Teachers With Slow Reflexes Should Not Handle Live Insects

It arrived one month ago, an odd brown bubble with a twig sticking out of either end.  The instructions said that my Praying Mantis pod would hatch in three to six weeks.  I scanned the instructions page, set the plastic cup with the perforated lid on the science shelf, and dutifully marked the calendar with a big red X.  Three to six weeks is a pretty darn big window.  Guess I’ll plan for three and hope for six, I decided.

The kids acted like they were fathers-in-waiting.  Everyday they ran to the shelf to peek at “The Pod.”  I kept a mason jar filled with magnifying glasses nearby and they spent as much time as I allowed, studying their soon-to-be hatchlings like little scientists in the lab.  Every day I heard, “When are they going to hatch, Mrs. Dahl?”  Everyday I responded, “I don’t know.”  It is a heavy cross to bear to be the supposed Keeper of all Knowledge.  They really expect that I will have at the ready an informed answer to every question known to man.  I find myself saying, “I don’t know,” quite a lot, followed by, “let’s Google it.”  I would not doubt it if they secretly question my qualifications to teach.

My handy dandy instruction sheet said that there was nothing to do but wait for labor and delivery, so I sort of became complacent about their presence.  Their condo is right next to the walking stick tank, so I saw it everyday, but didn’t spend too much time gazing at it.  A brown bubble is a brown bubble.

I arrived bright and early on Tuesday morning (a four day weekend – HURRAY!), and began to prepare for the arrival of my Little People.  I changed the daily jobs chart, I set out corrections on the work table, I made sure I had my reading materials ready for teaching, and then I gave the walking sticks a spritz of water, which apparently they find quite refreshing. 

I happened to glance over at The Pod, and then did a double take.  It was like it had exploded.  The pod was still there, but there were literally hundreds of tiny insects moving inside the cup.  First order of business:  make sure the lid is on TIGHT.  Then I panicked.  What was I supposed to do once they hatched?  I couldn’t remember.  Where are those instructions??

The poor walking sticks were suddenly yesterday’s news, and I absent-mindedly set the spray bottle down without a second thought (I could feel resentment and jealousy building amongst The Sticks…)

I searched the science shelves.  Nothing.  That means it’s lost in a stack of papers somewhere.  Great.  I went through a few very organized piles of very important papers (yeah, that was me coughing – keep reading).  Nothing.  Wait!  I have a file with Praying Mantis information… somewhere… Ha!  Found it.

Locating the instructions (why can’t human babies come with one of these?), I quickly scan for what to do after the babies are hatched.  It said to quickly release all but about three or four of them as they are carnivores and voracious eaters.  Oops.  A four-day weekend was not a great time for The Blessed Event, apparently.

It also said that they would need a food source, such as small insects or worms, quickly.  Uh, this is North Dakota in the dead of winter.  My farm is a crawling biome when the weather is warm, but mid-February… not so much (which is the ONE benefit of winter). 

What to do, what to do??

A few years back I read a book about the Uruguayan Rugby team whose plane crashed into the Andes Mountains.  Of forty-five passengers, only sixteen survived.  Eventually they resorted to cannibalism, which sustained them until their rescue some seventy-two days later. 

I could see the climate in my little plastic cup building towards the same sort of survivalism.  “Hey, Frank.  See that Mantis over there?  Yeah, the chubby one.  You distract him and I’ll stun him with the pod.  Of course we’re justified!  The quasi-hippie out there with the chaotic hair just keeps running around looking through stacks of papers.  She’s obviously not going to feed us.  We’re on our own in here!”

OK, Vonda.  There must be a pet store somewhere in this state that caters to these guys.  I ran upstairs and rang up Pet Smart on the telly (feeling a bit British today…).  They did not carry aphids, but they assured me they could supply me with fruit flies and mealworms.  I do not know how finicky Praying Mantis’ are, but I suspected they would choke down whatever I gave them at that moment.

My food source was secured, now to get them here.  I did not think my principal would feel too charitable about my leaving work midday to buy flies and worms, so I tried to think of Plan B (my life’s motto is, “There is ALWAYS a Plan B”).  One of my student’s mothers works in that area.  I knew she would be happy to help and shot off a quick email, but she had to be somewhere else for the evening.  HOWEVER, she would call another local resident who works “in town,” (this is how we country folks refer to The Big City). 

Faster than you can say Hannibal Lecter, I had an email from my substitute currier happily promising to make a Pet Smart stop and “how much did I need?"

Sigh…. There is a huge rainbow wrapped around my heart now.  I just love the small town, I’ll-do-anything-for-you mentality.  These people rock, really and truly.  I know you wish you lived here too.  Of course you do.  Who wouldn’t want to??

Sure enough, that evening a package was delivered to my house containing creepy crawlies, and God bless her, no charge.

The next morning, I was braced for massive death on the science shelf, but was relieved to see most still moving about and ready to revolt.  My first course of action was to move them to a larger container.  I had no idea if the things would hop out once the lid was off or sprout wings or play dead.  I decided I had better take them out to the stairwell in case something catastrophic happened. 

I found a larger container with mesh sides, grabbed the crawling cup of ravenous bugs, and headed up the outer stairwell towards the playground exit.  Holding the cup over the mesh, zippered container I gingerly took the lid off the cup and tipped it upside down.  And then, I do not know what happened.  I’m clumsy, I’m old, I’m humming the theme to Born Free… I don’t know, I DROPPED THE CUP!!  I stared in horror as two hundred tiny aliens lay at my feet on the concrete floor.  Aaaahhhhh!!!  I am frantic.  Someone call 911!!  Or Capital City Exterminators, one or the other.  I just wasn’t sure what to do.  I was clutching a plastic tweezer in my hand and used it to carefully scoop a few up and into the mesh container.  The rest seemed to have shouted at one another to, “FREEZE!  Maybe if we play dead she’ll walk away…” 

I managed to get a few into the new shelter and put a few into other containers just for fun.  They are so tiny now, but will grow to five inches or so, so keeping many is not feasible.  The rest?  Well, let’s just say that I hope they brought coats.

The next step was to feed.  As I am dumping gassed fruit flies into Vonda’s Wild Kingdom, I’m thinking, “we PAID for fruit flies??  They usually live at my house for free!"  But I needed them now rather than later, so what are you gonna’ do?  I did realize the irony, however, as a frisky fly tried to escape and I GENTLY coaxed it back into the container.  I have never spared the life of a fruit fly before. 

Today, the chosen survivors looked healthy and seemed no worse for the wear.  I hope I can nurture them to adulthood.  My science shelf is getting to be quite the study in life science.  I love that, truly.  Near the end of the school year, I will again have Painted Lady caterpillars and we will enjoy the miracle of transformation into butterflies. 

It’s sort of like me, you know?  I had a role in life that I loved for many years, but now it is something different.  Not better, but different… and beautiful.

So if the folks in this fair town hear a tiny knock at their door and open to a shivering insect, I hope they have a compassionate heart and a good supply of old bananas.

"Second Year Teacher Loses Her Faculties"

I have this GREAT dinosaur-themed unit goin’ on.  I mean I am ROCKIN’ it.  These kids, (like all kids everywhere), are nuts over dinos.  So I figured I’d run with it and have some fun.  There is much about the whole dinosaur thing I question, to be honest.  I do not really believe the earth to be millions of years old and do not believe that we descended from primates.  It annoys me that the world at large does not question the world of science in this realm.  Don’t get me wrong; there are alot of smart folks that bandy around the theories of our origins, but they don’t know everything.  Unless you were there, then it’s all theory, right?

That being said, I knew there were a ton of fun activities we could revel in with this theme on the table.  I found a fabulous set of lessons online that were ready to implement and covered math concepts, language arts, and a whole host of other standards.  I love having the world at my fingertips.  I have no problem using others’ genius to make my life easier and my instruction fresh and fun.

I also talked to a guy at church who is a great artist, and he agreed eagerly to create a pteranodon “fossil” for me to hang from the ceiling.  This thing is beautiful.  When the kids walked in and saw it, little jaws dropped and eyes widened with joy.  It was a priceless moment for me.

I also hung vines in the hallway over my door and large hibiscus flowers to give the feel of tropical earth.  A scary sign on the door warned of “dinosaurs on the loose!”  I tee-hee’d and giggled my way through the entire time I was decorating for my Little Darlings.  I could hardly wait for the Monday of their arrival.  It felt like a weird sort of Christmas.

Thus far we have begun dinosaur journals, created a KWL (what we know, what we want to learn, and what we have learned), wall mural.  We have a small display area with relevant literature, vocabulary words, pictures, and other fun items.  We discussed the size of dinos in relation to other items in our world.  We measured a fifty ft. piece of string, then created a paper chain the same length.  Next we measured ourselves and made paper chains the appropriate lengths and used them to recognize how small we are in comparison.

Those are all wonderful, fun, educational activities.  But then a bit of madness entered my brain.  I mean, I am not a rookie where kids are concerned.  How could I have been so naïve?

Really, sometimes I am an idiot.

For dinosaur “art” I copied pencil sketch images I had downloaded from the internet.  The kids did a beautiful job of coloring them and cutting them out.  Next they glued them onto construction paper.  That was last Friday.  I’m still feeling good about this project.  Sort of like humming along on the interstate blissfully unaware there’s been an accident up ahead and you will be at a complete standstill for hours.   

It’s gonna’ be good.  I am an optimist.

Today, the finishing touch on our masterpieces was to paint Elmer’s glue onto the dinosaur images and then pour colored rice onto the glue to create texture and visual interest.

It’s a good concept.  This will be fun.

Yeah, that’s kind of like saying a full-body waxing would be mildly enjoyable. 

The gluing part was surprisingly catastrophe-free.  But the rice was another matter entirely.  I am not sure how I could have created a less messy environment.  I will think about that and try to improve upon it the next time (what?!! Did I really just say “next time?”  See what I mean?  I have LOST it!!).  

It was terrible.

The floor looked like a rice paddy that would give any Asian country a run for its money.  As I walked around gathering glue-soaked brushes to wash, and trying to assess the damage, I wondered how I had not thought this through better.  I hope the school has homeowners insurance.  I should have seen this coming from a mile away.  OF COURSE it was going to be something akin to a crafting tsunami.   How did I not know that ahead of time??

I kept shaking my head and interrogating myself mercilessly.  I was just glad the janitor would not be back down for the day.  She would probably punish me by taking the lid of my ant farm.

The kids were great about helping (they always are).  They pulled chairs away from tables and picked up scraps of paper like little human anteaters.  I ran the vacuum and hoped the barrage of small grains being sucked into Bertha (the janitor’s name for the vacuum) would not give it indigestion. 

After school I met a dad I had not met before.  It was a last minute, impromptu meeting, and to be honest, I was a little embarrassed at the state of the classroom.  I had glue-and-rice covered sheets of construction paper literally drying all over the place.  It looked like weird (and painful) floor tile.  There were paper chains the exact height of first graders hanging from a clothesline in the class theater area.  There was a nearly emptied jug of glue by my desk, and there were still pellets of rice dotting the floor.  I felt like the woman who has relatives show up unannounced and has just started cleaning the frig.  You are trying to look welcoming, but the containers of rotting food on the countertop are incredibly distracting. 

Sigh…

Well. what are you gonna’ do?  This is still me trying to let go of the need to project the perfect image.  Perfect images are a false illusion.  I will never have a completely clean classroom, (or home, or frig…) 

I guess I take comfort in the knowledge that the kids had a really good time.  I never tire of watching the rush they get from wallowing in creativity.  It was a full-tilt on the pleasure-o-meter.  I try to steer away from dictating how their artwork should look in the end.  I give instructions and sketchy guidelines, but I want them to determine its final outcome.  Only they can know what it is their brains will see as beautiful.  Their definition may be vastly different from mine. 

And create they did.

I still have cleaning to do when I get to school in the morning, but at least there is a fair amount of floor that doesn’t crunch underfoot or have bits of paper like colored snow covering it. 

I think I’ll check the lid on the ant farm too…

Sick of Teaching

See, that’s how bad off I am.  I meant to say, teaching is sick.  No, that’s still not right.  I mean teaching WHILE sick.  Yeah, that’s right…. I think.

This has been quite a week...

I will begin by saying, I have not been ill for quite some time.  All through student teaching I kept my health.  As I began my own teaching journey, I withstood the onslaught of sneezing, snot-dripping, grimy-hand-bearing, nose-picking, first graders.  I am a bit of a drill sergeant where hand washing is concerned, but this is not a hospital, and I can’t expect a sterile environment.  The state of North Dakota requires me to get in a little education as well.

If I catch one of my precious nose-miner going for the gold, I send them to the bathroom to wash, straight away, but I’m sure the ratio of teacher-caught pickings vs. actual digs is disproportionate.  That means that everything that is touched thereafter is a breeding ground for Germville (hey, sounds like a good Facebook game…). 

I have been infinitely lucky to of stayed illness free, but all good things must come to an end.  Alas, I felt last Saturday as if my back muscles were leaping over hot coals and Sunday awoke to what my father used to call, the “creeping crud.”  That’s Missouri-ese for “sick.” 

This is where professionalism is called into play.  Monday was a pretty good day, but nine first grade Mexican Jumping Beans had me worn out by mid-afternoon and I suddenly wasn’t feeling so well. 

Tuesday was worse yet.  Achy muscles, congestion, chills… I was feeling like I had run head first into the proverbial moving train. Probably some deadly form of small pox or bubonic plague.  I can feel my life ebbing away.  OK, a LITTLE theatrical...

Don’t ask me why I went to work everyday if I felt so crummy.  Just please don’t ask.  OK, fine.  I’ll tell you why.

The retiring teacher whose place I took, told me that in her thirty-nine years of teaching, she only missed four days of school due to illness.  I am astounded by that.  She did NOT say that she was only sick four days in thirty-nine years.  Quite the contrary.  She followed her amazing confession with, “it was always just easier to come to work than to miss it.” 

That hit me on the head like pigeon poop in the park.  You have to understand my perspective and background here.  I have been a stay-at-home mom for many years.  If I had a day of feeling “puny” (another southern Missouri colloquialism), I had only to stay in my jammies and nap when the babies did.  It didn’t always work out quite that conveniently, of course, but my schedule was a tad more flexible then than now.

My life has changed dramatically.  Getting up and going to work everyday has not been as hard as I feared, but doing it while feeling like I had cement blocks strapped to my legs is a horse of another feather (whatever THAT means).  But to my credit (or idiocy), I did it.  And I fully get now the wisdom of my predecessor.  It is a major pain in the you-know-what to miss a day of work.  Not just trying to fill in a last minute sub on how to occupy my Little Darlings for a full day, but the fall-out of the day after is just as devastating.  It really is easier to hide the under-eye circles, keep a box of tissues close by (the lotion kind), and try not to honk a lugie onto my principal’s foot.

Yesterday morning when the evil alarm clock screamed in my ear, it was all I could do to haul my middle-aged, nearly fifty-year-old carcass out of the warm cocoon of my bed.  My brain and my body went to war.  “Get out of bed!” my brain screamed.  “I don’t want to.  I can’t do it, I’m too sick,” my body shot back.  “I said it’s time to get up!” my brain ordered once more.  “Make me!” shouts my rebellious body.  “OK, I will, you idiot.  I’m the BRAIN!”  And that ended it.  I reluctantly began my day.

I thought I had been doing my job fairly well until yesterdat afternoon, when a glass of cold water was thrown in my face (probably relieving my fevered brow, but a shock nonetheless).

After lunch and recess, we were sitting on the rug having science time, when one little sweetheart declared, “Mrs. Dahl, I don’t feel good.”  Sure enough, he was a white as wool.  I have become adept at mastering the shell game where school illness is concerned.  “I’m sorry to hear that, sweetie.  Can you try to make it until the end of science?”  This little diversion tactic will separate the truly ill from the fakers.  After an hour of doing something to take their mind off their illness, if they still come with the same complaints, then I know it is probably the real deal.  Unfortunately for me, that has also come back to bite me.  I once held off a case of nausea  a little too long and ended up with a river of puke from my room to the boys john.  I should have called mom sooner on that one…

My little charge did not look at all well, so I found someone in the building to comfort him while I finished my reading intervention group.  His Comforter came to me about ten minutes later and said that after calming down a few minutes, he confessed that he was worried that he was going to get in trouble.  I’ll spare the details, but an incident had happened the day before between three of my students that I felt was serious enough to warrant some investigation, but frankly, had not been on the ball enough to follow through with just yet.

Now an entire day had elapsed and this poor Lamb had literally made himself "sick" with worry over it.  “Be an adult, Vonda!” I shook my finger in my own face and took the bull by the horns. 

It only took about fifteen minutes of Perry Mason-style investigating to get to the bottom of it and even produce a tearful admittance (I always love honesty and cannot help but quietly applaud it), and finally the truth bubbled to the surface. 

My sweating defendant was declared “not guilty” by the judicial system (me), and the others dealt with appropriately.  The color returned to his drawn face and his sunny smile once again broke through the clouds.

Lesson learned for Mrs. Dahl:  it is not enough to just show up for work.  I have to also “be in the moment” non-stop.  These are formative days and lessons for my first graders.  I sometimes forget how important my role is in their lives and futures.  It is more than a little sobering to think of it that way, but I well remember my first grade teacher and things she said and did where I was concerned.  I spent a fair amount of my first grade year staring at the chalkboard up-close and personal, the equivalent of the old “dunce cap” shaming, I suppose. It would be nice to say I was up there to show off my academic brilliance.  Alas, not so.  I guess she thought that if I stared at the color green long enough it would drive the devil from my trouble-seeking first grade body.  It must have worked because I am an upstanding citizen today.  She probably saved me from a life of crime and incarceration.

So as the “Week That Never Ended” wound down and it is now Saturday with a big snowstorm in the forecast, I am thankful for a good work ethic, but I am also aware that when wearing my Teacher Shoes, it is not ever about me.  My children must be looked out for, cared about, and given top-priority every minute I am there.

Today is about me.  I sense a steaming cup of French Vanilla tea and a Law and Order marathon in my immediate future.  Can I measure up to my predecessor’s near flawless record?  I doubt it.  But it is a worthy goal to strive for.  I don’t have to be “Mrs. Dahl” again until Monday morning. 

Today Jack McCoy needs me…

A Piece At a Time

Sometimes I think of life as a giant puzzle – you know, the 1,000 piece kind.  We mortals take life one day at a time, but obviously we cannot see the future, and most of us don’t take the time to look behind us.  So we wander blindly through life, wondering if any of it makes sense and guessing at our choices.  Oh, we can find the corners easy enough, and sometimes a pattern of a tree or face will stand out starkly, but we really do not get what it is we are trying to accomplish or if we are becoming a thing of beauty or not.  Sometimes everything just seems so… random. 

And then something happens that reminds you we are not alone.

I have a fellow teacher whom I adore – really.  She is sweet, great with her students, and would literally do anything for anyone.  Metaphorically, I think she probably suffers from an enlarged heart.  I have been aware of her efforts on behalf of a lifelong friend, a woman who has about seventeen strikes against her and cannot seem to get it together in this thing called life.  Poor decision has been heaped upon poor decision. 

My coworker believes that a true friendship is something of a commitment.  You don’t abandon people because they do stupid things or create stress in your own life.  You go the distance with them and do whatever you are capable of doing to make their journey just a little bit easier, even if that means simply walking beside them on their own tumultuous journey.

She and I have had multiple discussions about her friend and her latest mess-ups.  My coworker has cried on my figurative shoulder over her frustrations in attempting to be a constant in her friend’s life, but how things seem to get worse, not better.  One by one, mutual friends have distanced themselves from this one who can’t seem to get it right because they just do not know how to help anymore. 

The biggest heartbreak, of course, is when innocent children are involved.  My friend’s friend has several children, the youngest being less than two years old.  My coworker was frantic when she discovered that her friend and this precious toddler were facing homelessness. 

Being the savior she is, she and her husband decided that they would do whatever it took to give her friend and child a place to live and hopefully help find gainful employment.  The problem with moving her to our town is, there are almost no jobs.  OK, then maybe they could take the child for a while to help ease the burden of childcare. 

Before that could happen, and through a series of incidents, social services became involved and the child was placed in foster care.  My coworker was saddened that she would not be directly responsible for the child, as she had grown quite fond of her.  But she also knew that in the long run, it was probably for the best as she herself has a full-time job. 

My friend, my golden-hearted coworker, kept staring at the puzzle piece she had been handed.  It didn’t look like anything at all, and she couldn’t make sense of it.  No recognizable picture yet.  Just an ugly, gloomy puzzle piece.  More than once she has been tempted to toss it back into the box and say, "let someone else figure it out."

About October, another puzzle piece was handed to someone entirely unrelated to the situation.  I was surprised when my sister-in-law showed up to church with a child I had never seen before.  Turns out she had applied to be a foster parent and had finally been approved and given her first child to care for.  Chelsea (not her real name) was enchanting, with her long, dark curls, and big beautiful eyes.  Her little arms reached out to hug anyone who came with reach.  My husband’s family gladly welcomed her in and we held her and loved her all through the holidays and at every gathering. 

You have guessed where this is going…

A week ago, I am getting ready to leave church and my sister-in-law off-handedly asks me if I am acquainted with a particular teacher at my school.  Of course I was; the very friend I have introduced you to!  As my in-law is laying out her story and telling me that this friend of the mother would like to spend time with Chelsea, comprehension dawns like brilliant sun.  My eyes got wide as I realized how my worlds had suddenly collided.  This child was the child I had heard so much about.  Of course!  “This is HER!”  I blurted out.  My sister-in-law looked puzzled.  “I know all about this child!”  A joyful laugh began to bubble up into my mouth and I could not stop the grin now spread across my face.  “You’ve had her all along, and I never connected the dots.” 

A warm glow spread throughout my being as I suddenly realized what God had been up.  My friend had laid her puzzle piece down alongside my sister-in-law’s piece, and suddenly we see a picture emerging.  The puzzle is unfinished yet, the picture still hazy, but beauty is evident, and I breathlessly await the finished product as an outside observer.

I fidgeted the next morning as I waited impatiently for my hall mate and friend to arrive to work.  Finally, I heard her voice and the click of her light switch.  I headed down the hall and walked in just as she was setting her things down.  “If you’ve ever wondered if there is a God in heaven who sees us and cares,” I said without preamble, “You will rethink that when I tell you my story.”  Her face became riveted on mine at my tone.  As I told her what had transpired the day before and how, without knowing who she was, I had been loving all along the child she was so concerned about, her eyes filled with tears and she pulled me into her embrace.  We were both weepy as I continue, “What are the odds that she would land in my family?  God saw it all and took care of her even when we didn’t know it.”

You know what I think?  I think we stare and stare at our puzzle pieces with their bland colors and unrecognizable features and we think life is unfair or too difficult, or sometimes even not worth living.  “Why do I get THIS piece, God?  Why can’t I have the piece my neighbor has, or my sister, or my best friend?  Why THIS one?  Don’t you like me?” 

I think God just smiles at our limited perspective, not mockingly but tenderly, because he’s holding the box.  The box with the cover that shows the completed picture.  He knows exactly what it will look like when it is finished and he knows it is glorious. 

So if you are standing in a puddle of discouragement, holding an ugly puzzle piece that is not the one you would choose… be patient.  There are more pieces coming.  With each piece will come clarity.  Your pieces will suddenly take shape and form and become the masterpiece you had been praying for. 

God knows. 

He created the picture just for you…

How Long is Forever? Parent/Teacher Conference Day...

Before I had even opened my eyes yesterday morning, I knew I hated the day.  The day’s schedule piled on top of me like exuberant kids yelling, “DOG PILE!”  The day was going to be a killer, no question.  If only there was a way to take my coffee intravenously today.  I dared not hit the snooze button.  Better to get right up and face The Beast.

I stumbled to the bathroom and took a look in the mirror; puffy eyes, frightening hair, and the crème de la crème… a zit.  Nearly fifty and I still have the face of a teenager.  It’s all how you spin it, you know…

As I downed my bowl of oatmeal (old people need fiber), I rehearsed what must be endured this day.  First and foremost was actually getting some schoolwork done!  Don’t tell my principal, but with Valentine’s Day on the docket and performing our Valentine’s Day Stolen Hearts play three times, formal education had a been awash.  I would need to be extra vigilant today and keep them plowing through textbooks and worksheets like a musher on the Iditarod trail. 

On top of that, I had promised the good folks at the Senior Center that I would bring our little Hollywood Production to them at noon (what had I been thinking??!).  That would require hurrying them through lunch, getting costumes on AGAIN, trotting down main street with ducklings in-tow, and getting back after the recess bell.  THEN, getting them out of said costumes, trying to get them quieted down enough to get back to work, and immediately being ready for my reading intervention group.  I think I’m beginning to hyperventilate…

Oh, but Dear Reader, The Whacky World of Mrs. Dahl does not end there.  No, no, no.  It gets worse (am I in Purgatory?).  Someone in the upper echelons of administration decided that this last day before a four-day weekend would be the perfect time to hold a six-hour long Parent/Teacher conference day.  On the face of it, yes, that makes sense.  Instead of breaking up that joyous event into two mildly long evening, let’s water board our teachers for an eternal amount of time instead.  I am so there.  However, doing it the same week as a “holiday” translated into madness on an apocalyptic level (at least in the primary grade world).  Better yet, these conferences were to begin ten whole minutes after school was let out for the day.  Ten minutes.  Wow.  Whatever will I do with all that time?  Maybe I’ll get in a massage and manicure. 

So let me get this straight.  I am to get my first graders out the door, clean my room to an acceptable level to entertain observant parents, gather my conference materials, run a comb through the chaos on top of my head, and try to camouflage a pimple the size of Cleveland?  Never mind trying to find time to run to the bathroom for a potty break.  Shucks, just buy me astronaut diapers and we’ll call it good.  The truth is, I can’t even backhoe the worktable in that amount of time. 

To my Darlings credit, we did a fair amount of schoolwork in the morning.  I felt a little less guilty by lunchtime.  I had given fair warning that they would not get lunch recess today but instead would be going to the Senior Center to put on our play.  In the mind of a first grader, that is equivalent to discovering that there will be no last meal before your execution.  Miss recess to hang out with old people??  They were not happy.

I left lunch duty to the cafeteria aide so that I might quickly lay out costumes, grab props, script, fairy wings and wand for myself (“I wish I were on a beach in the Bahamas… .”  Didn’t work; still here, but it never hurts to try).  I grabbed bites of yogurt while trying to be efficiently ready.  The kids arrived back in the classroom way too soon, the hands on the clock were moving way too fast, and my hastily eaten non-lunch was digesting way too poorly. 

When costumes were donned and all necessary supplies thrown into a laundry basket, I assembled my pint-sized troops and led them up the stairs and out the front doors of the school.  It was a gloriously beautiful day.  The sun was brilliant and the sky an intense blue.  The breeze carried the nip of a late winter day, but unbelievable for the northern prairie, no snow on the ground.  We waddled our way down the street wearing crowns, king’s robes, jester costumes, and robber’s masks.  The children were so happy to be outdoors, they began impromptu singing drowning out my shouted orders to “stay on the sidewalk!” and “Get off the ice!”  I finally gave up and smiled at their uninhibited joy.  I felt like singing myself.  So I did.  A melody-less tune about “goin’ to the Senior Center to put on a play.” 

The Greatest Generation were already dining on delicious-smelling fried chicken (my yogurt paled in comparison), when we stumbled through door.  We hastily took off jackets and touched absolutely everything within reach.  When our audience was seated and ready, I took charge of the program and began introducing ourselves.  A frisky old-timer interrupts me, ‘We don’t care about first graders.  We want to know who the teacher is!”  Okay, that knocked me off-kilter for just a moment.  Apparently he doesn’t see many blondes in fairy wings and LIKES it.  I introduced myself and tried to get back on track.  Someone else from another table interrupts again.  “She lives in that big white house,” as if that completely explained the location of my home.  To my shock, it did seem to be explanation enough.  “Ohhhhh,” I hear all around, as comprehension seemed to dawn.  “The big, white house.  Sure…” Apparently my house has a life of its own.

We started the play and my students did wonderfully.  We thanked our audience and passed out homemade Valentine’s cards and Hershey Kisses.  They handed us boxes of conversation hearts.  That seemed to make missed recess a thing to be forgotten.  Any sin or act of neglect can be rectified with candy in the world of first grade.  This is a universal law.

We got back to class, changed, took a deep breath (I think I had forgotten to breath for hours), got in a few minutes of work, welcomed reading intervention class, shooed them out the door at the appropriate time to welcome math intervention group, shooed them out the door to get kids off the music, welcomed them back to shove coats and backpacks into their arms just in time for the closing bell, and then made a vain attempt to look presentable for parents.  I must confess here that I am a bit of a perfectionist when it comes to certain things.  I am learning to let go of that need for the perfect image and just accept things as they are.  It is hard for me, but the alternative is an early death, probably. 

The Title I math teacher stepped in to hand me papers and said softly, “You do know you’re still wearing fairy wings right?”  And so I am.  I better take those off.

My first parents were right on time (doggonit), and I sailed threw that conference and into the next, and so it went. 

Now I’ll stop complaining.  The conferences were lovely, they truly were.  I firmly hold that I have some of the best students and parents on the face of the earth.  I could not ask for more support, or help, or understanding than I experience from the loving parents of my students.  “Do you need anything, Mrs. Dahl?  Does the classroom have enough supplies?”  I love you guys.  I have a parent shopping for a globe on a stand.  Are you kidding me?  Others send in stuff they find on sale or happen to think of while shopping.  It puts a funny little warm glow around my heart and makes a quasi-hippie smile tenderly.  Wow, I love my job.

A little gloating is called for as well.  I walked upstairs into the hallway and nearly fell over when I saw what the Hospitality Committee had done for the parents.  A beautiful banquet table was spread with sandwich trays, condiments, vegetables, homemade bars, coffee and bottles of water carrying welcome messages from the school.  Really, people.  This place is School Heaven. 

My biggest smile of the day came when a mother asked me if I had discussed with the children the possibility of being retained in first grade next year.  “Nooo,” I said slowly.  “Why do you ask?”  Her son had informed her that Mrs. Dahl might need to spend more time with some of them and that next year some might need to repeat first grade.  Instead of running to the phone to chew out a thoughtless newbie teacher, she decided to explore the topic further.  “And how would you feel about that?”  He shrugged noncommittally.  “I wouldn’t mind being in first grade again.  I like first grade!”  I laughed as she told me and pictured a Failure To Launch scenario.  “First Grader Refuses To Leave Shelter of Magic Tree House.”

I should have faced the day with more courage.  It was a better day than I had envisioned.  I am eternally thankful for my job.  Even better, I am thankful for my job in THIS PLACE.  God is so good to let me find a fun adventure at this stage of my life.  Plus, a four-day weekend is the great equalizer. 

I think I’ll make homemade soup today and spoil my near-perfect daughter. 

Life is good…

If Barbie Were Based On Me...

She looks a lot like me.  She looks, in fact, JUST like me.  She IS me.  There are nine first graders who think the shelves of Walmart should be lined with them.  Here’s how I know…

I recently introduced two-column addition in math.  To help with the concept, we go “shopping” and create sales receipts.  I ask for shopping items they would like to purchase and then attempt to draw the item on the board (or a reasonable facsimile), then I affix a price to it.  After we have chosen our items, I allow the students to take turns choosing two of the items to purchase and we add the two items up.  I have been drawing the usual, predictable items; tractors, Transformers, Legos, dinosaurs… all the stuff kids love.

Then someone suggested a Mrs. Dahl doll.  “Yeah!!” they shouted.  “Draw a Mrs. Dahl Barbie!  Don’t forget the hair!”  So I drew a really bad representation of that iconic doll and gave her slightly chaotic blond hair.  “You know…,” I added.  “If there’s a Mrs. Dahl Barbie, there has to be a Mr. Dahl action figure (my nod to misplaced masculinity).”  Again, “Yeah!!”  I drew a companion for Mrs. Dahl Barbie and gave him spiked hair (the kids insisted), and a hairy chest.  Rather dishy, really.  Oh my, we did laugh. 

So here’s my suggestion to Mattel for their next Barbie.  Make her middle- aged, (I know, right?  This thing has bestseller written all over it).  If she’s going to be based on me, then she needs a pile of bad hair on her head, because MD Barbie usually doesn’t have time in the morning to do much with her locks.  She will also need several hair clips, hair bands, and even plain old rubber bands out of her desk drawer as a last resort, when she gets sick of her hair in her face.  This usually occurs during art on Fridays and has a lot to do with six-year-olds and wet paint.

Teacher Barbie will also be sporting poorly kept fingernails as she always MEANS well, but never seems to find the time to give herself a proper manicure.  Mrs. Dahl Summer Barbie will come with a little packet of dirt to be placed under her fingernails for when she works in the garden.

This will tie in nicely to all her quasi-hippie accessories (sold separately, of course).  She prefers organically grown vegetables to the chemical rot in the grocery stores.  She will need glass dishes for the microwave instead of plastic, and she WILL NOT line her Malibu Barbie House with prepackaged, processed foods or white bread. 

MD Barbie may be quasi-hippie, but she loves glam and will wear lots of jewelry to school, loves heels, feels strongly that comfortable shoes should NOT equal ugly, and is willing to spend Ken’s money on really good perfume and quality clothing. 

My plastic likeness drives a mini van, but has her eye on that Barbie Mustang.  Mr. Dahl action figure must first be convinced. 

MD loves her Malibu Barbie House but knows she should clean it more often.  She is religious about keeping up with the laundry, however, and feels in some weird plastic way that this evens things out.

Mrs. Dahl Barbie also comes with a first grade classroom shaped like a tree house.  Its interior is painted the color of the sky and bright spring grass.  The shelves are lined with art projects, a variety of insects, and plants in various stages of growth.

MD Barbie works far too many hours a week, and knows it, but feels strongly that hard work now will lead to less work later (she is also slightly delusional and well, blond).  In order to keep functioning on five hours of sleep a night, MDB comes with a large coffee mug, and very strong coffee beans.  Real cream is also necessary for her perfect cup of coffee.  A tiny tube of concealer will come with your purchase as this is actually an MDB necessity.

MDB hates meetings and considers 98% of actual meeting time a sinful waste.  To that end, she has a tiny bottle of Rolaids and blank paper and pen for doodling her frustrations away.  If she thinks she can get away with it, she also corrects papers while sitting in captivity.  The best accessory for this is her removable face featuring a pasted-on smile that she wears for the benefit of administration.  This feature allows her to fume without anyone being the wiser.

Alas, Mrs. Dahl Teacher Barbie is from Missouri and has redneck propensities, so you are going to want to purchase the set of fried foods, a really good southern watermelon (as these are not to be found in North Dakota), and sweet tea.  Shorts and flip-flops are all you’ll need for her summer wardrobe.  She will also be a speaking Barbie that will call everyone “Sugar,” “Honey,” and “Sweet Pea.”  Her arms will be naturally curved for giving endless hugs.

Her quasi-hippie, free-spirit approach to teaching will compel her to wish away the rigid daily schedule in favor of a more relaxed approach to learning, (Hey, kids.  Let’s do grammar OUTSIDE!)

The best feature of Teacher Barbie will be a heart that melts easily when around the children that will come with the full set.  They are a unit, after all.  She can’t be a teacher without children.  Each child will be a priceless, limited edition that will be carried around with Mrs. Dahl Barbie forever. 

Would Teacher Barbie be a best seller?  Nah.  There is nothing perfect about her.  Nothing to emulate or admire. Ordinary doesn’t usually pique anyone’s interest or cause them to spend their money.  But I like her just fine.  I’m pretty sure there are nine first graders who do too.

Any future updated version will have better nails and get more sleep, but no one will notice because she’ll be driving that Mustang convertible…

Overgrown Fairies and Shabby Crowns

The Magic Tree House was a busy place yesterday.  Being Valentine’s Day is excitement enough, certainly.   There are Cars and Hello Kitty cards to exchange, and candy to consume, and parties to enjoy.  I love LOVE, so it only makes sense that I would get a kick out of a holiday devoted to the emotion. 

Beyond all of the stuff that the rest of the free world does on this fourteenth day of February, we first graders also tackled a play for adoring parents and grandparents.  I wrote about this topic one year ago, so I will not belabor the point, but this little gem has been brought out and dusted off every Valentine’s Day for nearly forty years. 

The retiring first grade teacher that I was hired to replace handed me the ancient script just before she left and told me to, “do what I want with it.”  Really, truthfully, I wanted to can the whole thing and find something newer and fresher to replace it with.

But as chronicled a year ago, it was brought to my attention that this short, quaint play had been performed for generations in this community and it would be a travesty to let it die and blow away.  I had to admit that it certainly would be a shame.  I could not and would not be the one to sacrifice it on the alter of making my own mark.

And so last year’s class hastily threw together an acceptable version of it and I was completely happy that we had not let one year go by without this treasured predictability gracing the first grade classroom.  This year I eagerly anticipated Valentine’s arrival and with it our class play.  I had embraced the play, the tradition, and the excitement that my darlings had at the thought of putting on a play for an audience.

We started rehearing about two weeks ago and I was confident that they were ready to pull the thing off.  I dug out the costumes that the former teacher had compiled over the years, issued invitations, cleared extra guests for lunch with the cook, ratcheted up rehearsals the last few days, and looked forward to watching my little darlings shine. 

We had a bit of a sticky wicket where the cast was concerned.  The play calls for more girl parts than there are girls.  Such is the common lot of teachers in small schools everywhere; change the script or recruit from other classes?  I toyed with several options.  I finally decided to step in and play the part of the “fairy from the deep woods” myself.  Last year we were so desperate for bodies to fill characters that I actually cast one of my rough rancher boys as the queen.  Before you accuse me of messing with his manhood, I will hasten to add that he volunteered for the job and pulled it off in hilarious perfection.  I will always love him for that.

The plot goes like this:  While the Princess is napping, the Robber sneaks in and steals her heart – a large, red paper heart hung on a string around her neck.  When the Princess awakens, she is irritable and not at all like herself.  The Doctor is summoned, who takes a listen with his stethoscope and diagnoses her as heart-less (“Jumpin’ Jiminy Apple Tart, someone stole the Princess’ heart!!”).  Amid gasps of disbelief by the Royal Court and the Townspeople, the King (whose ancient paper crown must be as old as a certain overgrown fairy), demands that the thief be found and his daughter’s heart returned.  The Doctor listens for a heartbeat in each of the townspeople (good thing there are only nine of them!), and pronounces The Robber the guilty dude.  More gasps, a quick arrest by the sheriff, a returned heart to the still-sleeping princess. 

Now the services of the fairy (me) are required to awaken her from her deep sleep.  Good thing I still had my poufy, sparkly Glenda the Good Witch dress from Halloween (my poor daughter!  It must be a trial to attend the same school as her free-spirited, quasi-hippie mother).  I wave a wand over the Princess, say the magic words, and she now stirs from her slumber.  The Robber is freed from his chains, the Princess is her old, happy self again, and the cast stands in a straight line, then turns over the red, paper hearts hanging around their necks to reveal the message, “Be Our Valentine!”  We were a little short there too, so we talked one of the second graders into standing in as letters “N” and “E.”  I stood at the end of the line as the “!” and performed my duties acceptably, I thought.

Before our first performance of the day, I heard one of my first graders say seriously, “This is the most important day of our lives.”  OK. Maybe I had placed a little too much emphasis on this thing.  Next year I maybe should back off a bit.  I don’t want them to require therapy over the darn thing…

The children performed beautifully, and most importantly, had a really good time doing it.  I love to see kids in their zone.  They did not appear at all nervous, just smiles by the mile. 

When I took over this classroom, I had the building supervisor remove the coat hooks from the recessed area inside the classroom so that I could use that space for a theater area.  I am so happy I was forward thinking.  I had inherited this amazing, hand painted backdrop with the room.  It features a gray castle, obviously painted by childish hands.  The jaw-dropper is, the artists are kids that are blind.  I love that cloth for many reasons, but the message to me is, “Do not ever tell me you can’t do something.  You are capable of more than you think you are.”

At the beginning of the show for the elementary students, I asked for a show of hands from the audience indicating they themselves had been in this play.  Nearly every student shot a hand into the air.  Smiles creased faces as their memories flooded their minds.  Last year’s cross-dressing “queen” sportingly stood and took his bow amid peals of laughter, boosting his “cool” factor.

I did the same thing when the junior high students came to watch.  Junior high kids are so incredibly cool, you know.  Just ask them.  They took their seats and waited with super cool expressions on their super cool faces.  But the moment I asked that question, the kid in them lurched to the forefront of their features.  I asked which part they had played, and all could remember their break-through role as the Doctor or the Princess or the Robber.  Nods and laughter filled the room now.

And I was once again reminded that it is a beautiful thing to be a part of something bigger than myself.  To have taken the baton at a comfortable jog and then run with it was obviously a good call.  I could have insisted on starting fresh and laying the Stolen Heart script in mothballs, but in the end, what would it have accomplished?  It would merely showcase the insecurities of a new teacher to make a splash. 

Instead, I have allowed my first graders to join that prestigious group of Stolen Heart alumni who will laugh at class reunions about their own participation in that local rite of passage. 

As I looked at the sea of hands raised in front of me, I was warmed by the knowledge that I too have taken my place in this most precious of traditions.  Some of the older generation even thanked me from the audience for keeping it alive and nodded their appreciation.

And so, as the oldest first grader you ever saw waived her wand and spoke her fairy lines, I can now claim my spot in local history.  I am not from this place, and yet I now belong. 

In future years when the local banter turns to laughter over the The Stolen Heart, I can say with a smile, “I was the fairy…”

The Heart of a Lion

I was busy in the office on his first day.  I had only discovered the day before that he would be joining us.  In a frenetic fit to make him feel welcome, I had worked late the evening before making a place for him in our classroom. 

Now I rushed through my before-school list of things to do and somehow missed him in the hallway.  Oh dear.  Not a great way to make an already nervous kid feel welcome.  I quickly sized up his stepmother and sister and then pointed at him.  “New kid?” I asked rhetorically.  He grinned.  “That’s what I thought.  C’mon, I ‘ll show you around.” 

While I visited with his stepmother and sister, he found his coat hook and plastic tub for depositing markers, crayons, and other first grade necessities.  He seemed to be holding his emotions in check pretty well, I thought.  It had to be tough to step into a classroom mid-year.  You and I both know that anyone who does not begin the school year with the rest of the group is automatically an outsider.  I remember feeling badly for those kids when I myself was an elementary/high school student.  Not only must they deal with feeling awkward and being gawked at and discussed in small groups, they must also endure whatever form of hazing the established group will mete out.  This may be mild or severe, depending upon the level of cruelty of the group or the watchfulness of the teachers.  The mettle of the newbie must be tested.  I do not know why, but it is an age-old ritual. 

Mom and sister said their goodbye’s and now The New One was alone to face his classmates and the Strange and Wonderful World of Mrs. Dahl’s classroom.  As the kids filtered through the door in fits and spurts, he stood shyly observing and looking nervous. 

Have you ever seen the old Jerry Lewis classic, “The Disorderly Orderly?”  I love it.  It is one of my favorite old comedies.  In it, an orderly, named Jerome Littlefield, who works in a ritzy sanitarium, has aspirations of becoming a medical doctor, but is thwarted in his quest due to crippling empathy with his patients.  There is a sanitarium patient named Mrs. Fuzzybee that always sends him over the edge with her vivid descriptions of gastrointestinal problems.  I mention this old classic because I suffer a bit of this affliction myself.  I feel deeply the pain of others.  I tried watching a few episodes of Life in the ER and nearly went into a coma.  I cannot deal with open flesh wounds and suffering people moaning in agony.  I might as well be lying there hemorrhaging myself. 

As I quietly watched my new student, I felt his inner pain and longed to make this, his first day in a new school, as comfortable as possible.  But alas, there is only so much a teacher can do.  It is something that just must be gotten through by the child.  I cannot fight every battle nor dispel every uncomfortable emotion.  I can merely extend a warm, welcoming hand and watch the interactions for any unkindness.  The rest will simply be up the children to sort out.

He did pretty well, I thought, and my Little Darlings rose to the occasion.  They made sure he was directed through our daily routine and were the very essence of helpfulness.  I could not have been more proud.

All was well the first couple of days.  Oh, there were some very minor incidents of acting out and attention seeking.  But all within normal limits, I felt.  But as the days went by and he became increasingly more comfortable among us, the Tough Guy persona began to emerge.  He became disruptive, rude to others, and toed the line of disrespect repeatedly.  It was becoming a class wide issue that needed addressing.  I was a little lost as how to proceed.  My principal had also clued in to this brewing problem and was aware of its potential for disruption.  We were united in our vigilance.

About three weeks into his time with us, a day happened along that seemed to bring things to a head.  The morning session seemed a barometric reading of the coming storm.  Shortly after lunch, his behavior had reached its zenith.  I do not even remember what the specifics were, but I knew that it was time for a meeting of the minds.  I called his name and firmly asked him to come have a private conversation with me.  He looked ashen, but was silently defiant.  It took some coaxing to get him into my proximity.  I invited him to sit in a chair close to mine and looked him in the eye. 

As I tried to fathom the depths of his mind through his steely eyes, I suddenly “saw” him transparently.  I spoke not for a moment or two.  I just kept looking at him, trying to read this pint-sized kid.  The words that had formed in my mouth now sat frozen on my tongue.  I had wanted to get his attention by speaking sternly and chastising him for his callous attitude to this classroom and its rules.  And truthfully, I was a little mad at him for disrupting what had been a peaceful sanctuary until his arrival.  I know teachers are not supposed to feel that way.  But we do.  I wanted to be stern. 

I couldn’t bring myself to do it. 

When I had gone through his file of school records, I had learned that our school was actually the sixth in his academic career.  He’s in first grade.  You do the math; six schools between kindergarten and first grade.  That is a whale-of-a-lot of change.  As I stared into those eyes that challenged my own, his lower lip began to quiver and big tears formed in his eyes.  He would not let them fall, but they defied his wishes and did so anyway.  We sat there, knee to knee, stare to stare, waiting the other one out.  I felt the hard rock in my chest begin to soften.

Surprising myself I shifted gears.  “You’ve been in six schools, haven’t you?”  I asked softly.  He looked surprised.  He had expected harshness from me, as had I, frankly.  He was listening.  He nodded and the fight to keep from bawling intensified.  “That is a lot of schools and a lot of teachers and a lot of classrooms to get used to.”  He lost his fight for manliness and dissolved into a sobbing pile, but held my stare.  “You know what I think? “  Fat tears splashed down his face and he looked questioningly at me.  I put my finger on his chest and drew a circle in the center.  “I think you have a heart of courage.”  His face reflected his shock.  “You are very brave to have been the new kid six times.  I admire you greatly.”  And then the clouds parted and the sun came out.  His wet face creased with the most beauteous smile.  He nodded shyly.  I went on.  “I understand that it will take awhile for you to get used to our classroom and our rules, but will you promise me that you will try?”  He was mine now.  He nodded in the affirmative and looked gratefully at me.  I drew him to me and gave him a hug.  “I’m glad you’re here,” I whispered in his ear.

Do you remember the scene from the Wizard of Oz where the Cowardly Lion is all gussied up and ready to meet the Wizard?  It is my favorite of the whole movie.  He has this great, comical solo about being King of the Forest and the actor who portrayed him hammed it up to perfection.  My sister and I used to double over in laughter every time.

I mention that scene because that is what occurred to me as I held his trembling frame.  The Lion was all bravado and bluster until he was ushered into the Wizard’s presence.  What he longed to be he was incapable of until he was granted a Heart of Courage.  The irony of that scene is, the Great and Mighty Wizard himself was no different from the Cowardly Lion.  He hid behind a screen and used belches of fire and colored smoke to distract from the fact that he was an ordinary mortal with no special powers at all.  He hid it from everyone but himself. 

My Gypsy is very much like that.  His forced wanderings created a crusty shell around a tender heart in order to survive the trauma of never staying in one place long enough to send roots down to bedrock. 

Will I get to keep him a spell?  I certainly hope so, but time will tell.  Until such a time as he leaves my influence, I hope I can prod that heart of courage into letting a middle-aged, quasi-hippie into his carefully constructed fortress.  We seem to have a better understanding since that day, he and I.  I hope it lasts.

For however long you are here, I am glad you are with us, my Lion…

The Currency of First Grade: Yellow #2 Pencils

There is a strange new society emerging in The Magic Tree House, like a Phoenix out of the desert sands.  It all began a week ago.  I nearly lost my mind over the strange disappearance of anything that resembled a pencil around here.  It didn’t seem to matter how many we started the day with, we were always scrounging for anything pencil-like by mid-afternoon.  If it had a sharpened point it was more valuable still.  I found myself stopping instruction frequently to wait for kids sharpen the stub-of-a thing they were working with.  Even more exasperating were the constant fights over pencil ownership.  “He took my pencil!” was heard about 93 times a day.  It was frustrating, to say the least.  Furthermore, I suspected that students visiting from other classrooms were helping themselves to our stash.  I toyed with the idea of setting up some sort of security checkpoint at the door, but to scan or pat?  I could never quite decide, so I let it go. 

Instead, I cogitated on it for awhile and came up with a plan, loosely based on supply side economics (oh please, do not think me brilliant for using this term.  My husband, The Genius, is an economics guru and throws terms around like dandelions gone to seed.  Every once in a while a fragment of knowledge will land on me and stick in my brain). 

My new Pencil Policy works like this.  I removed all the pencils from the work  station.  On Monday morning when they arrived, I had five pennies sitting at their place at the table.  Since there were no pencils available, they were forced to “buy” a pencil from my freshly sharpened stash at the outrageous price of one cent.  They were informed that they could have all the pencils they wanted, but they would have to fork over a penny each time.  They thought this horribly unfair and were getting ready to complain and possibly form a union, when I hit them with the “hook.”  Whatever money they had left over on Friday would be theirs to keep.  As the true spirit of capitalism sank into their Fruit Loop saturated brains, broad smiles began popping up like Prairie Dogs.  Mr. Future Investment Banker shoots his hand up for clarification.  “Soooo, you’re saying that we get to KEEP our pennies?”  Yup.  Relieved giggles and high fives were happening all over the place now.  OKAY, I might be on to something here.  Yesssss.

In single file, they lined up in front of the Pencil Princess (me) and purchased their identical #2, freshly sharpened pencils.  There is nothing like a fresh pencil at the start of the day to make life worth living; at least in the insular dome of a first grade classroom.

All was well until after reading block.  Suddenly Little Sally Sue realized that she couldn’t find her pencil.  She automatically reached for another, but was met by the Warden (again, me).  “Ah, HAH! This will be one penny, please.”  She looked shaken for a moment, as if trying to discern if I meant it.  I did.  Hey, baby girl.  Life is hard all over.  Her shoulders slumped a little as she fished out one of her precious pennies and plopped it into the tiny green basket I had found in some dusty cupboard somewhere.  “Pleasure doin’ business with ‘ya,” I shouted at her retreating back.  And so it went all day.  And the next day.  

Now a Lord of the Flies mentality was emerging.  Forgetful first graders leaving all to line up for music, or lunch, or take a bathroom break, would return only to find their precious pencils had mysteriously evaporated.  I swear they started to “case” each other’s habits and wait for an opportune time to strike.  Things were quickly dissolving into an episode of Survivor.  Alliances were being formed, enemies made, strategies planned.  I heard on the radio not long ago that the new hot prison currency is Ramen noodles, trumping the decades-old cigarettes for most prized possession.  Wherever a society is formed, no matter how small or insulated, rules of engagement will be created. First grade is no different.

My green basket was filling fast with pennies and my pencil jar was emptying rapidly, BUT not as rapidly as it would have a few days before.

The climax came on Tuesday afternoon.  By now they had the hang of this free market economy.  I was the sole proprietor of something they needed, therefore, I could charge whatever I wanted for my “goods.”  They were free to buy my product or bring their own from home.  They were desperate to hoard their pennies, so now they began to carefully consider where their pencil was at all times.  I saw pencils being tucked into safe places until such a time as they were needed again.  But an unattended pencil was still fair game. 

I knew my goose was in the oven when some eagle-eyed treasure hunter spotted an unattended pencil lying on the floor.  He made the fatal mistake of announcing it to the general population.  “Hey, there’s a pencil!”  No lie… five sweaty bodies just fresh from P.E. dog piled on the darn thing like linebackers in the Super Bowl.  I couldn’t believe my eyes.  I was ready to throw a flag and do an instant replay when the winner emerged from the bottom of the heap grinning and clutching a yellow #2.  It was fun-NEEEE, with a capital FUN.

Today is Friday.  I am pleasantly surprised at the immediate success of my little  experiment.  There are still a fistful of unpurchased pencils sitting in the pencil jar, and there were still pennies rattling around in cubbies this morning.  There was jubilation and rejoicing when my Little Darlings realized they got to keep their two or three pennies forever and ever.  It was something akin to winning the lottery in their little minds.  They will be compiling wish lists like nobody’s business.  They began to discuss what they would do with their fortunes.  I nearly sat down and cried when my little foster girl with the sad, serious eyes announced she would give her money to her mom who, "doesn't have much money."  God bless that golden-hearted lamb.

Maybe I should do the same thing they do at the grocery store and line shelves with worthless garbage right by the cash register.  It seems to work for Walmart.  I’ll set mine up right by the door so they can stare at it when they line up and be hypnotized into buying things like leveled readers and spelling lists.

Mrs. Dahl is smiling because we spent far less time this week waiting for kids to locate pencils.  Instructional time was increased.  Mrs. Dahl’s blood pressure decreased.

Maybe next week I’ll try the same concept with bathroom passes…

We, the Jury...

When we lived in Vermont, I was summoned to do my civic duty and serve on a jury.  Those of you who have shared that honor know how it works.  I really didn’t have a clue at the time.  I thought a prosecutor, who looked like Matlock – bad suit and all - would show up, take one look at me and decide on the spot, “fair-minded!” and I would be ushered into the foreperson’s chair immediately.  Turns out I had to prove my fairness through a series of unending interrogations.  Really, the nerve… 

I was chosen for two trials, both rape cases.  I was hoping I could choose my trials; sort of like sitting in a restaurant and poring over the menu.  “Let’s see, I think I will have the forgery, oh, and a robbery on the side.”  Rape?  I didn’t like where this was headed. 

Sitting through those train wrecks was like plopping down in the middle of a cow pie.  I felt dirty and disheveled at the end of every day.  The prosecution spared no detail from us, no matter how smarmy or indelicate.  Watching the victims testify in shaking, tearful voices was agony.  Every strand of my Southern DNA wanted to march up to the witness stand, pull them into my embrace and coo, “There, there, now darlin’.  You just cry it out…”

Deliberating was an education in itself and a very interesting study in human behavior.  The strong personalities rose to the surface rather quickly and the followers did lots of nodding and “MMhhmmm-ing.”  I innocently asked what was in the paper sack in the middle of our table.  “Her underwear,” I was informed.  Eww.

The outcomes of our decisions took different paths.  The first trial we found the defendant guilty.  He looked ashen as they arrested him on the spot and lead him away, but he kept silent.  I suppose the shock at a moment like that is quite severe.

The second trial we voted in favor of the defendant.  Here’s the judicial system education part.  Most of us felt he was, indeed, guilty.  But the judge was stern.  “Beyond a reasonable doubt.”  There were simply too many holes and not enough evidence.  We could not send a man to prison without hard proof. 

When we read the words, “not guilty,” he slumped to the table and burst into tears.  In spite of my feelings about what a less-than-honorable man I felt he was, I could not help but be moved.  I nearly cried myself.

I tell my story for this reason; it is mid-year and teachers must now make some hard decisions about student progress and who might gain favorably from repeating a grade.  I am experiencing emotions something akin to what I felt in the jury room.  Both trials, and both deliberations, we jury members paused before taking that final vote.  We felt the oppressive weight of holding a man’s future in our collective hands.  Lives forever altered based upon our faulty logic and reasoning. Scary.  I hope if I am ever a defendant in a jury trial I get jurors who a mite smarter than I am.

I have a stack of assessments on my desk like you cannot believe.  There are graphs in pretty colors and numbers and ranges and comparisons.  Good grief, you have to be part NASA analyst to figure this stuff out.  All of that must be weighed against my own classroom assessments and my observations.  Level of current ability and level of maturity must be factored.  It is a heavy responsibility.  I do not take it lightly.  It is not because I think retention is such an awful thing.  I don’t think so at all.  Here’s why:

My second child went to kindergarten very young.  Too young, really.  At the end of the year, I felt (and his teacher agreed), that repeating the year would give his maturity level time to catch up to his academic ability.  It did.  He rose quickly to the top of his class and stayed there all through his K-12 career.  This same child is now in dental school.  I not only believe that retention did not harm him, it gave him the edge to be successful.

That being said, it is still life altering to make that call.  His friends will change, the dynamics of his new and old class groups will change.  Will he or she be challenged or bored?  And of course, you cannot know what the summer months will bring in terms of having the light bulb go on.  It is not a perfect science, in any sense.

The good news is, it is a complicated process that requires the input of many people who are good at what they do.  And most importantly, the parents will make that final call.  They will judge for themselves what path to take.  Hopefully they listen to the counsel provided them, but I still believe that caring, engaged parents know their child best.

So I read graphs, and I look at pretty colors, and I weigh the “evidence” and I pray like mad.  Maybe I take it too seriously, I don’t know.  All I know is, the path to success is defined differently for every student.  I am part steering wheel and part cattle prod.

For those that will experience retention in my classroom, I hope I will bump into them somewhere down the road when they are adults themselves, and they will look me in the eye and simply say, “Thank you.”

But then again, by the time these kids are adults, I’ll be so old and senile I guess it won’t really matter…

The Gatekeeper

“Education is that which remains, if one has forgotten everything he learned in school.”  -- Albert Einstein

There is a phenomenon off the coasts of Peru and Chili that occurs in the Pacific Ocean waters.  It is a strong, cold current that runs along the continent’s edge and slams into the steep continental shelf.  When it does so, it dredges up water from the ocean floor that contains rich nutrients and microscopic life and pushes them to the surface.  These nutrient-rich waters support a variety of sea life in a food chain that results in some of the best fishing in the world.  It is estimated that one-fifth of all the world’s fishing happens in these waters.  This amazing, life-giving phenomenon is called the Humboldt Current, and its impact is incalculable, for fishing is only a portion of its benefits.

It is said that the very air that comes off the current is filled with life-sustaining nutrients.  As the air moves inland off the ocean and is warmed, it forms a dense fog that travels to the foothills of the Andes Mountains.  The fog layers itself onto trees and makes them lush and green, then condenses, and drips onto the ground and feeds the plants and wildlife on the forest floor.  This occurs in an area that is some of the driest on earth, receiving as little as four inches of rain a year.  What should be a desert wasteland is watered and fed by the benevolent Humboldt.  It is a miraculous interaction between unrelated biomes.  The Humboldt Current flings its life-giving waters to plants and animals many miles away with elevations up to 2,000 feet high.  It is a remarkable and beautiful reminder that God is the very essence of creativity.

This is akin to what I long for as I stand in my classroom in the middle of the North Dakota prairie.  When I teach my first graders about math, and reading, and the wonders of a world beyond our narrow horizons, I want it to change their very lives.  And then I want them to go out and change their world.  I want the ripple effect in the lives of six-year-olds from the middle of nowhere to be to grow up and make a positive mark on this big blue marble. 

Is that so inconceivable?  I do not think so.

I think a person’s ability to be a positive force in their own universe has less to do with opportunity, breeding, or income, and more to do with the awakening of curious discovery and exploration.  Some of the greatest leaders and innovators in history began humbly, but rose to greatness because they had awakened in them the desire to create or govern or investigate or entertain. 

The Teacher is merely a conduit.  We hold the keys, but we are lowly Gatekeepers.  But this Gatekeeper has lofty goals for landlocked, farming kids.  I throw open the creaking gate every single day and urge them to run through it and chase whatever curious knowledge sparks their little minds...

“Run, children!  Race the wind to the four corners of earth and laugh with delight at the marvels you will discover.  Spend your entire lives calling out to Knowledge and her sister Discovery.  Then lie on the grass and revel in the feeling of having learned something you never knew before. Be satisfied for a brief moment until a new thought pops in your head or the wind whispers a compelling question in your tiny ear.”

They are as bright as any other kid on the planet, these students of mine.  They do not get expensive tutoring or join flashy traveling teams, or hang out at the mall.  But they can ask a question and explore its answer just like anyone else.  They are inquisitive, whole-idea thinkers who long to absorb as much information as I can fling at them. 

I was reminded of this recently and encouraged to hang tenaciously to my dreams.  I attended the funeral of a man I had never met, but he was my friend’s father and I went for her sake.  As I listened to others recount his life and deeds, I was struck by the love affair this man had had with knowledge.  He had a wide variety of interest, from astronomy to horticulture, and while he was not formally trained in those areas, he taught himself to become knowledgeable and something of an expert in those areas that intrigued him. 

This is the very thing I envision for my students; that they will become lifelong learners who know how to find the answers to the questions that interest them.

One of my favorite quotes goes like this:

“The purpose of education is to learn to die satiated with life.”

                                                    -- Oscar Kwageley

Satiated.

I love that word and the simple meaning of this man’s use of it.  Satiated is to be filled to the point of perfect satisfaction (Vonda’s definition).  I want to die content that I have answered as many questions about life and this world as I possibly could.  I never want to grow weary with learning or consider it drudgery. 

I want my students to have the same longings for learning.

I began this journey only recently.  I will soon turn fifty years of age and am only in my second year of formal teaching.  Going back to college as a middle-aged, mother of four has all been chronicled in my first blog, Diary of a First Year Teacher:  Beginning Your Career at the End of Your Life.  It was quite an adventure.

My teaching goals are no different, really, from the goals I carried around in my heart as a mother of three boys and a daughter.  Of humble beginnings come great leaders, I have always known.  I wished such things for Trevor, Ryan, Cody, and Hannah – the joy and light of my heart.  For most of their growing up years, I stayed home and immersed myself in being the best darn mother I knew to be.  I am proud of their journeys and the young adults they are blossoming into.  I feel it was time well spent and regret not a single day of it. 

Teaching feels like an extension of mothering.  I love and care about these kids very much.  I dry their tears, and listen to their tattlings, and clean up their puke, and shove tissues onto green, slimy noses.  I also hold great hope for them.  I believe in them and their abilities. 

This is what I say to them,

“Do not tell me you can’t.  Tell me it is hard, or that it is boring, or that you simply do not want to try.  But don’t tell me you can’t.  For I believe you can.”

January 18^th of this year celebrated the first anniversary of the first day I stepped into the classroom as a licensed teacher.  It was the end of a year filled with every emotion under the sun, smiles by the truckload, and the beginning of a new chapter.  I toyed with the idea of ending the chronicling of my journey and the tales it produces, but there are simply too many wonderful, and awful, and life-changing experiences to share.  These children of mine, my Little Darlings, as I affectionately refer to them, are a microcosm of the world at large.  They are just like the little people in your life… I know you feel a connection when you read about the happenings in my world. 

I will keep writing and sharing … and living and loving … and crying and laughing.  It is called Life.  I will share mine with you, sometimes in frustration and sometimes in gut-busting laughter, but it will always be the honest, naked truth.  Nothing airbrushed or sugar coated here.  It may make you uncomfortable at times.  I will risk that in the name of recounting the things seen and witnessed on my path.  If you have the inclination to peek into my world occasionally, you too will share those emotions and maybe, just maybe a smile will cross your face and you will be happy you stopped by.

My name is Vonda, Mrs. Dahl to my Little Darlings, and I am glad you are sharing my journey.  Let me show you the wonders of a first grade classroom that sits on the prairie in the middle of nowhere.  The winters are long and so are summer days.  The sky above is as expansive as an upside down ocean.  The view is horizon to horizon and if you stand on your tiptoes, you can almost see the other side of the world, or so it seems.  The coyotes sing mournfully in the dark and the Northern Lights give an impromptu show occasionally.  You have never seen so many stars in all your life.

This is my home and the land that is written on my heart. 

This is the journey of a prairie teacher.  Take my hand and walk with me. 

We may just both be changed forever…








I got most of my information from this interesting web site.  To read more about it, click here:

http://www.scienceandthesea.org/index.php?option=com_content&task=view&id=265&Itemid=10