January 2, 2007- Upon returning to work after Christmas break, the main site director greeted me with the frenetic news that I could order $300 of supplies for my classroom. The catch was that I needed to order them TODAY, as the order was going out the next morning.
Three hundred WHOLE dollars, you say? Hot diggity day-um. I didn't know whether to cartwheel or do the Snoopy dance. Or whether I should think about the thousands of dollars in tuition that my students' parents spent in total, and the fact that this was the very first time I was approached with this chance to order supplies.
After careful consideration and the realization that the Almighty Pastor's Wife decreed to the parents at kindergarten orientation that their 4 year-olds would in fact be "fluent readers" by June (as she is not a teacher, and in no way has had any literacy training beyond Google, she has no clue what this means), I knew what to do. So, I ordered plain, two-sided whiteboards and three sets of leveled readers for Guided Reading Groups.
February- No word on the stuff. Site director says that the bill had yet to be approved by the home office.
March- Ya kidding?
April- I was greeted with the excited news that the supplies had arrived. Not that it mattered in terms of half my students, I had bootlegged some other readers and supplies to make a fairly passable Guided Reading format, but hey. I look at the stuff and see-
- Lined, one-sided whiteboards
- An alphabet puzzle (For kids ages 2 and up! According to the box)
- A toy kit for growing and viewing roots
- Story wands that inquire about plot and character
- Beach balls that inquire the same
Well, fuck me silly. I asked the director about the location of the leveled readers, and received a rambling answer that included a shipping special, a doctor's appointment, a sick child, and as usual for either director, blame that the other one was prodding for results. My poker face held, and my pregnancy hormones did not cause me to reach out and strangle-lift her over my head. I mentally reminded myself that this freckled-faced poppet of a director before me was a good year younger than my younger sister, and had no single clue at all.
C'mon, guy from That 70's Show, will you just pop out from behind the giant drum set which is front and center in the sanctuary, scream that I've been "Punked," and let my life continue?