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…
No comments:
Post a Comment