okay?”
He smiles. “Later, perhaps.” We exchange updates on sales and listing contracts, then calendar the next week and part company.
On the drive home, I drum up evidence that Liam thinks we are exclusive—he introduced me to his parents as his girlfriend, not one of his girlfriends, and in Hawaii he said he loved me, only me. Two very good memories. I let them play in my memory over and over, and by the time I’m home, I’m very happy we’re exclusive.
January 26, 2008
Newbie Blog:
The BEST and the WORST
The best thing about recess is fifteen whole minutes of peace and quiet. The worst thing about recess is when someone is left out of the games.
The best thing about assemblies is that no lesson planning is required. The worst thing about assemblies is when the presenters get the crowd so hyped up that you spend the rest of the day with students’ behavior spiking in aftershocks.
The best thing about a school musical program is the angelic faces lined up in their Sunday best. The worst thing about a school musical program is running the gauntlet of relentless parental-paparazzi with video cameras.
Mrs. Hays grinned wryly when I told her and Beth my idea a couple of weeks ago at lunch. But I have to say, it has been really fun. This week, we’re wrapping up a month-long unit about animals, so show and tell is devoted to animals. I think it might be a little tricky if we have them all here at the same time, so instead, we’re having the students and their parents sign up for a time when they would like to bring their pet into class and tell us about them. We invite a few pets a day.
The students are so excited to introduce us to their pets. This week we’ve had two mice, a guinea pig, three cats, two birds, a rat and a fish. I’m not sure the rat should be considered a pet. Anything that hides out in sewers and carries the Black Death is more of a threat than a pet. We should have done that one after lunch.
On Thursday, Kyra joins her dad at the front of the room. He hands her a small brown-and-orange lizard. The students move to the rug area and sit at her feet. “This is Sticki Licki, but I just call her Licki. She’s a crested gecko.” Kyra is sitting in the small chair where I usually sit at and holds her hands low so the students can see. Licki moves toward Kyra’s fingers and Kyra rotates her other hand forward so Licki can continue to move. Licki is about six inches long, with a dark brown body and an orange back. She has fringy ruffles above her eyes and running down both sides of her back along the lines where the color changes. Her red tongue flashes out the side of her mouth now and again and wipes over her eyes. The students on the rug begin raising their hands and Kyra calls on them.
“Where did you get her?”
“My parents gave her to me for my birthday.”
“How old is she?”
Kyra looks at her dad and he tells her that Licki is about nine months old.
“What do you feed her?”
“She eats a mushy food that smells like fruit, but she also likes insects.”
The questions continue as students creep closer and closer to Kyra’s feet until they’re all squished together in a group to get a better view of the little gecko.
In one quick move, Licki jumps past Kyra’s hand and lands on the wall beside her. Students scream. Licki is quick, racing across the wall and diving into the book area like a paratrooper.
Pandemonium ensues, students yelling or jumping up to follow Licki’s movement.
“Freeze!” The students stop moving to look at me. I could just imagine one of the students accidentally stomping on that little lizard in a rush to find her in the book nook. “Stay where you are. Kyra’s dad is the only person allowed the book nook to get Licki.”
Kyra’s dad tiptoes carefully to the bookshelves, then he drops to his knees, looking under the pillows and sofa. He removes the cushions and checks under them. Suddenly Archer screams, crab-crawling backwards, as Licki runs toward him under Kyra’s chair, then returns to the book nook.
“In a moment, I’m going to ask you to walk to your desks, but not yet. When I touch your head, you may walk carefully to your desk, but look at your feet and make sure you don’t step on Licki.” I touch a few children’s heads, and they walk slowly to their desks. Soon, all the children are back in their seats, but Kyra’s dad hasn’t found the lizard yet.
In the back of the room, David jumps up screaming and holding his hands around his pant leg at the knee. “It’s got me. It’s got me.”
Kyra’s dad runs to David’s desk and reaches up the boy’s pant leg to find Licki stuck to his sock. He slips the lizard back into the plastic cage while Kyra wails and points at Licki’s brown tail twitching on the floor. Her dad picks it up and tucks it in his shirt pocket, then takes both Licki and Kyra home.
Well, another successful day for providing traumatizing topics for students to write about. The students who sit closest to David are drawing wiggling detached tails. Other students draw pictures of David jumping around or the lizard on the wall. Mindi, Kyra’s best friend, is drawing a picture of Kyra crying, huge blue teardrops falling from her eyes to puddles at her feet, her mouth wailing with a speech bubble coming out. Ellie is showing her gifted side, writing about how “Licki’s butt was decapitated.” This is what teaching is all about, isn’t it—sparking imagination and interest in young minds, exposing them to new ideas and experiences? I hope Mrs. Hays doesn’t hear about this.
Friday’s show and tell is mostly uneventful. No body parts fall off. Today’s damage—one fluffy puppy piddled on the rug, but that’s easy to deal with since Mr. Sam and I are on good terms. We’ve had to be, considering all we’ve been through together. Plus, I know he likes cherry Twizzlers (I now keep a stash in my closet), which I send to him with a thank-you note a little too regularly.
February 2, 2008
Newbie Blog:
I Love to Teach
Every few weeks, I wonder if I’ve made the right decision to stick with teaching. The good news is, I think I have. I love coming to work. There are still bad days, but no more bad weeks or months.
The honeymoon is over. No more Miss Model Student. Lani has been in trouble four times this week, and it’s only nine forty-five on Tuesday morning. Yesterday, she pushed Jason’s math manipulatives off his desk, then she punched him in the chest in the recess line. At the end of the day, she swung her backpack toward him. She missed—but still.
It’s all directed toward Jason—everyone else seems to be her new best friend. Jason is taking it well. He doesn’t seem offended, but he shouldn’t be targeted by someone. Today, they’re starting where they left off yesterday, but Lani is advancing her weapon of choice to a sharpened pencil which she jabs into Jason’s arm, making him wail.
Both children stand by my desk. Lani has a wounded expression and is leaning on my shoulder while Jason is wiping his face on his sleeve. I hand him a tissue, which he sets aside since his shirt is already soaking up the mucus and tears.
“Lani, you hurt Jason. You need to tell him you’re sorry.”
“No. He did it first,” she says, on the verge of tears.
Turning to Jason, I ask, “Did you poke her first?” I try to keep judgment from showing on my face so he will feel safe enough to tell me anything, even if it incriminates him.
“No.”
“Did you poke her at all?” Come on, Jason.
“No.”
“Yes. You. Did.”
“Lani, how did he poke you? Show me.” Lani lifts her hand to her head, pulling it down toward her neck. “He poked your ear?” Lani nods. “Jason?”
“I didn’t poke her. I just touched her hair. It’s so soft. I like touching it.” He says it without smiling or frowning, like it just is.
I drop my head slightly, placing my hand across the bridge of my nose to cover my smile and the giggle bubbling up. I push out a breath and pull my face into what I hope is a casual expression.
“And then she hits you?” Good girl, Lani. Stand up for yourself. Then I remind myself, don’t smile. “Have you touched her hair each time?” This time Jason nods. He obviously isn’t seeing the touch/hit connection, or maybe he thinks it’s worth it. “Then she hits you?” He nods again. Clueless. Oh, my gosh, how cute! Her hair does look soft. He can hardly restrain himself.
Time to learn, I guess. “Jason, you don’t get to touch Lani’s hair. She doesn’t want you to, and it’s her hair. She makes the rules for her hair. Lani, don’t hit Jason. Tell him no, then tell me. I’ll help you. Okay?” I ask, looking between both faces.
“Okay.”
“Yeah.”
We’re almost an hour into the school day and Mr. Chavez hasn’t come in for my last observation yet. I’ve been holding off so he doesn’t miss the beginning. He’s about twenty minutes late now, and I’ve been growing steadily more nervous each minute. He probably had something come up. I should just go on without him. My stomach muscles release—my whole body relaxes, then the door opens and he walks in.
Students sit cross-legged around the outside of the rug as we talk about how we’ve made patterns using colors. I show them a pattern with blocks laying them side-by-side: blue, red, blue, red, blue, red, blue.
“Which color comes next?” The students call out “red” and I add it to the train.
Then I pull the number chart in front of us and use clear plastic stickers to make the red-and-blue pattern on the number chart with the number one colored in blue and the number two colored in red. The students come up and choose the next colors and stick them to the numbers. After everyone has had a turn, I ask the students to read just the red numbers with me. “Two, four, six, eight, ten, twelve, fourteen, sixteen, eighteen, twenty, twenty-two, twenty-four.”
I am so nailing this lesson.
Pulling out small number charts and more red and blue blocks, I explain to them that they will do the same thing we just did at their own desks.
It’s going well when I notice that the students in the group at the far end of the room are talking loudly in an animated way. As I approach, I hear, “I crashed on my bike.”
“My sister pushed me down.”
No, no, no, this lesson is not going to crash. I’m two steps away. Think—what should I do?
“Look at my owie. Hey! Look. Hey! Look at …” Jacquie is showing the group a scab on her hand, but no one is really listening. They all have some part of themselves exposed, pointing to various fresh, old, or imagined owies. Dan looks like he’s pulling his shirt out of his pants—I don’t want everyone to know where he thinks he has an owie.
“Dan, sit down.” Standing beside Jacquie, I ask her to show me her pattern blocks, then ask Sean to read the pattern on Jacquie’s desk, then I ask Dan to read the blue blocks on Tad’s chart. As he reads them, I point to the other students to get back to their blocks or charts. Deep breaths—disaster averted.
February 9, 2008
Newbie Blog:
Don’t Do a Class Pet
This blog post should save you some heartache—and money. I thought it would be fun to have a class pet, so I bought fish—guppies, darting, grey, pinstriped flashes of excitement, along with a tank, and a bubbler, and a thermometer, and a heater, and a bag of rocks, and plastic plants, and a treasure chest, and a net, and water treatment supplies, and food and cleaning supplies. (Were you tallying the cost as I listed that?)
I’m really not a pet person, but the girl at the pet store said guppies were a good place to start. For the size of the tank, she suggested I buy a dozen. Of course she did! Because they die randomly. Quickly. And she knew it! My students only bought the “It’s resting” explanation for the first two fish that rolled over. After all, they can count. We start
ed with twelve, two died the first day, and only ten are in the tank the next morning. Each day, more fish succumbed.
At the beginning of this venture, I gave this big lecture on how to care for them, complete with a chart showing when each child would help with their care. When we started, everyone was looking forward to their turn, so I went back to the fish store and bought a few more to replace the deceased. Cashel sits by the fish every morning before school starts, gazing at the circular dance they swim, around and around their tank. Today, she had a turn feeding them. She accepted the fish food box with large tears rolling down her cheeks, asking, “More are going to die today, aren’t they?”
It has been three weeks and dozens of fish later. Everyone will have had a turn in one more week, then I’ll take the survivors home for hospice. My advice—don’t even start.
Mrs. Dahl is the Holiday Helper for our Valentine’s Day class party. She came into our class a couple of weeks ago with a large box of pink and red paper, markers, white paper doilies, and lots of hearts cut out of various colors and in different sizes. There are also Valentine’s stickers—some are traditional-looking while others have popular cartoon characters on them. She asked the students to make a Valentine for each of the other students in the class. We sent home notes telling the parents they don’t need to buy cards because of this class activity, but they were welcome to send a small treat the day of the party instead.
The kids and I have been making cards since then. I’ve written a note to each child and decorated it in a Valentine’s-y way, with loads of hearts, curlicue lines, cut-out flowers. Confession, though I hope no one notices, but the card I made Chad is a little different than the rest. He won’t think of me as his first girlfriend or anything, but I will always remember him as my first student crush.
