"Here She Comes...."

Two weeks ago my principal handed me my class roster.  My column was suspiciously short.  Five kids? Are you KIDDING me??  That’s like home schooling your own children.  Talk about a great teacher/student ratio!  I know, I KNOW.  My teacher friends with classes big enough to earn their own zip codes are laughing their pancreas out right now.  I have it beyond good.  I get it.  It doesn’t get any better than this.  

Knowing things could change at a moment’s notice (check out my post from Diary of a First Year Teacher:  The Best Laid Plans), I prepared for twice that many as I made copies and filled folders.  I was careful to not let too many desks and extra chairs go out my door to other needy classrooms and laid things out so that they would be readily accessible at a moment’s notice on the first day of school.  Hey, maybe you CAN teach an old dog new tricks.  Just maybe I am learning a thing or two about this teaching gig.  Maybe.

The days leading up to the first day of school are always filled with what we educators affectionately call “teacher in-service.” You can title it that OR, “Are you crazy??!  I should be in my classroom preparing for the first day of school and an army of kids who are coming off a summer break.  I should not be sitting in a meeting having more papers shoved into my face and minutia down my throat!!”  Either title works effectively, however the first one fits more easily onto the tab of a file folder.

The day before school, we had a morning-only meeting in the high school history room, which frankly, badly needs a first grade teacher to do some decorating in it.  We flew through roughly 378 agenda items, had enough hand-outs to paper the Taj Mahal, and were given approximately 1.6 seconds to ask questions at the end of every new piece of information.  Did I mention I have been given the dubious honor of mentoring a new teacher?  Yeah, I know.  It’s stinkin’ hilarious.  So I look over at my charge, a fresh-out-of-college angel of a thing, and her face is a study of blank horror.  She turned glazed eyes to meet my stare.  “Are you overwhelmed?” I asked rhetorically.  She nodded wordlessly.  “I’ll talk you off the ledge later.  Just absorb as best you can for now, and we’ll go through each hand-out together later.”  Another nod.  I doubt she actually heard me.  I think the medical term is “catatonic.”

But those minor annoyances were washed away by the fact that for every man and woman in attendance, there was a table piled with enough carbs to put a diabetic into a coma.  We prairie folks sure do know how to eat.

After the meeting, I scurried down to my dungeon to make a vain stab at shoving my last minute mess behind doors and under tables for the afternoon Meet and Greet that had been scheduled (whose brainy idea was THAT?)  While taping the obligatory scalloped border around my math board, a fellow teacher popped her head in the door and announced, “The triplets are here.”  I’m sorry, WHAT???

Now there had been talk and rumor of our gaining a set of triplets for some time (say it with me, “small town – no secrets”).  But no registration had been forthcoming, so I didn’t know what to think about that.  The town Oracles did not seem to know either, exactly what age or grade these mysterious triplets would be in.  For a small school, talk of triplets is a very big deal.  It had never been actualized in our fair school before (to my knowledge).  This little bit of history-in-the-making was downright exciting.

When the word “triplets” tumbled out of my coworkers mouth, the Kindergarten teacher stepped out of her room and joined the conversation.  Without a word, she walked straight to me and wrapped her arms around me in a giggling embrace.  Like the last two Miss America contestants standing, we waited to hear which one of us would be crowned the reigning queen, and which one would be first runner-up, ”…in the event that she is unable to fulfill her obligations…”

I laid down my roll of masking tape, tried to fluff my mop of disobedient, chaotic hair into a semblance of order, and headed up the stairs to meet these precious children.  I was met with the sight of three little bodies opening and closing the high school lockers all up and down the hall.  A man I could only assume to be the father was standing nearby.  I shoved my hand into his and introduced myself, then addressed each child and asked for names and gave them mine.  After a moment of small talk, I asked the all-important question, “And what grade will they be in this year?”  “First grade,” he responded without hesitation.  They had, indeed, been to Kindergarten already.  I stooped a little so that last year’s winner could pin the tiara to my over sprayed, perfectly coiffed head.  Mascara was running down my face, along with the happy tears of a new Miss America title.  Roses were placed in my toned arms.  I am the winner.  I am Miss America.

“Wanna’ go down to our classroom and look around?”  I asked invitingly.  Three little heads nodded in unison.  I lead the way with the hand of one or the other tucked into my own, and dad followed obediently.  As three shy beings looked around and hesitantly touched the artifacts of their new environment, dad warned quietly, “They’re a handful!”  I took this information in then smiled warmly.  “I myself am mother to four children.  It will be fine,” I assured him and meant it.  He looked at me without comment for a moment, measuring my competence it seemed, then nodded as if satisfied.

We have put the first two days of school to bed.  They are over and we have all survived to the weekend.  I am tired.  I won’t try to put best face on that.  I have only eight students (stop laughing!!), but four children of my own wore me out at times.  What makes me think double that number won’t do the same?  Of course I am tired.  Plus being Miss America has its own responsibilities.  C’mon, people… give me a break!

I have begun referring to them in my head and in my note taking as the “trips.”  It just might stick, at least until something more profound presents itself.  And that leads me to the best advice I could have been handed by an outside observer.  As my principal was filling me in on them later, he casually added, “… and don’t forget, Vonda, that they are individuals, not the same person.”  It jarred me a little, that offhand gem.  I had already begun to lump them into one generic ball in my thinking.  It helps that they are not identical, merely similar in looks.  But even so, I needed to hear that they should treated as the priceless separate individuals that they are.  Thanks, Mr. Principal.  You earned your pay today.

I anticipate an amazing, unique, funny, sometimes frustrating year.  Today, only the second day into the year, proffered a few moments of such foreshadowing.  The honeymoon ended rather abruptly.  But I AM a seasoned mother and I do have a small bit of experience and expertise where children are concerned.  I think we will ultimately be OK.

As for the rest of my bunch?  Equally enchanting, delightful, dramatic, funny, and wonderful! But then again, as my 26-year-old son reminded me, “What would it take, Mom, for you to NOT think a child was enchanting, delightful, dramatic, funny, and wonderful?”  Hmmmmm.  The boy knows me well. 

So as I launch into this, my third group of first graders, I welcome whatever this year will bring.  The good days will be intoxicatingly satisfying and the hard days will be lessons in improving my teaching and my character. 

I posted this prayer on my Facebook page the morning of the first day of school.

“Lord, help me to give my precious students the same first day wonder and joy that I experienced on my first day of first grade. May today be the first step on a journey of a lifelong love of learning. May this day become a golden memory that they tuck away and cherish forever. I need patience, love, and a sprinkling of magic Pixie dust. Amen."

Amen, indeed…