What's That Smell?

If you can't laugh at yourself, at whom can you laugh?  Who said that?  I love that saying...

When I was in 2nd Grade, in 1977,  I loved my teacher, Mrs. Bjorkman.  She had horn-rimmed glasses and almost black, short hair.  She wore a dress everyday and loved us kids.  She also loved playing her piano as we sang patriotic songs.  There we'd sit on the floor, "indian style" (now it's "criss cross applesauce"), as she be-bopped away on the keys, singing "You're a Grand Old Flag" and "Yankee Doodle."  She played standing up with her back to us and I remember how her round butt looked, bouncing around right in front of our faces, her skirt swaying back and forth, her feet, bound in sensible shoes, tapping the beat.  She was always smiling...

One day, we were all sitting on the rug while she sat in her chair reading us a story.  I liked listening to stories as they were entertaining, the room was quiet, and they didn't require any effort on my part.  As I listened to her voice and almost became sleepy from the noise of the fan and quietness of the room, I farted.  Out of the blue.  Loudly.  And there was no escaping who it had come from.  Needless to say, the red face, the laughter that ensued, and the assurance from my teacher that "now kids, everybody does that" is still happening today in all classrooms all over America.  That's something they don't teach you in college.

Children fart.  All the time.  Fart sounds never cease to amuse even adults, who must resort to buying Flarp noise putty to get their laughs.  What would we do without boys to make fart sounds with their armpits?  Even a balloon expelling air causes fits.  We all just have to admit:  Farts are really funny.  The next time a kid farts, look around at the other kids and revel in their faces of pure happiness and laughter.  You will be laughing in no time, too.  The next time you need to cheer someone up, exchange fart stories.  Or read them Walter the Farting Dog.

Ok, wait.  I have to amend my previous statement:  Farts are really funny, until the smell hits you.  An elementary classroom after lunch has its own unique blend of aromas that originate from 20+ (or 30+ depending on what grade-and that could be a whole other post on smells being emitted from pre-pubescent tweens) humans who've eaten a variety of lunch entrees, from pizza to chicken nuggets, salad, mac n'cheese, corn dogs, "taco boats,"  and even bean burritos!  Why the HELL do they serve raw broccoli at the salad bar?  The cafeteria workers/menu planners ought to sprinkle beano on everything and call it something clever.  Fart-buster dust?  I'm not a fan of air freshener, but some days the citrus febreeze finds its way into my hands and I'm spraying away, I'll take asthma over this stench any day!

Teachers (and volunteers! you are not off the hook) also pass gas in their classrooms.  But what's so great about that is the kids always get blamed.  I, shamelessly, have crop-dusted many a learning station as I walk by, only to hear someone else get blamed for farting.  Just the other day, I had had a delicious chicken burger on a whole wheat bun with field greens and tomato with hint of lime tortilla chips and a diet Pepsi for lunch.  Well, those tiny little air bubbles made their way to the exit sign just in time for class to start.  So I just routinely dropped my bomb and walked away.  I'm the teacher, I can do that.  Unfortunately for me, the kid who was in the drop zone was not known for his subtlety and announced as he waved his hands in front of his face (smiling and laughing) that it "smells like rotten eggs over there!"  Not one kid thought it was me.  I'm the teacher, I don't fart.

Two years at Back-to-School Night, karma came to get me.  I had given my presentation, something I never got used to doing, but managed ok, and some parents were hanging around to chat.  I briefly talked with a few and suddenly I was face-to-face with a "hot dad."  We're talking 6'5", tan, big guns, strong....and his wife, who I personally know as a former colleague.  We hadn't met yet so he introduced himself and gestured to shake my hand.  So I said, "Nice to meet y-FART!" at the exact moment we shook hands.  His wife just looked away and tried (bless her) to pretend she didn't notice and a pregnant parent said, "Oh, that happens to me all the time!" as she patted her very huge abdomen.  OK, I'm not pregnant.  I just had Taco Bell cause I haven't been home since 7 a.m.

All I could do was laugh, because once again I found myself in the same second grade predicament.  I turned beet red, suffered a little awkwardness, and then just laughed and so did everybody else.  Maybe someday you'll find on bookstore shelves a book entitled, Mrs. B the Farting Teacher."

It turns out Mrs. Bjorkman was right.  It does "happen to everybody" and it is really funny. 

The End Is Here

It is the end of my summer vacation.  As I type, I'm torn between the laptop and the bedroom, where I could be spending my last peaceful afternoon reading my book and then nodding off to sleep for an hour nap, after which I'd mosey on into the kitchen for a snack, click on the tv to see what's on Oprah or HGTV.  I often find myself feeling guilty about having so much time off and then complaining that it's almost over.  It's a little like being a poor little rich girl.  Everyone has problems, I suppose.

I'm contracted to work 183 days a year.  That's one day more than half the year.  I have all weekends, holidays, Thanksgiving "Recess," Winter "Break," Spring Break, and summer off.  All in all, a total of 182 days a year.  I don't think I can describe in words how wonderful it is to have this time.  The last day of school, May 27th, seems like it was just last week and a year ago, but it was also a vision of this expanse of time spread out in front of me as beautiful and as vast as the Caribbean Sea.  I said good-bye to the "babies" I greeted back in August who seem so much older and independent now... who I helped teach to read, write, spell, add & subtract.  I also (hopefully) taught them to be creative, to take risks, that making mistakes is a good thing, and how to deal with bullies and to not become a bully.  I hope they remember.  I hope they know I poured my heart and soul into them.

Every year when it's time to start all over again with a new batch of "babies" I have mixed emotions.  I simultaneously can't wait to get back but want time to have a life.  I want to get started, set up the room with new supplies, clean desks, and a new arrangement of furniture.  Inside I promise myself that this year I won't let piles of paper grow on that shelf nor will I let the dust bunnies take over.  I am going to be organized!  I am going to be the best teacher EVER...I will take time to listen to his problem, I will know exactly how to handle it, I will not get mad, frustrated, irritated or annoyed. This year, I will hear my alarm clock go off at 5:15 am and I will wake up with a smile on my face and shout, "I'm Up!," pop out of bed, and optimistically face a new day.  I'll hop in my car in my very cute and well-put-together outfit and zip through my commute like it was only 5 minutes, and arrive at my classroom door refreshed and ready for the day and greet my students exactly like Oprah greets her studio audience.  I have lofty goals and I set the bar high.  But like the magic eyeball I keep in my glove box (think Magic 8 ball, but it's an eye ball) that I found in my desk a few years ago, which I'd confiscated from some kid, would say, "Yeah, right."

I wish I had it in me to be this person.  I do, just not all the time.  Don't get me wrong, I LOVE MY JOB.  I thoroughly enjoy first graders (they still say funny stuff like Kindergartners, but they're not as inexperienced as Kindergartners and, for the most part, know you should go to the bathroom in a toilet).  There is something to laugh about every single day.  I often find myself saying things like, "Hold your balls!" which is very funny after you've shouted it down the hallway at the top of your lungs without thinking of what you sound like but in an instant realizing what you sound like.  My colleagues and I are good friends and I'm looking forward to seeing them again and hearing about their summer adventures. But most of all I'm looking forward to meeting the little guys and gals I'll be hanging out with all year.

What I dread is the alarm clock, the scheduling of every single minute once that bell rings at 8:45. I am a slave to the clock, even after school.  There is never enough time to do everything:  stretch, greet, play, draw, spell, paint, read, count, go to recess, go to the bathroom, eat a snack, teach some more, discipline, be on yard duty,  oh $hit, I forgot to run copies, inhale lunch because there's work to do!, go to the line, listen, talk, walk, sit quietly, make-the-children-be-still-and-listen-to-a-story, draw some more, cut, glue, clean up, recess, bathroom, gulp water, sing, dance, stretch, cubbies, chairs up, clean the floor, bell, staff meeting, team meeting, site council meeting, patch meeting, or maybe I could just....breathe.  But no.  My brain immediately goes to what I have to get ready for the next day.  No matter what was accomplished on any given day, I feel behind and I know I will never be caught up.  There is always, always something that needs doing.

People ask, "What are you going to do with yourself with all that time off?  Won't you get bored?" 

I asked my Magic Eyeball this question, "Will I get bored this summer?"  Know what it said? 

"Yeah right."

Bad Words

My first words were "oh chit." 

Having grown up in a family that didn't mince words, I knew of the existence of pretty much all the bad words.  My grandma was famous for her routine rant of "goddammitalltohellshitfartbastard!"  Kids, however, were not allowed to say them, not ever, and if we were to slip and utter one out loud, God would hear and we would go to hell.  I was seriously afraid of hell (I went to catholic school so going to hell was something I knew one had to avoid).  So I never said the words.  I believed, however, that grown-ups were somehow exempt. 

One day, I was performing the chore I hated more than anything.  I was picking up dog poop in the backyard.  It was fall and there were leaves on the ground.  The shovel was heavy, I was clumsy, and didn't see the big pile underfoot (we had big dogs whom I loved dearly who made big piles of poop).  I stepped in the dog poop and under my breath said, "Oh shhhhit."  I stopped, looked around.  I thought lightening was going to strike me, and when none did, I breathed a sigh of relief and vowed to never say it again because I had narrowly escaped disaster.

I once used a "bad" word that meant something entirely different than I thought it did.  When I was in Girl Scouts, in fourth grade, I told my mom that I like the green M&Ms because they make you horny.  I thought "horny" meant "happy."  Since I wanted to be as happy as possible, I was picking out all the green ones and eating them first.  La, la, la, la la.....yummy, yummy, these are soooo yummy!...Her reaction was completely surprising to me.  I was immediately set straight and turned crimson red. 

So often, in learning the english language, kids get confused.  They somehow know a straight up middle finger means something naughty, but they're not quite sure why.  How do you explain that one?  For that matter, how does one explain the f-word?  Shit, crap, damn, damn-it, ass, asshole, screw, piss, pissed off, butt, butthead, dick, and even the f-word and, I'm sure, a bunch of other words I can't conjure at the moment have been uttered by the wee ones, in most cases, innocently.

We all know the "s" word, the "a" word, the "d" word, the "f" word, and the "a" word.  But what's the "j" word?   (It's jerk, in case you were wondering)

One day, I was walking my class back to the room after lunch.  I'd already been greeted happily by their hot, sweaty, smiling faces, listened to the tattling, dealt with the usual complaints, and started reminding them of the walking-in-line-procedures:  "When our hands are at our sides, we're lined up straight and tall.  Mouths are closed, eyes look ahead, then we're ready for the hall."  Off we went, a delicate balance of my watchful gaze and my trust that once my back was turned, they'd continue to walk in a civil, non-twirling, single file, quiet line (that's a pipe-dream, but I still try year after year).  All along, there was this feeling, an unconscious note in my mind, that I didn't have everybody.  Someone was not in line.

At the same moment I became aware of that thought, Frank (of I Wost My Wunch fame) came running up with his eyes wide and sheer "oh shit!" panic written all over his face.  "Mrs. B!!!!!  SOMEBODY WOTE 'FUCK YOU' ON THE WOST AND FOUND!!!!" 

In "struck speechless" shock (did this kid really just shout Mrs. B someone wrote fuck you on the lost and found?) I said, "WHAT??"  I didn't expect or know that he would repeat it.

Again he shouted, more earnestly, "SOMEBODY WOTE 'FUCK YOU' ON THE WOST AND FOUND!"

I bent down, put my finger over my lips to indicate "sh" and "ok, I heard you" and I kept walking with my class to the door.  Nobody asked anything and nobody seemed to care. 

It was just a word they'd already heard before.  Let's get inside, it's hot out here.

I Wost My Wunch

Does anybody out there remember his or her first grade teacher? I do, her name was Mrs. Fiskin and she wore her brown hair in a bun everyday. I wanted my mom to do my hair in a bun, too. I was in the red reading group, the Late Birds, and loved to play on the bars at recess. At lunch, I threw away my apple and ate my Ding Dong instead (don’t tell my mom!). From my earliest memories, I’ve been friends with boys. Ford liked to hang upside down on the bars and go on the rings with me. Evan and I played with the blocks, building roads and ramps for the Hot Wheels cars. I had/have red hair, was called “Carrot Top,” “Red,” and “Freckle Face” by the “big” kids. My mom said they were just jealous, but I, in all my 6 year old wisdom, knew she was wrong.

I’m now a first grade teacher, and have been for 14 years. I’m about to start my 10th year at a school in the Sierra Nevada foothills in California. California is a beautiful state full of diverse landscapes and diverse people from all walks of life. I love it here and hope to never leave. I consider my classroom a microcosm of sorts, full of diversity in terms of learning ablilities, learning styles, reading levels, behaviors, boys, girls, socio-economic statuses, religions, languages, and personalities. I love it, and hope I never have to leave.

First Grade is different now compared to my first grade experience of the 70′s. Back then, there weren’t any state standards. Schools were funded and life was good, at least according to me. All I knew was that when the bell rang it was time to stop what you were doing and do something else. And there was always someone in charge, who knew what to do. We had time to practice our printing, to read leisurely, to work on our projects, and to play. I had my own desk, the kind you can prop up with your pencil like the hood of a car. I used to hide my head under that hood and organize. When I was in first grade, school seemed easy. We were expected to learn to read with Dick and Jane, to learn to add and subtract, and to learn to get along with each other. We didn’t have homework.

Today's First Graders have a long list of concepts they must learn in 10 short months.  They have homework.  Blegh!  But many of them also have to deal with divorce, autism, obesity, diabetes, ADD, ADHD, drug abuse, alcoholism, bullying, abandonment, depression, anxiety, and a whole slough of issues a lot of adults can't handle.  More than ever, children need us adults to be there for them, to be compassionate and empathic, and show them a way to solve their problems.

Yet children are still children. They say and do really funny things. In my blog, I hope to preserve some of that, and, hopefully, preserve my own belief in childhood. Teaching and being around children keeps me young at heart and light-hearted, yet it keeps me grounded and ever-mindful of what’s important in life: do what makes you happy, whether that’s painting a picture or writing a novel, drawing on the sidewalk with chalk or throwing a ball.

A student of mine from 2 years ago reminds me of this. I’m changing his name for this blog, although that’s a shame since his name is such an important part of him. I’ll call him Frank. Frank has blond hair and brown eyes (which are always smiling). He has autism, he is high-functioning, which means he is social and talks and plays with other kids. He likes to “move it-move it” while walking in line.  He tried in class, but being much less mature than the others, was constantly distracting them. All he wanted to do was play. This made me crazy some days, but it’s also what I loved about him. He got lots of services of which speech therapy was one. He learned how to respond when someone says hello to him. He was to practice his /l/ sounds, which he pronounced as /w/. I think you know where I’m going with this story…

For the rest of this story, you need to know the lunch procedures at my school. The kids play first, then eat. That means they have to put their lunches in a designated spot on the playground and when they leave the classroom, I also leave.  And lock the door. Occasionally, kids would be so wrapped up in getting to recess, they'd forget their lunch (in spite of multiple reminders from me), which meant I invariably had to stop eating and walk all the way back to let them in. I made it clear to the students that I did not like this, and for the most part, they were very good about remembering what to do.

But one day, Frank left his lunch in the room.

Apparently this realization caused a panic and he rustled up some kids to help him deal with me. All I knew was that one minute I was walking to the teachers’ lunch room, anticipating 30 minutes of time with grown-ups, and the next I was being accosted by a posse of 6 year olds with Frank at the helm exclaiming, “Mrs. B! I wost my wunch!” My heart melted. He was obviously genuinely upset (about the realization that he would starve to death or his guilt over interrupting my lunch, I'll never know).  So I walked back to the room with him so he could get his wunch.