the class quilt: first cut

this has only taken all summer, but there were things like cousins having babies and quilts that family members had asked for to be done... I did say that I wouldn't post the final picture of this until the students and Miss Honey had gotten a chance to see it in person, but here's a production teaser, which doesn't give away anything of my master plan. It's almost August people. School starts in like, 17 days [when you say it like that, it's almost frightening]

the little class quilt that could, part 3 [I think]

my graphic designer friend and I were wandering around Lawrenceville a few weekends ago and we found this place that prints children's art work on clothing. I asked them what it would take to swing printing for a quilt and whyfor, and they said it wouldn't be a problem, but the images would need to be formatted. My GD friend edited the images into PDF format so that they could be printed out two by two. I'm very excited about this since I had been struggling with the initial format bleeding colors, trying to scan and print the images and then my printer deciding not to work - you can read about the initial entry here , the quilt fail here, and what I tried to do to solve the problem in the first place [unsuccessfully] here. I told them when school was out, and that I wanted the project done before then. They say that this should all be done and dusted before school is out.

Why am I holding my breath? Have you met me? Given how long it has taken for several other very important things to occur or for me to secure in the last few weeks, I'm waiting to hear that something has happened and that the process has stalled and they're very sorry but... I'm not trying to be pessimistic, but I'm also trying not to get my hopes up. It has been one thing after another around here, and I could use some good news.

Just got an email - the person I talked to about this is out of town until next week, so I'm not seeing any action on this until she gets back, because she's the one I talked to and knows the most about it [reasonable enough]. Sometime next week. Which means my students will likely not see the finished product while they're all still together as a class. Because I'm missing the most important element of this project. Headdesk. Live and learn. I may do this again, if I ever have my own class. But I will start in September. Or by then I'll have the bugs worked out of the process. It's all about learning, right? From your mistakes, right? [And making no promises.]

Here's a bit of good news - I finally [FINALLY!] got my did-everything-I-needed-to-do letter thanks to the guy at the graduate student affairs office who I swear has magical powers. And kapow, I am subbing tomorrow in a 3rd grade classroom. Not my kids, not even the district I was in when I student taught, but 3rd grade, which was actually what I had been hoping to student teach in initially - and then I found out where and what my placement was all about and my first thought was, great, 1st grade, again - and I have to drive where? Huh? [And shh, don't tell anyone, it was the best thing ever!] But no, seriously.

the zoo

elementary kids. plus the zoo. plus fabulous weather. equals a great day. also, being represented as a stick person in their journal as the highlight of their day. at least three retired educators have told me that I will always remember these kids; they proceeded to rattle off the names of students from their student teaching experiences 30, 40+ years ago effortlessly, describing attitudes and quirks of the individuals. the only group of students that will impact me more, they all say, will be my first class, the ones in my first classroom when I'm not a sub anymore. and flying by the seat of my pants. they say this with a wink and a smile.

certification and other might-mares

There's a hitch [again] with my certification over paperwork listed and described simply as "Other". No one, as yet, has been able to explain what "other" means. I'm a bit put out by this, but since most of the communication has been via email, I'm thinking it's time to show up in person at [grad] school and show people what I printed out. [Printed from someone else's computer because my printer has now decided that taking a half an hour to print a page with a sentence of type on it is a fabulous idea. Sorry - I'm trying not to be snarky]. First the hold up was a physical form - where's the old physical form that is still current [AWOL], where's the form on the website, when can I get into my doctor... Now it's "other". Someone missed the lesson about not defining a word with itself in the sentence.

I might be able to sub before the end of the school year. I might not. I might get my placeholder letter in time. Then again...

I've also been trying to apply for part time jobs with corporations at this time. Why not a real teaching job you ask? See note about the placeholder letter: no letter, no proof that I completed my program. I need that letter. It's a little discouraging. I know if I apply to enough corporate jobs that someone will call me back. This placeholder letter is a little more time sensitive.

quilt-fail

how did I go wrong.

no, more importantly, where did I go wrong.

I finally sat down today and ironed all 24 of the patches for the class quilt that my 1st graders started a few weeks ago. Then put them in the dryer. Followed the directions. Then did a spot test with an atomizer to double check that the colors had actually set and I could sit down and begin the grunt work of putting this together with the fabric that I bought while said patches were tumbling in the dryer. [4 PM - not a good time to head out of town. In any direction, really, but the closest fabric places are northward] I've ironed and tumbled twice now. Out of paranoia that it somehow didn't take. [Maybe because the day we did it wasn't standard procedure and I had a really bad feeling.]

And the colors are bleeding.  Except for one that was accidently left under the iron so long that it began to burn. So obviously that one set properly in the burned place, but the rest of them? There will be 23 bleeders.

Epic, epic fail. The worst part is, I'm not sure what part of the process went wrong from when I did the test swatch  - the colors on which will not budge - to when I went into the room and did it with the kids - I can pinpoint about ten different things that happened that day that might point to why this didn't work. I'm also finished with my placement, so there's no figuring out the kinks and doing it over.

I've found two options that could potentially save this project - both would involve scanning the squares and printing on fabric with an inkjet printer, and I'm insanely skeptical about both. Mostly because I've never tried either. But then I never tried medium and crayola, and it's got a 50/50 success rate, so there you go. The plus about scanning would be that I could potentially digitally clean up any of the test spots where bleeding occurred, and then print. I'm emailing the Thursday Quilting Graces for their expertise. The kids worked too hard and this is too stinkin' cute to lose to hydrogens and oxygen.

exit interviews

I saw my professor from the first semester of my studies as a grad student this morning, and then it dawned on both of us that we were both there for the interviews.

Was I nervous?

Does someone flip or wreck a car on the Parkway west almost every morning? I'd have preferred being with  the class of 24 right at that moment (especially since that moment was about the middle of reading and they're reading The Dot this week) A wrecked car could have accurately described my emotional state at that moment. Especially if there was steam or smoke involved.

You'll be fine. Just be yourself; this is a time to celebrate everything you've done with your kids- I can't wait to see what you did!

Be yourself... in the same way that honestly is not always the best policy. Truly, there are times when being yourself and being honest are the worst ideas ever.

I ended up going last, which gave me time to think about how I would respond to any of the questions they might ask me. Except that I wasn't prepared for the one that they did ask me. More on that later. We had 7 minutes to prepare a presentation. And if I had a hard time judging what 5 minutes was like in the classroom, I had no idea what 7 minutes was supposed to feel like. Clearly, something I should probably nail down. My grammar was appropriate - no usage of the word "like" every 5th word, and no "me and my cooperating teacher" [come back to 1st grade, I've got 24 students who can tell you how it's done]. I talked about the contraction lesson, and how I carried it through the semester until it came up in the manual and I knew the kids enough to really differentiate the instruction. I talked about the growing of the lima beans, and how I brought in tulip bulbs for the students to see and relate to what they were reading in the book. And I did a quick mention of a review game that we played, because the first grade got overly competitive over a review game once, so I needed something else that engaged everyone as a means of review before a break.
Nerves. Were. Killing. Me.

Aside from impressing a biology teacher and a former 1st grade teacher, I can't remember why I didn't snag someone's completed test from the life cycles unit, but I do know the gradebook had me stymied on how to print the grades for the whole class, so I had to offer verbally what the students got.

My other question was "What did you find difficult about student teaching? Were there any difficulties that arose through this process?"

This sounded like one of those "This is what we're really asking" questions from a list I have somewhere. I wish saying something snarky like, "Read my blog" would have sufficed. Except that it would have been completely inappropriate, no matter how stress relieving to say. Life happens to people. I could have had a brain tumor, and I still would have been in that building giving it everything I had, and trying not to make excuses. How would I even formulate that response? In a nutshell:  my body was out to get me, my nickname was about to become "accident prone" and my personal life was falling to pieces? But I was going to be damned before I fell on my face and let my co-op down?

Honesty. Maybe not the best policy.

While I did this, I watched my mother teach and say goodbye to her father, which was a far harder row than I was working. I have nothing to comment on, about difficulties student teaching in the classroom. Because I know when it's my turn to have a full time job, the truth is going to be just as stranger than fiction in my personal life as it was this semester, and I've got to check it at the door. That's not teaching, that's life, no matter where you work.

So I talked about time management. Which is a problem for everyone. I could have talked about behaviour management, which is a problem for everyone. Anything I mentioned I'm certain could have been related to the other members of the cohort in some way; we've all been there.

Difficulties? Absolutely, there were difficulties. There were a myriad of unique circumstances that required special thought and attention. The important thing for me to remember is to handle the situation with grace and tact, and to seek assistance when things get choppy and move beyond my capacity to handle them alone.

So now I am exited. I have my cap and gown and hood. It's all over but the shouting.

saying goodbye to the cutest school ever

Today was my last day of student teaching. I've been on tenterhooks for the last week as the pressure builds over the pending exit interviews [which I'm probably blowing way out of proportion], getting the portfolio done and looking better than presentable and making sure it has everything that it could possibly need. And then some. Like knowing the answer to what my personal philosophy of education is and what the last three books are that I've read.

I thought about it over the weekend, wondering at the tears, and I suppose if I was going to be honest with myself, some of this is misplaced and unexpressed grief finding a convenient outlet. I had a wonderful experience, which made leaving harder. Through the midst of all of this, I have been trying not to grieve, hoping that maybe it would make getting through to the end easier if I wasn't a basket case until after everything was over.

Unlike the stories we read where the characters come to some kind of event terminus, there just doesn't seem to be a foreseeable end; I'm done student teaching, but there's the exit interview. I have an out of town guest this weekend. I have to start the paperwork for the state and subbing [hopefully]  in the immediate future. There can be no summer vacation. Not this year anyway. Maybe I'm putting too much pressure on myself to achieve.

If I cry, I want to be alone or preferably around someone I trust. Crying doesn't happen at convenient times. Lately, it's been blasted inconvenient. I don't know what this "waterproof" mascara is about, but it's a lie. Or my tears are acid.

I do not think this would hurt so much if it were not so close on the heels of death. I just said a permanent goodbye to someone I love. If you're going to argue semantics with me, as a Christian, yes I believe in the resurrection of the dead so according to my tenants of faith, yes I'll see my grandfather again. How exactly that's all going to work itself out, I can't quite wrap my head around, and I'm happy for it to stay a divine mystery. So there. Still, all of this goodbying is too much, too close, too fast.

So I'm a little verklempt when, at the end of the day there's half an hour left after I read the kids a book and I'm kicking myself because I didn't have my act together this weekend for crying and portfolio putting together and I couldn't make two dozen cupcakes to say goodbye [I saw cupcakes earlier in the kitchen and was pissed at myself for not getting my act together], or at the very least, have a sufficient amount of material planned for the rest of the day. But wait, those of you 1st graders that know what's what have done a great job keeping it a secret, says Miss Honey. [what secret?] Those cupcakes from the kitchen were for us. Funfetti with sprinkles. But wait, there's more. Back way before Easter, Miss Honey was [I thought] picking out a bag for herself from a catalogue, and she started asking me which one I would pick if it was me buying the bag [tricksy hobbit]. We're both of the opine that one can never have too many bags. I almost ordered one that day but decided I'd wait until she had hers to see what the fuss was about. Turns out that bag was for me, and she had stocked it full of just about everything I'd want to start my own classroom. And an owl mug for school; what every smart teacher needs. Probably the best thing inside that bag was a book that the kids put together telling me what their favorite thing was that they had learned in school that I had taught them. The owl mugs rates a close second.

As I drove off today, and gave the place one last look, I thought about the first time I'd been inside the school. The first time I saw the school wasn't the day I met Miss Honey [I got lost trying to find the place]. The first time I saw the school was about this time of year in 2004. I was on choir tour as a freshman in college, still a music ed major, and we were heading for our last venue on a Monday night such as tonight; April, high sixties, chance of rain. It was still early in the day, early enough that school hadn't let out yet, and we'd been winding around in a tour bus in a corner of the world completely foreign to me. I happened to be sitting on the driver's side. I happened to look out my window as the bus hit a straight away going up an incline. And I saw this elementary school and I thought, "Oh, my God. That's the cutest school. Ever. I mean ever. I bet everyone just loves working there. I bet I'd love working there. How great would it be if I could do my student teaching there?" Well, hold the phone. Life doesn't work like that. No one from as far north as I went to school gets placed that far south. Just doesn't happen. And no one looks at a building out in the middle of nowhere and says, when I'm all done, I'm going to work there. That really doesn't happen.

It is a strange and wondrous world we live in. Almost ten years later, at a different university in a different degree program, I pulled up into the driveway the day I met Miss Honey and my jaw hit my lap. I'd been placed at The Cutest School. Ever. I found out it was every bit as adorable on the inside as it was on the outside. And it was unbelievable great to do my student teaching there.

on over packing

"... You don't happen to have any power steering fluid, do you?"

Ha. Do I have power steering fluid. Well, I don't any more, but I did in a crate in the trunk of my car, which is a mobile Auto Supply Store. One of the Mothers from my parish mentioned needing her car jumped after a service in a sermon a few years ago, and none of the partitioners in the parking lot, all of us known for our hospitality and resourcefulness, had jumper cables she lamented. About five heads in the pews around mine turned around and looked at me, and someone mouthed "Where were you?!" Motor oil, power steering fluid, jumper cables, bondo and patches, wiper fluid, antifreeze, and a first aid kit. Almost better than Triple A.  Almost. All this from back in the days when my last car, Roxanne, a candy apple red VW Passat with a black leather interior was breaking down every 5 minutes. [no, she wasn't named for the song.] I learned to travel prepared for [almost] anything. I began to keep a spare change of clothes in my trunk,  and a small cooler stocked with bottles of water and granola bars. Can't even begin to say how much those have come in handy.

So how much junk stuff did I have to sift through to get to so I could find the crate in my trunk? Jeezum crow. There was still a bike rack on the back of my car. I did eventually get to the PSF. Past the bike rack and the lunch box and the step ladder and the yoga mat [that's where that went...].

Thankfully, my desk at school looks nothing like the trunk of my car. Or the back seat, which desperately needs to be cleaned out and vacuumed. The top of my desk has been slowly being emptied all week. I took a few of my books home every day. The last batch came home on Friday [kid's picture books, en masse  are deceptively heavy]. Monday may be my last day, Friday is when I started crying at school. My desk looks empty. It's over. It's really over. I'm glad I have a large bag to carry everything home in bits and pieces, but I can't believe how much stuff I brought with me to school over the last 15 weeks. I got cozy.
I'm upset about going, but more upset than I feel like I should be.

There isn't a plan right now except to stay here and watch the climate. I can't say I had better plans after undergrad, because my original career goal of teaching had been derailed midway my sophomore year and since that's what I should have been doing all along, I wandered a little aimlessly through college. I exited undergrad with a fabulous job that involved working with kids, which was [serendipitously, though I wouldn't have said so at the time] cut short because of the failing economy, which led me back to teaching. Which is what I should have been doing in the first place. The difference between exiting undergrad and now is that I had a job waiting for me in the fall. There's going to be summer jobs and training for subbing and finding a new equilibrium. We're going to celebrate the memory of the lives of a set of grandparents and the 90th birthday of the other grandfather this summer. I don't have a light shining ahead for the next 12 months like I did the last time. It makes for interesting, but with everything that's happened, sometimes interesting is the last thing you want. I'll take not bad. I'm not going to England this summer, it's not the summer of the great road trip or ferrying and biking around the San Juan islands, or sailing the Great Lakes as part of the volunteer Niagara crew. Maybe it's the summer for volunteering at Project Linus, since I'll be driving past an office on my way to and from a job this summer. We'll see.

irony: quitting my MuEd career track as a sophomore coincided time-wise with the sudden death of the grandmother who was married to the grandfather we are burying this summer; we've come full circle, as now I'll finally be a certified teacher. When she died, it was two days before Christmas; they were living in Florida. Grandpa had just buried his son six months earlier. So when he came back to us, we waited until June, on what would have been their 55th anniversary, and interred my grandmother's ashes. And that was it.  That's all anyone felt like doing. We're going to celebrate them both this summer; their lives and their boundless generosity to others. We're working on the how.

manna from heaven

It's unusual not to have a service, of any kind, when there is a death. But that's what Grandpa wanted. He was part of a VFW post that would do funeral details in all kinds of weather, and didn't want us standing in a blizzard, burying what he referred to as his nonessentials in the frozen ground after we dug through three feet of snow to find his marker. And please, he said. Don't let the guys stand out there. I don't want them out there. Having stood in driving rain, snow and scorching sun, I can't blame him. Except that I think the detail guys would personally resurrect him and beat him up if they were refused. So we're waiting for the summer, when hopefully, the weather is cooperative, and not scorching hot. One can hope.

A very good friend of mine was asking about what arrangements we had set up, and when I explained the situation, he said it was probably hard, having the expected time off but not really having a break, and not having the closure that a memorial service can bring.

He hit that nail on the head.

This mess feels like it's finally starting to level out. I may still be bouncing, but the high isn't as high and hitting the bottom doesn't hurt like it did before.

Pot roast came to my door tonight. With mini red velvet cupcakes and a loaf of bread. Pot roast is, quite possibly, one of my favorite things [and this one is amazing]. I don't like steak. I like pot roast. [Also this awesome Thai coconut soup that I don't know what the name of it is, that is served at Nicky's Thai Kitchen on the North Side.] The bread is itself a small miracle, since I've been to the store twice this week and forgot a loaf of bread both times.  And the cupcakes are perfect. They're just the perfect size. I did not ask for the pot roast. Pot roast came to me. Words cannot express how excited I am over this trifecta of foodstuffs. Who brings you your favorite and what you need without asking or knowing? How does that work out?

Was observed today by the principal. The kids were fabulous, just like I knew they would be; the lesson, I think, went very well. I have seldom worried about them; they never cease to surprise me with what they can do. I can count on one hand the times I was truly concerned that something would be really amis. I would be lying if I said I wasn't a little scared. Today's adrenaline wore off alas, in the middle of the drive home on the parkway. Not good timing. Thank God for pot roast.

chocolate eggs and gold bracelets

It’s too nice to hole up in the cave. Way too nice. I stopped at the library to pick up some material and thought it would be fun to maybe take the bike off the car. But then I found out that Pink has a few too many problems to be road worthy without the attention of someone who knows something about bikes, so there’s no riding for a while. [Riding with a snapped brake line? Bad idea...]

You win some, you loose some.

Someone called the 'burgh the Paris of Appalachia;  there’s a whole book about it. I never really understood the connection, having lived here and been to Paris; you don't really see it unless you are sitting in Schenley quad, in spring, when the undergrads are out in force worshiping the sun and the food vendors.  We are far cleaner here; we put our litter in bins, I mean. By nightfall, Paris was a wreck; there was garbage and refuse everywhere. It smelled terrible. Maybe they figure they have a sanitation force, I'm not sure. I was not endeared. 

It’s my last week of student teaching. We’ve made a fabulous quilt [sort of]. The squares are done. I have to get fabric and put it together, but I have to have a résumé and a portfolio first. The burning question of stay or go is, well, burning. There are postings back north; I wondered what it would be like to go back and teach in the building that I went to elementary school at, and took it that step further to wonder if I was hired. Wondered what if I was assigned to teach in the rooms where I myself had sat on the other side of the teacher’s desk. I remember that world being so much bigger than it probably is.  We had a teepee in our second grade room. Big enough that five kids fit inside it. Our room is a little small for that. And Miss Honey's room is nothing to sneeze at. 

This morning on my desk there was a box decorated with a cupcake label that had my name on it [spelled correctly - no mean feat!!] with a fistfull of little foil wrapped chocolate eggs and a gold beaded bracelet. I'd been silently lamenting my lack of gold jewelry and picking gold posts when I got my ears pierced, and here's this little gold colored bracelet buried under a cupcake and a pile of chocolate. Just because. One box for me and one for Miss Honey.

What would my favorite memory of 1st grade be, if someone handed me markers and a square? I've been mulling over it all week, and I don't know that I could draw it. How do you draw kids getting something? How do you draw them not quitting when it's hard? How do I draw the time I ended up in the hospital and more recently, the death of my grandfather; having a cooperating teacher who smiled and said "We got this. It's not broken, it's just bent. No worries." [okay, her forehead probably wrinkled in concern; I wasn't there to see it. And that's not a direct quote. But close enough.] None of this has anything to do with drawing.

It's evoking. 1st grade was better than anything I'd imagined. 

social commentary, or big rivers in egypt

One of them ran up to me today, and tugging on my elbow, began with, "Miss Honey--!" Right orchard, dear one, wrong tree.

       

People, in all areas of my life, keep asking when my last day of student teaching is, as if it's going to be the happiest day of my life thus far. Masters degree in hand, yes, that will be nice. Teacher's cert, in hand, yes, that will be nice. But my last day of student teaching being one of my happiest days? Are you kidding? I'll be crying like a baby. If the waterworks don't start before then. 

Not that they haven't already. For other reasons. I got the "expect a phone call" call a few weeks ago, right before a formal observation, the lesson for which went well, but for which I gave myself a dress down for a positive neutral critique [observations, it has been my experience, can't be positive, lest one becomes cocky, so a neutral or positive neutral is what you shoot for]. My regret was not saying to my supervisor, "I just got the "expect a phone call" call, and I'm a little sensitive right now to phrases like 'Thus and so won't be around forever' ". There's nothing in the student teaching manual that covers "death of a family member". It's happened before; it has to have, but there are so many possibilities that they keep it generalized. Also, when I started this, Grandpa had yet to be diagnosed; how was I to know?

So I keep smiling, and sending cards home every week or so, and try not to equate of the end of my experience with death [once the seed has been planted...]. Is it awful I'm praying my grandfather passes a few weeks before the end of my experience, or a few weeks after? But not the week of my last day and exit interviews? Does this make me a bad person? I expected he would have passed already, but he's still hanging in there, but he's sleeping more and more, and is beginning to refuse to eat more and more. Italians; they don't die, they just pasta away. 

The next great question on everyone's mind, where are you going and what are you doing? Everyone wants to know what region I'm now [or thinking of] moving to, and what age group I want to teach. Right now I want to transition the living and bury my dead. Which means relocating is a little out of the question.  I have been quite happy working with the 6-8 set for two summers of Pgh summer dreamers and now my student teaching, but I would be equally happy trying something else. I dislike saying "I don't know,"; we're taught as graduate students to have definitive answers to everything. To back it up with scholarly research and quantifiable evidence. Would I love 4th grade? I don't know, but I'd love to find out, as I have no evidence to indicate that I wouldn't. For this reason, I wish placements were a little longer, and were dual, at two different grade levels. Personally, it would have meant that I wouldn't have gotten so attached to the children in my class. Which would mean leaving would be easier. I knew when this started that I would probably fall in love. I knew because I could say that I was well on my way to falling with the first graders I taught two summers in a row. As the program was a month long and I wasn't their regular teacher, it was easier then to say goodbye. I'm not sure how well I'm going to fare on my last day here. I hope I can exit gracefully. 

Luck 'o the Irish

A leprechaun came to class on Thursday and trashed the room...

He left us a note on the board, saying that he lost a shoe in his merriment. He also left us a book... which was nice. 

We found the shoe on top of the projector. I fetched it while Miss Honey provided photo-documentation.

The students wrote letters to the leprechaun, asking him questions and writing statements about what they thought of the room. The next day, there was a surprise waiting for us! [Miss Honey and I had Starbucks! ;) ]

 The kiddos also made picture prints from green, symmetrical peppers [which must have been left over from the leprechaun's breakfast when he dropped everything off this morning] and wrote about how lucky they were.

We also had barely green homemade fun-fetti cupcakes.

A fine time was had by all.

... and what would you do differently?

The parents and I had the "we're not moving you out of the 'burgh after you graduate" talk the other night this week on the phone. Which wasn't exactly comforting, but it wasn't awful either. I don't mean to say that I hate the Burgh and can't wait to leave; it was decided by all that staying here was the best choice. That there were more opportunities down here, though I, for my part, am a little blind to how it's all going to come about. Or paranoid about being unemployed again. Or something.

There are three weeks of actual student teaching left. I, for my part, am freaking out. Quietly. But I'm freaking out. About exit interviews and unemployment and job interviews and unemployment and interim employment and student loans and, and, and... At the portfolio meeting, the undergrads were chirping about their spring break plans. Some of them were going to go party, some were making the most of the break and going on actual interviews.

I don't know if my Grandfather will be alive by the time we make it to the break. But I know I won't be interviewing. I tried not to kick myself. Nothing anyone could do about the timing of that.

When we are formally assessed on a lesson, one of the questions they ask us is, how would you do this lesson differently, if you taught it to this class again? And if I were formally assessed on life, to this point, I'd say:

1. Don't to worry about the car.
2. Forgive yourself, and move on.
3. You should have called home more. Or at least, Grandpa. All the set chewing you see or think you see in the school by the other 20 student teachers couldn't do anything to make him better. A bulletin board isn't worth more than his life. And anyone can put together a bulletin board.  
4. Stop comparing yourself to the undergrads. Stop weighing the mistakes you made in life to the Disneyana package they're presenting. You don't know what's happening backstage at Disney. 
5. Don't panic.
6. And stop saying "... but I did my undergrad at state school." You had your reasons. And people died then, too. Besides, you know some pretty fabulous people who went to state school, too.
7. When in doubt, don't say anything. Bite your tongue if you have to. Because if you're panicking, it'll probably come out worse than you meant it to. 
8. Also, think carefully about how you word your typing. While it sounds great in your head, no one is privy to the commentary going on between your ears. The details get lost with out, well... the details. So be specific and explicit. 
9. Forgive yourself. Move on. 
10. You do not function on 6 hours of sleep. You really don't function on 6 hours of sleep, 5 days in a row, even with large amounts of caffeine. This is probably avoidable. If people outside of the experience can't deal with your sleep requirements, find new friends. Moral of the story: get some sleep, even if it means taking a rain cheque and a nap in the car. So pack a blanket.
11. Don't forget, try to leave it better than you found it. 

erosion. it'll take your dirt away.

We talked about erosion in class today. Because it's St. Patrick's day on Sunday, I brought in a shamrock plant for the kids to look at as part of the erosion demo. Some of the questions I chose to not to answer included:

"Why is there only one flower?"
"Does it smell like anything?"
"Why is the underside purple?"
"Why doesn't the flower look like clover?"

Well... I don't have all the answers. And technically, the shamrock is an oxalis plant and looks like this.

And they wanted to know why I used coffee grounds instead of sand, or actual dirt. And I really didn't want to get into the specifics of hydrophobia with them, and how the coffee grounds were going to mimic wet sand and suck up the water easily and move the way I wanted them to.

However. They got the picture. Coffee grounds, in a pile, at the top of a tilted cookie sheet, when mixed with "rain" from a watering can, would "erode" down the side of the cookie sheet hill. But the dirt in the pot, even when the pot was tilted on it's side when it was "raining" wasn't really going anywhere, because there were roots holding it in place.

Mission accomplished.

leprechaun traps and the like, or why first grade is fabulous

I totally forgot that when I was in 1st grade, we came back from [art? gym? music? library?] and found our room in an uproar. With little green feet all over our desks, chairs, and the chalkboard - which itself was green. Miss Roberts [for this was my first grade teacher, lo these many years ago, we won't say how many] dropped what ever it was she was carrying, and I was smart enough to know that what ever happened, she wasn't behind it. Our reading specialist, whose name escapes me, but it started with an H, was behind the shenanigans. We couldn't get the feet off the board for weeks. After that... St. Patrick's day was a non-issue. I can't remember kindergarten  But I remember the little green feet on the desks and board, and that Miss Roberts could not get them off.

Maybe it's because this is my first go round, things still have that "oh boy we get to ..." glow about them. I almost want to make rainbow cupcakes for Friday, inspired by this leprechaun trap cake. [but they will be graphing that charming breakfast cereal, and no doubt noshing on it, so I hesitate]. 

I never used to care about wearing green [Or I'd be obtuse and wear orange]. But I know I have a green dress burning a hole in the door of my closet. And I have these burning questions on my mind - does it fit? Do I have shoes that match? What about a sweater?! 

For math, the students are going to be, as mentioned, sorting and graphing charm cereal. Miss Honey and I have a writing activity planned. I'm trolling for a crafty activity for them to do. Our goal is for them to earn the fun activities as a class, by spelling "St. Patrick's Day on the board. They didn't do so well today earning letters, so I'm hoping that tomorrow they will step it up a bit. 

for Women's History and International Woman's Day

People say it's a good thing when your pants don't fit. I guess they don't mind going shopping for pants. Or clothes.

Watching my shopping friend try on her dress and jacket, and giving her advice was fun. But finding pants at Macy's was almost panic inducing. I have two new pairs of pants, both purple, thanks to a gift card and the sale rack at Macy's this weekend. One is a wine sort of purple, the other is concord grape. They're both corduroy. As I said, the whole process was a little unnerving. This whole "skinny leg" thing? Woah.

I wore the wine colored pants to school today. No one said anything. So I'm guessing it was okay, but they're the tightest, most form fitting garment I've owned after a dance leotard and tights.  I'm not going to count tops because tops can be can be covered up. But pants? People wear tights under a short sweater and call them 'pants'.

Why all the talk about clothes, you ask? For the last two years, I have intentionally been trying to loose weight. I got involved with a study at one of the universities, figuring that me with a panel of registered dieticians, exercise physiologists, medical doctors and psychologists was better than me alone [okay. there was some remuneration involved; it is a study]. It was the cognitive dissonance I needed, and the "this is the safe way to do it" information I wanted, because part of me was a little worried about going overboard becoming anorexic.

Once upon a time, I used to wear clothes two to three sizes two big. I was a tween, and literally hid inside my clothes, as a reaction to bullying targeted towards my physical appearance. I couldn't help the fact that I was taller than everyone else, or that my skin was a mess, despite regular visits to a dermatologist. So I tried to fit in, but being taller than everyone else with messy skin makes you stand out. So I started hiding in my clothes. Because everything those kids said had to be true; I had to be fat, and I must be ugly, and I wish I could say the insults stopped there, but they didn't. So I did what any other kid would do; I told an adult. I told my parents. That's what everyone says to do, right? Tell, tell, tell. Because telling is not tattling.

They called me a liar, and their parents called me a liar, and even though my parents said I was telling the truth, no one seemed to believe me or my parents. So... I had to be fat and ugly, and every other horrible thing they said.

In the process of culling all those tee-shirts for the tee-shirt quilt, I found the ones from that time of my life, and even at the heaviest I ever weighed, as a full grown adult and not a tween, I still swam inside those clothes. So imagine what a 12 year old must have looked like, even if she stood head and shoulders taller than the tallest peer.  I have clothes I wore from high school, that I'm just starting to fit back into, or am to big for, that I held onto because my grandmother bought for me, so they have ridiculous sentimental value, and I'm amazed at the things I was referred to as. Being able to look at the screen prints, and not at the volume of extra material associated with those clothes is very freeing, because there were some very positive experiences represented, even though I had a very poor self image. I can be selective about the memories.

We talk about violence against women in terms of that which leaves physical scars. I would argue that those things which leave psychological scars are just as important. In the room across the hall, the kindergarten children were learning an important lesson about "using their words, not their fists," but what if the words they come to use are just as caustic? I still find that parts of my life are defined by the words and actions of those peers, and the passivity of adults in leadership who should have taken a stand, and did not. I should not have to live in fear, because what happened was not my fault.

International Women's Day was on March 8th, and one of my favorite gentlemen, Sir Patrick Stewart, had some things to say about it. 

you say toe-mato, I say to-mah-to

I really, really want to try this - recycling wine bottles into planters. All you need to cut the glass is a little yarn, some acetone [aka nail polish remover], a bowl of ice water, and a match. My fingers are itching. 

We've been talking in 1st grade about recycling in social studies - and we will be again in science in short order here. I'm glad we're talking about it, because they need to see the connections between the different disciplines, but honestly, the PC stuff is getting on my nerves... how about we actually talk about earth science? Perhaps expounding on natural resources. For example, glass comes from sand... we can recycle glass [yay!] And this is what we do with clay... yay pottery and other things... Minerals are not just in our coins, we need some for our bodies, to be strong and healthy... alas, no. Let's not even get into how we can recycle our coffee grounds, egg shells, vegetable peelings and the like! Woohoo, compost! Because that is recycling! And reusing! And it's great for the earth!

We talked about sand, clay and humus last week. There wasn't even an explanation of how to say humus in the book. [You say it like hu-man. Say it with me: hu-mus.] The children know how to say clay and sand; it's probably been in their vocabulary since the time they were six months old and were putting everything in their mouths. But words like humus aren't even in most adults vocabulary, unless they happen to either pursue higher education in the geosciences or botany fields, or are really wild about gardening [or have dads that fill all those categories...] For the record, I am not any one of those people.  The book that the kids use show people picking up trash, putting plastics, glass and paper in the recycling bins, and wrapping yarn around cans for pencil cups. Which is nice. Dont' get me wrong. Because in parts of my section of town, they aren't up on all of that. I'm dodging dead bicycles and baby dolls, and worse. 

Also,  I've learned two things being in first grade: at the end of the day, the trash bin and the recycling bin end up together in the same container. So... why are we bothering?

The second thing I learned in first grade is what humus is. It's Latin, literally "earth, ground". I already knew what hummus is. You can ask Miss Honey. I make a pretty darn good hummus. Om, nom nom. 

So. Let's review:

HUMMUS                                            HUMUS 

The one on the left you eat. The one on the right... no contest. You aren't eating dirt. Who would do that? Truth be told, I know a few kids that would do it on a dare, but wise cracks aside.
It's like dessert and desert. One is something you want to eat. The other is full of sand. 

"I'd rather eat two desserts and walk through one desert"

No one wants to eat sand or dirt. Eat your double SS's and MM's.  And M&M's.

Movers, shakers, bonkers and top-button kind of girls.

you know when you tell people you write a blog, but you never expect to find out that anyone you know actually reads your blog, because no one comments on it? Besides your mother? Because the blog stats tell you people from Australia are reading your blog so you think to yourself, geeze, no one I know cares?

Famous last thought.

Someone important read my blog, and mentioned that she'd better read Matilda [cough, cough, three guesses who]. You'd have thought I was defending a dissertation. So, since I'm still technically this side of my masters, I gave it a little more thought. Did some research.

My first thought, after Miss Honey is Miss Blanchard. As in Mary-Margaret, sweetest third/fourth grade teacher on the Maine coast, who is actually Snow White. : / I don't even know what Mary-Margaret is up to these days. Because I'm busy being a Ms. Blanchard [sans the relationship drama]. As Emma put it, "When I first met you, you were a top button kind of girl." I wear buttons. Miss Honey does not wear buttons. Unless it's a teacher sweater [our room is perpetually cold]. But her sweaters don't have top buttons. Mine do, so if anyone receives the ninja name of Mary Margaret Blanchard, it'd be me. So that's a nope.

A little more research later I pulled this list of teachers off another blog, deleted all the Mrs. and Mr., and highlighted in green those titles which I have read. Which aren't a lot.

Jo March in Little Men, Jo's Boys by Louisa May Alcott  [I forgot that Jo became a teacher. Jo is, however, a little mercurial]
Miss Nelson in Miss Nelson is Missing by Harry Allard[Good old Miss Nelson. But Miss Honey is not a Miss Nelson]
Ida Bidson in The Secret School by Avi
Ms. Isabel Hussey in Chasing Vermeer and The Wright Three by Blue Balliett
Ms. Shepherd in Evolution, Me & Other Freaks of Nature by Robin Brande

Miss Hawthorn in Willow by Denise Brennan-Nelson and Rosemarie Brennan

Miss Parker in Caddie Woodlawn by Carol Ryrie Brink [Miss Parker is not sticking out in my memory; also, I had a second grade teacher named Parker. And he was awesome in his own awesome way.]

Miss Perry in I Remember Miss Perry by Pat Brissom

Miss Temple in Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte [Miss Temple was okay, but I already nixed the Bronte sisters.]

Miss Binney in Ramona the Pest by Beverly Cleary 

Ms. Clayton in School Story by Andrew Clements

Miss Pointy in Sahara Special by Esme Codell

Miss Stretchberry in Love That Dog by Sharon Creech[I read this one too; it's written in first person perspective as a writing journal, but you don't hear the teacher's voice or read her comments, just the student's reaction to the teacher's comments about the poetry that the student writes.]

Miss Hendrickson in I Know Here by Laurel Croza

Miss Honey in Matilda by Roald Dahl [what I'm currently working with. I picked Miss Honey because she's the only memorable El Ed teacher I can think of, and it's what my friends are starting to call me. Especially when they come to my house and see my garden.]

Ms. Finey in The Cat Ate My Gym Suit by Paula Danziger

Miss Annersley in the Chalet School series (UK) by Elinor Brent Dyer

Ms. Sarah Melton in Mail Order Ninja by Joshua Elder - this one gets points for having "Ninja" in the title. 

Miss Malarkey in Miss Malarkey Leaves No Reader Behind by Judy Finchler

Miss Lupescu in The Graveyard Book by Neil Gaiman  [I read this book. She's not one to be trifled with]

Miss Smith in Miss Smith's Incredible Storybook by Michael Garland [Smith? lamesauce. ]

Miss Tizzy from Miss Tizzy by Libba Moore Gray

Miss Grey in the Betsy Brooks books by Carolyn Haywood

Miss Meadows  in Remembering Mrs. Rossi by Amy Hest

Miss Agnes in The Year of Miss Agnes by Kirkpatrick Hill

Miss Loupe in Operation YES by Sara Lewis Holmes

Ms. Snickle in The Secrets of Ms. Snickle's Class by Laurie Miller Hornik
Miss Fowler in the Betsy-Tacy books by Maud Hart Lovelace
Ms. Minifred in Baby by Patricia MacLachlan

Ms. Mirabel in Word After Word After Word by Patricia MacLachlan

Sister Mary Louise in Wicked Lovely by Melissa Marr
Miss Farley in Caddy Ever After by Hilary McKay

Miss O'Grady in Busing Brewster by Richard Michelson

Miss Stacey in the Anne books by L.M. Montgomery [Double nope. Neither Stacey or Shirley. Anne's too dreamy]
Anne Shirley in Anne of Avonlea by L.M. Montgomery

Miss Edmunds in Bridge to Terabithia by Katherine Paterson

Miss Barbara Harris in The Great Gilly Hopkins by Katherine Paterson
Miss Dove in Good Morning, Miss Dove by Frances Gray Patton
Miss Tansy Culver in A Teacher's Funeral by Richard Peck
Ms. Raymond in Dotty by Erica S. Perl

Ms. Lilly in Noonie's Masterpiece by Lisa Railsback

Miss Plumberry in Totally Wonderful Miss Plumberry by Michael Rosen  - we are in the plum district... and that's a great title. 

Miss Jewls in the Sideways books by Louis Sachar

Ms. Hill in 4 Kids in 5E and 1 Crazy Year by Virginia Frances Schwartz

Miss Bonkers in Hooray for Diffendoofer Day by Dr. Seuss [She loves this book. But I can't call her Miss Bonkers.  On principle. Would you take either me, or her, seriously?]

Miss Bindergarten in Miss Bindergarten Goes to Kindergarten by Joseph Slate

Miss Palma in After Ever After by Jordan Sonnenblick

Miss Cribbage in My Kindergarten by Rosemary Wells
Miss Lesley in Counting on Grace by Elizabeth Winthrop

(Miss) Alina in Peace, Locomotion by Jacqueline Woodson

the ruckous in room 161, or More Read Across America

Remember our door? It won best K - 3 category! The kids were shouting so loud we had no idea who won best 4 - 6!

I was doing some serious nail biting there at the out come of this contest [again, not a competitive bone in my body] but at the same time, I thought it was a little silly to decorate a door with out the kids having some part of it. To clarify, sometimes, walking down the halls, it's obvious that the teacher did everything for the door, and the kids had no input. In other cases, the kid's photographs are on the door, but... does that really count?

For the socks, I folded an 8 1/2 x 11 piece of paper in half and free-handed a sock on both sides of the fold. The students were instructed to write their name on the front of the sock first, and then decorate it with crayons. They were allowed to have 5 puff-balls, and one piece of sequins [someone did not follow the directions when I walked away from the table - they came in late, and really, what am I going to do at that point, take away recess? it was already glued down. Choose battles wisely.] I traced Fox on a clear transparency and blew it up onto a piece of red paper with an over head projector [remember those!] The grass was free hand cut. We kept the basket up with thumb tacks, and the clothes line was taped up with packing tape.

I really thought the door about teeth and flossing, with a box of floss [!] was going for the win with Thing 1 and Thing 2, and then there was a Truffla Tree door that looked like flossy cotton candy. Good old Fox for the win.

I got a little sad when the kids said, "Oooh! Miss O, next year, let's do 'Horton Hears a Who!' [I was dressed up as Horton for the day, sans trunk] Well, kids. Next year, you will be in second grade, and Miss O may be still looking for a job. But we didn't talk about that. We talked about Diffendoffer Day, and Star-bellied Sneetches, and cupcakes baked in ice cream cones, which are Miss Honey's favorite [and I think mine too - ZERO clean up! so easy to hold! SO MUCH FUN!!!]

Read, Across America

Straight from the source itself

What if Dr. Seuss had written Star Wars?

I will be celebrating today in the classroom with my kids and Miss Honey. Pictures of our adventure to follow later, but a teaser trailer of that which would blow right over the head of the first grade.

 Yoda has to be my personal favorite.