Rumors of My Death Have Been Greatly Exaggerated

It has been an eternity since I last posted anything.  If you have been wondering where in tarnation I have been for the last ten weeks, I have an explanation.  I have been floundering in the sea of Graduate School Loose Ends for the last three months.  I had a December 23^rd deadline firmly set to submit my final work, and all activities outside the basics came to a screeching halt.  As weekends were my only time to apply the few brain cells I still posses to my behemoth project, I have done nothing except toil away on the writing of my capstone piece de resistance.  If you are wondering what “tarnation” means, it is a euphemism for damnation.  It’s true, I just Googled it for the correct spelling.  Forgive my sailor’s mouth.

OK, back to my death.  I have not ditched penning my experiences in the classroom, or my life in general.  My being AWOL had nothing to do with growing weary of jotting down my experiences, not because I ran out of ideas, or because I was censored by the Society of Really Bad Writing.  No, I simply have not had enough hours in a day to think about it, let alone clickety-clack away on my beloved Mac keyboard.  Something had to give in my schedule and the blog was the first on the roster.  Dusting, cleaning the frig, and cooking were numbers; two, three, and four, respectively.  Laundry and bathing stayed on the list. 

All I know is my family members should be nominated for sainthood.  There have been innumerable days and/or nights with me holed-up in my bedroom, or journals and research papers spread out on the kitchen table as I vainly tried to keep up with deadlines at work, tried to finish a paper or project for a course, or had to cram for a test.  I once stayed up late to get a project for a summer course finished on time.  I kept the coffee pot busy dripping liquid wakefulness into my cup and worked like a madwoman.  I had class first thing the next morning so I knew I wasn’t going to get much sleep, but not finishing was not an option.  As I toiled into the night, I thought I heard birds singing at one point.  That seemed odd.  Was I suffering from sleep deprivation to the point I was hallucinating?  I looked at the clock for the first time in hours and was horrified to see that it was time to get up!  Wow, was I impressive and totally on top of my game for class that day.  That was a very, very bad day.

But I did it.  I made the deadline.  With the help of the high school English teacher for editing help (God bless Sarah!), I submitted it a week early.  Wow, that felt glorious.  I handed my flash drive to the department secretary, and resisted the urge to do my happy dance.  I was fuh-reeeeee!!  Now I only had to get through my last week of school before Christmas vacation and then I could FINALLY allow myself to exhale.  Shucks, I might even cook a meal that didn’t involve bad pizza cooked on cardboard.

The theme for our last week of school was the Polar Express, based on the book by Chris Van Allsberg.  A quick online search for lesson plans yielded a bountiful crop and I soon had engaging activities for every day.  Friday was our last day of school and the day second only to Christmas Day itself for my lads and lassies, the day of our class party.  Kids love that day.  Teachers largely dislike it because the kids love it so much.  In short, par-tay translates to hy-per.  Then like idiots we feed them sugar and red dye #14 like it’s the Apocalypse.  By the time they board the buses they look like the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade balloons – their feet barely touch the floor as they run out for the last time of the year.  I am amazed that the bus drivers do not mutiny. 

The planned festivities for the Magic Tree House included a private viewing of The Polar Express, hot cocoa, sugar, sugar, sugar, and red dye #14.  A parent suggested the kids wear their pajamas while they watch the movie, like the kids that ride the train in the movie.  Fabulous idea!  And so, they changed into their winter woolies, I fired up the projector and stirred the cocoa, and then called All Aboard!  They handed me the tickets I had dispensed at the beginning of the day as they filed to their seats in front of the screen.  They were soon sipping cocoa and engrossed in that beautiful movie of childish innocence and keeping perspective even when the cares of growing up crowd in.

They were so happy.  They thought it was the coolest thing ever to wear their PJ’s in school.  They were the envy of the other kids.  Kindergartners begged me to do it next year too.  It was a moment of absolute joy in their lives.  And frankly, they needed it.  I cannot share details of course, but Christmas this year will be so very hard for some of them.  My heart aches for these lambs that will struggle to hang on to their childish innocence at such a young age.  I hope that in coming years they will still be able to hear the bell of Christmas.  That disappointments will not dim its sweet melodic tinkle.

The Darlings didn’t know it, but old Mrs. Dahl had brought her jammies too.  “Mrs. Dahl!?!” they shouted when they saw me in thick pink robe and curlers in my chaotic hair.  I laughed because kids today don’t even know what rollers are.  When I was a kid, mothers wore them to Kroger’s for grocery shopping on a Saturday afternoon.  Yes sir, those were the good old days of high glamour.

The best part of our party day was after the movie when we exchanged inexpensive gifts.  For a class of only seven students, our little class tree had an impressive pile of brightly wrapped gifts underneath it.  As the pile under the tree diminished, the piles of ripped wrapping paper grew, strewn everywhere.  I laughed out loud.  I couldn’t help it.  It looked like Christmas morning in there.  Toys and treats were being exclaimed over, wrapping paper remained where it had been tossed as it flew off the gift, and happy children in pajamas were running around all hopped up on red dye #14.  It was a beautiful sight.

As they headed out to wary bus drivers, I wished them Merry Christmas and assured them that I would miss them over our two-week break.  I meant it.  Not that I will not savor every moment of this much needed, much anticipated vacation.  I am thrilled beyond words.  But I will miss them.  I already do.

When the last child had exited, I began the task of cleaning up.  As I scraped frosting off tables and wiped up spilled cocoa and shoved paper into the overflowing trash can, my principal strolled in to discuss a student.  He took in my attire and riotous hair and never cracked a smile.  I thought that was really funny.  How do you look at your first grade teacher who is wearing a robe and curlers in her classroom and not think that it is funny?  Sheesh, tough crowd…

I decided against changing back into my jeans for the trip home and as I threw my things into my quasi-hippie gold van and settled into the driver’s seat, I realized it must be quite a sight to see a teacher exit the building in a robe, slippers, and giant curlers.  I am guessing that came up in the local bar that night.

Today’s mail proffered a most beautiful gift.  A simple form from the University of Mary’s department of education stating that my graduate portfolio had been received and I had passed that requirement.  I am officially finished. 

And so, one chapter closes and I am filled with a happy glow of self-satisfaction.  I accomplished my goal. I am sitting in a very happy intersection of life.  I am well educated, I have a few years of teaching experience under my belt, I still love what I do, and I discovered that I really like wearing my jammies to school.  Forget Jeans Day.  Let’s get REALLY comfortable.

I might even find time to add to this blog more frequently than once every two months.  I hope so.  I have lots to say. 

I end with a Christmas blessing for seven of the sweetest beings that have ever walked the earth.  They are so precious. 

I wish for them the sweetest joys imaginable for this season and ever after.  I hope they will be brave and courageous in the face of life’s sorrows and disappointments.  I trust that they will find the good in all things, even when things are difficult.  I hope their faith will never be shattered.  I hope when they are adults making their own way in the world that when they will place the Christmas bell close to ear they will still savor its magic and message of hope.

As they filed in for the movie, I handed each child a beautiful red sticker to wear on their robe.  The candy striped cards stated in elegant script, “I Believe.” 

This is my prayer for these, my Darlings. 

Merry Christmas, children…

Mrs. Dahl Makes a Poor Chaperone

My youngest child, the only girl in a sea of older brothers, is now in her junior year of high school.  Somebody throw cold water on my middle-aged quasi-hippie face, because I cannot comprehend that my nest has its last little birdie making plans to fly away.  She and I both are a little overwhelmed with the thought.  But here it comes regardless and we have begun to have some serious discussions about what her post high school years will look like.

Ms. Schauer, our new, competent, and lovely high school business teacher, opened the door to the Magic Tree House a couple of weeks ago and breathlessly announced that I was wanted in the office.  Uh oh.  That could only mean one thing.  I was in trouble… again.  She must have seen these very thoughts flit across my face for she quickly reassured me that nothing was amiss and that I was going to be asked to help chaperone a high school college tour trip.  I released a held breath.  Phew… crisis averted.

I ran up steps from my dungeon and into the superintendent’s office and happily agreed to offer my services.  I had been trying to figure out dates for taking Hannah college shopping anyhow.  This would be perfect.  I could ask questions of our tour guides and various department heads, and maybe even find a way to embarrass my daughter a little in front of her friends.  Win/win.

We loaded our junior and senior classes onto a rental bus, a total of twelve teens (no, not 1,200… just 12), and headed for the eastern edge of the state.  The winds were favorable and the weather perfect for our bused voyage.  We visited a total of four institutions; two four-year universities and two two-year colleges, with enrollments anywhere from 15,000 to 500.  We peeked in endless classrooms, were greeted by an endless stream of instructors all espousing their program as the “best in the state.”  I cannot tell you how many times I heard, “we stand out because we truly care about our students.”  They said all things they should have said.  I would have expected no less.

It was a great trip from start to finish.  College is a hard sell sometimes to the sons of farmers and ranchers.  It is usually assumed that the son will take over the farm or ranch upon graduation from high school.  Delaying that by two or four years is often seen as unnecessary and frivolous.

But I like to see a kid fully explore all options before deciding any life path.  I always say with all the earnestness I can muster, “You can be ANYTHING you want to be.  Do you understand what an amazing gift that is?  You are only limited by your own choices.” 

I was very, very happy today when my girl heard some very encouraging words about the field of study she has been considering.  Turns out it is a field very much in demand in our state right now.   I could see her confidence in her choice growing by the moment.  I think she is feeling a certain peace about her future.  I hope so.

I will spare you the minutia of the last two days, but I have to describe the tiny two-year school we started with this morning.  I am still grinning over it.  It is too delicious to not share.

It is located in the Turtle Mountains of northern North Dakota in a town called Bottineau.  The very friendly and likable faculty ticked off all of the usual reasons why our students should consider attending their fine institution.  I was a little amazed that they didn’t route us back out the front door before the tour even began when one of our chaperones innocently asked our liaison why there was a boy playing against a girl on one of the giant posters outside the gymnasium.  (Awkward pause), “…um, that IS a girl.”  Egad.  We just contracted Foot in Mouth disease.  Where is the eject button??

Anyway, the tour and talks went on as planned with friendly, happy students answering questions and playing the role of beaming ambassadors, and free T-shirts all around, and coaches and professors and durn near the entire faculty joining us for more enthusiastic recruiting.  And then… the most priceless gem of the four schools was laid at our feet.  “Oh, I nearly forgot,” said our liaison.  “You can bring guns to school with you.”  Twelve heads swiveled in her direction.  Stunned silence. After a short processing pause I asked, “did you just say they CAN or CAN’T bring guns to school here?”  She never batted an eye.  “You CAN bring guns.  We have a gunroom.  You know… for the kids that like to hunt.”  She was just warming up.  “And the dorms, both boys and girls, have deep freezers for the wild game they get.”  I started laughing.  I couldn’t help it.  Are you KIDDING me??  In this day of Kindergarteners being suspended for drawing guns on paper or pointing sticks on the playground and here is a college that encourages firearms??  I love it.  I absolutely love it.  Somebody call Garrison Keillor.  This is rich material.

My second favorite quirky fact from this school was the presence of bicycles painted forest green and the name of the school hand painted on the side.  They were scattered all over the grass near doorways and sidewalks.  These were apparently donated for the student body to share.  So if a student wanted to get Dairy Queen or Walmart, and didn’t have a car at their disposal, they can simply find a bike lying around in the grass and off they go.  Images of the old movie, Harold and Maude popped unbidden into my head.  Apparently the college president had the misfortune of riding his personal bike to campus one day and came out of his office to discover his bike gone.  It had been hijacked for a quick errand.  He had to wait for its return.  He should have known to buy a color other than green.

You are probably wondering why I was a poor chaperone.  Cause I was perpetually the last to be anywhere we were supposed to be, that’s why.  The last to eat breakfast, the last to board the bus, the last to exit the convenience store.  Last, last, last.  My superintendent was waiting for me at the door of the bus this morning.  “Where have you been??” he demanded.  I showed him my groovy cool, sparkly rhinestone watch.  “It’s 8:27.  You said be here at 8:30.  I’m early.”  He grunted.  “Oh, you’re one of THOSE,” he said with disdain.  Then he scuttled away like I was leper.  Hey, if you wanted me here at 8:22 you should have said 8:22.  I am very literal.

And so, I am home and tired and happy to sleep in my own TempurPedic bed tonight.  I am happy that my daughter had some great affirmation about her future goals.  I am happy that some of our students saw a different horizon than they had dreamed possible for themselves before.  I am happy to be a teacher in a tiny, rural school in the middle of nowhere that cares enough about its students to take them on a first class, whirlwind tour of higher education institutions.  I am happy that tomorrow no one will be waiting for me at the door tapping their watch and looking annoyed. 

I am happy that there are still places in this world that care little for political correctness. 

I am just plain happy.  And tired.  Very, very tired.

Hello, bed.  Goodnight, world…

The Invasion of the Stub People

I like kids to be just a little naughty.  Know what I mean?  Not bratty…. no, no, no.  Bratty is the result of bad parenting (did I say that out loud?).  Mischievous is innate.  It comes as part of your original package.  There is something utterly, deliciously endearing about a kid that likes to shake things up a bit.  Kids that are perfect are a little, well, boring. 

I do not say any of this to my students, of course.  That would only incite the inmates to violence.  No, Mrs. Dahl, Keeper of the Magic Tree House, quasi-hippie and middle-aged new career gal is all about rules and being mindful of the feelings around us.  But on the inside, I can’t help but love the kids that can’t seem to remember all the rules and possess that twinkle in their eye that signals the soul of a firecracker. 

Maybe it's because I can relate to the just-this-side-of-the-principals-office sort of kid.  When I was a youngun, my elementary principal moonlighted as my father.  Occasionally one of my teachers would screw up the courage to send me to her boss, my father, for errant behavior.  Now that I think about it, it must have taken a tremendous amount of courage for my teachers to vanquish their boss’ kid to him for punishment.  What if he didn’t believe them and felt they were being unduly harsh with his little angel?  But drat it all, he always bought into their version of events. 

It was mostly for minor infractions of the rules.  I never sold prescription meds out of my Peanuts lunchbox or anything.  Just mostly talked too much and got other kids to do things that were (apparently) frowned upon, like setting the clock ahead when the sub wasn't looking... that kind of stuff.  I once thought I should cash in on all the note passing going on around me, and set up Vonda’s Post Office, charging a nickel to pass any note that came across my desk.  I made up stamps and everything.  I put my own 5^th grade freckled face on each and every stamp and thought they were rather fetching.  The funny part to that story is, kids actually paid me the nickel.  My 5^th grade compatriots apparently had questionable business savvy.  Or maybe they paid because my dad was the principal.

And then I grew up, got married, and spawned my own Mr. Mischief.  Son #2 was born looking for ways to cause trouble.  As a preschooler he laid traps for his unsuspecting older brother.  At day care he picked on kids twice his size and age.  He was the one that tried to blame his shenanigans on imaginary friends that lived in the light bulb.  A couple of years ago he joined a chat room that my husband frequents where political topics are bandied about.  Ryan joined under a pseudonym and would post comments under his alter ego that he knew would light a fire in his dad’s belly.  As my husband would sit at the table and rail against the “new guy” in the chat room, Ryan would sit listening with absolutely no expression on his face,  nodding and sympathetic.  He played his dad to the hilt.  He didn’t admit his double identity for another year or so.  Boy, oh boy, did we have a good laugh over that one!  (Well, five of us did anyway.  Dad…not so much).

I have a student coming to my classroom in two years.  She is the younger sister of one of last year’s students.  According to her mother, she is quite the irascible imp.  Her mother was sleeping in bed not long ago.  Her little angel carried an ice cream bucket half-filled with live lizards and frogs into her mother’s room and poured the entire bucket on top of her unconscious mother’s head!!  My poor friend awoke to slimy, slithery, hopping reptiles all over her pillow.  I mean, can you IMAGINE???!!  Nope… my brain will not go there.  I would just have to die on the spot.

In the school setting, mischief of any kind is absolutely frowned upon.  I mean, there are RULES.  Order and obedience must be maintained at all times.  Having fun is for after school or summers.

During my daily reading intervention group, I always begin with reading aloud some wonderful piece of children’s literature.  What better way to motivate kids to read than to showpiece some captivating story that captures their imaginations?  If I don’t show them that I enjoy reading, then why should they put in the effort to learn?

The book du jour was Horrible Harry in Room 2B by Suzy Kline.  Harry is something of a soul mate.  I love Harry.  The Darlings loved him too.  They roared when he pinned Sidney to the ground and made him shout I LOVE GIRLS!! twice.  They giggled when Harry wanted to play a dead fish for the Thanksgiving Pilgrim play.  But they were absolutely entranced with his Stub People who would invade Room 2B and bring doom to the room!!  I’m not sure why they loved that part so much, but man, did they ever.  They wanted to look at the pictures and hear certain paragraphs read multiple times.  I obliged.  Then I went for the kill.  “Boys and girls, when you become rock star readers, you can actually read this book YOURSELF!”  Eyes widened and grins bloomed like Morning Glories.  Read Horrible Harry any time I want to??? YES!!!  They were pumped.

As teachers sometimes have the brilliance to do, I knew this was one of those times to extend that enthusiasm off the pages of the book and into their world for a few moments.  “OK, here’s the deal,” (teachers are always making deals.  When I was the mother of young children, I referred to them as bribes, but bribe is not a smiled upon word in the education profession).  “Let’s do a funsheet together,” (the word “worksheet” brings a lot of baggage to the table), “and then you can spend the last ten minutes of class making your very own Stub People.”  My, oh MY. The roar that went up was thunderous.  They worked like fury to get those darn worksheets, OOPS! I mean FUNsheets finished.  They could not WAIT to bring doom to our room.  While they scribbled their last messy words on paper, I scrounged for paper clips, tiny bits of crayon, string, and whatever sort of otherwise useless garbage might benefit the creation of these horrible, terrifying, monstrous doom-creating aliens.  

Turns out they didn’t really need me at all.  I think maybe that is why they were so excited about this spontaneous project.  Kids do need adults for certain things; food, shelter, love, money for One Direction posters… but they DO NOT need adults when it comes to making their own fun.  Now was such a time.  I could not believe how quickly they were charging to my desk with their little Frankenstein thinggys.  And doggonit, their artwork was cuter than the ear of a newborn kitten.  We could all feel the doom overtaking our room.  It was building with each new Stub Monster.  I kept screaming, “NOOOOO, THERE IS TOO MUCH DOOM IN THIS ROOM!  MAKE IT STOP!!”  Which, of course, made them laugh villainously and work feverishly on their Stubs Monsters.

So here’s what I think.  I’m pretty sure that adults forget how powerless kids feel sometimes.  We boss them around like they possess only half a brain and the wits of a watermelon.  Sometimes, just for the fun of it, we should step out of the way and let them soar. 

Harry was such a throbbing success because, a.  All kids relate to being naughty once in a while (some of us more than others), and b.  There are those in this world that will still like you and accept you as is, even on your very worst day.  And believe me, kids have plenty of horrible days.  Anyway, Harry struck a chord, that’s for sure.

So the Stub People invasion turned out to be something of a bust.  They did not wreak havoc and did not bring doom to our room.  No rather, they brought the sort of childlike joy that should be present in an elementary classroom once in a blue moon… or maybe even everyday.  Sometimes the walls of ancient school houses on the great wide prairie in the middle of nowhere should ring with the laughter of children learning the way children learn best… through creative outlet and topics that interest them.  They have brains.  They know how to assimilate information.  Teachers should sometimes be guides and sometimes play the role of facilitator.  Knowing when to be what is the tricky part.

Anyway, Harry was a hit. 

I think I’ll dust Horrible Harry off in two years when my little lizard lovin’ angel officially becomes one of The Darlings.  Then I’ll keep an eye peeled for slimy ice cream pails, check my chair seven times a day for tacks/glue/spiders, and keep a very close eye on that one.

I can’t wait…

Falling Forward

It has become tradition to chronicle my first day of each new school year.  This is a blog about teaching, after all.  The first day of a new school year is akin to an educational high holy day.  That day and the day just before Christmas break.  We revere that day quite a bit too.  So yesterday was the day; the kickoff day of my fourth group of first graders.  Fuh-reeeeeeeky.  I cruised the halls before the beginning bell and greeted coworkers and former students and I realized with amazement that I already have former students who are now in the fourth grade.  Wait… WHAT?  I just started teaching.  I’m a newbie.  This is not possible.  Whoa.

I’ll quickly recap my summer and move forward.  It was busy.  I finished my grad school course requirements and PASSED statistics (proof there is a God in heaven), hosted out of town company a couple of times, had family vacation and didn’t really think about my classroom until the first of August.  And then things got really nuts. I cleaned and sorted and tossed and made a total mess of things right up until two days ago.  Other faculty and staff would step over the threshold of the Magic Tree House (of Horror), sweep the chaos with their eyes in shocked silence, then declare definitively, “You’ll never be ready in time.”  Had I not locked myself away in my dungeon for thirteen hours on Saturday, they would have been right.  By Sunday night, I was ready and feeling pretty smug about my level of readiness.  I was certainly light years above any previous year in terms of preparedness and organization.  I was prepped, polished, pumped… and a little cocky. 

Monday was our in-service day and was a day of meetings I didn’t hate for a change.  I had just one lingering fear.  I knew I would have a diabetic student this year.  I had never directly cared for a diabetic child.  I was overwhelmed with the enormity of that responsibility.  The parents came to demonstrate his care and guide me through the process.  I took copious notes and asked mountains of questions.  And left that meeting terrified that I would do the wrong thing at the wrong time for this precious child.  Dear Lord, please help me know to do and when I should do it.  It feels too big. 

Monday afternoon I put the finishing touches on Tuesday’s lesson plans, tossed the bulletin board stuff into the hall closet, filled first day bags, set out plates and napkins for my traditional first day muffins and juice for the parents, and went home to water my very thirsty flower beds.  It was weird to not be in a night-before panic.  It felt heavenly.

On the morning of the first day, I leisurely ate my quasi-hippie/Ewell Gibbons-style, nature lovin’ hot cereal concoction, savored a cup of strong coffee, put on enough bling to blind the Hubble telescope, and left the house punctually at 6:47.

I unloaded my loaded van, shouted greetings to the few early birds like me in the halls and offices, sat down to check my email, then realized with horror that I had left my precious lesson plan book at home.  Casting a panicked glance at the clock, I took the steps two at a time (an impressive feat for the oldest teacher in the building) and hurried to the teachers lounge to call home praying that my daughter had not left yet.  She had.  Grrrrrrr!  I had a rough idea of what I wanted to do and had all the materials laid out neatly, but there are so many housekeeping items that must be covered in the first days.  I did not want to forget anything important.  Oh, and it was supposed to hit 100 degrees.  Our building is older than Moses and does not possess central air.  Pitting out was going to be a real possibility.  Hopefully the excessive jewelry will detract attention from sweat-soaked clothing.

Hurray!! Superman i.e. hubby promised to drop off my lesson plans for me.  Oh, and he also got up early and made the muffins.  Hubby rocks.

The 2013-2014 class of Darlings began to arrive one by one.  How many this year, Mrs. Dahl? you are probably asking.  Ten?  Twenty?  Twenty-five?? (drum roll please)  a WHOPPING six students.  Yeah, as in 1-2-3-4-5-6.  I know, right?  Who else in the USA public school system gets to come to work everyday and teach only six children.  It is incredible to have such a rich opportunity to do justice to each individual child.  And frankly, it is just plain fun.  There is zero excuse for not producing proficient students.

Hubby arrived to save the day.  The morning hours melted into one another.  First blood sugar check came and went without incident, with the help of an aide who had a rudimentary grasp of his care (I am putting her in my Will). 

While in my room, she casually asked me if I had heard about what had happened with my daughter before school that morning.  Noooo, I had not.  I was ill-prepared for her news.  It is not my story to tell, but in a nutshell, Hannah was having a very bad day.  A “terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.”  I could not go to her then, but my thoughts flew to her and I wished I could wrap her in my arms.  I know her so well.  I knew she would be suffering, trying so hard to be brave.  And there is nothing worse than suffering on the very first day of school.

But… the Darlings. 

The Darlings are simply adorable.  They are as lovely a group of children as I have ever seen gathered into one confined space on this planet.  They were curious and polite and fun and funny and nearly perfect.  There was such a sweet contended sigh that kept bubbling to the surface of my soul.  These kids are ready to learn and explore and fall in love with learning.  I think my favorite memory of that first day was reading Chapter One of the first Magic Tree House book.  We will read a chapter a day for the entire year.  We’ll get through the first fifteen books or so in the series.  But on the first day, I introduced them to Jack and Annie and their mysterious traveling tree house that leads them to amazing adventures, all through the power of the written word.

As I read with theatrical flair and watched their little faces, they were beyond enthralled.  Little cherub mouths hung open in rapt attention and eyes widened with the suspense of the storyline.  I smiled a satisfied sort of smile.  It was at that moment on the very first day of first grade that I knew they would love learning as much as I do.  These new first graders will be willing participants in the discovery process.  I promised them I would make them rock star readers by the end of first grade.  They grinned.  They are ready.

And then we moved into safety procedures and I was reminded of the evil in this world and how it impacts even the young.  I went over tornado drill procedures and we obediently trudged to the boy’s bathroom and discussed what we would do in such a scenario.  Then we discussed the possibility of a fire and hurried to our meeting spot on the playground.  Holy cow, it was hot out there!  We scurried back to the relative coolness of our basement classroom.  I probably should have tried to fry an egg while we were out there and called it science.

After long, cool drinks at the fountain and a little quiet rest time, I brought them again to the reading rug to discuss our last procedure; lockdown.  I so hate bringing this one up, because this one deals with the black hearts of mankind.  Evil is so hard for any of us to wrap our minds around, but innocent babies are unable to process it even a little.

I went over our procedure and a tiny white hand shot into the air.  “Mrs. Dahl, I heard about a man that busted into a school and killed twenty Kindergarteners.”  The air was sucked instantly out of the room. “Could that happen here?”  Twelve wide eyes turned to see my reaction.  None had seemed to have heard of the Sandy Hook massacre before this news hound had shared it right there on our neon blue and green reading rug.  They were watching me intently.  My mind spun like a G-Force Centrifuge.  Think, Vonda.  Dear Lord, I don’t know how much to tell them.  Give me words…

“It is true that children were killed by that man.  That was a terrible thing.  But here is my promise to you, boys and girls.  I will always do my VERY BEST to protect you.”  Little faces stared without speaking.  They needed more than that flimsy reassurance. 

“You know how you feel safe at home?  Cuz you know your mom and dad will protect you and take care of you always and no matter what?”  Tentative nods here and there as this new approach was familiar territory.  “When you are at school, I am like your parent that way.  When you are with me, I watch out for you like they would.”  Slow smiles spread across relieved faces.  OK, now we're getting somewhere.  That is, until Mr. Broad Thinker lobs the next grenade.  “But Mrs. Dahl, what if the Robber has a really big rock and throws it through the window in the door and gets in even if the door is locked?”  Horror returns to faces at this new possibility.  “Or what if there are lots of robbers trying to get in at once?  How can you keep us safe?”  Oh my.  He went straight to the heart of my worst nightmares and his arrow found its mark in my own uneasiness and doubts about protecting these children.  What if??  I wish I knew.  This is our world and these are the realities that today’s Innocents must grapple with.  Adults cannot understand it.  How are six-year-olds supposed to?

I willed my brain to proffer an acceptable answer, even though there simply are none.   

This conversation demanded raw verbage.  The real question being asked was, would I place myself between these babies and a mad gunman?  This is what they really wanted to know.  But my job is to create an atmosphere of peaceful learning.  So I took a right turn at the elephant in the room and chose to keep the subject matter in its most infantile element.  Too many details will only lead to more worry.  I looked into those precious faces and said with slow simple fervency, “I will always protect you the very best that I can.”  No one spoke for several heavy seconds.  Then as if they had had a mental conference to which I had not been invited, they nodded in unison and visibly relaxed.  It would be enough for now.

My daughter’s crisis was escalating and I was needed upstairs.  The timing was perfect for it was now my students’ PE time.  I grabbed an aid I knew could deal with my diabetic student’s blood check and hurried to Hannah’s side.  I had just twenty minutes to give her my support, but I breathed a prayer of thanks to my Lord that I worked in the same building as she and was physically present for her when she needed me most.  An incredible, rare, indescribable gift.

I pulled her into the quiet sanctuary of my classroom and held her while the dam broke and her slender frame shook with racking sobs.  Hannah is the antithesis of drama queen.  Tears from the depths of her being are a rarity for her.  I held her until the storm passed and then whispered words of comfort and assurance into her ear.  Terrible days come to all eventually.  They also pass and tomorrow is a brighter day.  These are things that parents know and children don’t yet. 

My students returned and my heartbroken girl left to get ready for volleyball practice.  The first day was nearly over.  I walked my students to their buses and a blast of furnace air greeted us as we stepped outside.  Man, it was hot.  Where’s that egg??

My day was not over.  I cleaned up the classroom, which looked surprisingly good, and did a few odds and ends jobs.  A mandatory parent meeting was still on my agenda before I could call it a day.  I waited until 6:15, then drove the thirty miles to the town we co-op sports with (the downside of rural education).  The meeting was informative (holy cow, that’s the second meeting in two days I haven’t hated.  What’s up with that??), then drove the 45 miles back home.  My mother shot me a text asking about my first day.  “Are you tired?” she asked with motherly concern.  Tired as a descriptor is like saying that George Clooney’s looks are nothing to write home about.  Yeah, I was tired.

I padded down the hall to Hannah’s hot-pink-and-zebra-striped bedroom and sat on the edge of her bed.  “How are you?” She looked up at me from her place on the floor with her beautiful brown eyes.  “Better” she said simply.  I could see it affirmed on her face.  The worst was over.  She would be fine. Knowing she was going to sleep like death, I left her and hit the shower.  My fourth first day had ended and I was drained.

As I lay in the dark while my mind and body sped to unconsciousness, I pondered the events of the day.  Parts of it had been terrible, but mostly it had been the sort of dream first day I had longed for when I was a brand new teacher.  It feels really, absolutely, deliciously good to have a little experience under my belt.  I like the feeling very much.  I love my job as much today as I did when I posted my very first blog post on my very first day of teaching.  I think I love it even more.  I understand better the power and influence I have over educating young minds.  The transfer of knowledge is truly intoxicating. 

Last year was a trial by fire in many ways.  For reasons I cannot share, within the first hours of the first day I knew it was going to be year of rough sailing.  Last year at the end of the first day, after the Darlings had loaded the bus for home, I sat at my desk and let fat, salty tears drip from my face.  As it turned out, the entire year pretty much followed the same course as that first traumatic day.  It was a year to remember and forget simultaneously.  I learned a tremendous amount about human behaviour during those exhausting nine months.  I learned I do not like bureaucracy.  I also learned that there is nothing in all the world I would rather do than teach.  Last year tested my mettle in a myriad of ways, but I was so incredibly glad that I had mother's experience on my side.  I think if I had been a twenty-two-year-old I would have walked out the front doors and never looked back.

This year is such a far cry from that first day of exhausted self-pity.  Two days in doesn't mean a thing, I know that.  We are on a honeymoon, the children and myself.  My class dynamics could change in a heartbeat.  I know that too.  I get it.  But the last two days have been teaching Paradise.

I love the interchanges with students of all ages as well.  My 6th grade fellow nature-loving friend stopped me in the hall today with "gifts" from the earth; quarts and Obsidian pebbles.  I heard her holler to another teacher as she ran up the stairs to her own classroom, "She says she likes the way my brain works!"  I smiled at her unabashed enthusiasm.  I do indeed.  It is the beauty of a school so unbelievably tiny it would be laughable to most.

My 80-year-old uncle came to visit me this summer.  He is so like his brother, my father.  I sat across the table from him and reveled in an aura that felt so much like my dad's.  Uncle Leonard smiled at me during one of our conversations and with a twinkle in his eye revealed that he reads each and every one of my blog posts.  "I'm a big fan," he said with a 100-watt smile.  Then he got serious and tears filled his beautiful blue eyes.  "You know this old world would be a different place if people loved children like they should."  He paused and the quiet of my farmhouse kitchen suddenly felt like a sanctuary. "Like you do.  There is no job more important in this world than what you do everyday for those kids in your classroom."

I think about his words often.  He is right, of course.  All of society rides or falls on how it treats its children and its elderly.  I am encouraged by his words. 

The Psalmist David declared that "the boundary lines have fallen for me in pleasant places." (Psalm 16:6).  I share that sentiment.  My little classroom in the middle of nowhere, on the great big, endless prairie, is entirely satisfying.  It is all that I had signed up for.  It is how I had envisioned it.  Even the tough days.

I cannot wait to see what this year holds.  I'm like a kid on Christmas Eve.

My boundary lines are pleasant indeed.

The Magic Tree House Gets a Facelift

You know how you move into your new house and fix it to your liking, but always have a mental list of things you'd still like to do eventually?  Same thing here.  I have looked at the suspended tree house floor for three years and LOVE it, but have always thought it wasn't quite finished.

My strapping boys took care of that for me a last week.  They added a railing to the existing floor (mostly to hide unsightly, ancient duct work), and made it look real enough that I have to wonder if there aren't real kids up there babbling about school and parents and favorite movies.  I told the Dahl and Dahl Remodeling Team, "Make it look like kids built it."  The attention to detail makes me smile.  The boards are cut unevenly.  The nails are bent.  The boards unevenly spaced.  This thing has ten-year-olds written all over it.

I love it.

And I love my sons for indulging their quasi-hippie mother (again) with another of her wild schemes.



(Please forgive the tight angles -- the hallway is very narrow and confined).