Newbie (29 page)

No, Liam and I aren’t married or engaged. “I. . .” But we are exclusive, aren’t we? I think we are. I am. “don’t think so. Back to business okay?”

He smiles. “Later, perhaps.” We exchange updates on sales and listing contracts, then calendar the next week and part company.

On the drive home, I drum up evidence that Liam thinks we are exclusive—he introduced me to his parents as his girlfriend, not one of his girlfriends, and in Hawaii he said he loved me, only me. Two very good memories. I let them play in my memory over and over, and by the time I’m home, I’m very happy we’re exclusive.

January 26, 2008

Newbie Blog:

The BEST and the WORST

The best thing about recess is fifteen whole minutes of peace and quiet. The worst thing about recess is when someone is left out of the games.

The best thing about assemblies is that no lesson planning is required. The worst thing about assemblies is when the presenters get the crowd so hyped up that you spend the rest of the day with students’ behavior spiking in aftershocks.

The best thing about a school musical program is the angelic faces lined up in their Sunday best. The worst thing about a school musical program is running the gauntlet of relentless parental-paparazzi with video cameras.

M
rs. Hays grinned wryly when I told her and Beth my idea a couple of weeks ago at lunch. But I have to say, it has been really fun. This week, we’re wrapping up a month-long unit about animals, so show and tell is devoted to animals. I think it might be a little tricky if we have them all here at the same time, so instead, we’re having the students and their parents sign up for a time when they would like to bring their pet into class and tell us about them. We invite a few pets a day.

The students are so excited to introduce us to their pets. This week we’ve had two mice, a guinea pig, three cats, two birds, a rat and a fish. I’m not sure the rat should be considered a pet. Anything that hides out in sewers and carries the Black Death is more of a threat than a pet. We should have done that one after lunch.

On Thursday, Kyra joins her dad at the front of the room. He hands her a small brown-and-orange lizard. The students move to the rug area and sit at her feet. “This is Sticki Licki, but I just call her Licki. She’s a crested gecko.” Kyra is sitting in the small chair where I usually sit at and holds her hands low so the students can see. Licki moves toward Kyra’s fingers and Kyra rotates her other hand forward so Licki can continue to move. Licki is about six inches long, with a dark brown body and an orange back. She has fringy ruffles above her eyes and running down both sides of her back along the lines where the color changes. Her red tongue flashes out the side of her mouth now and again and wipes over her eyes. The students on the rug begin raising their hands and Kyra calls on them.

“Where did you get her?”

“My parents gave her to me for my birthday.”

“How old is she?”

Kyra looks at her dad and he tells her that Licki is about nine months old.

“What do you feed her?”

“She eats a mushy food that smells like fruit, but she also likes insects.”

The questions continue as students creep closer and closer to Kyra’s feet until they’re all squished together in a group to get a better view of the little gecko.

In one quick move, Licki jumps past Kyra’s hand and lands on the wall beside her. Students scream. Licki is quick, racing across the wall and diving into the book area like a paratrooper.

Pandemonium ensues, students yelling or jumping up to follow Licki’s movement.

“Freeze!” The students stop moving to look at me. I could just imagine one of the students accidentally stomping on that little lizard in a rush to find her in the book nook. “Stay where you are. Kyra’s dad is the only person allowed the book nook to get Licki.”

Kyra’s dad tiptoes carefully to the bookshelves, then he drops to his knees, looking under the pillows and sofa. He removes the cushions and checks under them. Suddenly Archer screams, crab-crawling backwards, as Licki runs toward him under Kyra’s chair, then returns to the book nook.

“In a moment, I’m going to ask you to walk to your desks, but not yet. When I touch your head, you may walk carefully to your desk, but look at your feet and make sure you don’t step on Licki.” I touch a few children’s heads, and they walk slowly to their desks. Soon, all the children are back in their seats, but Kyra’s dad hasn’t found the lizard yet.

In the back of the room, David jumps up screaming and holding his hands around his pant leg at the knee. “It’s got me. It’s got me.”

Kyra’s dad runs to David’s desk and reaches up the boy’s pant leg to find Licki stuck to his sock. He slips the lizard back into the plastic cage while Kyra wails and points at Licki’s brown tail twitching on the floor. Her dad picks it up and tucks it in his shirt pocket, then takes both Licki and Kyra home.

Well, another successful day for providing traumatizing topics for students to write about. The students who sit closest to David are drawing wiggling detached tails. Other students draw pictures of David jumping around or the lizard on the wall. Mindi, Kyra’s best friend, is drawing a picture of Kyra crying, huge blue teardrops falling from her eyes to puddles at her feet, her mouth wailing with a speech bubble coming out. Ellie is showing her gifted side, writing about how “Licki’s butt was decapitated.” This is what teaching is all about, isn’t it—sparking imagination and interest in young minds, exposing them to new ideas and experiences? I hope Mrs. Hays doesn’t hear about this.

Friday’s show and tell is mostly uneventful. No body parts fall off. Today’s damage—one fluffy puppy piddled on the rug, but that’s easy to deal with since Mr. Sam and I are on good terms. We’ve had to be, considering all we’ve been through together. Plus, I know he likes cherry Twizzlers (I now keep a stash in my closet), which I send to him with a thank-you note a little too regularly.

February 2, 2008

Newbie Blog:

I Love to Teach

Every few weeks, I wonder if I’ve made the right decision to stick with teaching. The good news is, I think I have. I love coming to work. There are still bad days, but no more bad weeks or months.

The honeymoon is over. No more Miss Model Student. Lani has been in trouble four times this week, and it’s only nine forty-five on Tuesday morning. Yesterday, she pushed Jason’s math manipulatives off his desk, then she punched him in the chest in the recess line. At the end of the day, she swung her backpack toward him. She missed—but still.

It’s all directed toward Jason—everyone else seems to be her new best friend. Jason is taking it well. He doesn’t seem offended, but he shouldn’t be targeted by someone. Today, they’re starting where they left off yesterday, but Lani is advancing her weapon of choice to a sharpened pencil which she jabs into Jason’s arm, making him wail.

Both children stand by my desk. Lani has a wounded expression and is leaning on my shoulder while Jason is wiping his face on his sleeve. I hand him a tissue, which he sets aside since his shirt is already soaking up the mucus and tears.

“Lani, you hurt Jason. You need to tell him you’re sorry.”

“No. He did it first,” she says, on the verge of tears.

Turning to Jason, I ask, “Did you poke her first?” I try to keep judgment from showing on my face so he will feel safe enough to tell me anything, even if it incriminates him.

“No.”

“Did you poke her at all?”
Come on, Jason.

“No.”

“Yes. You. Did.”

“Lani, how did he poke you? Show me.” Lani lifts her hand to her head, pulling it down toward her neck. “He poked your ear?” Lani nods. “Jason?”

“I didn’t poke her. I just touched her hair. It’s so soft. I like touching it.” He says it without smiling or frowning, like it just is.

I drop my head slightly, placing my hand across the bridge of my nose to cover my smile and the giggle bubbling up. I push out a breath and pull my face into what I hope is a casual expression.

“And then she hits you?” Good girl, Lani. Stand up for yourself. Then I remind myself, don’t smile. “Have you touched her hair each time?” This time Jason nods. He obviously isn’t seeing the touch/hit connection, or maybe he thinks it’s worth it. “Then she hits you?” He nods again. Clueless. Oh, my gosh, how cute! Her hair does look soft. He can hardly restrain himself.

Time to learn, I guess. “Jason, you don’t get to touch Lani’s hair. She doesn’t want you to, and it’s her hair. She makes the rules for her hair. Lani, don’t hit Jason. Tell him no, then tell me. I’ll help you. Okay?” I ask, looking between both faces.

“Okay.”

“Yeah.”

W
e’re almost an hour into the school day and Mr. Chavez hasn’t come in for my last observation yet. I’ve been holding off so he doesn’t miss the beginning. He’s about twenty minutes late now, and I’ve been growing steadily more nervous each minute. He probably had something come up. I should just go on without him. My stomach muscles release—my whole body relaxes, then the door opens and he walks in.

Students sit cross-legged around the outside of the rug as we talk about how we’ve made patterns using colors. I show them a pattern with blocks laying them side-by-side: blue, red, blue, red, blue, red, blue.

“Which color comes next?” The students call out “red” and I add it to the train.

Then I pull the number chart in front of us and use clear plastic stickers to make the red-and-blue pattern on the number chart with the number one colored in blue and the number two colored in red. The students come up and choose the next colors and stick them to the numbers. After everyone has had a turn, I ask the students to read just the red numbers with me. “Two, four, six, eight, ten, twelve, fourteen, sixteen, eighteen, twenty, twenty-two, twenty-four.”

I am so nailing this lesson.

Pulling out small number charts and more red and blue blocks, I explain to them that they will do the same thing we just did at their own desks.

It’s going well when I notice that the students in the group at the far end of the room are talking loudly in an animated way. As I approach, I hear, “I crashed on my bike.”

“My sister pushed me down.”

No, no, no, this lesson is not going to crash. I’m two steps away. Think—what should I do?

“Look at my owie. Hey! Look. Hey! Look at …” Jacquie is showing the group a scab on her hand, but no one is really listening. They all have some part of themselves exposed, pointing to various fresh, old, or imagined owies. Dan looks like he’s pulling his shirt out of his pants—I don’t want everyone to know where he thinks he has an owie.

“Dan, sit down.” Standing beside Jacquie, I ask her to show me her pattern blocks, then ask Sean to read the pattern on Jacquie’s desk, then I ask Dan to read the blue blocks on Tad’s chart. As he reads them, I point to the other students to get back to their blocks or charts. Deep breaths—disaster averted.

February 9, 2008

Newbie Blog:

Don’t Do a Class Pet

This blog post should save you some heartache—and money. I thought it would be fun to have a class pet, so I bought fish—guppies, darting, grey, pinstriped flashes of excitement, along with a tank, and a bubbler, and a thermometer, and a heater, and a bag of rocks, and plastic plants, and a treasure chest, and a net, and water treatment supplies, and food and cleaning supplies. (Were you tallying the cost as I listed that?)

I’m really not a pet person, but the girl at the pet store said guppies were a good place to start. For the size of the tank, she suggested I buy a dozen. Of course she did! Because they die randomly. Quickly. And she knew it! My students only bought the “It’s resting” explanation for the first two fish that rolled over. After all, they can count. We started with twelve, two died the first day, and only ten are in the tank the next morning. Each day, more fish succumbed.

At the beginning of this venture, I gave this big lecture on how to care for them, complete with a chart showing when each child would help with their care. When we started, everyone was looking forward to their turn, so I went back to the fish store and bought a few more to replace the deceased. Cashel sits by the fish every morning before school starts, gazing at the circular dance they swim, around and around their tank. Today, she had a turn feeding them. She accepted the fish food box with large tears rolling down her cheeks, asking, “More are going to die today, aren’t they?”