These Dreams Go on When I Close My Eyes

4:06 Am. Darkness. And then, from somewhere to my left...

"Tsssst. Thhhhhht. Tsssth." Rustle, rustle. "Ah Da? Ah dadadadat." Then, in Batman fashion, KABAM! White fireworks as a little fist punches the air, seeking an audience, and landing precisely on my eyeball.

Sigh. All it took was one early morning of thunder, lightening, snow plows, and snow to totally convince the Little Nipper that we all wake up at 4 now. There was little more to do than lay quietly, and hope she'd soon go to sleep. I was also able to ruminate on the fun of sleeplessness. I don't know how mothers who work outside of the home do it, other than they must trade off with their spouse and probably not breastfeed all night. (Ha- you thought I'd get through a post without breasts. In a Chris Griffin voice I say to you, "Boobies!") For those single, working, nursing moms, I totally bow down and kiss your feet.

This isn't college anymore- sleepless nights don't mean I get to down a Red Bull the next day and wander about, all wide-awake and with a cute belly showing anymore. Or, that one memorable Biology exam that I stayed awake all night studying for, drinking an entire six-pack of one liter Mountain Dews, to have the professor come up to me mid-exam very concerned that I hadn't blinked in the previous 45 minutes. Sigh. Nope, these are the days where I have to plan my caffeine carefully, as it zips like lightening to the child, who is more than willing to then spend the day all wide-awake, and with a cute belly showing.

Sleepless, but the day must go on. Go on, it does, and usually consists of more than one occasion of staring at the calendar, wondering which day it is. Or, standing in the kitchen for ten minutes, searching high and low for the lid to a raisin canister, to find it in the other hand when I reach the point of despair and try to fashion a new one from plastic wrap. Very often, the day ends with the baby finally going to sleep as I sit in my dark bedroom, Mr. Clarateaches sleeping blissfully unaware that the most hilarious local news at 11 is happening on the muted, closed-captioned TV. Hilarious laughter is very hard to do without waking up a baby.

Fortune smiled on me- by 5:20, my little babbling bambina fell back to sleep and I was able to catch 25 more minutes of sleep before Mr. Clarateaches' alarm clock went off. Time for a new day... where the heck am I?

Chomp, Chomp

Let's go backwards in time to the four month well baby visit on Nov 16th:

Me: "I think she's teething. She drools, chews on her hands, and is irritable sometimes."

Physician's Assistant: "Nah... She's too young."

Fast forward to the week after Thanksgiving. What's that, there on the bottom gums? A tooth? No.

Two teeth! There on the lower jaw are two of the sharpest things on the planet. What's better is that she's decided that Christmastime seems like the perfect time to start anew with some more teeth.

We all have our methods for dealing. I like the Hyland's route- it's easy and natural and Gianna likes it a lot better than the teething gel, which burns like a mo-fo (I tried it on my own gums- yeeeowch!) When the times get tough, good old Infant Tylenol does the trick, albeit in a less crunchy (but much more direct) way.

Mr. Clarateaches likes the Jim Beam method. He fills up his shot glass, generously douses the sprout (who LOVES whiskey and happily licks it off her gums- good grief, who knew?) and then shoots the rest down and heads happily to sleep, while I spend the night feeding a slightly buzzed baby.

Gianna has decided that she needs to chew fabric, and will also only suck her thumb after carefully maneuvering her sleeve or a blanket over it. It's like a moth attack, but whatever works.

Alas, this also means she can do some serious damage to me now. She bit me in her sleep a few days ago, and I almost passed out trying not to scream (I didn't want to wake her up, and I'm so sleep deprived, a wildebeest could have torn off a limb and I wouldn't have woken her up). Last night though, she was crabby and potentially sprouting a new tooth (or God help me, new teeth) and she bit me HARD. I screamed like I'd been shot, and the look of anguish on her face broke my heart. We both cried, and then when we pulled ourselves together, we went ahead and put an earring into the little hole she made.

She clearly has no idea that Mommy has feelings of her very own, and won't know this for a while, so I feel bad. We're going with the "stop nursing when it happens, and eventually she'll equate biting=stop nursing immediately" and that'll be the end of it. I've heard some random goofballery about poking or thumping or flicking babies when they bite, but it sounds like a quest for more ways to need to comfort a hurting baby. Or ignore a hurting baby, which is more sad.

Yup, still on this

I just wanted to post some further information. I belong to a message board for Christian mothers who parent naturally and gently, and Mary Anaya has recently joined. She asked that those who are blogging about this post addresses (including a new one which I will post below, as well as her quote along with it) and most importantly, her request that people PRAY for her and her family, and those who are fighting this situation right now.

Please remember, this has nothing to do with whether you believe the genetic test should be done or not- this has everything to do with armed men coming into an American citizen's home and kidnapping her newborn, over a test that indicates diseases that all together, have a 0.16% chance of happening. That's sixteen hundredths of one percent.

When I was still teaching outside of Chicago, I had one of the roughest, most high-needs classroom in the school. I distinctly recall having to contact DCFS on so many sad situations in my class. Two in particular stand out- both because nothing was done about it. One was when Limited English made allegations against a family member that they "hit (him) with one of those things you hang shirts on," (his words to me) and later Little Cutie Boy, whose 22 year old brother hit him on the face on the way to school, and he came into my classroom with blood from his forehead to his chin. DCFS told me that as neither was life-threatening, they had no time to do anything about it. Yet somehow, a Nebraska Court spent how many tax dollars prosecuting (persecuting?) a family for not allowing their son's heel to be cut and his blood spread on dots on an index card.

Here's the DCA's address:
Nicole Goaley
Deputy County Attorney
Juvenile Division
ngoaley@co.douglas.ne.us
(I imagine she can be reached at the same Supreme Court address as posted in the last post).

From Mary- "She is the one who made the decision to seize custody and refused to dismiss the case until the test results came back. None of the previous county attorneys prosecuted us and she had the power to dismiss the case from the beginning. She had indicated initially to our lawyer that she was powerless to dismiss the case until after the hearing before the judge. However, we later learned that was not true. Even though our lawyer asked her to move the case out of juvenile to district court like it stated in the statute, she refused. That meant our lawyer could not present legal arguments and Joel was held as a hostage. "

Please write. Please write, and if not a NE citizen, at least write and explain that the nation is watching, and this is unacceptable. If for whatever reason you cannot write (and if I can type a letter one handed while nursing and burping my baby, who is scratching me and gnawing on my shoulder, well...) please pray.

Regarding previous blog

For everyone who wants to get off their rears and take some action (with letters; let's not get dramatic), here are important addresses:

Judge Elizabeth Crnkovich
Suite 600
Hall of Justice1701
Farnam Street
Omaha NE 68183

And here are her superiors. Hathor, the lovely "cowgoddess" (bear with me here) has suggested writing to them, and copying the letter to the dishonorable Judge Crnkovich as well.

Nebraska Judicial Council
Administrative Office of the Courts
1445 K Street1213 State Capitol
P. O. Box 98910
Lincoln, NE 68509-8910
Phone: 402-471-3730
Fax: 402-471-2197

Commission on Judicial Qualifications
ATTN: Secretary
Nebraska Supreme Court
PO Box 98910
Lincoln, Nebraska 68509
Please mail in an envelope marked CONFIDENTIAL

If you have any kinds of feelings of outrage about this, particularly that the judge ordered the baby out of the courthouse, when it was crying to be fed by his mother, and demanded that the distraught mother continue her testimony, write a letter. It takes very little time, a stamp, and will hopefully, en masse, have an effect. Let's get this sorry excuse for a judge disbarred!

This is what nightmares are made of...

Seriously, chilling to my core. Brief synopsis: a couple birthed their ninth child in the state of Nebraska, which has a rigid rule regarding blood testing of newborns for rare genetic diseases. This couple declined the test, and their five week old was forcibly removed from his nursing mother to foster care for 5 and a half days. The social workers were ordered to give the baby formula.

Get this: if for some reason this small baby did have one of the diseases (PKU) that the test was looking for, formula would have killed him.

The social workers and foster mother, fortunately, took pity on mom and baby (hey how about that, the system actually worked in that respect) and called the mother every few hours to come and feed her son on the sly, as the visits were technically unauthorized.

Here is a link to the blog of this family's attorney, and the segment that appeared on Rush Limbaugh.

http://www.nebraskainjurylawreport.com/category/constitutional-rights/

Here are a few links to the people who can make the change that NEEDS to be made, for the sake of babies and families in this state (directly taken from a message board that the mother posted to:)

"For 2 legislative sessions, State Senator Synowiecki has proposed exemption legislation. The 2nd time we had high hopes. We had more people testifying in favor of the bill than against, signed testimonies of the trauma the screening had caused other parents, and a petition signed by over 100 people. There were only a couple of testimonies from the state against the bill. However, it was killed in the health and human services committee and never made it to the floor for a vote. Here are e-mails for the committee:"

perdman@leg.ne.gov;
jjohnson@leg.ne.gov;
astuthman@leg.ne.gov;
tgay@leg.ne.gov;
dpankonin@leg.ne.gov;
ghoward@leg.ne.gov;
thansen@leg.ne.gov;

Think of the choices you make every day, not even necessarily parenting choices. What if, one day, one of those choices turns into this type of nightmare for your family?

When we had G in a hospital in Lansing, we were harassed every day of our five day stay over our decision to forgo the antibacterial eye drops, the Vitamin K injection, and the Hepatitis B vaccination. We had nurses, residents, and finally the doctors themselves coming into our room scratching their heads and wondering about our reasoning. We have our reasons- mainly, that there is so little risk of G needing any of the above, that the risks involved with injecting or dripping her with any of it outweigh the benefits. Above all, I AM THE MOTHER, AND I SAID SO. The blood test that is described in Nebraska law is also demanded by MI law, and we did allow this. However, had we decided to decline consent, our rights as parents should be respected.

Please write to these government officials.

One Year Later

One year ago today, I POAS (To those of you not up on your conception lingo, that means "peed on a stick." Ewww.) and received the happiest sight ever (unless you happen to be the head cheerleader)- a bright pink line! I screamed and yelled and danced with the dog, who to this day wonders why we never do things like that anymore. I tell her that when she quits digging under the compost, we'll talk.

Clever me- I wrote little poems and stuck them all over the house, and had Mr. Clarateaches go on a hunt for clues. He happened to have worked from midnight until 8 AM that morning, deep in the engineering lair, doing something fun with engines, so he was exhausted. But, hunt he did, and when he at last came upon the positive pregnancy test, he turned to me and said in his most romantic voice....

"Does this still have pee on it?"

Babies are fun. Apparently, everyone thinks my baby is public property, which is why I want to carry a firearm. I settle for carrying her in a sling, usually her Moby wrap. This, according to my fellow crunchies, will stop people from using their gross, never-washed-after-the-bathroom, always-in-their-noses, petting-strange-dogs-hands. What it really does is turn us into an elaborate spectacle, as people don't usually see anyone wearing a baby 'round these parts. The name of the game for some people is to be as hands-off with their sprouts as possible, but by God, I wanted this bambina for so long, she gets to be my baby kangaroo.

This will be the post of many run-ons.

Where was I? Oh yeah, the masses of the great unwashed who wish to touch my child. Or, who wish to offer me crackhead parenting advice.

On one occasion, in my favorite little gourmet and produce store, a woman who probably could have been a linebacker beelined right over to me. She did the usual, "Oh, what a cute baby," but then sealed her fate by touching my arm sympathetically and asking me in a hushed tone usually reserved for fatal diseases, "Um, isn't she a little small for her age?" I stared at this lady Leviathan and said, "No, she's pretty normal."

On another, I was in a mega-grocery with La Bambina in her wrap, who had fallen asleep sometime in the coffee aisle. I was at the cashier, trying to watch the teenager scanning my groceries so that she didn't do something silly like chuck four pounds of apples on top of squishy things, or put the five pound bag of potatoes and gallon of cider in the same bag so that it hilariously smashes to the parking lot later (ahem- I'm looking at right at you, cashier of today). A woman was behind me with her teenage daughter who was a "Spoiled Brat" if you believe the glitter on her rear. "Spoiled Brat" blathered into her cell phone to someone about the gala time that they all were going to have tonight when mom and dad drove them to the R rated movie. The mother stared at me and my peacefully sleeping girl (Not a "Spoiled Brat") and said, "That looks uncomfortable."
Ever ready to convert others to babywearing, I started to describe all of the reasons why the Moby was very comfortable, how it distributed the baby's weight to my entire body and held her in the middle. She interrupted me. "No, I mean, the baby's not comfortable in that."

Beg your effing pardon? I looked down at my angel, peacefully sleeping and sucking on her lower lip. She couldn't have been more comfortable. "Hmmm," was my response, and I turned my back to her completely to focus on the credit card reader. In NY, that would be a signal for the woman to mind her own beeswax if she knew what was good for her, but in MI it seems to mean "keep right on talking."

"I always put them right there, right in the cart. Got 'em used to it," she said wistfully, hearkening back to the days of "Spoiled Brat's" youth. "Where's her shoes?"

I looked at G's little socked feet. "No shoes yet," I said. "Her feet are growing too fast to keep up, and besides, she's not walking."

The woman shook her head. "Tsk, tsk. I always put shoes on their feet, got 'em used to it."

Why was I talking to this person? I turned my back again, and waited for the cashier to finish. The woman behind me gave me the once over. "Looks like you got your shape back real quick, huh?" OH MY LORD.

I turned and loudly said, "Yup, she sucked all the pregnancy weight right off me." I almost squirted her in the eye with some breastmilk, but I think that's what Mr. Clarateaches was talking about when he said that sometimes my interactions with strangers go "too far." The woman stared at me, mouth agape for a few beats. The cashier smirked and handed me a receipt. The woman regained herself long enough to say to the cashier (whispering when she talked about the actual breast), "Oh breastfeeding. I breastfed my girls too, you know. Not too long though, got to get 'em used to..." I walked away at that point. No use wasting a good strangle on this hopeless woman.

My little girl- one year ago today, you were the size of a lentil, and making me sick all day long and only able to eat Ramen and lemonade. Today you are busting out of the 3-6 month clothing and making sure I don't accidentally get more than 5 hours of sleep in any 24 hour period. My sweet girl!

Feeding Frenzy

Growth spurt time! Gianna is eating like, well, Animal. In both quantity, and demeanor- and she has one heck of a nursing blister to show for it! Her favorite method is to roll her eyes back in her head, give a battle cry, latch on like a shark, and flail her arms wildly for the first five minutes or so, grunting like a little pig. Then, as milk-intoxication hits, she relaxes into her food coma and, eyes-closed, uses her little nails to happily scratch me for the remainder of the feeding. It's nothing like the misty, extra goopy photos of mothers calmly nursing their little tame nurselings. These are the Baby X Games. Thank God- I'd otherwise be bored to tears!

More later- let the games begin!

Clara Plans, Dog Laughs

Quite recently, I found myself home alone for a week and a half while Mr. Clarateaches went on an all-expenses paid trip to Engineer Land to do God-knows-what. He tried to tell me, but the brain fog rolled in.

For the most part we functioned pretty well. Until the day the newly super-charged Lab/Border Collie became a Real Dog. Perhaps it was her new high-protein dog food. At any rate, Lola managed to catch one of the chipmunks that have been darting around. It must have been asleep at the wheel, because Lola can't even catch a squirrel, and the chipmunks are faster than the squirrels. So, she tossed it about, and shook its little lifeless body and pranced back and forth in front of the rest of the Neighborhood Dog Choir. They, of course, seethed with jealousy.

Amused, I promptly forgot all about it until the next evening, when Lola decided that the scent of decomposing chipmunk was too alluring to deny herself any longer. She rolled around happily in it when I sent her outside for what I thought was her last potty break of the night. Seems she didn't think I had quite enough to do. One whiff of her, and I sent her back outside while I worked on Gianna's bedtime routine. This typically looks like: Bath, Massage, Nurse and rock to music, Sleep for 30 minutes, Wake up to nurse again, and out by 11. I originally planned on scouring the dog during the half-hour rest.

Not this night. Gianna laughed and pinwheeled her arms and was very much awake. Lola mournfully barked at the door. However, as I learned when teaching, there is always a Plan B. So I plunked my little ten-week old party animal in her Neglect-O-Matic and went to fetch the dog. Lola happily trotted up the stairs until it dawned on her that a bath was in her future. She went into Passive Resistance Mode, ignoring my commands to get into the bath, pretending to be invisible by crouching flat on the floor and looking away from me, and finally laying on her bed while panting happily at me, saying, "Get in the bed? Okay!" I finally dragged her and her bed into the bathroom, while she quietly hummed, "We Shall Overcome." It took another few minutes to hoist her front paws into the tub. I shoved against the rest of her 70 pound body while telling her how FREAKING SERIOUS I was.

Gianna contemplated this new, odd addition to her bedtime routine while practicing her newest trick of cramming both hands into her mouth. She was becoming more awake as the clock ticked on. I scrubbed the stink-hound until she smelled more like an organic oatmeal and aloe covered rotten chipmunk. One hour later (and one scrub of the hair-covered tub later), the dog was completely taken care of. Gianna needed another hour after that to calm down from the insanity. After about a mile worth of pacing the floor in the light of The Fresh Prince of Bel Air on mute, she was finally out.

Too bad I was now wide awake. I think I have a new idea for a reality show.

Babies Eatin' Good in the Neighborhood, TOO!

Gianna had her first Nurse-Out today! More than 96 sites nationwide participated, and if the turnout was anything like the one in the Metro Detroit area, that means thousands of nursing mommies!

She, of course, chose to represent by sleeping in the Hotsling the whole time. I had the fun of holding a sign (I chose "Human Milk for Human Babies") and chanting. The Madison Heights Applebees was really accomodating, and handed out ice water. No idea what was on the paper they handed to the news guy with their "official statement" from Corporate Headquarters, but I'm sure it had something along the lines of, "We respect state laws that protect a mother's rights, blah blah blah..." Well, that's fantastic. Now make it a Corporate-wide law, make sure staff are all appropriately trained, and for Pete's sake, please do not humiliate a mother who is nursing her 7 month old to the point of tears. No, babies probably do NOT want to eat with something over their head- do you? Nope, babies also do NOT want to eat in the restroom, while someone in the next stall is depositing their "Ultimate Trio" to make room for dessert. Would you?

And as I always told my kindergartners, "You are the boss of your own bodies. No one else's." In other words, if you don't like to see a woman feeding her baby the very best way possible, simply turn your head and look at something else. Like, turn your head and look at some things that people don't seem to bitch much about, which means they must be so much more pleasant- the guy chewing with his mouth open. Or the slightly Rubenesque teenage girls with their low-rise jeans and halters squishing their bellies into a nice little fat belt. Or the lady loudly lambasting her children. Or any of the things I do not like to see while eating or shopping or plain old anywhere.

New Mama Land

Well, SHE is here! Gianna Maria was born on July 18, 2007 at 1:30 AM.

My peaceful, natural birth center birth turned into an ambulance ride to a hospital in the state's capital after 18 hours of labor and more than five hours of pushing. The C-section that followed was something that we chose after all options were used up. Lesson one in motherhood, I suppose- plans often just do not pan out.

Am I sad that, instead of photos of Gianna being peacefully birthed in the birthing tubs, we have a few photos of me immediately post-op? Even sadder that the hands that guided her into our world weren't mine or her fathers, but of two eager surgical residents? Definitely. I have a five inch long angry purple grimace slashed across my lower abdomen that will fade to white in time, but never go away. I still hear the sounds of the retractors cranking my body open, and smell the surgical smells, and feel my body being thumped about while they crammed my organs back in after Gianna was born. I still feel guilty that the "What if" thoughts keep going through my mind- even if my little girl decided to tilt her head to the side at the last minute, preventing her from exiting the way we had hoped. Guiltier that we have a healthy, beautiful, clever little girl who grows by leaps and bounds, and I still have this sadness. I should be grateful, right?

Another C-section mama very aptly told me that an unplanned C-section and a healthy baby are sort of like finding out you've won the lottery while watching your house burn to the ground. Well put. I love my girl, and am happy she's safe and here, but frankly, people were touching my guts. While I look forward to a glorious VBAC with my next child someday, I still feel invaded and bruised. We made the choice we had to make- the tough one. Motherhood lesson- the tough, crappy decision that sucks sometimes is the best one to make. It's still okay to be sad about the crap part of it. It doesn't take away any of the joy or beauty or thankfulness for the new life.

A provincial turn of events- two weeks after Gianna was born, her dad found this, which helped me tremendously. I have never really been big into the saints, but this was a comfort. A bit scary, as in "How the heck does life have these sorts of coincidences?" but still a comfort.

Gianna is now six weeks old- she's about ten lbs, 23 inches long, and has such cute chubby cheeks! Breastmilk is pure magic. She smiles and is starting to make noises when she sees us. Pooping requires lots of grunting and drama, which never fails to bring her dad to hysterical laughter.

We're completely in love.

Aftermath

We're done!

Graduation went well. The Pastor's Wife couldn't get my cd to work (that we've used all year long without a hitch) for the program, but my kids are awesome about being flexible, and they sang without music. H2O (who hates any kind of attention whatsoever) wanted to bail before we hit the stage, so I promised him two icy cold packets of Capri Sun if he could just go up on the stage and pretend. He managed to get halfway through the program, and then couldn't take it anymore- he methodically removed the cap, then the silk sash, and then lost the gown. All three items were thoroughly stepped on and smushed into the stage. I have to say, after the whole "graduation costume" idiocy, I was pretty triumphant.

The Idiocy: On an ordinary day, in an ordinary school, Kindergarten teachers generally help students create paper caps that the students can decorate. It's child-produced, and means something special to the student. All my kids loved theirs last year, and their parents were completely tickled over them. This year, in the land of the cult, the Admin decided to order some expensive silk caps and gowns and have silk sashes made with 2007 sewed onto them. And offer the sashes for $5 apiece! The sashes did not cost $30 in materials, I can tell ya that much (one of the kindergarten moms offered to sew them). I was asked my opinion, and as usual, when it didn't match theirs, was totally disregarded. Throughout the program (which I kept down to a brisk 15 minutes), the sashes and caps fell off repeatedly. None of the kids wanted to put on the gowns, particularly the boys, until I started calling them "graduation capes."

Hilarious moment- I was presented by the staff with what my husband and I can only call "Sad Little Whore Flowers:" for $3.99 apparently one can buy daisies and chrysanthemums that are painted bright blue and purple, and sparkled with glitter. When the presenting staff member ceremoniously handed them over to me, for one long horrible second I was frozen solid at the sight of such a thing. I sorted myself out pretty quickly, and instantly became covered in glitter when I took them.

Lessons Learned-

1)Never ever EVER again take a job with a cult. As satisfying as it may be to cross out "Work for a cult" on life's list of things to do before I die, it pretty much almost made me completely lose my faith, and my mind.

2) A little dash of "the crazy eye" can save your life. I recommend that everyone become proficient in silently staring at someone in such a way that your eyes contract to pinpoints. Especially when people start to try to convince you that "It'll be okay to talk to these prospective parents about kindergarten, but they don't know you won't be here, soooo... don't tell them, m'kay?" Let me tell ya- a few seconds into "the crazy eye," and they become edgy and uncomfortable and back away slowly, saying, "Well, maybe I'll just talk to them. That's okay, never mind."

3) Create a gathering of the parents long before the end of the school year. It took me until 13 days before school was over to discover that no two families were paying the same amount of tuition. And not a single parent could tell me what exactly they were paying for.



The last two years of working with the kindergarten crowd has been quite an experience. I look forward to returning to it again- just not now. At this point in time, I know that I can be my child's best teacher. In about 4 weeks, we will be putting this to the test. Little Baby Teaches will be arriving sometime between the end of June and mid-July. I haven't decided yet if I will continue this blog, or start another one... in the meantime, peace and blessings to all of you who have read this insanity for the past two-ish years.

What Would YOU Do For a Klondike Bar?

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?

Mice and Things

The one thing I always HAVE to do, when I taught preschool and now kindergarten for the second year in a row, is to have a Leo Lionni theme. There is just something about that collage style of illustration, and vocab-rich writing of the dearly departed Lionni that just makes me feel all school-y.

So this week, instead of the Reading Group Gulag, we've been kicking back with an assortment of Leo Lionni titles, and doing some fun projects to go along with them. Yesterday, we read Frederick. This classic fable is of a little mouse who doesn't help gather food for the winter, but has other gifts for his mice friends when the winter days are long, cold, and dark.

I wanted my kids to hear a few messages from this story. One was that words are important! Lately, some of my kids have inexplicably returned to whining. Whining is at the very top of my list of things I will not tolerate, no way, no how. You can certainly chatter nonsense to me all day long, you can forget to raise your hand to speak a billion times a day, but whining will absolutely turn me into the Wicked Witch of the MidWest. I also wanted them to hear the "everyone has a special gift" message, and I wanted them to see an example of a habitat.

So, some things they noticed about the book, right away:

H2O- "That mouse over there, (gesturing) he's glaring at those ants."

Very Young Boy- "I read this book. He's not glaring at the ants. He's just tired."

H2O- (glaring) "He's glaring, see? Right there. You're not looking at the right mouse."

I started reading the book, stopping at a few enticing vocabulary words and letting them guess what they mean. I'll have to look at the book to jog my memory, but it's always fun to see what they think a word means. After talking about the stone wall where the mice lived, I stopped and said, "I see a mouse habitat! Did anyone else hear it?"

Confused Girl: "Mouse! It's a mouse!"

Me: "CG, my question was- where is the mouse's habitat? Where do they-"

Confused Girl: "Berry! Ant! Habitat! I know, Mrs. Clarateaches, Habitat- it's their habitat."

We finished the story, and my kids were still a bit confused. They didn't understand why Frederick didn't go ahead and help gather the food if he was going to eat it. H2O was very worried about their drink situation. Serious Girl and Very Young Boy both seemed to understand, but the rest of the kids were more concerned about the prospects of real mice somewhere out in the snow starving.

On a serious note- there really is something to pulling books and expressing an interest in them. When I brought out the five Lionni titles on Monday and set them up along the front wall of the room, I explained that they are very special books to me, and I wanted to share them. I once read a literacy theorist's quote that teachers simply by reading a book can "bless" a book for a child, and spark a desire to explore for themselves. This entire week I have had the books out on display during the day, and the majority of the kids have made a beeline for the books as soon as they have some time to kill. The most popular ones to be snapped up are the books we have already read (and therefore, blessed).

Read to your children. There, my PSA for the day.

Counting Down

After Easter Break, there will only be 38 days left to go in the strangest job I have ever held. This is including the summer spent working at a bakery from 2-10 AM with a sociopathic midget, and the holiday helper job at Pier 1 where my manager insisted I allow a woman to charge up a storm on her senile, wheelchair-bound mother's credit card. Even after the credit company flagged the transaction and I ended up on the phone simultaneously with the FBI and the credit company. Ah, those warm Christmas memories of giving a physical description of a senile, wheelchair bound woman to the FBI whilst my manager, eyes all aglow, hisses in my ear that she is NOT going to lose this sale, as it would bring our totals for the night at an all time high.

Yes, this has been one doozy of a job. Not because of the kids, to be sure- my students are perfect in every way. No, this year has truly been unique in that I've never been hired by con artists before. Let's just highlight by summing up what was said at hire, and what has been discovered over time:

At hire: "You'll have about a dozen students."
Reality: Five students, until late October. Then the walls really started to bulge out as the sixth was added.

At hire: "Main Director has created schools before for corporations."
Reality: It seems I am the only one in the building with a teaching certificate for this state. In fact, it seems I am the only one with a bachelor's degree in the building, save another staff member from another country.

I could go on and on, but that will have to wait until I extract myself from the uber-intense, syrupy-sweet, Gothardesque-fake-smiling, money-grubbing claws of this place. In the meantime, some more silliness from the super fantastic students of mine!

As one might suspect, my current gestational state is a large topic these days. While they know I am planning on somehow acquiring a baby in the summer, some seem to have no idea where it is. H2O asks me on a near daily basis, "Is your baby in the baby room?" while Theological Boy (who gained a baby brother last summer, and seems to know quite a bit about the process) yells out, "It's in her UTERUS!" So in the meantime, little bobbly heads ricochet off my belly on a daily basis, and still half the kids look around and wonder aloud, "Where will you get your baby from?"

Yesterday we were exploring the world of subtraction. Very Young Boy kept eyeballing my rather large belly and raised his hand.

Me: "Yes?"
Very Young Boy: "Um... um... My dad is really fat. Like this (holds hands in front of belly). He has a really fat belly."

The toy horses have also been very busy in the small toy area. Apparently it was plastic equine orgy night some odd months ago (what the hell is the gestation of a horse, anyhow?) because each and every one of them is birthing, every day. Thanks to the extreme detail of Theological Boy's birth knowledge (he may have been present at his brother's birth), the toy horses are guided through the loud and vocal pushing stage each day by six very intense midwives. Each birth of the same miniature plastic red horse is greeted with cheers, tears, and the passing around of cigars.

I decline, obviously, as I currently cannot partake.

Bloglette

So, now that I'm getting much bigger, I'm getting myself up off the floor much like someone who is balancing a glass plate on her head. I have to lean back, brace myself sideways, push up off the ground with my arms, carefully walk my arms up my legs and then I'm there (whew!)

The hilarious part- this is now exactly how each and every member of my classroom is standing up from the rug! Ah, my minions...

H2O- future OB-GYN

I just love my unconventional students. Nothing against the boring ones that turn in their homework and stand in line and tuck in their shirts- I just wish they would climb a cabinet or develop a perseveration every once in a blue moon.

So, another H2O story.

At the end of a hairy day shortly after school resumed in January, I lined up the rugrats at the door for dismissal and their daily pep-talk.

Me: "Listen up, folks! Tomorrow is a NEW day. A day where I will not give the same direction to six different children regarding tipping in your chairs- if I tell Very Young Boy that he may not tilt in his chair, then by golly Confused Girl, don't stare directly at me while tipping in your chair. You know what I'll say."

Confused Girl: "Mrs. Clarateaches, I like your shirt. And your hair."

Me: "Thank you, CG- but please tell me what I just said about tipping in your chair."

Confused Girl: "Mrs. Clarateaches, how come you said 'your chair'?"

During this dizzying exchange, H2O, who was the line leader for the week, was busily patting my belly as though he had a small fire to put out. His head was tilted to one side, and he was smiling and nodding slowly like he was involved with an engaging conversation with my belly button. This would have been disconcerting without the Amelia Bedelia pattering of Confused Girl, but together the effect was really quite something.

Me: "H2O, why in the name of all that is holy are you manhandling me?"

H2O: *great big grin* "I'm petting your baby!"

Hooooooo boy.


How the heck did he know?


That's right, readers. I am currently gestating. Clarateaches Jr. will arrive sometime mid-July, and is currently at 16 weeks. That means he/she/ dear God them? is the size of a large avocado right now. At the time of H2O's mysterious voodoo though, I wasn't really showing, and had no real intentions of telling the class until it was fairly obvious.

The line exploded.

Theological Boy: "Nuh-uhhh, No she's not..."

Super Girl: "Can I see it?"

Confused Girl: "Baby Jesus?"

So, I told them that sometime after we closed shop for the summer, I would be having a baby. And ever since then, I've been fielding questions about when I'm going to bring my baby in. I keep telling them to just wait until I'm large enough to take someone out with one turn of my belly. After all, they're about that height.

Baby Steps

One of my tasks at this school is to teach five year olds how to pray. This involves just a few basic things- asking forgiveness of sins, giving thanks for blessings, and prayer requests.

An excerpt from today, Day 81 of the school year:

Super Girl and Theological Boy take the stage. They tussle for a few moments about who has to go first, and Super Girl caves first.

Super Girl: "Ok everybody- fold your hands... close your eyes... (shoots a glare to Very Young Boy, who is trying to squint so his eyes remain open)... bow your heads. Dear God, thanks for giving us sins. Um... (looks at me)"

Me: (stage whisper) "Thanks for blessings..."

Super Girl: "Oh yeah! Thanks for lessons, and thanks for my friend, and I'm going to her house today! Did I tell you that Mrs. Clarateaches? We're going to play Barbies-"

Me: "Super Girl, tell it to God. We're praying."

Super Girl: "Oh yeah!"

This goes on and on, until it's Theological Boy's turn. TB takes a different approach to prayer. He sees this time as his own personal time to air grievances, and publicly denounce his peers' sins while they are required to stay silent.

Theological Boy: "Dear Lord, give us our sins. God, tell H2O to eat his lunch so he isn't crabby at the end of the day. Tell Confused Girl that she's not making right choices when she keeps on picking on H2O. And she keeps smacking me with her hair, God. That's pretty bad. And tell Super Girl to chew with her mouth shut-"

Me: "AHEM."

Theological Boy: "What? Well, it's gross. We're trying to eat." (sighs) "Anyway God, make them make right choices."

TB then makes his way back to his seat, while his peers form alliances against him.

There is some happy news for the day- I gave my 19 weeks notice! They seemed bummed, but didn't seem too surprised. Upward and onward, my friends. Just four days shy of five months to go, and it will all be a dream...

If it quacks like one...

A moment in time with my little H2O-

Me: helping H2O with a math paper. We're still mastering that pesky number 3.

H2O: (smiling) "You have duck breath!"

Me: (frantically breathing into my hand, and recalling the Altoid in the car) "What does a duck's breath smell like?"

H2O: (gives a happy little sniff in my direction) "It smells like yours!"

Continues coloring glasses of water on his math sheet...

The least of these, my brethren

Oy.

Sometimes, you feel like you are living in an SNL skit. Not the funny kind, but the type where it's just so long and pointless and you just are crawling out of your own bones trying to get away.

And then you change the channel. Problem solved.

So, when I compose my resignment letter, the gist of the letter will be that I cannot work for a place that perpetuates the "Christians as the elite, better than YOU" kind of BS. It's one thing to think that you know the Truth, it's an entirely different thing to exclude people based on how you thought it would all work in your head.

Ramble ramble. My new student- let's call him H2O due to some psych issues that he has surrounding water. I kid you not- this lad is obsessed and perseverates throughout the day on water. Which is really kind of ironic, that this kid is so "thirsty." You'll see why as I meander onward.

He's a smelly kid. He's got horrible teeth, and is never quite prepared for school. He is one of the kids of Michigan who are suffering the effects of the rotten economy. He's also been abandoned by his mother, and is being raised by a father who works pretty much 100% of his and his brother's waking day.

He's never been to school before, but he's being absorbed into my classroom pretty nicely. He still can only recognize one or two letters, but he's actually recognizing and WRITING his name now!

The trouble- the Powers that Be (aka the Pastor's wife, and the admin) are pretty disgusted by his existance. To them, he is the fly in their perfect little pie. How did the Pastor's Wife put it at my last meeting with them? Ah yes, that next year I would have a pared down, more "elite" group of youngsters, ones whose parents are all going to be aboard this merry ship, ones whose parents can dress their kids in appropriate uniform attire (and truthfully, we're about 90% there. The kid can't afford shoes, which these well-coiffed ladies tut-tut about, and flutter their manicures, but are they buying him some shoes?)

Stunned silence.

I did not participate in the type of training that I chose at Geneseo to work with kids who really don't need me. Don't get me wrong- I'm not the "Great White Savior." My goal is not to go spread my holy goodness to all the little poor children of the universe. However, I did not sign up for this particular brand of bull shit. I was in a classroom of H2O's last year, and we did swimmingly. My strengths and my trainings are stagnating in this class where they are not used. This job is really meant for the type of gentle, loving, soft-spoken lady who refuses to drive in the city, and has no clue what to do when a parent goes ballistic in their classroom because their family was reported to DCFS. Or squirms when a high-as-a-kite mom who was just released from jail gets in her face in the hallway between classes.

So, as I teach my students the basics, as well as Bible classes, and teach them that we believe that those who drink from the well of God will never be thirsty again, The Powers that Be are trying to finangle the expulsion of my little H2O. Who remains a very thirsty boy.

I'm leaving in June. Unless he goes. Then I go.

Yes, that's the sight organ for me...

Blurb day:

Taught my little children-of-the-corn a new song today in Bible class- The B-I-B-L-E. There is a cd that goes along with the curriculum, in case you are a teacher with an inability to sing and read music at the same time.

So, we listened to the song (very short- "The B-I-B-L-E, yes that's the book for me, I stand alone on the word of God, the B-I-B-L-E!") and at the end, the man on the cd yells, "Bible!"

We gave it a try. My kids sang the song through, and at the very end enthusiastically yelled, "Eyeball!"


Must... refill... flask...

Subversive Indoctrination

No matter how hard one tries, the combination of background and attention spans can really screw up the way something is perceived.

These past 31 days I have been teaching my little minions about Christian doctrine and the beginning stories of the Old Testament. This includes the concept of sacrifice, salvation, and the offerings of little burnt lambs upon alters (as well as the reasons why we as Christians no longer do this, as Christ was offered as the ultimate sacrifice).

So, coupled with gory flashcards depicting such an alter with a lamb, I have been wording this all as- "They usually killed a lamb, and then put it on a fire they made on a pile of stones."

Somewhere in Super Girl's head, this got all twisted and tangled, as seen today when we reviewed the story of Noah and the Ark. I asked her, "What did Noah and his family do when they got out of the Ark?"

With a smile gleaming from her sunshiny little face, she said, "They made a cat fire!"

*Try to hide look of horror/ growing hilarity from face.* "They did what? Super Girl, what did they do?"

"Oh yeah. They um, they burned a whole bunch of cats. That made God happy."

Suddenly, I had to look really interested in the book. So interested in fact, that my face had to be hidden. I hate internally laughing- it gives me the hiccups. Note to self- really REALLY explain what is going on, before these kids go home and give their parents the impression that we are practicing some Lifetime Original version of the occult.

BioHazards

Let's set the scene, shall we?

It is a Thursday morning. A carefully coiffed, spritzed-all-over-with-Designer-Imposters-perfume mother comes in with her child. Child looks dazed, and something about their faraway look seems familiar.

Mother scrapes child off at the door, and blissfully skips away, off to see her masseuse, or coffee club, or illicit lover, or whatever it is that some of these people are into.

Child begins to hallucinate- "They're coming to get me! THEY'RE COMING TO GET ME!!!" Ahh, yes. I remember now- this glazed-over look is that of someone on some major drugs. At Geneseo we called them Bio majors. With dread, I realize that this child is carrying some form of pestilence that will soon make my life revolve around laying on the bathroom floor and praying for quick death. I can kiss my weekend goodbye. As I pick up the phone to call Child's parents right the hell back here to pick up their kid and at least have the decency to share in these lovely germs, Child vomits a mixture of Dimatap and Lucky Charms all over my shoes.

It's gonna be a lovely winter...

The Return of the Kindergarten Teacher

Dare I? Post so long after I last posted? Do I look at my old posts, which make me miss all of them- my angelic G. , my delinquently Quietly Instigating N.?

Here we are in Michigan. Due to the several hurdles put into place by the state of MI, it is taking forever and a lot of red tape and calling people who do not actually exist to try and get my MI teaching certificate.

In the meantime, I am now working as a Kindergarten teacher in a private Christian academy. They desperately needed me, and I desperately needed a job.

In a nutshell- I have only five students right now. This fact was significantly glossed over until I actually accepted the job. I am in a career twilight zone. My pay is also around the level of what illegal grape planters are making (and as someone who once worked at such a place, riding a tractor with illegal grape planters and popping a plant into the ground every time the little yellow paint line on that tractor wheel came around right along with them, I say this with some certainty.) There are also many other various nuisance type things, but let me introduce you to a new cast of characters:

Bored Girl- She is operating above everyone else, and in terms of behavior- is quite possibly better behaved than I am. I will recommend her as my substitute teacher in case of my absence.

Super Girl- This girl is so enthusiastic, it verges on not funny. Every suggestion or comment is greeted with cheers and the phrase, "GOOD idea, Ms. Clarateaches!!!" She's also pretty hyper, and sings in a super-high falsetto with a serious face. I love this child.

Confused Girl- This child is not on this planet. No matter what we are doing, her mind is somewhere else. We were in the middle of the Lord's Prayer today, and her eyes popped open, her prayerful hands unfolded, and she loudly announced, "I love making W's. They're my favorite." She loves to raise her hand to answer questions, but never really knows what to say when called on, so she has an answer that she has decided fits every situation.
Mrs. Clarateaches: "Confused, what is our pattern on the calendar this month?"
Confused Girl: "Jesus?"
Mrs. Clarateaches: "Confused, do you remember which of our five senses uses ears?"
Confused Girl: "Jesus?"
Sigh. Auditory processing delay? Head in the clouds? Future nun? Time will tell.

Very Young Boy- This lad is way too young for kindergarten. All my students are too young for the cut-off for public school (one more thing the Powers that Be did not tell me), but this boy in particular is not going to be five until February. He tries hard, but clearly has no idea why he is here, or why I keep pestering him about such inane things as writing his name or counting little bears, when all he wants to do is play.

Theological Boy- "TB" is a boy who is spoken to at home. TB is not afraid to postulate and query about many facets of the religious doctrine we work with every day. TB is a fun, arrogant little boy. So far, he's my only five year old.

So there we have it, folks. I'll save the hilarious adventures in "Chapel" for another day.

Capstone Kinda Day

The last day today pretty much brought us all full circle: my room was in tragic disarray, I did virtually nothing that could be considered by the un-trained eye to be productive, and Octopus Child dialed 911 on the school's payphone. This was done, and I quote, to "...have the police come take away that big bear statue. I don't like him no more..." I guess I wasn't quite sure why no one stopped him, but after a lunch out with co-workers, I arrived to the school to find the office staff and safety patrol all a-tremble. I just let it slide- I am positive that this will not be the first of Octopus Child's dealings with the heat.

Beyond that, the kids helped me pack up and asked if I would be their first grade teacher tomorrow. We have been talking the last few weeks about how I will be moving to Michigan to live and teach, yet they still have that endearing hope that they will come waltzing back into our concrete shoebox in August. We looked at Michigan on a map, and saw where it was reletive to Illinois, and where Mexico was reletive to Illinois as well since it was something many already have experienced.

Octopus Child passed out cupcakes for his birthday, licking his fingers between each one and relishing the power of deciding who will get the red one. I need to note here- I passed out more that eight notes this year saying that cupcakes are not a good treat to send to school due to the mess. Octopus is about the tenth kid to bring them and true to their nature, the kids immediately ate the frosting and ground the cake portion into what is no longer my rug.

At the end of the day, with backpacks bulging full of papers and supplies and some new books I gave them, they all waved and one boy yelled as he left:

"Bye Mrs. Clarateaches! Have fun in Michigan, and see you in first grade!"

Can Michigan begin to compare?

Interjections

A few disjointed, non-connected thoughts from my sprouts.

* Octopus Child, during our daily attempt to give him some extra help in learning letters. I showed him the letter "F" (one of about eight letters he knows) and he yells triumphantly- "F! F like the swear word!"

(Note to self- teach Octopus Child the letters using swear words from now on...)

* Artsy Girl, on the playground- "Whew! It's hot. I'm going to ask my dad to turn on the cold heat when I get home."

* Little Clara, during the Mother's Day Tea- "Hey look! My mom's crying! NO REALLY, SHE IS; HEY LOOK!" (pointing to her very pregnant and embarrassed mother).

* Octopus Child likes to do this when things are hairy- the classroom is chaos and he'll whirl around and pat my belly and ask, "When is your baby due?" (I'm not pregnant, by the way!)

* I was going over letters with my students who haven't quite gotten around to learning them. I had the letter cards held out to them at about chest-height, but they kept staring directly at my face and rapid-fire shouting random letters in the hopes that they could get it right. After patiently telling them a couple of times to look at the cards, I told them, "Just look! Look at the cards- I am giving you the answer! The letters are not on my face; if there ever are any letters on my face, please tell me!" They stared at my face, and one little girl stood up and traced the vein that was now poking out of my forehead while happily chirping, "You have a "Y" right here!"

Gardens in the Desert Sand

...If you walk without rhythm,
ah-
you never learn... Fatboy Slim "Weapon of Choice

It's business as usual in my classroom, for better or for worse. This past week, my little punklettes were incredible, and gave me a totally new charge on life!
My newest student is a little boy from Iraq. Not Bone, I actually have an even newer one! In honor of the way he pronounces the letter H, I will call him "Ahtch." The first few days, he was pretty shy. He has really opened up! He follows my directions to the letter, but likes to boss around the other students. Today at our whole group, when everyone was sharing, he asked if he could have a female volunteer. He wanted to put on a play. "I need, uh... a girl. To be the daughter," he announced. He scanned the group, and picked Little Clara. She, of course, was only too happy to oblige.

"Daughter!" Ahtch said imperiously, sort of hunching his body over dramatically.

Little Clara giggled, her hand on her hip. "Um, what do you want?" she played back. The class roared.

"What are you making for dinner?" Ahtch queried, in character. He was very good- he sort of looked like he was playing a part of a much older man.

"Spaghetti!" yelled Little Clara. The class rolled on the floor- this was the greatest routine they had ever seen. The laughter of course was to Little Clara like gasoline on a fire. She piroetted and sauntered back and forth in front of the room.

Unfortunately, that was where the play ended, as Ahtch appeared very confused about what spaghetti was, and Little Clara wanted to twirl in front of the fishtank while telling me, "Wait, wait, I want to say what happens next. I want to pick someone..." Monday will undoubtedly bring a whole slew of dramatizations.

To end what was a truly awesome week, I brought in a new CD I bought of various Middle Eastern club songs, to play their favorite game of all times: Freeze Dance. The game basically is: I play music while they jump around and get down and funky, and every so often I pause the music and they need to freeze. Except for Octopus Child, who takes extreme advantage of this time to run about, slapping his peers silly while they gamely try to remain frozen and I try to avoid knocking over my little statues while I chase him down. I announced that we would be playing Freeze Dance at the end of the day, and the crowd went wild. I totally lost them for the better half of a minute, and was almost completely overthrown by the mob of Freeze-Dance maniacs. The last fifteen minutes of my day resembled some mini-club with my little cottontails jumping around and jamming to the techno-beat of Arabic club music. I was originally going to give them glowsticks and turn out the lights, but I was having enough fun convincing them to keep their hands off one another with the lights on. Maybe one of these days we'll do it!

I'm going to miss these little munchkins... maybe there will be a first grade opening? Or maybe I will open a new chapter with a whole new group of kindergarten characters?

Bubble Boys

Dear Kindergarten Families,

Brace yourselves. You have a job. You can do this, and I will take you step-by-step through what really is an easy process. Please sign your name anywhere on this paper. Or, another piece of paper. That is all you need to do...

Well, today I was told by a hippie-in-the-know, that apparantly Mercury this month was in retrograde, there was a full moon, a lunar eclipse, a solar eclipse and an equinox. I happen to think this is merely a reason to own a telescope, but it may have something to do with the fact that some of my kids have resorted to a primal state of being. Either way, today I experienced:

The Spring Field Trip: Children's Museum

I purposely gave myself Octopus Child, Quiet Instigator (as he has taken to stealing anything not nailed down) and Whiner. One of my chaperones was Limited English's mother, and I gave her LE, Selective Hearing Boy, and Smiling Boy. She chose to tag along with me, as she speaks even less than her son. So, off we went, Octopus clinging to various peers, pieces of scenery, and a startled museum staff member. Quiet Instigator instantly became lost, slinking away as soon as he heard me say to stay with us. Limited English's mother gamely smiled and shrugged and looked puzzled as we searched high and low for him. He was found moments later by another kindergarten teacher, who caught him near the exits. Apparantly he was about to hotwire a bus and take it to the Southside, but you know how rumors get started. Anyways...

This museum was completely the bomb. There was so much to see and do, we only were able to do half of what was there. As we had six boys, everything we did involved a mess and possibly some crashing into one another. We started at the giant water table, and my lecture about NOT CLIMBING INTO THE WATER. They did take me literally, and instead brought the water to one another through the various toys and water pumps availible. Octopus Child and Whiner spent ten angry minutes sitting in a window sill drying in the sun after they each dumped a cup of water over the other's head, and then cried hysterically. I just merrily laughed and popped some loose Valium that was floating by (thank you, super-coked Suburban Moms) and told them that their tears were only making them wetter.

We moved on to the next phase of this crazy adventure. Yes folks, they are now giving kids real saws, hammers, nails and screws. Each of my little guys tried their darndest to make racecars, and most of them actually accomplished something kinda neat! Especially Limited English, who pounded on my fingernails repeatedly in the process.

We ended the day at the bubble tank, where I discovered that it's some kind of strange fad 'round these parts to travel in packs of women who bring their day-old infants to what has to be the biggest petri dish on the face of the planet. And then, hover them near six year olds who are blowing thousands of bubbles with Hyper-Sting brand bubble solution. They finish their day by glaring angrily at me when I purposely pop bubbles over their heads to teach them the lesson that they are idiots, and I need to bring my home-tatoo parlor equipment next time to label them just so no one else has to find out the hard way that they are living life without common sense. The Bubble Tank was truly rad until a child threw bubble solution into Octopus Child's eyes, and I had the extreme pleasure of holding him head first under a sink to wash it out, while he kicked me until bruises formed. We all boarded the bus, several exhausted chaperones and I, and the super-energized kids; thanking our lucky stars once more that no one was lost, no one did anything more than moderate damage to property, and the public nudity was kept to a minimum.

The Creed of the Effective Teacher

The Creed of the United States Marine
This is my rifle. There are many like it, but this one is mine. My rifle is my best friend. It is my life. I must master it as I must master my life. My rifle, without me, is useless. Without my rifle, I am useless. I must fire my rifle true. I must shoot straighter than my enemy who is trying to kill me. I must shoot him before he shoots me. I will . . . . My rifle and I know that what counts in this war is not the rounds we fire, the noise of our burst, nor the smoke we make. We know that it is the hits that count. We will hit . . . . My rifle is human, even as I, because it is my life. Thus, I will learn it as a brother. I will learn its weaknesses, its strengths, its parts, its accessories, its sights, and its barrel. I will ever guard it against the ravages of weather and damage. I will keep my rifle clean and ready, even as I am clean and ready. We will become part of each other. We will . . . . Before God I swear this creed.My rifle and I are the defenders of my country. We are the masters of our enemy. We are the saviors of my life. So be it, until victory is America's and there is no enemy, but Peace!

The Creed of the Effective Teacher
This is my classroom. There are many like it, but this one is mine.

My classroom is my daily blank slate. It is my life. I must master it as I must master my life.

My classroom, without effective management, is useless. Without effective management, I am useless.

I must fully engage my students. I must engage them more than the societal evils that are trying to drag my students down. I must get to them before apathy and ignorance tear them down. I will . . . .

My fellow effective teachers and I know that what counts in this daily battle is not the tests we distribute, the popularity of our consistent discipline, nor the crafty projects we make. We know that it is the students that count. We will teach . . .

My students are human, even as I, because they are my life. Thus, I will teach them as I am a guide. I will learn their weaknesses, their strengths, their home lives, their parents, their peers, and their habits. I will ever guard my classroom against the ravages of poverty and violence.

I will keep my lesson plans flexible and ready, even as I am flexible and ready. We will become part of each other. We will . . .

Before God I swear this creed.My classroom and I are the defenders of my country. We are the masters of our futures. So be it, until victory is America's and there is no enemy, but Peace!

Thanks, Mark!

The Ways of Feathers (and such)

What an odd feeling: that I just finished testing my kindergartners for report cards, and here I am doing it again! At least my toils seem to be paying off, and my little hedgehogs are all putting thought to paper. At least, they are writing their lists of likes, which includes:

"I lik pig, cat, igloo, Centers, Jan Brett..." (Their likes seem to be somewhat restricted to things that are posted around the room!)

Yesterday as we were leaving the classroom at the end of the day (still a feat of strength, complete with the sort of stalling that only a pack of wild five year olds can do), Limited English Speaker discovered the joys of New Student's down jacket. New Student has an unusual name, and the best Limited English can do with it is to call him "Bone." So, he happily yelled out to me, "Hey teesher, Bone's losing he feathers!" as he pulled a bit of fluff from New Student's jacket. This spawned an attempt by every member of the boy's line to pluck New Student frantically, causing him to twist in circles while yelling, "I'm NOT BONE!!!" Down the hallway we went, Limited English asking the whole way, "Why Bone losing he feathers? Hey, why I not have feathers? Bone a bird? Ahahaha..."

There is a little girl in my class who has probably been absent for a third of the school year. She is a beautifully angelic, quiet, polite little girl. She also, unfortunately, is one of my handful who has had DCFS involved with her family in the past weeks.
She came in today, and I took the kids out to the playground for PE. Usually, she stands silently by my side the entire time we are outside, hands shoved in her pockets, staring. Today she did the same, silently standing beside me and bearing witness to one maniacal child after another wreaking havoc on their clothing.

Until, she suddenly sprang for the monkey bars. I have never seen her move so fast. The other kids who were on them were so surprised; they backed away, and watched. She moved quickly, going many feet over my head to the top, and then shimmying up the pole to the upper support beams. She scootched up onto her knees, closed her eyes, and without expression, let go of the bar and held out her arms as if she were going to fall forward.

I couldn't breathe. What was God tossing at me now?

Everything stood still- the other kids sat on the platform below her with their mouths open. I placed myself underneath her, and too scared to talk (I thought I'd startle her off her perch) just waited. And asked every guardian angel of every child present to be with me now.

Seconds ticked by.

Finally, she opened her eyes, and without changing her expressionless face, placed both arms beside her, slid back down, climbed down the stairs and resumed her position. I knelt down in front of her. She looked at me and said, "I didn't zip my coat." I zipped her coat, and I looked into her face, and wished I could take her away from whatever was causing her to be way too old for kindergarten. She stared back, unblinking.

More Musings from my Munchkins…

Posting opportunities have been few and far between… between the various school mandated functions (disfunctions?) and moments in the classroom that are far from funny (why am I the only kindergarten class this year with at least four DCFS calls? Oh yeah, because God doesn’t give us more than we can handle, and I can do this… really, I can…) I haven’t had a lot of material.

As with most things, however, there still are parts of the day that make me so happy to know these little people.

* Cute Little Guy That I Want to Adopt: Comes up to me with a mixture of embarrassment and hopefulness, wearing light tan pants and a white tee- “Mrs. Clarateaches, my dad said it was okay to wear two different shades of white. Is it okay?”

* Girl Who Likes to Copy Me: Yesterday walked over to me and started to lightly color on my arm with a light peach crayon.

Me: “What’s up, Girl?”
Girl: “Hey Mrs. Clarateaches, I finally found a crayon that is the same color as your skin!” She happily trots back to her seat to finish her journal.

Later, this same girl was choosing books from our Family Time box.

Me: “Here are the English books, and these ones are the Spanish ones.”
Girl: Drops one book, and eagerly paws through Spanish ones: “Oh, I want these ones! You know, Mrs. Clarateaches, I really get sick of speaking English…”

I need a substitute later next week, so I’m sure their versions of the day without Mrs. Clarateaches should be intensely amusing!

As Long As it Looks Good on Paper...

Well, I received an email from the foreman of this conformity factory. It seems that they are frantically gathering our lesson ideas for “Martin Luther King, JR Day; President’s Day, Black History Month, and Casmir Pulaski Day.” This of course was weeks ago, when I was frantically testing 23 kindergartners so that report cards could come out on time.

Me: “Count to 100”

Darling Student: “Okay! 1, 2, Free, 4, Fie, 6, 789…ten…leban…um…twelve…”

Multiply that by twenty-three. I do not Y testing. So, sue me if I didn’t spring into action to figure out who the hell Casmir Pulaski is right away.

So, weeks passed, and I received a second, less amicable email…

Teachers, email me your plans IMMEDIATELY. I need to prepare a statement to be at the ready for a press release to the media, in case it is necessary.

Press release? I tried hard to imagine a situation that would necessitate a full blown press release, and all I could picture were the principal, Jesse Jackson, and a somewhat bored member of the Polish Heritage Organization at the front entrance to the school, flash bulbs going off, while our Fearless Leader, Mr. Principal speaks into several microphones:

“…Rest assured, the kindergarten WILL be reading a Picture Book about Martin Luther King, Jr.… they will confuse the heck out of them by giving only those with blue shirts on a graham cracker, and later explain that it was all a cute little game called ‘My Day of being Discriminated Against’ and they will either learn about history, or perhaps they will simply go home and hide Mom’s cigs for dressing them in orange that day…” (The Rev and representative nodding solemnly).

As far as I know, this is what was learned that day-

I walked into one of the other kindergarten teacher’s rooms, looking for materials and asked her class (while gesturing towards the portrait of MLK, Jr.) “Who is that man?”

“Oh, that’s King Luther, he was the president and told black people they can’t ride the buses…” her eager little munchkins yelled.

My kids, on the other hand, totally got Dr King, but argued passionately about why we were celebrating his birthday.

“But, he’s dead! He’s not getting anything!” my Quiet Instigator yelled. I explained that when someone does something very good for all people, that people still like to celebrate the special way that person helped by remembering their birthday, even after they were gone.
Quiet Instigator looked at me like I was on glue. “Mrs. Clarateaches, when someone dies, they stop getting older, and they don’t have birthdays anymore.”
Little Clara piped up and said, “NOOO, we still can, huh Mrs. Clarateaches-“ and another little guy interrupted her with “Hey, you don’t die when you get shot- my brother got shot, and he’s in jail, not dead.” Just then, my slightly PDD savant girl started rambling about Robert Kennedy.

Thus ended that tender little moment. Let’s see what I can scrape up in March for good ol’ Casmir Pulaski.

Here's a Lizard...

I've decided that one of these days I will tape record conversations my kids make during a lesson, just because the way this age group discusses things is just so gosh-darned hilarious. Today I was compelled to do a little from our Harcourt Language Arts series, as my mentor teacher gave me a quizzical look the other day during lunch and asked, "What unit are you on in English?"

Gulp. Actually, we've been working on various Thanksgiving and Fall activities, up until this week. We graphed our travel plans, made a Venn diagram comparing the Pilgrims to the Wampanoag (yeah, my kindergartners know who the "Wampanoag" were... jealous?) and wrote recipes for Thanksgiving food with our third grade buddies. I knew that this was worthwhile when a normally recalcitrant student (Limited English Speaker) brought in a bow that he made out of a bent stick and some string.

So, out came the Harcourt, which told me to read the kids a poem entitled "Dogs," and read a book called "I Have A Pet." We took a "picture walk" of the book before we read it, and my kids created a much better rendition of the story than the original author did:

Me: (holding up the book to an illustration of kids standing in line holding various pets) "What's happening on this page?"

Quiet Instigator: "They're at school!"

Me: "How do you know?"

Various kids shouted, "They're standing in a line! We only stand in line at school!" Well gee whiz, the little sugars are right.

We flipped through the pages, looking at various types of pets.

Octopus Child: "There's a dog! He's taking a bath!"

Little Clara: "You don't take a bath with dogs, do you?"

Choruses of "Eww, gross!"

Giggling, Whispering Girl: "My kitten jumped into the bath with me, she was mad and tried to run away. She's dead now."

Everyone at once: "'My cat's dead, too! ','My cat ran away... ', 'So did mine!'"

I turn the page. An illustration of a lizard and a child feeding it a cricket.

Octopus Child: "I had a dream a green lizard was gettin' me. I don't like 'em, they scratch me!"

Girl Who Likes to Copy Me: "She's feeding him a grasshopper, right Mrs. C?"

Little Clara: "NO! It's a cockroach. My mom just kills them, she doesn't feed them to a lizard."

We flipped through the rest of the book, managing to have a large scattered conversation about the best ways to feed a hamster, as well as the short lives of everyone's pets. A page with a pet bird illustration elicited uprorious laughter, with my kids insisting that birds don't live inside (with a few people insisting that yes, they do!) When I tried to read the book, though; the kids weren't that interested in what the author had to write (some mildly interesting blurbs on various animals and the ways that they are cared for). So much for the Harcourt. We didn't even get halfway through it!

Kids These Days

Oh man, just when I think I've found a way to control hysterical outbursts of laughing. I try hard to not laugh when my kids bust a move, just because I really don't want to have to manage with 24 kids trying to be funny. Have you ever experienced a child who is trying way too hard to be funny? Yeah, it's sad.

Octopus Child and I were perusing a book entitled The Desert. He picked it out and proudly told me it was about "'Piders." We glanced through the book together while high school students, members of the elite "Key Club" were "reading books" to my kids.

[Which meant, one teen girl was enticing my kids to race chairs, another sat with her head in her hands while my bewildered kids instantly resorted to cannibalism, and the third actually (hey, how about that?) read a book.]

After being Mean Mrs. Clarateaches and giving these young impressionable ladies the evil eye, Octopus and I returned to The Desert and looked for the elusive 'piders. He called each cactus in the book a spider, and when we found a photo of a coyote, happily wrapped one of his chubby tentacles around my head and yelled, "It's a werewolf!"

"It's a coyote," I patiently explained while extracting myself from his grasp. "Say 'coyote.'"

"It's a coyote werewolf. I don't like them, they hump on you," he explained, turning the pages to try to find more werewolves. Gotta love those teachable moments.

Actually, you have to love those moments when kids learn something the hilarious way. After three days of telling Quiet Instigator to stop stealing the Fun-Tac from the back of the posters I stuck to my walls, I found him sitting miserably at the rug as the rest of the kids dashed off to Centers (aka, "Destroy The Room Time.")

"Q.I., why aren't you going to your center?" I asked, wondering why his hand was on his head.

He slowly lifted his hand to reveal that he had stuck about a good half-dollar sized blob of Fun-Tac in his hair, which was sticking straight up in a blue spike. I forced myself to look really grim while I struggled with trying to not laugh. I sent him to the nurse, just so I could die laughing when he was out of the room. My students gave each other the "I-told-you-she'd-crack-before-Christmas" look, and carried about their business. Five minutes later the nurse marched Q.I. back into the room, blue spike still intact.

"Boy, I don't know how to prepare for what you kindergarten teachers send me; first a giant woodchip in a kid's ear, and now this..." the nurse said. She and I mulled the situation over until we discovered that the maintenence man had Goo-B-Gone, and a Fun-Tac-free Q.I. with an oily patch in his hair happily bounced over to the Legos to end his day.

Black& Brown & White...

I was kind of waiting and wondering when this would happen... My very diverse group of kindergarteners seemed to all of a sudden realize that they are different. This happened yesterday at approximately 3:14, when we were supposed to be leaving.

Now, in an ordinary school on an ordinary day, it seems to me that kids would be climbing all over themselves to get out the door. Not my kids- they drag their feet, and hide in the bathroom, and lay on the floor under the table just to drag out dismissal time. This causes us to be some of the last kids out of the building. Since some of my kindergarteners have VERY COOL PARENTS who choose to not wear coats or jackets or even a top with sleeves when it's 45* F, I get some pretty adolescent looking snarls and glares as I finally drag their unwilling little feet out the door. In my head I am composing a Budweiser-type advertising song about these people, these "Mr. I-Can't-Leave-High-School-Behind" types. I'll let you know if I come up with a whole one, but in the meantime I just smile like a psycho and wave wildly as my kids leave.

Where was I? Oh yeah. It's like that moment in time when kids see what the other gender looks like. One of my students, the girl who likes to copy me, looked up at me and said, "You're white, right Mrs. Clarateaches?"

"Yes, we call people who have this kind of skin white."

Another little boy, Introspective Child, who has a white and a black parent piped up. "I have brown skin, I'm not white."

"No, you're black!" yelled my little Octopus Child, and before he had a chance to clutch at Introspective Child's arm, I intercepted him. There needs to be an Olympics for this sort of thing.

"He's brown, but he's not a Mexican," commented the girl who likes to copy me (who is of Hispanic heritage).

The dismissal bell had already gone off by now, and the first graders were herding past our door. I explained that people are a lot of different shades of peach and brown, but most people call people with lighter skin "white," and darkest skin "black," and that it's always nice to find out more about people. By this point, I was spatula-ing them out the door and into the hallway. Why can't these Vivian Gussein Paley moments happen during the day, dangitall anyways? My students, especially the ones of color, were still looking perplexed. Introspective Child pinched his arm all the way down the hall, and Girl Who Likes to Copy Me was trying to hold her arm by mine to compare the skin tones.

Hoping this continues, I'm really curious about what else they will say. This seems to be one of those discussions where it really needs to be child-led, as honesty will really be a lot more refreshing than a PC talk about how we're all the same, blendy-blendy, and color-blind blah blah blah. They know much better than that- and what's wrong with that?

Into the Pumpkin Gulag

Dear Kindergarten Families,

Attached you will find a permission slip for our field trip to The Pumpkin Farm. The admission is $7, which all of you will just ignore anyways, seeing as how I teach in Povertyville, IL; and don't worry about remembering to sign the permission slip, as I will be mailing a letter home every day until the day before, at which time I will become frantic and teach your progeny to chant "Sign my slip...sign my slip..." until you do the best you can. So, por favor, make this underpaid pseudoparent happy and just send back something, anything, with your name on it.

Love, Mrs. C.

Well, we had our first field trip on Wednesday to the Pumpkin Farm. And when I say "pumpkin farm," I mean militant hippy commune, where kindergarten teachers are ripped off the buses by rangy women without makeup sporting long gray braids, as they tell us, "Stand over there, we'll unload the children." This made my clingers panic, and my manipulative schemers instantly going into "Plan B" mode-"Try to Take Over the World." I nervously paced around several million pumpkins until my kiddos were returned to me. Still no idea why we all had to be separated.

We were met at the gate by another militant, gray braided woman, this one a bit plumper. She apparently would be our "guide," which meant she escorted the kindergarteners and I, and my seven trusty chaperone moms, over to a train. This train was driven by a really freaky mannequin, (dressed in a prisoner's uniform? WTF?) which for some reason really scared the shit out of my Mexican kids. Around and around they went until the man at the controls woke up and realized where he was. Our next stop was an inflated pumpkin, where kids could jump around without my direct interference, as I was too big to get in there. They used their time wisely, enacting Darwinian "survival of the fittest" maneuvers, clobbering one another until I dragged them out.

The other highlight of the day was feeding creatures at the "petting zoo," which consisted of a million starving goats crammed into a cage. My kids were all excited about this until go-time, when I found myself surrounded by paper cups of goat feed, and little voices telling me that they were scared. So, while some of my kids conquered their fear by chucking the whole cup of feed at the goats (who amazingly, caught and ate it in mid air), I was helping about three-quarters of my kids feed goats, which left me soaking in goat mucus from my elbow to my hand. The next time someone tells me teachers are overpaid, I am going to soak them in goat mucus, and then stick them on a pumpkin commune with twenty-four kids who have to pee.



Several other elementary classes from other schools were there, and I kept finding extra kids in my group from a nearby new elementary school. We just kept chucking them at the Pumpkin Gestapo, and moving on. I congratulated myself on not losing any of my kids the whole day, when at the end of the day, the apparent head SS officer came over and barked, "Excuse me! You lost four of your kids today!"

Beg your ever-focking pardon? "Who do you think you're talking to?" I asked, trying to remind myself that 48 eager little ears were pointed in my direction. "Who are you?" Head SS asked me. I told her, and she froze, said "Oh, ok, never mind," and then walked away. All of my kids, however, were very excited over this, and asked me the whole ride home, "Who was lost? Were we lost? Am I lost? Teesher, what lost means?" and so forth.

I will seek revenge, so help me God. At least mi ninos had a good time.

Sotto Voce

It was bound to happen sooner or later- 24 kindergarteners, sticking their fingers into their nose-mouth-eyeballs-God knows what all else, and grabbing me all day. That's right- I have fallen victim to some kind of viral crud. Fortunately, it wasn't the kind of sick where you're totally incapacitated- it did rob me of my voice, though.

Explaining this to my kids elicited a variety of reactions. I gathered the darlings to my feet at the rug, and told them that I had lost my voice. Excited buzz ensued.

Little Mr. Cutie Pants- "Missis 'Appoda, where it go?"

Sarcastic Five Year Old- "It did not- we can still hear you talking."

Girl Who Likes to Copy Me- "My voice is lost, too." (whispered)

I clarified things- my voice was sick and so today was going to be a Very Quiet Day. Which, my over-qualified and under-informed aide took to mean shushing my kids all damn day. There is little more that I hate than the sound of "SHHHHHHH..." It's enough to make me take everyone hostage. And PS- if your school decides to hire a disgruntled administrator as a kindergarten aide, tell them to go... Oh, you know.

Ya see- five and six year olds talk. It's how they figure things out. I do like them to talk in a voice that can only be heard by their table. And, while they do a good job of this some of the time, they still are learning. It seems, after meeting many of the parents, that conversations are held at the level of a fishmonger's wife's holler in many households, so no wonder they're confused. Baby steps, my friends.

So I turned on a nature CD, which included Vivaldi and crickets chirping (and loons calling, and drunks falling into a pond- very soothing). I went to each table and whispered for them to "Listen for the crickets." In less than a minute, I had accomplished what no level of "SHHHH" by the aide could- every child was silent. And listening. They loved it! There is nothing like ending a Friday afternoon with mes petites choux coloring away to Vivaldi, and the aide sneaking home early. Good riddance to her. We've finally earned our fish!

Imaginary Friend? It's Okay!

Well man, I've been delinquent. The amazing world of kindergarten has absorbed a ton of my time, (with a birth on the side, nonetheless, but this is a teacher's blog, not a doula's, so you'll have to get that info out of me some other way. I will say this- I plan on birthing at home, now more than ever. Frikkin doctor...)

Anyways, it's just tons of fun at Room 109. One of the ways I have been trying to motivate my little spazlings into doing "the right thing" (aka not shrieking, staying in one general spot for just a few moments, and participating) is by bringing in a fish tank and all of the little doodads that go along with one. The deal is: if they are by and large well behaved for a day, we add one more element to the fish tank. I was explaining this to them one day on the carpet.

Me: "I have so many fun ideas that I want to do with all of you- but if you're Time Wasters, we can't do them. I will have to take my fun ideas home to Mr. C."

Crowd: gasps
Little Clara: looks thoughtful

Me: "One of these things is a fish tank. If everyone makes right choices, we can add to the tank every day, and soon we can add fish! I hope everyone makes right choices! Otherwise, I'll just have to bring home the fish for Mr. C. to play with."

Little Clara: "Is Mr. C. your imaginary friend? It's okay to have an imaginary friend, right?"

Is Mr. C. truly my imaginary friend? This girl scared the ever-living quantum physics out of me, resulting in an afternoon of pensive reflections about whether or not the last 10 months have been some kind of hallucination.

My kids have been very lovingly bringing me little presents as well. One child, the "Quiet Instigator" has been stealing things from his cousins' rooms and bringing me all sorts of pre-teen girl jewelry. Another boy brought me, of all things, a square inch of bread last Friday. Another one brought me a postcard with a dog and a kitten on one side, with the reminder on the other that "Tigger is overdue for his distemper vaccine." Treasures!

During an observation, it became clear that I'm mashing letter concepts into their little craniums pretty hard when I held up a small triangle and a large triangle and asked them to tell me the similarities and differences. "One's a capital triangle, and one's a lowercase triangle," they all yelled (since when do five year olds do anything quietly?)

Walking them through the hallways is enough to cause other teachers of older students to bend completely in half laughing. I don't go into these trips half-assed, either. We have debriefing sessions that are pretty intense:

Me: "We'll be walking into the hallways pretty soon ladies and gentlemen, you know what you have to do. Are we in wiggly-jiggly lines?"

Class: "NO! Straight lines!"

Me: "How about our voices?"

Class: "Turn them off!"

Me: "What if you really have to say something?"

Class: "We'd better be bleeding or barfing if we are talking!"

Me: "Where are we looking?"

Class: "Straight ahead!"

Well, but attention spans and short term memories aren't what they used to be. No sooner are we out in the hall before:

Limited English Speaker: "Hey teesher, teesher, I hab two things to say-"
Me: "No Limited English, save it."
LES: "Two things-"
Me: "NO." Repeat, repeat, repeat. I tell him to cover his mouth with his hand.

We struggle on, most of the class still hanging on, a few kids losing track of where we are and what we are doing, wander away. Once retrieved, a few other ones do the same thing." We stop and gather our thoughts. Repeat process all the way to the library (or computer lab, or wherever.) Teachers passing us in the hallway practically are in tears trying not to laugh.

More insanity later...