Punctuation Name Game

In the continuing saga of NAMES YOU ONLY HEAR IN UTAH, allow me to tell you a story. There's a teacher who works at the boys' school who had a student named La-a. Now, I'm unclear as to whether this teacher had this student here in Utah, the great naming apocalypse state, or if the student hailed from another state but regardless of where she came from, her name was straight up La-a. When the teacher called roll for the first time, she said, "Uh...Lah ah?" And, I mean, what the heck else would you say?

The girl, clearly annoyed said, "It's Ladasha!"

No. No it isn't. At the ABSOLUTE BEST, it is Lahyphena.

Hyphens and dashes are two different things. A hyphen joins words together. A dash separates words into parenthetical statements. Sorry, Lahyphena, your name doesn't make grammatical sense. But who am I to point fingers? My last name is sporting an extra, and very confusing, S. The only thing that extra S is good for is weeding out the telemarketers. Everyone on the planet thinks my last name is pronounced as though you're combining two different food items--fish and pork--when, in actuality, it sounds like something an angry linebacker would yell just before the sack.

I see a lot of weird names that I have no idea how to pronounce in the subbing business. (Subbing profession? Subbing industry? I'm cracking myself up over here trying to make it sound like I do something more glamorous than glorified babysitting.) But if I ever see anyone with a "-" in the middle of their name I am going to straight up pronounce it hyphen. Just to be a jerk.

I pass these terrible names on to my sister-in-law who, even when she isn't currently gestating a human being, likes to hear them. I use the word "likes" rather loosely here. It's possible she's merely humoring me. She is, however, growing an entire little life inside of her at this very present moment and so I've been sending a whole heap of RIDICULOUS names to her. Sometimes, I make them up. She's never certain if they're real, in the sense that someone actually bears the moniker, or made up by me. As opposed to the parents who must, literally, pull Scrabble tiles from a box and then make it work.

I actually just tried this intriguing notion and randomly pulled the following:

JSAIQOK

I'm annoyed that I pulled a Q with no U but that is of no real concern. We could just leave them like that. In fact, I'm now wishing for a fourth son so that I could have Garrett, Matthew, Will, and Jsaiqok which is, OF COURSE, pronounced J say qwok. But I could rescramble them and have little Joqiska. Oh please let me do one more because I'm on a roll. Kajqosi.

Anyway. This La-a has us RUNNING WILD with the possibilities. What fun you can have throwing a dash into any name you can think of. But why stop there? There are so many other punctuation marks that haven't even been invited to the party. My husband came up with Ca... which, of course, would be pronounced Cuh lip sis.

How about the ,? Tre, (pronounced Trey comma). It could absolutely be a name here in the great state of Utah.

And why isn't anyone using the :?

Whatever happened to Melissa and Diane and Michael and James? Those names we could pronounce. Those names passed the substitute litmus test. And really, when naming a child, ask yourself WWASS? What would a substitute say?

I guarantee that this sub would have said, "La ah." If met with the giggles that always accompany a good name butchering, she'd maybe have said, "Lahyphena?"

But then, she'd have to introduce herself by writing her name on the board. "No," she'd say. "Not Bassham like fish and pork. Bashum, like a pumped up linebacker." Or, maybe, a serial killer.

The New 80

I'm going to be 35 in a week.

It's fine.

I mean, I'm not nearly as famous as I thought I'd be by now. But, otherwise, it's a good life. There's a curly topped baby squirming around in my arms, my husband works at a church and I work at a school so, really, not much has changed since this precise time ten years ago. Except now I live in Utah and have two other boys who call me mama. Or mom. Or the occasional mommy.

I still feel 25 except for all the joints that are bugging me and the fact that I've started to bruise with no apparent cause. In those ways, I am closer to 70. But my maturity level is still a solid, well, 15 (if I'm being honest).

What I'm trying to say is that, for the most part, I don't feel like I'm about to kick the bucket. Second graders, however, have an entirely different opinion of me. Yesterday, while subbing for a class--some of which I've known since I first filled in for their teacher in kindergarten--I was given the following dismal news.

At one point during the day, I heard one boy say to another, dramatically, "I'M TOO YOUNG TO DIE!" I have no idea why he said this. His life was in no immediate danger and I didn't hear the conversation leading up to this declaration.

A girl, one who I've known for a solid two years, chimed in. "Everyone here is too young to die except Mrs. B."

Awesomesauce. (Isn't that what the hip, young, whippersnappers are saying these days? No?) I am no longer too young to die. I guess 35 is the new 80.

Technology Is Not My Strong Suit

I'm absolutely, down right, humiliated that it took me this long to figure out how to respond to blog comments. I used to have Disqus and then it went crazy and I couldn't figure out how to fix it because I am a computer moron. So I got rid of it. But then I couldn't respond to comments so people stopped commenting at all. Ever. Sometimes I would comment just beneath a comment but I knew they probably never, ever saw it. Tonight, I investigated and I figured it out and THERE WAS MUCH REJOICING IN MY OWN HEAD!

But back to me being a moron about computers.

I have grown up with computers. Think, Oregon Trail in 3rd grade with the tiny little green ox and the square that he pulled and everyone died of dysentery before we even made it to Independence Rock. And, okay, any time I had diarrhea as kid, I totally thought I was about to die of dysentery. But here's a thought: Can you even imagine having and/or dying of dysentery on THE OREGON TRAIL? It's not like having dysentery in the privacy of your own bathroom or, even, a hospital room. No. This was straight up, lay in the middle of your wagon with all the other wagons in your train only ten feet away, while you moan and groan and DIE OF DYSENTERY. So, in other words, THE STUFF NIGHTMARES ARE MADE OF.

We got a computer when I was in middle school which was 100 years ago. Except actually, 21. Despite living most of my life with technology, I'm relatively device illiterate. When I'm teaching kindergarten and they ask if they can use the iPad, I secretly do a happy dance that they're usually password protected. Because it is embarrassing that five-year-olds know more about using an iPad than I do. Not that an iPad is actually a computer. (I just had to Google it because I typed that and thought, wait, maybe? But no. It's a tablet. Which I knew. I just didn't know if a tablet was considered a computer. Answer: no. At least according to Google. And Google knows everything.)

I spent time in 3rd grade last week and the lesson plans told me to pull in an alphasmarts cart and do keyboarding. This sounded technological and I was afraid. Not that I wouldn't be able to figure it out because I am not a complete moron (and, truth be told, it was ridiculously self explanatory) but because, more than kindergartners, 3rd graders would sense my weakness and prey on it like jungle cats in their prime.

This is why I am legitimately and irrationally terrified of 6th graders. And math beyond the 3rd grade.

Because while I have a college degree, the amount of math that I actually retained is limited to addition, subtraction, multiplication, division easy fractions and, occasionally, percentages. This is why I hang out mostly with kindergartners. Well, that and the fact that they're still stinkin' adorable and they don't usually say bad words or need deodorant.

All of this to say that today's youth should have been the ones to come over and take a look at my blogger page and teach me how to turn the reply to comments feature on. I'd have been able to say, "Hey! Thanks for your comment!" a long time ago. So, to all of you who have been leaving comments, THANK YOU! And to those who stopped because it seemed like I was ignoring them. I'M SORRY! I always replied to you in my head. I just couldn't seem to get the thoughts from my head into this new fangled notebook I do my writing on.

Yes, parents, I am responsible for shaping today's youth. But only every once in a while when their teachers are blowing their noses or attending training sessions or, heaven forbid, traveling the Oregon trail in a wagon and trying to avoid dysentery.

Six Weeks, Done

"Wemember when I told you that even if you sent me to my desk and made me put my head down, I was still going to be willy nice and help you out?" he asked, staring at me from behind his chocolate eyes.

"Yes, I remember," I said, trying not to smile.

"That was willy nice of me wasn't it?

"Yes, sir," I said. "It was very nice of you."

I said goodbye to my kindergartners today after six weeks with them. I'll be back on Monday in a different classroom--it's what I do--but today I bid this particular bunch adieu. I'm grateful for this job that allows me spurts of full time employment. There are things I hate about it, to be sure.

And things I love.

I love kindergartners.

I love their sweet faces, their ah-ha moments, their sometimes hilarious answers to things. I love being able to help shape them just a little bit. I love when they throw their arms around me and call me their best friend teacher. (Whatever that means.)

At this job, I loved being able to go see my own kids at lunch every day. I loved knowing that they were in the same building as me, just down around a corner or two. I loved seeing their faces when they walked past the classroom I was in.

No one ever says, "I want to be a substitute teacher when I grow up." It's not something one really aspires to. I usually don't even admit to it, but instead tell people I'm a stay-at-home mom. That makes it sound more like I'm choosing not to work outside the home and less like I have an $80,000 dollar education and nothing to show for it.

The thing is this. I'm not always a good sub. I have moments of not being the best I can be, of being frustrated, of wanting to tell them that I can think of a really good place for them to shove their math paper. But I try really hard to be a decent substitute teacher, to leave a room better than I found it, to return a class to their rightful owner mostly unscathed. And I think I do ok.

If you're the CEO of a major corporation--do it to the best of your ability. If you're just a filler teacher with an expensive theatre degree and no teaching license--fill that position to the best of your ability. And, in the end, you might get a bag full of candy and a thank you note from a parent telling you that you were fabulous.

And it might make your day.

The Cute Kid

There's a little boy in the class I'm teaching and he is THE STINKIN' CUTEST THING IN THE WHOLE, WIDE WORLD. His voice. His face. His personality. He's just adorable. Today, I read a book called Mustache Baby. Before I read it, I asked if any of them had a baby brother with a mustache. (Because it's kindergarten so I try to be silly sometimes.)

Several of them giggled and said no. The cute kid said, "My baby brother is dead."

I thought that I'd maybe heard wrong so, with a matter of fact tone, I clarified. "Your brother is dead?" His little face fell just a bit and he returned, "Yes. He died. So he's in heaven now."

The class was quiet. I locked eyes with him and replied, "That's sad. I'm sorry. I have a baby daughter who is in heaven also." He nodded slightly and we all moved on.

Later, as I was explaining some math work to them, I looked out and saw that he had one hand over his eye. He kept it there for awhile so I thought it was bothering him. "Are you okay, bud?" I questioned him.

He looked a little confused as to why I was asking so I clarified and asked if his eye was okay. "Oh, yeah. I'm fine. I'm trying to see what it would be like if I only had one eye for...for three days."

"Cool," I replied and then kept teaching math concepts. He's seriously the cutest of ever. So if this one little boy from an undisclosed elementary school in West Jordan, UT goes missing, the authorities should totally check my house first, is what I'm saying.

Except I would never, EVER, do that to his parents. Obviously they've been through enough. (Not that I would actually put any parents through the hideous ordeal of a missing child, regardless of whether or not they'd already lost one. Just to clarify.)

Kinder Downer

I'm four days in to a five week kindergarten subbing gig. After tomorrow's Valentine party wraps itself up in a sugary coma, I'll have made it through one week. I'm subbing at my favorite school (it happens to be the one my boys attend every day), sharing a coat room with my favorite teacher to sub for who happens to be the Knower of all Things Kindergarten. Today I took her a Twix bar and a thank you note that said some version of, "Thanks for spending your lunch teaching me how to do the benchmark." So, as far as subbing goes, it's pretty much my dream job. I mean, the only thing better would be, maybe, being full time in a drama class for weeks on end.

I've noticed something. It only takes me a handful of minutes to decide whether I like a kid so much that I'd like to put him in my pocket and bring him home or whether I am so NOT fond of a child that I'd like to pull her spleen out of her body through her throat. (Or something that sounds a lot less like murder.)

So there is this one little girl who is so adorable that it truly is a wonder I haven't kidnapped her yet. But then, the Knower of all Things had my son last year, knows all about Kate, and probably has both her eyes on me. For sure she'd direct the cops straight to my house in the event that a kindergartner went missing. And there's a little boy who seriously has a comb over and is the cutest thing ever. Today, after I tested him on sight words, I said, "Thanks. You can go." He replied, "You're welcome. Any time. I'm here to help. Whatever you need." And I gnawed the tip of my tongue right off because I wanted to look at him and say, "OH MY GOODNESS MY LOVE FOR YOU KNOWS NO BOUNDS." But, that's really creepy. I try not to be the creepy sub.

There is also a little girl I am, in my own mind, un-affectionately referring to as Kinder Downer. She is Debbie Downer in a kindergarten body. Her disposition is so sour she makes the more difficult of my two children look like Shirley Temple, hopped up on sugar, dancing a jig on a rainbow. EVERY TIME she doesn't get picked to do something (which, let's face it, her odds are 1 in 20), her face contorts into RACHEL DRATCH DOING DEBBIE DOWNER.

Then come the water works. "BUT I WANTED TO GET PICKED."

"Oh no. Don't read that one. I don't even like that book."

"WHY DON'T HAVE A PAPER??" (Because I haven't gotten to you yet!)

Alright, so, she's more of a complainer than a Debbie Downer but she does it in such a way that I hear womp wah whenever she opens her mouth. Everything causes her to look exactly like this...

Today, I asked the Knower of all Things if she was familiar with Debbie Downer from SNL. She said she was and I told her that one of the kids in my class was a teeny tiny little downer. "Is it Sarah?" she asked. Sarah, by the way, is not her real name. 

"YES!" I exclaimed. This is impressive. I don't think I'd even verified that it was a girl AND there are two sessions so she was choosing from roughly 40 students.

Minutes later, I handed out their Valentine's envelopes (and by "envelope" I mean enormous paper heart) so they could decorate them for tomorrow. The teacher I'm subbing for had left them for me, already folded and sporting each kid's name. There were red, white and pink envelopes. I could have written the script ahead of time.

If Sarah doesn't get a pink one, the world is going to end. Today. Kindergarten Valentine Apocalypse.

Hers was one of the last ones I handed out. Girls and boys had happily taken what they were given. I could see slight disappointment on the cute faces of some of the girls who didn't get pink but they were troopers. They rallied quickly and happily set to decorating their envelopes. 

Sarah's was red. I alternated between thinking, It couldn't have been pink to make my life easier? and Hee Hee Hee I'm about to watch the birth of World War 3. Hitler, Mussolini, Sarah the kindergartner. A trio of fierce dictators.

Her shoulders sagged. Her face contorted. She closed her eyes. Her head hung down like she'd just been given two minutes to live. "But I wanted a pink one."

"Well, your teacher made you a pretty red one. We get what we get and we don't throw a fit."

You're enjoying your day, everything's going your way, then along comes Debbie Downer. Always there to tell you 'bout a new disease, a car accident or killer bees. You beg her to spare you. Debbie, please! But you can't stop Debbie Downer.

The Black Plague Cold of Death

Please don't misunderstand me when I say that I know there are actual dying people in the world. There are actual tumors and brain hemorrhages and accidents and awful things. So I'm not trying to compare my Black Plague Cold of Death to the people who are experiencing real death.

But still, I have caught myself the Black Plague Cold of Death, yo.

And the odds are 99 to 1 that it was transferred to my own body from the grubby, snot smeared hands of a tiny kindergarten human. Because I've been hanging out with them for eleven school days straight except for the one day where I was hanging out at the courthouse. It's always the same for me. My throat feels like I'm swallowing razor blades for a couple of days. Then my throat starts experiencing volumes of phlegm trickling down the back of it at an alarming rate. I don't sleep for two nights. Three if I happen to be REALLY lucky. Then I sleep and I am happy happy happy but I wake up with all the snot coming out of my face. I don't understand this pattern. It seems reversed, no? Shouldn't I have the snot in my face that then allows gravity to do its thang which will lead to Phlegm Trickle in the throat which will lead to a sore throat? How is it that my body works in reverse?

So, last night, I finally slept. But I woke up with drainage out the nose, sinus pressure, and, in general, a head that felt fuzzy and enlarged.

Off I went, however, like a good little substitute teacher, to a classroom full of kindergartners because I only get my long term pay raise if I'm there EVERY DAY. And, listen, I'd feel bad for all the germ exposing I'm doing but there is SO much snot coming out of all the faces that I don't even feel bad about it.

Yes. You read that correctly. I actually don't even feel bad. Because you know what I don't do? I don't pick my nose and then impatiently grab the nearest hand that isn't my own. I don't forget to cover my mouth when I cough. I don't wipe my nose with a tissue and then hand it to someone else to throw away. I don't cry so hard because my daddy left me at school that I shoot snot out of my nose and onto the table so that the teacher has to wipe it up. I cough into my bent arm. I blow my own nose. I'm not the one spreading this plague.

IT CAME FROM THE LITTLE ANKLE BITERS IN THE VERY FIRST PLACE.

Anyhoo. Yes, I am on day five of the Black Plague Cold of Death. I'm counting down the days until I can plop myself down on the couch with the full intent of recovering. However, I'm currently hauling myself into a classroom with 29 kindergartners. Today, it was SNOW and FIVE DAYS UNTIL CHRISTMAS BREAK and WE STILL HAVE A SUBSTITUTE. The volume was at psychotic levels which was excellent for my fuzzy head. I couldn't talk over them because my voice is half gone. We made Christmas Tree crafts and did math and read a book about a Bad Christmas Kitty.

We survived.

But kind of just barely.

It should be noted that I really do like kindergartners very, very much. I just do not enjoy them quite as much when snot is rushing out of their noses. Or mine.

Trifecta Plus One

My kids were off track for a month. A MONTH! Oh my goodness, you guys. do you know what's not a good idea? Having a first grader and a third grader go to school for six weeks just to turn around and take four off. That is NUTS. Anyway. They went back today. I went with them. I'm subbing in Matthew's class for the rest of the week because his teacher is still recovering from surgery.

A room full of first graders who just came back from what was, essentially, summer break in October. A substitute teacher.  So there was that.

We woke up this morning to snow falling from the sky. It kept falling all day long and, although nothing stuck, we had an inside day at school.

This was the trifecta of disaster.

Five minutes in to the day, a precious little girl was suddenly at my side, tears leaking from her eyes. "I threw up!" I glanced down. Her face was covered in barf.

"You sure did!" I exclaimed. "Come on, let's go."

A group of first graders (read: all of them) were congregated around the upchucked splatter. I walked the little girl down to the office. They called the janitor who, minutes later, brought an enormous carpet cleaner in to our room.

You try teaching six-year-olds who are fresh off a month of no school, are staring out the window at the SNOW, and then staring at the gigantic carpet cleaner as it chugs along, sucking up vomit. It's an absolute modern day miracle that we accomplished anything at all today.

The Lock Down

I was sitting at the desk, counting down the minutes until recess. First graders were cutting out nouns and adjectives and gluing them in the correct columns. "BEEP BEEP!" the intercom alert sounded. I thought it was just for my class. They'd tell me that someone was checking out and to send him to the office. I was just about to respond to the beep with a, "Yes?" But immediately following, a woman's voice, stern and strong, came over the speaker. "Teachers! We are on lock down. Lock down now!"

In the next two seconds my mind processed a handful of thoughts. The first was that the teacher had failed to inform me that we were having a lock down drill. The second was that the office staff had failed to inform me that we were having a lock down drill. The third was that the woman's voice had been so stern that I wasn't entirely sure we were having a lock down drill. I walked very quickly to the door, pulled the magnet and tugged the door closed quickly. In the couple moments it took to accomplish that particular task, I saw two teachers doing the same thing. They did not look like they knew anything about it. They looked...concerned.

I flicked the lights off.

A sea of six-year-olds stared at me. I glanced quickly around the room and then whispered, "Get against the wall." I ushered them over to the wall where their backpacks hung. It couldn't be seen from the window by the door.

"IS THIS REAL?"

"WHAT'S A LOCKDOWN?"

"IT MEANS THERE IS A REALLY BAD GUY IN THE SCHOOL!"

I put my finger to my lips. "You have to be quiet. I mean it. You can't talk." I whispered almost inaudibly.

"Is it real?" one child whispered back.

"I...I don't know," I replied.

I had no idea if it was real or not. And so I had no choice but to treat it like it was absolutely real. And I had no choice but to treat it as though it was the worst case scenario. "Our door doesn't lock," one boy said.

"What do you mean it doesn't lock?" I asked.

"It's broken. Even when we pull it closed, it doesn't lock," he said with panic painted into his eyes. So there was that piece of information gnawing at me as we sat still for ten minutes. The kids got bored and started giggling. I put my finger to my lips again and told them they had to stay quiet.

Suddenly, a shaky voice came over the speaker. "Teachers, you need to email me or text me.immediately. I repeat, email me or text me immediately." The voice sounded afraid, upset, only barely in control. And that's when I really began to believe that there was someone in the building. This person had reason to believe that there were teachers who were not okay, teachers who could not respond because they were hurt--or worse. They were taking inventory. Which teachers were able to respond?

I was not.

We were fine. But I didn't know who "me" even was. I don't have a district issued computer so I couldn't email. I could use my phone to text or email but it was across the room, past the window, and getting it was a risk I wasn't willing to take. If there was a psychopath standing at the window, waiting for sound or movement, I wasn't about to let him (or her) know that we were in there. Whoever "me" was, she was going to have to wait on the first graders in room 103.

The school was laid out exactly like the one my sons attend. Only the kindergartners stood between us and the front office. If someone went in through the front doors, it wouldn't be long before they reached us. I hadn't heard any confrontations or gun fire, but the upper grade levels are around the back and my first graders weren't being particularly quiet when the first announcement had come. If they'd opened fire on the opposite side of the school, I assumed it was possible that I hadn't heard it.

A few moments later, the handle on the door jiggled up and down several times. Several of the students gasped and I threw my finger over my lips again. Tears welled in kids' eyes. I was characterized by a calmness I'm still surprised by. I realized in that second that our door was, in fact, locked. I also firmly believed that someone was inside the school and they were trying doors.

As I tried to keep scared six-year-olds quiet, I had only a few thoughts.

If someone comes through that door or that window, I have to die trying to protect these kids.

PRAY! Ask for deliverance but also make sure you're ready to see Jesus today.

I MIGHT SEE JESUS TODAY!

My family will never see me again. 

Aside from these thoughts, I was numb. I prayed that God would spare me but I also asked that He would welcome me into His presence. I thought of how I would lunge from my place on the floor and slam myself into the gunman. I thought about how much the bullets would hurt. I thought about my husband and my children. Eventually, I thought that the longer we sat there, the better chance we had. Certainly the cops were taking care of it by that point--and I still hadn't heard gunfire.

Suddenly, another jiggle on the door handle. I swallowed hard. Then, the jingle of keys and a woman poked her head inside. She looked around the corner, made eye contact with me and said that I could resume teaching. However, we were still supposed to keep our door locked and no one was allowed to leave the classroom for any reason. Then she turned and walked out.

In that moment, assuming that any imminent danger had passed, I exhaled. Adrenaline flooded from my body at a rapid rate leaving me shaking violently. I'd remained calm. Apparently I'm alright in a crisis situation. It's just after the crisis is over that I fall apart.

The lock down was never really, officially, lifted. Teachers kept their doors closed and their lights out. When the bell rang about a half hour later, I waited until other children filled the halls before letting mine go.

Then I marched down to the office and asked what the heck had happened. "Oh, well, there was a suspicious individual in the neighborhood so we chose to lock down." I explained that I was unable to respond to the announcement about emailing because I had no idea who was speaking and no access to a computer. As I spoke about that being a problem, I got the sense that the office staff thought I was overreacting. Had I known that the threat was outside, I wouldn't have had to jump to "worst case scenario" in my mind and in how I handled the situation. But I had no idea and the best way to take care of a classroom of first graders is to treat the situation as though it could have the worst possible outcome.

I assumed that it was a "no big deal" situation since the office staff seemed none too worried. But this morning my friend sent me a message and an article. As it turns out, the individual was located less than a block away from the school and was being pursued on foot. He was one minute BY FOOT away from the school. He is one of Utah's most wanted. Apparently he was extremely armed and dangerous. You can click here for the story.

Having now been in a situation where nothing really happened and I still feel like years were taken off my life, I cannot imagine what it would be like to sit in a room, listening to gunfire. I cannot imagine witnessing mass murder. I cannot imagine being asked to state my faith and then killed.

When it was over, I looked down at my arm. As an after thought, I'd grabbed my favorite bracelet before I'd walked out the door. It has select phrases from Jeremiah 29:11. He always knows the end from the beginning. And I'm so thankful that yesterday He kept all of us safe.

"'For I know the plans I have for you,' declares the Lord. 'Plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.'"

...Because I'm Black

Middle schoolers can be real pains in the butt. I'm not saying this just from a position of being more than double the age of your average junior higher. I remember being twelve. We (and by we I mean a handful of boys in my class) made a student teacher burst into tears and run out of our classroom. Obviously it marked me since I remember it to this day. I recall finding it one half hysterical and one half pitiful. The next day, I hung around after class and apologized to her. It honestly had nothing to do with me but I think I was apologizing because the whole thing had made me so uncomfortable.

When I tell people that I willingly go into middle school classrooms as a SUBSTITUTE, they typically think this makes me some kind of hardcore masochist. Truth be told, I'd rather be in a room with a bunch of adorable kindergartners but it's not every day that one of those jobs is available. The reason I don't altogether hate middle school is because they leave after 45 minutes. I can tough just about anything out for less than an hour.

Today I took a reading class. While I assumed there would be, well, reading, I did not assume that my day would involve me reading to 7th and 8th graders. I love reading. My favorite thing to do at the elementary level is read books. I get to use funny voices. They laugh and call me the best book reader ever. I wouldn't dare use funny voices at the junior high level. I'd be met with looks of death, I'm sure. I also wasn't expecting to read aloud for somewhere between three and four hours today. I'm pretty hoarse now and I have a killer sore throat. I receive no benefits from substitute teaching so workman's comp is out of the question.

In first period, a group of three boys was being horribly disruptive. I asked them repeatedly to stop and they stared at me and burst into fits of laughter. Unwavering stares and incessant chuckling is something I get a lot from middle schoolers. I'm sure they're making fun of me and I don't even care anymore. It's a paycheck. Finally, I asked one of the boys to move. Not two minutes after I assigned him to a new seat, the remaining two boys were at it again. I pulled a chair directly next to me and told one of them to come and sit in it.

"Are you serious?" he asked me.

"Yes," I replied, holding my finger on the spot where I'd stopped reading.

He got up, mad as a hornet, glared at me and said, "You're doing this because I'm black."

It was instant. Everything inside of me came unglued. I held my outside crap together but only barely. Without thinking, really, I walked directly to my purse and pulled my phone out. I realized my hands were shaking as I scrolled through my pictures. The class was dead silent. I found what I was looking for, marched back over to the student, showed him Matthew and said, "This is my son. So, no. I'm not doing it because you're black."

"Oh..." he said softly.

I sat down and continued reading. Just before the bell rang, I collected their books. The boy stood with a group of friends. They were talking together, very quietly but then I heard his voice over the rest. "She's white and this kid was black so obviously she's not his mom. I don't know who that kid was but he wasn't hers." The thing about it is, if you threaten my child's position in my family, you threaten me. I get, like, mama lioness mad. I drew in a steady breath and slowly exhaled it.

"Well, but she cares for him, anyway," one of his friends replied and then glanced at me.

The bell rang and they all walked out.

I decided that during the prep period, I would let the office know what had happened just in case this kid went home and informed his parents that he'd had a racist substitute. I told the assistant principal what had happened, informed her that it was not a big deal (by then I'd simmered down considerably), but that I just wanted her to know that it had nothing to do with race, in case she heard from him or his parents. She said that it was a big deal to her and that he would be talked to. It was absolutely not my goal to get this kid into trouble. I mean, sure, I felt like educating him with my fist but I didn't want him to be disciplined by the administration. I reiterated that it really hadn't been that big of a problem, I'd dealt with it, and we were fine to move on.

Several hours later he walked back into the classroom.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled.

I was caught off guard because I hadn't been expecting that at all.

"Oh...okay," I stammered like a moron. Like his peer. Not at all like an authority figure.

"I just wanted to say sorry. I...what I did. That was racist."

"Okay." Apparently that was the only word I could formulate. He turned to leave and I finally grabbed my wits. "Hey," I said and he turned and stopped. I stuck out my hand. He looked at it for a long moment and then took it and shook. "I want you to know that I didn't go to the administration because I wanted you to get in trouble. It really wasn't that big of a deal. I just didn't know if you were going to go to them and I needed them to know it didn't have anything to do with skin color."

He nodded, turned, and walked out. I was actually really impressed with how respectful he'd been to me during this second encounter.

I've subbed at this school several times. They've had a hard time keeping substitutes because the school has a reputation of having difficult students. They're trying to keep substitutes coming back so they give out full sized candy bars at the end of the day. I've never had a problem with the students before and I'm more than happy to get a paycheck and a candy bar. The whole situation had unnerved me and, during my lunch break, when I was trying to figure out why I'd let a 7th grader get to me, I thought about how happy I was that I got to eat a candy bar on my drive home.

At the end of the day, I checked out, pulled a candy bar from the basket she handed me, and turned to leave. "Have a nice afternoon," I said. I swung the door open and the kid was standing there, in the middle of the hall. I suddenly felt an overwhelming conviction to hand my candy bar over. But I want to eat it, I thought. That thought was quickly replaced with, Just give him the bar. Great. He might not think I'm a racist anymore but surely he's been taught not to take candy from strangers. Give him the candy bar.

"Hey," I said. "Do you want this?" I held it out, like a complete idiot. I had no idea why I was offering my candy bar to this kid who had infuriated me just hours earlier.

"Uh...yeah...I," he stammered. "I...thanks!" he said as he took it.

"You're welcome," I said.

I walked out the door and straight to my car.

Once inside I said aloud, "But, I wanted the candy bar. Why did I do that? I'm so weird." The thing is, in a school setting, I can't talk about my faith. I can't tell this kid that I only see color because I notice the beautiful way my God paints people. I can't tell him that through a series of incredible blessings, the Lord gave me a black son and that, yes, I care for him. If care for is now defined as would die in an instant for. I wanted him to see that we're both bigger than all that. I'm bigger than my anger and he's bigger than his. I wanted to extend an olive branch--and the only thing I had in my hand was a Butterfinger.

Birth Certificate Trauma

I feel like it's been awhile since I've done an installment of NAMES I'VE ENCOUNTERED WHILE SUBBING. Listen, it was one thing when, back in my day, subs had to deal with the fact that sometimes boys had names more commonly known (in those days) as a girl name or vice versa. Also, the poor substitutes had to figure out how to say Kersten and Kirsten because, no, they weren't pronounced the same way. And there were some names, even then, that were a bit strange. Starbuck comes to mind.

But I am telling you that right now people are FOR REAL just throwing a bag of marbles on the ground, listening to the sounds they make when they kerplunk on the tile, and writing that on the birth certificate. (In fact, I'm sure there's actually a Kerplunk running around somewhere.)

Don't have a name and you're about to leave the hospital? Take the first letter of the first name of each nurse you've met and put them together. Jadiel? WHY NOT? Think that sounds kind of girly when you actually gave birth to a boy? NO MATTER.

You want a more traditional name but feel this intense need to give it some sort of modern spelling? Maygan's your girl. Or Krystyn. Or Aeva.

One of my kids is currently playing a certain organized sport with a GIRL called Sawyer. It's no problem though because they refer to her as Soy Sauce and/or the shortened version, Saucy. I promise, you can't make this stuff up.

Today, in a kindergarten class, I had a Thor.

Yesterday, there was a Bracken, a Brylee, a Brysia and a Brightyn.

I've had a Kolvin and a Tytan.

I've heard of Monson.

Evr.

Draven.

Bridgelee.

Slade.

The list just goes on and on. Some day, I hope that my own children appreciate that I did not name them after leafy ferns or characters in Norse mythology. Some day, I hope that they reward me by not naming my grandchildren Naythin or Narcissus or Bryzannaleigh.

Dude. Someone, somewhere, is going to accidentally stumble upon this blog and totally name her daughter Bryzannaleigh. And it's going to be MY FAULT.

Age Matters

So there I am, subbing for 8th graders. Sure, sometimes they're belligerent. Sometimes they stare me down like I'm some kind of two headed maniac. Always they're glued to their phones like a gang of robotic half wits. But, mostly, they're fine. The only thing that gets a little old is the fact that there are six periods and I do the same thing OVER and OVER and OVER again. And usually it's some mind-numbing thing because the teacher didn't know ahead of time that I have a degree in Theatre or have taken extensive course work in English and Writing. This is a good thing if I ever sub for Alegbra or Earth Science or Boys' Weight Lifting. In those circumstances, I'd be thrilled to watch the first half of Stand and Deliver six times.

Today, I had to listen as the students (not so) dramatically read from the stage version of The Diary of Anne Frank. SIX TIMES. It wasn't all bad. One girl read Anne with a decidedly interesting English accent while, simultaneously, another girl read her mother with a Russian accent. Okay. We make artistic choices. Sometimes they're good ones. Sometimes they aren't. Like one boy's choice to read the part of Peter with a tone that suggested a great deal of pent up sexual frustration. It was a little uncomfortable and I just didn't quite know how to handle it.

The very best part came, however, when a boy playing Peter (not sexually charged Peter, a different one) said, "You're crazy. She's only 13."

The girl reading for Mrs. Van Daan replied, "And you're 16. Just perfect. Your father's 10 years older than I--WHOA!" The entire class erupted with mirthful hysterics at the mere thought of ANY couple being that far apart. She continued, "That is NOT okay."

I decided not to regale them with my own story. No need to tell them about the cradle robbing love of my life and the decade that separates us.

Extreme Substituting

At 5:30, bleary eyed and still half dreaming, I accepted a job for half a day of kindergarten. Ninety minutes later, I climbed into brown dressy/churchy/worky pants, a pink and brown business looking shirt, and brown slip on, loafer-style shoes. Trust me, the importance of the attire will be explained later. At 7:50 I waved goodbye to the child who was racing me down the street. (I, in my car. He, in his Vans--surfer hair flying as he ran, waving.)

At 8:00 I checked in and was informed that the teacher I claimed to be subbing for only taught in the afternoon. I immediately pulled out my phone to show the secretary that I was right. I can do that now. The increase in my cell phone bill proves it. Before I could even turn it on though, she was on her phone.

"Hello?" came the voice clearly through the receiver.

"Who is this?" asked the secretary.

"Christy," the voice replied. That was the first name of the person I was supposed to sub for. What that meant was still a mystery to me.

"Oh. You're here. There's a sub here and I just now remembered that you're going on a field trip today. Do you need her?"

Wha?

"Yes. I can't go. I was vomiting my brains out all night long. Send her down."

No! I'm so sorry. While I don't know what it's like to vomit one's brains out all night long, I am intimately acquainted with throwing one's stomach contents, all the bile there ever was, and possibly a spleen out all night and into the live long day. But I do not want to be sent down to catch (and thus experience) it again for myself.

The secretary hung up the phone. "Did you know you're going to the zoo?"

Yes, as a matter of fact, I always wear slip on loafer shoes to the zoo. I always wear dress pants. I always carry a large purse. And I leave my lunch at home because I think I'm going to be finished with this job by noon.

"I did not," I replied.

"Oh. Well. You're going to the zoo!"

I walked down the hall. "Hi," I said to the teacher who was sitting at her desk looking peakish in a red hoodie, her hair tied up in a messy ponytail. "I'm sorry you were throwing up all night." Because, you know, I genuinely was.

"You heard that?" she sounded mortified. "It just came on so suddenly. There's no way I can go to the zoo today. Oh. So. You're going on a field trip."

This was no longer news to me but was not, in fact, a thrilling piece of information. Being in charge of almost two dozen kindergartners ON A FIELD TRIP is not my idea of a good time. Add to that the fact that I would be wrangling kids I'd never met before IN BROWN SLIP ON SHOES AT THE ZOO and we had a recipe for disaster.

"Come over here and I'll explain everything," she said.

No. No. No. I will stand over here, a good, safe distance from ALL THE PLAGUE-LIKE THINGS YOU HAVE GOING ON OVER THERE. Just shout the directions to me from your desk. I'm fine where I am.

I walked to her anyway. I'm obedient like that. I tried not to breathe because, seriously, I doubt that woman's "up all night vomiting out brain matter and whatnot" has anything on me. I'VE LAID ON THE FLOOR OF AN AIRPLANE LAVATORY AND THROWN UP OVER INTERNATIONAL WATERS!

"Another teacher will be here. She teaches in the morning. I do the afternoon. You'll all meet in here. These parents are going," she handed me plague infested index cards which she referred to as Post-It notes but I knew it was just the lack of sleep, lack of food, lack of water talking. "Mark whoever is absent on this and send it to the office. Make sure each parent has the lunches for the kids they are responsible for. You'll do great. Have fun. Goodbye." She said a few more words, obviously, but that was the gist.

There should be a game show called Extreme Substituting because I would win ALL THE POINTS. And the bonus round. I mean, last year a kid took his pants off and today I was thrown into a river of demented piranhas and told to swim upstream. A COUPLE DOZEN KINDERGARTNERS. THE ZOO. AND ABOUT A FIVE MINUTE WARNING.

I had a brief daymare involving children being maimed by lions thus resulting in my being asked never to return to another substitute position ever again for the rest of my life. The bell rang, shaking me out of my horror story. I opened the door and welcomed the children in.

Except, as I soon learned, they weren't mine. They were the morning class. My kids stood outside for another five minutes. Parents looked bewildered. I tried taking roll with the wrong class. The other teacher finally came in.

"Hi! So everyone needs one of these," she handed me a bag of badges that proudly displayed the name of the school." While she called her own student's names, I attempted to figure out which parents belonged to my class. Turns out two of the parents I was supposed to have decided not to show up. I quickly started shifting names around on the VERY IMPORTANT LOOKING DOCUMENT. I called parents the wrong names after they'd told me half a dozen times. I thought the girl named Elliot was a boy with long hair. I finally managed to figure out which kids were absent and which were present and hand them off to their (re)designated parent.

"Should we take this with us?"

"Does he need that?"

"When we get there you need to take our zoo passes and our IDs and take care of getting all of us in."

"Can we switch? I know she would be happier with me and he'd be happier with his buddy."

I don't care. I so do not care. I am sure the teacher put a great deal of time and effort into these groups but I have never met them before in my life and I just do not care.

"Sure," I said. "Just let me change it on here." It's a good thing I'm a very organized individual who prides herself on not losing kids at the zoo. A lesser sub would have crumbled under the pressure and been found sucking her thumb under the flu infested desk. I'm not entirely sure why no one has handed me a teaching license yet. One of these days I'm sure I'll find it in the mail.

Dear Mrs. Doozleberry,

Here is your license. We know you do not have the proper schooling but, well, a kid took his pants off and then you had approximately thirty seconds to get organized for a field trip you didn't know you were taking. Enjoy your credential and the upgrade in pay.

Yours Truly,
The Utah Educator's Association (or whoever it is that gives those things out)

Once on the bus, the other teacher told me I needed to count noses. I cry-whispered under my breath, "But I don't know which noses are mine." Eventually, we tag teamed it and I was able to make sure that all of my kids had their noses accounted for.

At the zoo, I managed to get all the appropriate parents and students inside by handing several IDs and passes over to the nice zoo worker man guy. I even got the IDs back to their rightful owners. After that, I had almost three peaceful hours, chatting with the other teachers, walking around the zoo (in inappropriate shoes), and taking pictures of elephants to show my first grader. (Look what I did today--AND I GOT PAID!)

We made it back on the bus--every last one of us. No one was attacked by a bear, even. The parents were all really great and helpful. The kids had fun. And no one took his pants off. In case you're wondering, I pretty much measure the success of all days by whether or not someone takes off his pants.

Now all I have to do is sit back and wait to catch the flu.

Hoarders: Teachers Addition

When I can snag a kindergarten job at a school within ten minutes of my house, I DO IT. Kindergarten is a super sub job because I get over an hour break in the middle of the day, if something goes wrong in the morning, I can adjust for the afternoon, and kindergartners are typically hilarious and sweet little angels.

Today, I got into the classroom and managed to find the bin with the sub plans...

But not before surveying the colossal disaster and potential next episode of Hoarders that was to be my classroom for the next seven hours. There was a kidney table, a rectangle table, and a teacher's desk. Out of those three locations, I couldn't find anywhere to set my stuff. Usually I shove it under the teacher's desk. This was the top of her desk...

Under her desk were boxes and files in piles. Her iPad had made its' home on her rolling chair. The kidney table was filled with multiple layers of all manner of educational paraphernalia. At one point, I cleared some of it away to make space to eat my lunch. I discovered completed Fountas & Pinnell (an important reading assessment) paperwork under unused Valentine activities and used Kleenex.

And the counter space looked like this. All of it.

Everything was in such a state of disarray that I--with my borderline obsessive compulsive disorder regarding clutter--could barely function. At one point I started to organize part of the room but decided there was just too much to do and too little time. (And, you know, the fact that I was way overstepping my bounds.)

It wasn't just the way the room looked, either. The morning class was, by far, the worst kindergarten class I've ever encountered. And I've encountered a lot. At one point I said, rather loudly, "One, two, three. Eyes on me." While this is the way the teacher told me to get their attention, only one student answered with, "One two, eyes on you." None of the other 21 students had any desire to listen to me. As I read to them about George Washington and Abraham Lincoln, not a one of them paid attention to me. When I stopped and told them that I would start again when they could be quiet, they looked at me, blinked a few times, and then returned to their side conversations. They pushed. They shoved. They couldn't keep their own body parts to themselves. They spit. They cried. They tattled. Over and over and over again they squealed on each other. "She bumped into me!" "He touched her HAIR!" "He's not supposed to do his journal THAT WAY!"

The afternoon class was better but still takes the silver medal for WORST KINDERGARTEN CLASS I'VE EVER SUBBED FOR.

The lesson plans said things like, "Give the Star Student a bracelet located in the baggie in the desk under the document camera." Easy enough. Except the room was such a mess it took me a solid two minutes to find the document camera. (And they aren't small!)

It was exhausting.

And so the opposite of a healthy learning environment.

On the other hand, I'm singing the praises of my own child's kindergarten and first grade teachers who have both been incredibly organized and, therefore, total rock stars as far as I'm concerned.

Frand

Yesterday I was with kinders.

They seemed so mature to me last year. Now that my own child is in first grade and has a head full of adult teeth, the kindergartners seem a little like babies. One of them sucks her thumb non stop and can't recognize the letter O.

But, in any case, they are still hilarious.

"Can you tell me some words that rhyme with and?" I asked them.

"Band!"

"Sand!"

"Man!"

"Well, man doesn't rhyme with and. It has the same vowel sound but it doesn't end in the same sound. Let's try again."

"FRAND!" One girl shouted, very proud.

"Well, okay. Frand does rhyme with and but...is frand a word?"

Some said no. Some said yes. The girl who supplied the answer shouted, "Yes! It is too a word." Then she put on her very best southern accent and said, "This here's my fraaaaand."

And I could not hide my laughter.

Sice

For some odd reason, I've been getting notes almost every day at work that ask me to excuse students from recess. They go a little something like this... "Please let Fitzpatrick* stay in during recess. He hasn't been feeling well."

Or...

"Aristotle** is still getting over a cold. Please excuse him from all recesses for the week."

Or...

"Brinkleighanna*** is still recovering from the stomach flu and needs to remain inside during recess." Swell! Thanks for sending her!

So it was becoming an epidemic of notes and illnesses and the first grade team got wind of it. They told me that the kids were getting their parents to write notes because they thought that staying inside would be fun. But then I wasn't getting any kind of break in the day at all. They told me what to do.

During lunch recess the students stay in the cafeteria. It's not very fun in there.

During afternoon recess, they stay in the classroom. However, instead of playing and having a grand time, they have to put their heads down on the desk and rest. They are, after all, recovering and need all the rest they can get. I think this is a great idea because if they are truly not feeling well, rest is what they need. If they're milking it, a power nap is not something they enjoy.

It works like a charm.

There are some students, however, that still have a romanticized idea about what goes on when their friends stay inside. I encountered one such student today.

She came up to me, armed with her best pouty face. "Hi," she said, her voice dripping with fake illness. "My mom says I have to stay in today because I'm sick. Here's a note from her" she told me. She handed me a tiny scrap of paper.

Sarah is sice. Except it didn't say Sarah because that isn't her name. It had her real name. Insert real name here is sice. It was all I could do not to burst into hysterical laughter right then and there.

"Sarah is sice?" I read aloud. And by the way, in case there is any other way to read that word, I am pronouncing it as though it rhymes with nice. Or ice. Or lice.

She replied, "No. It says, 'Sarah is sick.'"

"It says, 'Sarah is sice.' What exactly is sice?" I asked. Then I looked at her. "Your mom did not write this."

"YES SHE DID!" The little girl insisted.

"She did not," I replied. Annoyed that she was really going to try to keep up the charade.

"She did so! She could only find a little tiny piece of paper. But she wanted you to know I am very sick!"

"Okay. Well. I'm sorry you're sice," I replied. I couldn't help myself. Seriously. I mean, really. If my only job for the entire day had been to not respond in a snarky manner to this little lying miscreant, I would not have been able to do it.

"So can I stay in for recess?" she asked.

It took everything in me not to burst with mirth. "Um. No."

Of course I shared this with the first grade teachers. Of course they laughed. Of course I contemplated letting the mother know that her daughter is a complete liar by showing her the note. Of course I decided to let it go. Mostly because I really wanted to bring the note home with me and keep it forever and ever. It's sitting on my nightstand right now. I can't look at it and not laugh.

And, from now on, whenever I'm sick, I fully intend to tell people that I am feeling sice.

"I can't come to your dinner party. I'm very sice."

"Last night I was super sice. Up all night with the stomach flu."

"My son won't be at school today. He's really sice."

There is no end to the joy that this little girl gave me today when she chose to exercise her devious sin nature. My world is truly a better a place.


*Not really the name of any kids in my class. Not that I'd put it past anyone. This state has some really strange names.

**Also not the name of any of the students I have. However, once, when I was subbing for a high school class, I had a Socrates. True story.

***It's only a matter of time before I come across this name. I kid not.

Perspective

"Look what I got!" Matthew said as I walked through the door at 4:00 pm. He was sporting his alphabet crown. Although he's known his letters for quite some time now, he always managed to miss one when he was being tested. Until today.

And I wasn't there to pick him up.

I was there when a first grader started to cry over something so ridiculous it's ridiculous. "What's wrong?" I asked her. She said her eyes were watering. Why do we do that? Why do we hide what's wrong? Bury it under ten feet of crap and lies. I'm a woman. I've been pretending that my eyes are just watering for a long time. I saw through. So I sent everyone else away and I talked to her. And we fixed it.

It was a first grade problem. But we took care of it.

I feel good about that.

But I feel bad about missing my kid's crowning moment.

I live my life wishing I could have a career. I live my life wishing I could be the very best mom. If anything, these past three days have showed me that I can't really have both. And I'm thankful that this job has an end date.

***Edited to add.
I was thinking about this post while I was driving home from Bible study and I realized that it maybe sounded like I was saying that women can't have a career and children and do either job well. That is absolutely not what I was trying to convey. I simply know that, for me, having a full time job and being as involved of a parent as I want to be would be a very difficult balance. One that I am glad, at this point in my life, I don't usually have to attempt. Women who do it all (especially single moms) have my utmost respect.

What Does the Fox Say?

It's become apparent to me that the blog will suffer while I work full time for the next three weeks.

I'm enjoying it but I'm already thanking the Lord that I don't usually work this much. I miss my kids. Our evenings feel super rushed. By the time I finish my Bible study it's dinner time. By the time we finish dinner it's time to start the bedtime routine. I'm thankful for this time of employment but I'm already thinking about what we'll do together in December, when I'm no longer spending my days inside a first grade classroom.

I might be able to live my whole entire life without ever again hearing, "What does the fox say?" However, since it is my first graders' most favorite thing to say, I am not holding my breath.

Facts of Life

One day, I may write a book to forever remember the things that happen while I am substitute teaching. The working title: Go Easy on the Sub. While I realize that's a pretty small niche of people, I'm hoping to also attract Navy personnel and people who like sandwiches. I'll have a strong opening so that even those in the military are captivated.

It's a little challenging to write about my experiences with fill-in-teaching because I want to protect the privacy of kids who don't belong to me. My own children have no choice in the matter because I feed them, bathe them and generally provide for their well-being. It's a trade off. I raise them and they, in turn, give me good writing material. As far as these other kids go, though, I don't really want my blog getting hauled into court as evidence in some libel suit. Also, I don't want to get fired. I've never lost a job before and if I can survive the Summer from Hell without getting fired, I can survive substitute teaching. Fact.

I've experienced some really hilarious things in my short six months as An Undisclosed District employee. I've heard the funniest things come out of the mouths of kindergartners. I've had an entire class refer to me as Mrs. Pumpkin because I made the mistake of saying, "My name is Mrs. Doozleberry* but that's a little hard to remember so you can call me Mrs. D** if you want to. Actually, you can call me whatever you want. I'll even answer to Hey You." They were cute five-year-olds. I never really saw the Pumpkin thing coming. But it is what it is and now, sometimes, I tell classes that they can call me Mrs. Doozleberry or Mrs. D or Mrs. Pumpkin. It breaks the ice and lets them know that I'm not one of those subs--the kind I seemed to have for all of my formative years. The awful, old and outdated kind.

There have been words of encouragement and affirmation. There was the time that my teacher-friend told me the third grade class I'd subbed for said I was, "The best book reader of all time." And to think, my kids get that for free every night. Those boys don't know how good they have it. I've decided to lead with that from now on.

"What do you do?" someone will ask.

"Well," I'll reply. "For starters, I'm the best book reader of all time."

There have been frustrating times of lesson plans written in a dead language and next to impossible to decipher if not left with the proper code. I've powered through. I've had the teacher sitting in the room, watching my every move, because she decided she really needed to come in and do reading groups even though she needed the rest of the day off. See, some teachers don't understand that I actually know how to take a baggie book out, have a student read it, and then replace it with a new book.

But nothing--NOTHING--was quite as remarkable as what happened to me yesterday. But let me go all the way back to Monday.

I headed in to the school nearly a week ago and, as I walked, I heard students shouting things like, "Yes! First day of school! Wahoo!" I was immediately alarmed. Subbing. For first graders. On the first day of school? This sounded like a complicated recipe for nothing short of disaster. As it turned out, I was there to fill in for a teacher who'd lost her father the day before. It wasn't a big deal. They didn't actually start until Tuesday and I only had 15 minute interviews with all the students. I showed them their restroom, their spot to line up, their homework assignment. It was painless. I told most of the parents that I would probably be back for a portion of the week.

Their teacher managed to be with them on Tuesday and Wednesday. She left me detailed lesson plans for Thursday and Friday. We made it through Thursday with no major problems. Her form of disciplinary action is a yellow card on their desk that says, "Substitute." There's a little poem written on the card about expected behavior. She told me to punch a hole in the card if the student was taking too long to finish, had behavioral issues or was disrespectful. For great behavior, they could earn stickers.

On Thursday I punched three holes and gave out three stickers. Because, you know, I like to live a life of balance.

One student earned a punch for always delaying the class--despite my many efforts to get him to stay on task.

Another kid had to be asked multiple times to stop talking. Finally, during the second half of the day, when the entire class was quiet and focused on me, he shouted, "THIS IS BORING! I HATE DOING THIS! IT'S BORING!" I'd had it with constantly telling this child to be quiet and the blatant disrespect earned him a quick hole punch. We'd already reviewed what it meant to be respectful and how we stay on task. I explained to the class that shouting out our feelings of boredom was unacceptable. Later, another student chose to voice her opinion about being bored. She also received a hole punch. What I found odd was that it wasn't even close to the most boring thing we'd done that day. It was actually kind of fun. It was nearing the end of the day. They were tired. I have a first grader and I get it. But I have to follow the instruction left for me by their teacher. These hole punches are not the end of the world, by any means, and I counted the day a success.

Yesterday, I walked out the door with a smile on my face, ready to start the day. I was met by a line of happy first graders. Suddenly, a woman was quickly walking toward me. She got right up beside me. I don't have much of a space bubble, ask anyone who knows me. I'll hug anything. But this woman was IN THE BUBBLE, Y'ALL. She immediately told me who's mother she was.

"My child said he got his card punched yesterday. I need to know exactly what happened," she demanded.

Now remember, the bell has rung. I'm there to collect twenty students and take them to class. It's not actually the time for this conversation to be happening. I explained the nature of the cards to this woman. I informed her of the kind of behavior that can earn a punch.

"Right," she said, clearly dismissive. Clearly not hearing me but, rather, giving me the opportunity to speak while she formed her next sentence. I know this tactic because, when I'm being a real gem, it's what I find myself doing when I'm having a disagreement with my husband. "So, now he has to stay in at recess because you've decided to punish him for that?"

"No," I said, smiling. Attempting to defuse the bomb. "I'm not punishing him at all. It's just my way to communicate any issues with the teacher."

"So, because he speaks his mind, he's going to get in trouble when his teacher gets back. That's unacceptable," she was becoming more and more agitated by the second.

"Okay..." I began. It became apparent to me, after I replayed the entire conversation in my head, that I used the word okay way too many times. The problem was, I was so caught off guard, so surprised, that logical thinking was severely lacking. "Well, the rest of the class was quiet. I was instructing. He said it very loudly so it was a distraction--"

"Right. Listen. I'm an educator. Not only do I work with elementary schoolers, I work in special education...."

I thought to myself, "Apparently now she's sharing her resume with me as an intimidation tactic. A 'Clearly I have a higher education level than you do, therefore I must be right.' kind of move."

"...and I would never discipline a child in such a way. My child is entitled to share his feelings. He was bored. He should be able to express that freely. It's not his fault you're boring."

Oh. Wow. Did she really just argue that her child should be able to share his feelings regardless of situation and without consequence? Because being raised with this kind of garbage for instruction is going to get him approximately no where in life. AND I AM NOT BORING! Don't choke her. Maintain smile. Keep smiling. Wait...too much smiling. Stop smiling, you're about to start laughing. Fix this ridiculous situation. Keep talking quietly to counter her anger. 

"Okay," I said...again. "It's just that it was very disrupti--"

"Disruptive. I don't really think so. What happened is that he expressed his feelings and your pride got hurt so you took it out on him. Right?"

"No, my pride wasn't hurt at all," I said quietly, kindly, even, which took all the years of my theatrical training to accomplish.

"Yes. It was. Your pride was hurt because you're boring."

Thanks for telling me how I feel but my pride isn't going to be wounded because some kid thinks that the lesson plans his teacher left for me to do are boring. Lady, your kid is SIX. I hate to break it to you but he's not actually capable of destroying my pride.

"Well--" I tried to say something.

"Like I said, I'm an educator. This is not acceptable. I'm not satisfied with your response..."

Because you haven't given me a moment to respond.

"...So I'll be bringing this up with the teacher. And I'll be taking it to the principal. I don't expect to see you back here."

What exactly do you think is going to happen? Do you think they're going to cart me off to the slammer and you'll get to come testify at my trial?

"Okay, I understand," I said. Except, really, I didn't. It was like talking to an irrational eight-year-old in a grown woman's body. I have my own first grader. I know that they can be disruptive, disrespectful and strong-willed. The first grader is NOT always right. Even if I disagree with the choice a teacher makes, I realize that she is with my child (and twentysomething other kids) ALL DAY LONG. You can bet that, in the same situation, if I strongly disagreed with her, I would have said, "I don't agree with the course of action you took but I respect your position as his teacher and I'll talk to my child about not doing it again." Because my child needs to learn that we don't always agree but we do always treat authority with respect.

I marched that first grade class into their room. I was boiling with rage. As I began to teach I prayed silently that God would help me not to blame the child for the sins of the mother. He's six. He processes and reacts to situations with all the experience of six years. His adult mother doesn't have the same excuse. Not so incredibly, the child had a fantastic day. I called him back to the teacher's desk and quietly explained that getting a hole punch didn't mean I didn't like him or that we had any kind of problem with each other. We fist bumped. They exploded into fireworks. He smiled. He didn't talk out of turn. He didn't blurt out disrespectful things. I'm no genius and I don't actually have an education degree, but it seems to me, the hole punch worked.

During recess I told a couple teachers so that they would be aware of the situation if the regular teacher asked. "What does she expect to happen?" one of the teachers questioned.

"I guess she wants to get me fired from this school," I replied.

"Well, that's not going to happen," one of them said. "We really like you."

I left the regular teacher a detailed note chronicling the situation and I found the principal during lunch.

"Did a mom come in to visit you this morning?" I asked.

"No," he replied.

"Oh, well, she will," I warned.

Without asking a single question to gain perspective on the situation, he said, "How far did she fly when you hit her?"

I laughed and said, "I didn't. I just wanted to." Then I proceeded to fill him in. He affirmed that I had followed the teacher's instruction, that I acted completely within the boundaries of a student/substitute relationship, and that he, too, liked me and wanted me to return to the school.

So, it would seem, the mother just wanted to threaten me. She wanted to let me know that she's an educator and I'm just a stupid substitute. She knows how to handle children and I, apparently, don't. She knew nothing of the high schoolers I taught--as their regular teacher. She knew not of the two small children I raise. She had no idea of my own resume. She, it would seem, was the one who wanted to try to hurt my pride. She was unsuccessful.

It would also seem that, contrary to what she believes, we don't always get away with it when we speak our minds. Whether we are six or thirty-six. As a friend of mine said, "She needs to have her card punched."

*Alias
**Not the initial I gave them

The Importance of Pants

Did I ever tell all y'all about the time I was subbing and a kid took his pants off?

No?

Well, one day, I was filling in for Garrett's teacher. There I was, sitting up at the front of the class, reading a book to the students. As I paused to turn the page, I glanced in a particular child's direction. It took me approximately six seconds to assess the situation and begin processing what I should do about it. There, in the middle of a kindergarten classroom, sat a child wearing no pants. He had his knees pulled up to his chest, his shirt stretched out and pulled over his legs and down to his ankles where his pants were resting comfortably. For the briefest of moments I thought he still had his underwear on but, no such luck. I quickly realized I was staring at the naked tukas of a six-year-old.

Come to find out, I was one of the last people to realize this kid's wardrobe malfunction. And I use the word malfunction here very loosely. I use it exactly the way Janet Jackson did to describe her Superbowl exposure. As in, yes, clearly I chose to expose myself willingly but we'll go ahead and call it a malfunction. My own son explained, later in the day, that several of them had been pointing to the pantsless wonder and whispering, "Naked!" Apparently I was very enthralled with the book I was reading and missed all of that. It's moderately concerning to me that the district allows me to monitor classrooms.

I remember feeling hot and angry very suddenly. I had no idea how I was going to get this kid to put his pants back on before the rest of the students or, more importantly, I saw him in all his natural wonder. I set the book down, instructed (in a measured and eerie voice) the class to continue facing forward (this kid was in the back row), walked over to the little hooligan and quietly hissed, "Pull up your pants right now."

He looked at me with big eyes and whispered, "I can't." I understood his dilemma. How was he supposed to pull up his pants without the entire class seeing his, er, self. Of course, I was wondering how this hadn't crossed his mind before he'd wiggled his clothing down to his ankles. I spun around and faced the wall.

"Everyone face forward," I said loudly. "Pull. Up. Your. Pants." I whispered. Once they were up I turned back around and gave the kid a lecture on the importance of keeping ones clothes on and never, ever do that again and oh boy are you ever losing your stamp today, Buster.

I explained the episode in a note to Garrett's teacher. I emailed her and gave her more information. Honestly, I didn't know if I was supposed to send him to the office with a note, "I'm in trouble for taking off my pants." Or if it was something that had happened before and there was a specific punishment for it. Or...what. I asked her to please let me know how I should handle something like that in the future. Although, I sincerely hope never, ever to have to deal with that in the future. Needless to say, we shared a pretty good laugh about it.

Fast forward to today. Garrett had a field trip to the children's museum. Since we parents are all about holding our babies hands for just a minute longer, there were massive amounts of us on this trip. Garrett's class had 20 students who went and there were eleven parents. We're pathetic awesome like that. His teacher assigned us our own child and one other. Of course I got Sir Pantsless.

As we sat eating our lunch, I talked to several other moms, Garrett's teacher, and another teacher. Suddenly, I realized that it had been a few minutes since I'd seen my other student. "Hold on," I interrupted. "I need to find Billy*"

"Yeah, you've gotta keep an eye on that one," Garrett's teacher said.

"I know," I paused. "You never know when he might take his pants off."

Garrett's teacher laughed out loud and then regaled the other teacher with the story. Once I'd located Captian No Pants I turned back to the conversation. "There's a reason I put him with you," she smiled.

"I figured," I said. "Thanks." I guess when you become a district employee you get charged with making sure everyone keeps his clothes on. To be fair, he was perfectly fine and I never had to remind him of the importance of wearing pants.


*Not his name. You have to do something to protect the innocent--naked as they may be.