I Kinda Miss It

On Saturday morning, I woke up to find an e-mail from on old student of mine, who is halfway through her first year of college.

She wrote:

Mrs. C - I am taking Random Intro to Communications Course this semester with Professor Random. Thank you so much for all you have taught me. I feel like you have set me up for success in this course. I am scoring really well compared to my classmates on our assignments. It has become a relatively low-stress class for me, while it is freaking everyone else out. Thank you!!! - C.B.

Immediately after reading it, I broke into tears.

Sure, part of it was the pregnancy hormones, but another part of it was the fact that I was truly touched.

Teaching high-school-ers, I always say, is the best and worst job I've ever had.

I lived through certifiable nightmares, at times, wondering how on Earth I'd ever gotten into education and hoping and praying all my students and I'd live to see another day.

But then, something small would happen - a kid would get into their dream college; a struggling student would bring up their SAT Verbal score; a child in need would open up about their feelings - and bam! I'd be right back to the girl who walked into her classroom as a first-year teacher.

Idealistic.

Hopeful.

Reaching out to each and every kid with open arms, excited about the subject I was teaching.

I lived for these little moments.

The laugh following a literary analogy. A journal entry that showed they listened. A formerly lazy student showing up for an optional study session.

I adored what I did when that happened.

Truly, it was never about the kids. I didn't burn out in education because of my students.

Sure, they drove me crazy at times. But a vast majority of my frustrations as a teacher stemmed from the system - the bureaucracy, the school boards, the principals, my fellow teachers, the budget cuts, and the parents.

They made it very hard for teachers to just teach.

And that's what I wanted to do.

So, as I've said before, I left that dream. Burned out and jaded.

Loving "my kids" but thrilled to be focusing on other parts of my adult life.

So as my last group of senior students graduated this past spring, I packed up my bags, moved to South Carolina to follow my husband's budding Navy career, and found a job working as a fitness trainer - a job I'd held on the side for years just to make some extra cash.

Both the hubs and I discussed it. We decided that, for the next few years, I'd continue to work part-time, while he worked what can inadequately be described as double over-time, and we'd start on our family.

And, so far, minus a few bumps in the road, our plan has worked.

We're pregnant, expecting our first child, and I'm working 20 to 30 hours a week - a vast majority of which I can actually bring my child to work with me once he/she is born.

We've been immensely blessed.

I, honestly, am getting to live out my dream to be a stay-at-home mom, as well as take care of the cooking, cleaning, and household duties in a reasonable fashion, instead of squeezing them in - poorly, I might add - after working an exhausting 15-hour workday at the school.

It's exactly what my family needs right now.

And because of that, I couldn't be happier.

Except, occasionally, I get an e-mail. A letter. A message from a kid I taught.

And, even though I don't admit it, I kind of start to miss it.

Not the the bureaucracy, the school boards, the principals, my fellow teachers, the budget cuts, and the parents, but the kids.

I miss the kids, and I miss the moments.

I miss the break-throughs that come from working with such a messy, dysfunctional age-group known as "teenagers."

I miss the growth and magic that occurs over one year together in a classroom, where students drop attitudes, start to learn, and then attach themselves to your heart, so that by the time they're ready to move on and walk out your classroom door, you've started to really love them, and you're actually sad to see them go.

I miss the very rare "thank you."

The e-mail that comes in on a Saturday morning that tells me, "Hey, you made a difference for me."

Not that it happens often. And not that the e-mail I received on Saturday was really all that special.

I have news for you: C.B. would have been fine without me as a teacher. The reason she's so successful in her college course is because she's a good, smart student, and she was like that three years ago when I met her.

But the fact that she remembers me, the fact she remembers what I taught her, pulls me back in even now.

Even when I'm excited to be on this new journey of motherhood. Even when I'm thrilled to be growing and caring for my family in my own, new way. Even when I'm ecstatic to work at a job where I can leave my stress at the end of the day and go home unscathed.

But despite all that, the classroom still haunts me a little. The teacher in me, burned out and ready for something different, still isn't dead yet.

And, honestly, I don't think she ever will be.

Because I still get a thrill when I see an old student doing well.

I still get excited when I run into students, and they're excited to see me.

And I still get pumped when I get a "thank you" from a kid I knew would make it all along.

So, yeah, I miss being a teacher.

And something tells me, I probably always will.

***

This isn't to say that I'm not thrilled with my place in life. I wouldn't trade it for the world, in fact. But it's been a trade-off, and though it's a worthy sacrifice, now that I'm more than six months out from the decision, I can honestly say I get nostalgic about the "old me" sometimes.

Luckily, all avenues aren't closed completely. Once we're done having kids - which, granted, might not be for awhile - I may go back to teaching once our babies are all of school age.

This, of course, is assuming we don't decide to home-school our children - a possibility we haven't totally ruled out yet.

So, no, the classroom isn't totally sealed off for me. Yet.

Time will tell what happens in that part of my life.

And for now, I'll simply have to live for those e-mails, those brief glimpses back at the "old me" that come through every once in a while on a Saturday morning.

***

Happy Tuesday, everyone!

Baby Mama Drama

Two weeks ago, the hubs and I were leaving for the first leg of our vacation.

We'd driven to Florida, dropped the dog off with my parents, grabbed about three hours of sleep, and then arose to head to the airport.

We were flying to Arkansas to see the hub's family, and in order to maximize our six days there, we had the genius idea, back in October, of course, of booking a flight that left before 7 a.m.

Which is why I was traipsing through the Orlando airport at 5 a.m. on a Saturday morning, glazed over with a fresh coating of morning sickness sweat, hating life, on my first day of vacation.

We'd safely made our way through security, and I'd managed to deposit my barely coherent husband, who'd already managed to rip open one of our carry-on bags and send Christmas gifts spewing everywhere, at our appropriate flight gate.

I then retreated back to the concourse so I could brave the small army pushing and shoving their way to the front of the Starbucks line.

Not for myself. No. I'm not allowed to drink coffee.

No, I left my snoozing husband at the gate and returned back to the masses to get him a jumbo-sized cup of cafe', for fear that if I did not caffeinate him, he would leave me all alone juggling three carry-ons, leggings that refused to stay on top of my teeny baby bump, and my barf bag.

So, there I was, surly, tired, afraid of throwing up yet again, stomping around in my Ugg boots and leggings and a shirt-dress two sizes two big for me because it was the only thing I owned that fit, trying to peer over the heads of the 18 business men in front of me who kept beaming me with their briefcases.

It wasn't even 6 a.m. yet.

I was lost in my anger at how absurdly early it was.

Then, I heard it.

A teeny, tiny voice, exclaiming a phrase that hadn't been uttered in at least six months.

"Mrs. C! Hey, Mrs. C!"

And then, the voiced screamed.

I whipped around in time to hear a frenzy of stomping shoes, feel a veritable rush of energy, and see five teenagers come hurtling toward me at full-speed.

Five teenagers who I hadn't seen since at least June.

And five teenagers who I'd never seen without at least two good cups of coffee under my belt.

Their voices got louder; their stampede grew heavier. A mother with two toddlers moved out of their path nervously.

And they were on me, yelling in my hears and hugging my neck and asking over and over again, "What the heck are you doing here, Mrs. C?"

It was 6:08 a.m., and my old students had found me.

Either that, or I was being accosted by a rather friendly, affectionate, and well-researched group of muggers.

Traveling on a chorus trip to New York City, these old students of mine were flying out of a town almost three hours away from the school I used to teach at, and they just happened to be leaving from the gate parked right next to the one the hubs and I were set to depart from an hour later.

Yes, you read that correctly. The first time I'd been around "my kids" in six months, and I was at an airport in the wee hours of a holiday morning.

Pregnant.

Glowing from morning sickness.

And wishing I looked a little less homeless and a little more teacher-y.

Still, it was good to see them. To hear that they missed me. To see that several other students I'd taught belatedly came running over to hug me and ask about my little baby bump.

And then one of them pulled out a camera.

"Mrs. C, we have to take a picture of this. No one will believe we ran into you. We need proof we saw you!" they cried.

I tried to protest, until the previously unfriendly businessmen in front of me offered to take the photo for the one kid, and I was forced to act like the beneficent adult and oblige them.

Then, they scampered off, hurrying toward their bedraggled looking chaperones and waving good-bye and begging me to come visit them before they graduated this year, next year, or the year after that.

I returned to wait in the Starbucks line, which had moved approximately 1/2 inch in 15 minutes.

I smiled to myself, knowing all too well that somewhere in Facebook, or in the pages of next year's yearbook, I might be able to find that group picture they'd just took with me, smiling tiredly and pregnant with a bunch of my old students.

I got almost nostalgic about it, missing the kids, when the one-and-the-same businessman in front of me butted in.

He smiled kindly at me, and then added, "It's rough when you lose the custody battle, isn't it? Not being able to see them all the time."

I stared at him, dumbfounded, wondering how best to phrase together, "Um, do you really think I managed to birth five different children, of five different ethnicities, all of whom are about the same age, more than 15 years ago, and then be stupid enough to get myself knocked up again now?"

Did he honestly think I was some kind of floozy, who went around birthing and leaving children at will? Running into them at airports? Making them address me by my last name? Taking pictures with me to remember the good times?

I was seriously re-thinking my "comfy flying clothes" appearance. And I began to wonder if this man in front of me had been drinking. And not coffee, at that.

"Oh, they aren't mine!" I exclaimed. "I used to be their English teacher."

He didn't respond. In fact, he seemed genuinely disappointed.

"Oh," he muttered. "That makes sense."

"I guess," he added, reluctantly, then grabbed his coffee and ran away.

Poor guy. He'd had wanted baby-mama drama.

And all he got was some pregnant-looking, has-been English teacher.

***

Happy Thursday, everyone!

Missing Out on Going Back

Everywhere I go, there are signs.

Sales.

Catchy commercials reminding me that it's time.

It's the time of year to head back to school.

The time of year where kids exhale loudly and resignedly pack up their new backpacks. It's the time of year where parents rush around like mad, purchasing any and all school supplies.

And it's the time of year where teachers are bracing themselves, studying their new class lists, and wondering who their new classroom pets and nemeses will be.

All teachers, that is, except me.

I won't be returning to the class room this year, and, most likely, for quite a while. Before we moved to South Carolina, the hubs and I decided I'd work as a fitness trainer and freelance writer for extra income, while he'd now serve as the primary breadwinner.

It was a choice for our now-military family - what it is now and what it will be in the future.

I know why we made it. And, to be honest, I'm happier for it.

I'm less stressed. I'm less worried. And I'm much less distracted.

I was the kind of person who always took work home with me - when I was home, that is. I worked long hours and obsessed about "my kids" endlessly. My husband and house got the shaft on many occasions.

I had burn-out. And bad. And I'm not even 30 years old yet.

But that's not a problem anymore.

I work at the gym - with a clientele who is much less worrisome - and then I head home and handle everything here.

No extra papers to grade. No parent phone calls to return. No Saturday dances to chaperone.

Though I'm terribly busy still, I'm just not nearly as "Classroom-Minded" as I used to be.

It's a good thing.

I'm happy about it.

But recently, I've been a little sad, too.

All the "back-to-school" commercials have tugged at my heart strings more than I thought they would.

And don't even get me started on the special school supplies section in Target. The smell of fresh Trapper-Keepers alone brings a tear to my eye.

Because, the truth is, I'll miss "my kids."

I'll miss going back to school next week, my stomach still a little bit jittery, no matter how many times I've taught the class. I'll miss meeting my new students, hugging the kids I already know and ignoring the rolled eyes of the kids who can't believe their bad luck at ending up with me this year.

I'm sad not to pull out my steady teacher wardrobe of capri pants and sensible flats.

And I'm worried I won't ever feel that rush you feel when that first morning bell rings.

I'll miss being a teacher.

Granted, I won't miss the paperwork, the bureaucracy, and the absolute mayhem that comes with working in the public school system.

I won't miss signing detention slips, grading bad grammar, and bellowing at kids to "Be quiet and sit down!" for the upteenth-millionth time.

And I won't miss the nervous energy - the all-consuming nervous energy - that courses through me 10 months out of the year as I instruct, discipline, and worry over 100+ teenagers who are not even my own children.

But the fact remains that I will miss those kids. I will miss their jokes and their laughter and their "A-ha!" moments that happen when they really, truly learn something for the very first time.

I'll miss their stories, their excuses, and their insane motivation to do any and everything for free food or extra credit.

And I'll miss that camaraderie between fellow teachers and students alike, growing separate and together simultaneously, in some sort of tangled web all throughout the school year, resulting in a messy, but beautiful, quilt by next summer.

I'll miss school.

It's probably just me. Me and my FOMO (Fear of Missing Out.)

I don't want to miss out on a learning opportunity. I don't want to miss out on a child's chance to grow.

But I also don't want to miss out on my life, either.

Which is why I'm not going back to school.

I won't be a teacher this year.

I'm not sure when I'll be a teacher again.

And, really, that's OK. That's the right decision for the hubs and me.

But it's decision ringed with nostalgia, especially at this time of year.

I loved teaching. I'll miss "my kids" and that student-teacher bond more than any teenager I taught will ever know.

No matter how right the decision is, it doesn't make it easy.

Especially when the smell of newly sharpened pencils permeates the air at every turn.

***

Happy Friday, everyone! Those of you heading back to school - as students, teachers, or parents - over the next few weeks? I hope you all really enjoy this exciting start to a new year! I'll be thinking of you!

I hope everyone has a wonderful weekend!

To My Students

I can't tell you how hard this is to write.

Honestly, I didn't even anticipate having to write it.

With all the good-byes I knew I'd have to say when this time came, I didn't think I'd mind waving farewell to most of you.

Little did I know this would be the roughest good-bye for me of them all.

You all, who walked in the first day with your attitudes, your snide comments, your dress-code-breaking shorts and your iPods turned up, have become the tug at my heart strings this year.

You all made me remember why I love working with teenagers.

Because buried under the too-cool-for-school persona you all take on was a bunch of kids with opinions, with hopes, with dreams, with senses of humor that had me rolling at the most inappropriate of times.

Oh, how we laughed this year...

When you all wrote a fake living will, fighting over who I'd bequeath the school newspaper to should I die a gruesome, untimely death.

When you all made a bet with me that you wouldn't finish your final projects early, and you did. Two days early to be exact, earning a classroom party the likes of which I've never seen.

When you all counted down so loudly and screamed so joyously when we submitted the final page of the yearbook that the school police officer came running, convinced we were in trouble.

When I dropped a stack of laptops on my toe and danced around in sheer pain and awkwardness while you all desperately, and hopelessly, tried not to chuckle at my misery.

When our photography lesson involved putting on a mock field day, which ended with all of us grass-stained, sweaty, and covered in egg yolks. But with some really good pictures to show for it.

When you all fought over who would be allowed to babysit my non-existent baby. Even after you learned I was moving. And still wasn't pregnant.

When you acted out mock ad sales pitches - a la Mad Men - where you invented your own company that sells - of all things - top hats and were so convincing that it took your peers a good three months to realize that you weren't representing a real company.

When you all threw me a surprise birthday party, but only after convincing me to leave you all unattended, so you could set up, telling me I was "in trouble" with the school principal. And, of course, I believed you.

When you figuratively tugged at my apron strings all at once, all shouting, "Mrs. C! Come look at this! Look how awesome this is! Look what a great job I did! Can you read this and tell me what you think? I think it's pretty good! What about you? Mrs. C, come see! Hurry! I want to show you this!"

When you all, despite our arguments about grades, classroom conduct, and the always-dreaded after-school study sessions, taught me what it meant to truly love.

Because while it's always been easy for me to love children - my nieces, my nephews, the little ones of friends I hold dear - it's not always been easy to love you all.

With all your baggage.

With all your issues.

With all your excuses.

You all were tough cookies.

Tough cookies I had no prior connection with, other than the fact that I was assigned to be your teacher, and you were assigned to be my students.

But then I met you.

I mean, I really met you.

I spent time with you.

We fought through several small battles together.

We won some.

We lost others.

And I realized, under all those battle scars, you were loving me the whole time.

Just like that, you were no longer my students. You became "my kids."

I've never been so proud.

I couldn't believe it, but I actually cried tears of joy watching "my" seniors parade across the stage at graduation last week.

After spending two years with me, I saw how much you'd changed. And how much you'd changed me.

I remembered helping one of you open your first checking account; I remembered helping another deal with a sexual experience gone wrong. I remembered watching when one of you got a scholarship and another got into your dream school. I remember sobbing with you when one of your grandparents died, when one of your boyfriends broke up with you, when one of your fathers went to jail. I remember cheering you on as one of you picked the same major at the same college as me, calling all my old professors and telling them excitedly to take care of you next year because you were one of "mine."

Oh, yes, you were one of "mine." You were all one of "mine."

And then you weren't.

Because I'm leaving. I'm moving to my husband - something you'll understand later in life, I promise you - while you all go out and be all your own.

My heart swells with pride for you. And sadness. And worry, as well.

Will the next teacher see you all for what you truly are? Will they treasure even the most insignificant moments of quiet and noise, just the same? Will they realize that all of you - those reading at a college level, and those reading at a third-grade level - should be celebrated and cheered on when you make even the smallest of improvements? Will they love you like I do?

I hope so.

And I hope you will love them, too.

Enough that you don't really think about me all that often, in fact.

Because then I'd know my replacement was competent, was capable, was good enough at caring for you all that you didn't need to think about what Mrs. C was doing and where Mrs. C was going.

And though it hurts to realize that I'll never know where some of you go to college; whether some of you ever get that SAT score you so desire; how you all do as seniors, juniors, sophomores, I'll be OK.

Because I'll know you're doing well.

That was all I wanted, really. That's all I still want.

As you walk out those school gates on our last day tomorrow, I want you to do well.

I want you to prosper.

I want you to be happy.

Because, honestly, I don't care if you remember a lick of literature I taught you. I don't care if your grammar is perfect. (Well, I do. A little. But you know how I am about commas.) I don't care if you can't recall one media term I drilled into your head all year long.

I just hope you remember that you are capable beyond your wildest dreams. That you can lead yourself and others toward the right decision. That you deserve to be treated with respect and love, regardless of what anyone else tells you. That you have the ability to affect change, no matter how many adults and authority figures tell you otherwise.

That's my dream for you.

So, for the kids I never thought I'd miss, let alone love, I leave you with one more thing: A thank you.

Thank you for letting me be a part of your lives, for letting me teach what I love. Thank you for letting me affect my own change where I saw fit.

And thank you for affecting a change in me for the better.

I love you all.

Humble Pie and Child Abuse

I have to admit, my head's been getting pretty big lately at work.

Since the fact that I'm leaving became public, kids have been begging me to stay, telling me all the time how I'm their favorite teacher.

And as the last week of school is upon us - seniors left yesterday and the rest of the high-schoolers have final exams next week - the gifts have been pouring in; little trinkets given to me from students who say they'll miss me; cards written to me from kids telling me their favorite memories in my class.

One group of my 10th graders even handed in all their final papers affixed with little pink Post-It notes that read, "Please don't leave, Mrs. C!"

It's enough to make a girl cry.

And feel like a pretty darn good teacher.

But God got the memo.

He must have looked down and seen my head swelling before Him, plump with all those self-serving thoughts about my beneficent nature as an educator.

Because just when I was riding in on a wave of pride yesterday afternoon, I asked one of my favorite and long-time students to help me carry a load of newspapers from my car.

The editor of the school newspaper, this kid and I go two years back. Sometimes, I'm pretty sure I've spent more time with him than with any other student. He always seems to be around.

Not that I mind. He's your quintessential "Good Kid."

He's been well-raised. He's a gentleman, a hard-worker, and smart to boot. So he totally obliged my request for a hand with the 600 issues of the end-of-the-year school newspaper, which had to be lifted from my car and handed out all over campus.

We traipsed out to the parking lot and popped my trunk.

After commenting on my apparent obsession with yoga mats (I keep three in my trunk at all times) he scooped up a stack of the papers and prepared to leave.

I followed suit, reaching up to slam the car's hood.

I gave it a good shove downward, and...

...brought it squarely down on the poor kid's right shoulder.

It hit with thud so hard that I dropped the stack of papers I was holding and instinctively grabbed the poor boy, as if I could reverse the damage.

He was grimacing, while also giving me an odd look, as I don't normally make it a practice to full-on embrace any of my students, especially the male ones.

I rushed him to my office and sent another student for a bag of ice - just in time, too, because the poor kid's shoulder had a welt-like bruise growing by the second. I put him through the paces, making him raise his arm in a variety of directions and test his mobility, thanking my lucky stars the entire time that I'm also a trainer and able to assess these kinds of things.

Still, I about passed out from the stress. (And from the fact that I'm sure teachers and schools have been sued for lesser offenses.)

Plus, there was that nagging embarrassment of accidentally hitting a kid - a really good kid and one of my favorites, no less - with, of all things, a car door. On his very last day of high school ever.

Oh, the shame!

I was horrified.

I apologized profusely.

The kid grimaced and whined.

I apologized some more.

The kid complained of the pain.

I just about begged for forgiveness on bended knee.

And then the kid managed to spend the next two hours in my class working and laughing with his friends and counting down the minutes till their final school bell rang.

But every time he caught my eye, his smile disappeared. He was a flashback to the groaning boy with a bruised shoulder I'd seen minutes before.

I knew his pain was gone; I knew the swelling had subsided; I knew he was really only left with a small mark and no internal damage. And I knew he was milking it just to see me freak out.

But, still worried out of my mind, I just couldn't stop my Apology Train.

I may or may not have even considered bribing the kid into silence - How's an automatic A on your final exam sound? Huh? HUH? - but then I realized that would just be one more count against me if this thing ever went to trial.

The word had already spread anyway. The other students were already rolling at the kid's re-telling of my Car Door Massacre. (His words, not mine.)

My ego, it seems, had been severely smashed.

Just like that poor kid's shoulder.

***

Happy Thursday everyone!

A Good Cry. Or Two.

On Sunday night, at approximately 11:31 p.m., I welled up.

Or, more accurately, cried like a baby.

LOST - our favorite T.V. show in the entire world - was over. After six great seasons, the show wrapped up in a moment filled with love and community.

And I cried and cried.

For the show. For the characters. For the fans everywhere who now have no idea what to do with their Tuesday nights.

I bawled like a baby.

I cried so much that, the next morning, I had puffy-cry eyes. You know the kind. The kind that make you look like you've spent your weekend on some kind of bender.

Because, sans a drop of alcohol, that's what happens when I stay up way past my bed time to watch way more T.V. in one sitting than I have all year.

As good as the show was, it was a bad decision.

Because Monday morning, less than nine hours later, my first class of the day started to trickle in - my seniors - and within seconds of being in my classroom, they started talking about how they only have 1.5 weeks left of school and then they're done.

They're leaving.

They're graduating and very likely never going to see me or each other again.

That, my friends, was all it took.

One little frown from one of my favorite students, and there went the waterworks.

Another student was actually handing me tissues, all while I openly sobbed, "My babies are growing up! And leaving! Where did the time go?"

Just like that, I broke Cardinal Teacher Rule No. 1: Never let them see you cry.

It was embarrassing.

Because, my friends, they all saw me cry, in a big way. All because they are graduating high school.

Not wanting to be left out, my eyes had graduated, as well.

They'd gone from puffy-cry eyes to swollen-shut eyes in about two seconds flat.

That poor kid couldn't hand me enough tissues to deal with that. I now looked like one of those women emblazoned on a domestic abuse poster. Eyes swollen shut. Down-turned mouth. Silently weeping in my pain.

It was oh-so-lovely.

Luckily, it was also humiliating enough for me to suck it up and make it through my entire day without crying again.

But then I arrived at the gym for my last Monday-night Body Pump class.

I taught the class and then told them that I was moving in 2.5 weeks and wouldn't be returning to this Monday night time slot again. I explained how much I'd miss them all and managed, even, to keep my face dry.

But, then, the whole darn room of them applauded me. My boss even led them in a rousing round of "For She's a Jolly Good Fellow." (The nerve.)

And, well, you guessed it: I cried.

And cried. And cried. And cried.

I was hiccuping and snorting and sobbing and wiping sweat and snot from my face like it was nobody's business.

I was the epitome of classy, I tell you. The epitome. And that was all before the hugs started.

Take about waterworks.

I managed to pull it together only enough to get to my car before breaking down again. I drove and sobbed and drove and sobbed.

But I didn't even stop when I got home.

Because I was greeted at the back door by my two very friendly dogs, Marvin and Fish. They were gallivanting and wiggling and, all in all, just happy to see me. They settled down only enough to plop at my feet and lay their heads atop each other, paws intertwined.

Man's best friend, who are also the best of doggy buds.

At least for another 2.5 weeks.

Because when we move to South Carolina, Marvin is coming.

And Fish-y is staying behind.

Technically, Fish was only our foster dog for the year, so we always knew this was day would come. I've been steeling my heart for it for months. Poor Fish-y had to go back to his rightful owners, and we'd become a one-dog family once again.

Unfortunately, though, nobody's told Marvin yet.

And those two doggie-boys are going to be heartbroken.

You can't bring Marvin in the house without Fish whining alone in the backyard. If Fish sits with me at the front of the house, Marvin goes crazy if he's not right there next to him. They freak out when they're separated for even the most dreaded of situations, like their routine bath. They sleep on top of each other, eat together, patrol for squirrels, and bark at intruders, passersby and stealthy breezes together.

These two are inseparable.

For now.

And thinking about all of that, thinking about how their poor little doggy hearts are about to be broken soon after I tear them apart - well, you can guess what happened.

The tears?

They were aflowin'.

I sat there, on the stoop. Crying. Over dogs.

Or, rather, over dog relationships.

Woe is me, all right. Woe is me.

I didn't know a person's body could hold that many tears. But mine did. And, even as I type this, I can feel more coming.

Because, it turns out, I don't leave well.

I don't exit gracefully.

I can't handle good-byes.

And I still have 2.5 weeks of them left.

Sniff, sniff.

Somebody pass me the tissues.

***

Happy Tuesday!

A Glutton for Punishment

Today is D-Day, my friends.

Today is the day yearbooks come out.

As the yearbook adviser at my high school, I've waxed on many a time here on the old blog about all the random responsibilities that befall me.

Picture Day. Senior Superlative voting. Arm-wrestling principals to make sure my students get computers that actually work.

And, for the most part, I'm successful. (Although I was stuck using a classroom full of computers that once took 50 minutes to sign on to one Web site. That was a dark day, my friends, a dark day.)

But today, oh, today.

Today is the day.

The day I dread more than any other every year.

Today is Yearbook Distribution Day.

Imagine you're the lone adult standing amid 500 pre-teens and adolescents. They're running at you, screaming, reaching greedily for a book you've looked at so many times that you'd rather throw up then turn its pages again.

Your only help is from the 20 young students on the yearbook staff, who are passing out books right and left and selling Sharpie markers as quickly as their little arms can.

Meanwhile, you stand there trying to figure out why little Susie's name is not on the "Buyer's List" without actually revealing to her that Mommy and Daddy's cheque bounced.

You also have to resist the urge to smack that one senior who calls you a nasty name because she's only in the book four times.

And this is all before a little freshman walks up to you in tears because she ignored the 18,734 warnings you sent home, announced, and posted around the school, and now, there are no yearbooks left, and She. Didn't. Get. One. Waaahhhh!

All while you sweat profusely in your Florida high school's un-air-conditioned gym.

Lord, save you. Er, I mean, me.

It's enough to make me considering curling into a fetal position right there and then, amid all the chaos and the name-calling and the obvious absence of any other teachers and administrators.

I hate this day.

Because, honestly, no matter how well we prepared, and now matter how good the yearbook is, it never goes well.

Some kid will get upset; somebody's name will accidentally get left off the list; some parent will call me, complaining and screaming about something as inane as the color of the book's cover.

And then I will go home and cry, cry, cry because parents are mean.

I will also then force my husband and I to sign some kind of future parenting pact that we will never call a school and complain about something as silly as the "unfortunate, unflattering" angle of our daughter's Homecoming parade photo on page 46.

I will then consider taking up heavy drinking to numb the pain but decide it's too much work and that the sheer stress of this day alone will do enough damage to my liver on it's own.

So I just fall into bed and pray that I can sleep off this nightmare for the next two days.

Which, last year, I did.

But this year?

I have to chaperone the prom tomorrow.

Oh, man, I hate this day.

***

I have two huge favors to ask:

1. Please offer up a quick prayer that no rogue parent - enraged by the fact that they weren't consulted about the yearbook's theme this year - engages me in some sort of tiff. Or just goes straight for my jugular.

2. If Yearbook Distribution Day is the Achille's heel that finally takes me down, promise me someone will come finish packing my stuff up and take my husband's XBox to South Carolina. He's going to need that to cope with the grief of losing his young wife to a pack of angry teenagers.

Be back next week! (I hope.)

The Water is Gonna Getcha

Duck!

Do you not see them?

Duck!

Those kids have water guns!

And shaving cream!

And, dear Lord above, did I just see one sprint by brandishing a can of Silly String?

Duck! And then run for your lives!

Why do you think I'm here, kneeling behind my classroom desk? Wearing a swimsuit under my dress and cardigan? Desperately wishing I owned some kind of cloak of invisibility?

It's Water Day for the seniors here at school.

And they are out for blood.

Or, rather, one soaked, messy teacher.

Because, as they see it, I have it coming.

For every paper I assigned over a long weekend. For every letter grade I took off for late work. For every eraser I threw at a sleeping student's head. (Oh, I kid. Kinda.)

For all of it, I have it coming.

I deserve the smack of a busted water balloon, the smear of food-coloring-enhanced water squirts, and the embarrassment of walking around after the fact looking like some sad, last-place winner of a wet T-shirt contest.

So, yes, I'm back here. Ducking. Hiding from the kids running by screaming, "Where's Mrs. C? I've got the shaving cream!"

Oh, dear heavens, I'm scared. Remind me why I do this for a living again?

Because that kid I failed in the third nine weeks just shot by wielding a water gun the likes of which I've never seen.

And my bathing suit totally doesn't match their Silly String.

***

Happy Friday everyone! Hope yours is a little less wet and messy than mine!

"Crank Up, Flunk!" and Other Things I Can't Believe I Say

The good news?

I survived taking my high-schoolers to Gr*dBash at Universal Studios overnight last Friday.

The bad news?

I didn't escape totally un-scarred.

Because when teachers and their students are sleep-deprived, some things get said.

Some phrases get uttered.

Some interesting jargon gets thrown around.

All in the name of maintaining order and having a good time.

Thus, by the time 5 a.m. rolled around this Saturday morning, with the buses pulling back into the school, carrying half-crazed kids and adults, I was almost in shock at the words strung together by yours truly.

So shocked, that, of course, I have to share them with all of you.

So,without further ado, I give you another "I Can't Believe I Said That: The All-Night Theme Park Edition."

"No, you may not wear that skirt into the park. Your underwear are clearly visible, and it will be very distracting for everyone around you, as they'll be trying to read what's printed on your rear the entire night."

"Sure, I will ride Jaws with you. But no, you may not sit in my lap. You're bigger than me, and they have rules about that here."

"No, we will not be drag-racing the other four school buses coming from our cross-town rival school on the interstate. No matter how much you yell, the bus driver is not going to go faster just so we can beat them there. So, please, be quiet."

"Also, can we please remember that the bus driver's name is Mr. Flunker, and that it is not appropriate to address an adult with the phrase 'Crank up, Flunk!' just because you think this will make him drive faster."

"I don't care how badly you have to go to the bathroom. We're not stopping. Hold it. We'll be there soon."

"OK, OK. We'll make an emergency stop. Just whatever you do, DO NOT pee in that soda bottle, young man. I repeat, Do. Not. Pee. In. That. Bottle. Sir."

"Anybody not back on this bus at 2:30 a.m. can walk home. So ladies, those of you who insisted on wearing 5-inch stilettos to the theme park tonight might want to take that into consideration."

"No, I will not swap you my shoes. I'm sorry your feet hurt, but you should have thought of that before you decided to wear heels."

"I'm sorry that you're hungry, but we will not be stopping at the 24-7 IHOP on our way home. It's 3:30 a.m. None of you should be craving pancakes right now."

***

Phew! What a crazy night! I was actually quite proud of my students. We only had one minor incident with one student, and only two girls returned back to the buses a little late.

Despite the fact that it was one of the most exhausting all-nighters of my life, I didn't have to bail any kids out of theme-park jail, and there were no tears, fights, or emotional breakdowns the entire evening (other than the tears on my own face when I realized I was still awake, on a bus full of teenagers, at 4:30 a.m.)

That being said, I'm trying to catch up on sleep for the next three days because I get to see my husband on Thursday, and I could not be more excited! Yahoo!

As for the rest of you, I hope you had a wonderful rest of your weekend! Happy Monday! I'll be back around here tomorrow with more regular ramblings!

P.S. Thanks to MckMama, who inspired the theme of my post today!

Because I was born with the crazy gene...

A couple months ago, a bunch of high school teachers sat around a table in too-small chairs to discuss our graduating seniors.

The issue at hand?

Who, exactly, would be chaperoning all of the senior events that pepper the end of the school year as these students celebrate their last days of public education.

Mind you, back in February, it all seemed very abstract.

"Bob, can you head up prom?"

"Trish, would you mind taking baccalaureate?"

"Brittany, how do you feel about the 'Senior Farewell' breakfast?"

We were all nodding; we were all smiling.

It seemed so nostalgic at at the time. Willingly, we took the assignments, knowing that - on that February night - we'd be heading home at a reasonable hour, in a reasonable car, to a reasonable meal, with a reasonable spouse, in a reasonable house.

And then late April hit. And panic ensued.

Because here we are, getting ready to jump feet-first into senior celebration after senior celebration, as we really only have five weeks of the school year left.

First up on the docket?

Gr*dBash - an all-night party hosted by Universal Studies in Orlando, Fla., where high school seniors from all over the state cram into the theme park overnight and ride roller-coasters, eat pizza, and try to get away with things because the teacher-to-student ratio is approximately one to 5,672.

And I'm going.

Or, rather, I'm that one teacher watching over those 5, 672 kids.

Lord help me, I think I'm starting to sweat.

Because back in February, this all seemed well and good.

Sure, I'll ride on a bus Friday afternoon with all our senior students.

Sure, I'll stay at a theme park with them till 2 a.m.

Sure, I'll headcount the heck out of their tired (hopefully well-behaved) little heads at 2:30 a.m. when we finally all make it back on said bus.

Sure, I'll ride home with them - exhausted - in the wee hours of the morning.

And sure, I'll sit with the last stragglers as we de-bus and wait for all their parents to come retrieve them at 5 a.m. from the school parking lot.

Sure.

No problem.

Why not?

Sounds like fun.

My idea of a good time is totally tailing a bunch of teenagers around a theme park, making sure that the clear liquid in their water bottles is actually - you know - water.

Sure.

Sign me up.

Stupid stupid stupid.

So, this afternoon, this evening, tomorrow morning - that's where I'll be.

Passed out on a school bus next to about 120 screaming teens.

Because I'm a high school teacher, and that's what I do.

Because back in February, this seemed like a better idea than chaperoning the prom.

Because, initially, Universal Studios promised me as much free coffee as I could possibly drink.

And because, when it all comes down to it, I think I was just born with the crazy gene.

Wish me luck!

***

I'm sure I'll have tales to tell Monday! So, assuming this experience doesn't kill me, I'll be back then!

Here's to the weekend! Hope you have a wonderful one!

The One Where I Blush Profusely

When you teach high school, the topic of sex is never off the table.

Surreptitious as it seems, the teenagers are thinking about it, and the teachers and staff are trying desperately to keep it from happening.

And with good reason.

No one likes a pregnant cheerleader.

When the Debate Club captain comes to school with a baby bump, things get awkward.

And the last thing the track team's relay anchor needs to be is a father at 17.

Still, that being said, occasionally, it comes up.

Much to my chagrin, mind you.

High school is a veritable cess pool of hormones, awkward gender relations, and biology lessons on the reproductive system.

Frankly, it's hard to avoid the topic on any given day.

But I teach English, where I can use the veiled language of Shakespeare to mask what's really going on between so many of literature's "star-crossed lovers."

And, trust me, I do my darnedest.

Because while I often eavesdrop on my students with open ears and disguised glances, I rarely engage them in the topic at all. I didn't sign up to teach sex-ed for a reason. Shakespeare is awkward enough, thank you very much.

I don't even broach the subject with them unless they come to me and ask for advice, etc. That's my modus operandi, and I'm sticking to it.

Until this past Friday, two minutes before the end of the school day, where, apparently, I decided to break all of my own rules.

My kids were shoving things in their backpacks, rustling through papers, lining up at the door, and waiting for the bell to ring.

And then I heard one little 14-year-old talking to another:

"You know what freaks me out? Knowing personal information about teachers. It's just weird. I mean, I don't want to even know if teachers are married, OK? That's just creepy."

I chuckled. After all, marriage seems pretty non-creepy to me. I'd even daresay it's downright normal. Boring, even. Hum-drum, in fact.

Normally, when I tell people I'm married, I'm not met with giddy excitement.

But I'm also not met with horror, either.

So, breaking my very own version of a "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" policy, I asked the student what she meant:

"Wait a minute, S. Why is it not OK for teachers to be married?"

I should have known better, my friends. I should have known then what was about to come out of her mouth. But like any good slow-motion movie montage, I couldn't do anything to stop it:

"Uh, Mrs. C, it's gross. Because if you're married, that means you're having sex. Most married people do. And frankly, I don't want to think about anybody your age having sex."

I didn't say anything. Out loud.

But internally, I was screaming:

"Um, my age? MY AGE? Honey-child, if the thought of married people in their 20s having sex grosses you out, it's only going to get worse! And, wait. Did really just you say MY AGE?"

Finally, the awkward silence got to the girl. She couldn't take it - and the shocked expression on my face had to be stopped:

"Look, Mrs. C, I know you have urges, all right? But I just think it's disgusting."

Again, the silence.

The never-ending silence, broken only by my own internal screaming, yelling:

"Urges? URGES? Is a hormonal, irrational teenager really standing here and telling me that I have urges? I'll tell you what urges I have. I have urges to run and hide and never teach high school again. That's the urges I have right about now."

But I just kept standing here, blushing a profuse shade of red and hoping and praying that the darn school bell would ring already.

But it didn't. Not for another 43 seconds.

And I was left there for what felt like ages, in front of this very matter-of-fact, unapologetic 14-year-old.

Haggard, at my age.

Married, and sexually active.

Repulsive, in my own right, to an entirely new generation.

I've thought up a million retorts since then. I wish I'd told her that the thought of unmarried teens having sex freaks me out; I wish I'd told her that "my age" was still pretty good, and that she should spend more time worried about the senior citizens of the world, throwing out their backs and dislocating their hips with their sex lives; I wish I'd told her to stop talking before she ever got out the word "urges."

But now, it's too late. I guess my husband and I - married at our ripe old ages - are just disgusting. Might as well chalk up those years gone by as my golden era.

Now I'm just an old woman with urges.

And an intense gag reflex brought about by conversations with teenagers.

***

It's official: This little incident has made me realize that the school year cannot end soon enough. What blessed relief it will be to have a summer away from conversations like this. But, for now, I must play on. The week is upon us, isn't it?

I hope you all had a wonderful weekend! Happy Monday!

Break before a breakdown

One of my senior students came into my classroom, crying, yesterday.

Sobbing onto my shoulder, stressed out, she finally let on to what was really bothering her.

"I just want it to be Spring Break already!" she cried.

Two days out, and the kid was having a certified breakdown.

And the sad thing is, instead of being the mature adult, who told her to buck up and hang in there for another two days already, I began to feel a knot in the back of my throat, too.

It took all the strength I had not to push her away and cry openly that "I want Spring Break, too!"

In some amazingly stupid train of thought, the school district decided to put Spring Break a whole two weeks later than it's normally been.

And the kids and I have been feeling it.

I don't want to be here; they don't want to be here.

Frankly, I'd rather chew glass than sit through another full day of telling kids to hand in their homework, which most of them have stopped doing anyway, due to what I can safely say is just sheer brain fatigue.

We're tired.

We need a break.

Which is precisely why I told my classes that we were going to have a "spring break party" today and watch a movie and eat snacks - the classic example of a total teacher cop-out, I'll admit.

But I know better. I know that if I try to have my kids so much as write their own name on the top left-hand corner of a sheet of loose-leaf, I'll have a mutiny on my hands.

Plus, I know that I can't do it.

I can't talk about pronouns, and I can't talk about exposition, and I can't talk about oral tradition today.

I can't.

I won't.

I refuse.

So we're watching a movie. And eating pizza and cupcakes. And keeping my classroom just below the level of chaos until 2:45, when the bell will ring, and we will all be set free at last, free at last, thank God Almighty we are free at last!

***

As of this evening, I will officially be on Spring Break!

I'm heading to my parents tomorrow to celebrate Easter, and then I'm off to my friends for the week to help take care of my new little nephew Samuel!

I will still be blogging next week, but a bit more haphazardly and sporadically.

So until then, I hope you all have a wonderful, wonderful weekend! Have a blessed and joyous Easter!

Bad vibes

I like to think I've got style.

I try and buy clothes that I like, that fit me well, that cover my body appropriately, but still give off that essence of who I am.

Because who I am is not buttoned-up, close-toed, and professional.

I'm a barefoot kind of girl. Non-breathable materials make me sweat. And my yoga pants are among some of my most prized possessions.

I stopped wearing black once I graduated high school and realized that color wasn't my enemy and that black isn't always "naturally slimming."

I'm the chick that takes full advantage of casual Fridays. And if I plan to walk more than five steps in any direction on any given day, I'm not wearing heels.

I love jewelry, but I don't really do understated. And while tank tops are my friend, I don't do clingy fabrics.

I wore maxi dresses before they were cool, and I screamed with joy the day crop tops became passe'.

That's just me. I like feminine styles, bright colors, and comfortable pieces. I wear big jewelry and lots of layers. I rarely do my hair, preferring to leave it textured, curly, natural and pinned back in whatever manner my time and bobby-pin availability allows. But I rarely leave home without a cardigan and my basic foundation-blush-mascara applied.

It's who I am.

Still, post-college, it was difficult to translate my look - daily - into the teacher-professional world, where modesty, comfort and mobility are all prerequisites when considering what outfit to don for the day.

I spent many a day in your basic button-down shirt and dress pants - all in dull, coordinating shades of blacks, grays, blues, and whites. I was uncomfortable, stiff, and totally unrecognizable, even to myself.

After all, I spent weeks wearing clothes I had to iron.

And, my friends, I don't iron.

Ever.

Soon enough, though, I began to mix-and-match more signature pieces into my wardrobe, throwing brightly colored sweaters on with slacks, or wearing a ruffly blouse with a pair of khakis. I wore dresses with cardigans and skirts with bold colors and bright prints.

I found my way back to looking like me, while still remaining professionally appropriate.

I was more comfortable in my own skin, and I received compliments from my co-workers. Occasionally, even a student would even comment on my jewelry or my shoes. Dressing every morning was fun again.

And so, without much thought, on this past casual Friday, I donned the following:

Your basic blouse, trouser jeans, ballet flats, and earrings - my Friday uniform.

Nothing fancy. This is my normal I-can-wear-jeans-to-work-today outfit.

Tons of students and fellow teachers viewed the outfit; one even told me she loved my top.

And then I started my last class of the day.

I broke my students into pairs, mingling among them to help them finish up projects and answer questions. Things were quiet; kids were working; I was wearing yellow. All was right in my world.

Until finally, one of my more outspoken kids piped up.

"Mrs. C, have you ever smoked p-t?"

You could have knocked me over with a peasant blouse, my friends.

But I had to respond. And quickly.

"No, sir, I have not. Though even if I had, why on Earth would I tell you, in front of all of your classmates? I think you need to step outside and think about the appropriate-ness of that question."

The kid sulked away and got up to go out the door.

But not before a more teacher-fearing student whispered to him, "Why would you ask a teacher that? What did you expect her to say?"

To which he responded, all too loudly, "Well, I don't know. She wears all that flowy, flowery stuff, and just looks like she may have smoked p-t at one time. What was I supposed to think?"

Then he skedaddled out the door before I could throttle him.

Luckily, most of the class had returned to their work, used to ignoring this one trying, out-of-the-box student. He's always coming up with something.

But I couldn't. Me and my peasant blouse were hurt.

After all, I realize I'm a little bit crunchy-granola. I realize I'm a little bit bohemian. I realize that if I could go bra-less, I would (and have - but never at work!)

But I don't think I appear like I'm going to take a "smoke break" in the teacher's lounge when I need to unwind.

Apparently, though, I thought wrong.

And therefore, it made me re-think my whole look.

Because when a 17-year-old boy calls you out on your "flowy, flowery" clothes, you might have a problem.

A drug problem, to be exact.

Or you may just look like you have one.

Whatever.

The point is, I'm now having flashbacks to being 15 and trying to hide behind black pants and a black sweatshirt that didn't make me feel like an ugly, fat beast.

My clothes had failed me; my look had failed me; my students are days away from signing me up for "What Not To Wear," under the auspice that she "always dresses like she's high, Stacey and Clinton. Help us help her! Before it's too late!"

So, who wants to be my personal shopper? I'll pay you with lots of hugs and popcorn.

We'll go out to the malls and such, hit a few stores, then come back and relax while we look over our purchases.

And by "relax," I totally don't mean "smoke p-t." Didn't want you to get the wrong idea.

I tend to give off that kind of vibe, I'm told...

***

Happy Thursday everyone!

Yearbook, You Are My Everest

I'm a teacher.

I grade papers, scold bad behaviors, and use more wipeboard markers in a year than most of you will use in your lifetime.

It's pretty standard. I'm basically what you imagine your average language arts instructor to be.

Cardigan, slacks, bun - a great love of novels like The Great Gatsby and an affinity for office supplies like Post-Its.

However, there is one key difference: I also teach high-school journalism.

Which means I advise the school yearbook.

The year-ending, piece-of-history, overpriced-and-yet-treasured article of high-school memorabilia that every teenager carts around under their arm, along with a handful of Sharpies, for the last few weeks of the school year.

I get to be in charge of that.

Or, rather, I got my job because I was willing to be in charge of that.

Because no one - no one! - wants to be the high-school yearbook adviser.

It's the bear and the black sheep of the high-school organization family.

It's the unloved, red-headed step-child in the world of extracurricular activities.

It's the ugly puppy in the litter, my friends.

Why? you ask. Why does no one want to be in charge of the school yearbook? After all, it's a coveted piece of student history that adolescents treasure into adulthood. Who wouldn't want the task of creating that memory with impressionable teens?

Because creating that memory with impressionable teens takes up more time than all the rest of my job put together.

I'm not even sure how to define how all-encompassing it is, other than to tell you that 20 kids and I put together a 240-page book that encapsulates the year and shows each of our 1,100 school's students at least three times, while also remaining politically correct and public-relations friendly.

Which also means that my 20 students are in charge of photographing every sports game, club meeting, and school dance we have. Which also means we run school Picture Day. Which also means we run senior-superlative voting. Which also means we sell advertising to local businesses and students to fund the book (which costs more to print, by the way, than four of my car combined.) Which also means I sell approximately 500 yearbooks to a variety of students, teachers and parents. Which also means I field phone calls and e-mails from parents county-wide inquiring about whether or not their precious Jane or Johnny is in the book at least 15 times because "after all, they're the most popular kid at that school. The deserve it."

Which also means I've worked nights, weekends, and national holidays just to finish certain deadlines in order to make sure that the school I work for wasn't slapped with a thousand-dollar fine if we submitted some pages a day or two late.

Oh, and did I mention that I'm doing all this with a bunch of 15-16 year olds?

Yeah. Not so fun.

I get text messages, phone calls, and panicked voicemails at 1 a.m. from my students working on the book.

I've stayed at school till midnight, changing fonts, editing captions, and removing obscenities from copy before submitting a portion of the pages just in the nick of time.

I've comforted crying students who missed their deadline; I've cried from the pressure of it all myself.

I've used bribery, grade penalties, and phone calls home to intimidate my students into "getting the job done."

I even yelled at a kid last week. (And I never, ever yell.)

I've made myself sick from the stress of it; I've lost hair, my voice, my sanity doing this job.

More often than not, it's been a nightmare.

But, as of midnight last night....

...I'm done.

The nightmare is over.

This year's yearbook is finished. Complete. Finito.

The dragon has been slayed.

The hardest part of my job has ended.

The yearbook is done.

Please excuse me while I dance around my classroom wildly, screaming at the top of my lunges and fist-pumping better than any rebel NCAA football player who contantly gets penalized for "excessive celebration."

We're done, my friends, we're done!

Truth be told, when I hit "Submit" on the final pages last night, a few tears fell. From my eyes. From my students eyes. From the precipitating air-conditioner, which we'd blasted to freezing temperatures to keep us alert as we approached the final stretch.

Much like childbirth, I look back over the last six, painful months, and wonder, "I don't even know how we just did that. I don't even know how we finished 240 pages of photography and stories and quotes and graphics and teeny, tiny errors that we pray no one else will see but us."

Because after all, I've done this before. And while it gets easier every year, it's never fun. It's always, always painful.

So I must block out the pain. Just like birthing babies, no one would want push out more than one yearbook in their life if they truly remembered how horrific the process really is when you're in the middle of it.

Black-outs and memory loss: It's the only way to survive.

It's the only way to do this monstrous project more than once.

It's also the only reason I feel slightly bittersweet that this is the last time I'll be doing it here.

But never fear. I'm not bittersweet enough to let it ruin this moment for me.

This moment, which, it has to be said, probably means more to me than it means to the kids.

Because now I can relax on weekends, sleep more than four hours a night, and start growing back my full head of hair.

Huzzah!

I've conquered my Everest, people.

The yearbook is finished.

Let the excessive celebration begin.

***

Hope everyone has a wonderful Tuesday!

Let the games begin

March is a little wacky where I work.

Some would even say it's mad.

It's March Madness, in fact.

But not just because of the NCAA Basketball Championship Tournament.

As of right now, we have three weeks left until Spring Break at the high school. So all sorts of adverse behaviors are popping up out of seemingly well-behaved children and quieter-than-a-church mouse classes.

No one - including the teachers - really wants to be here.

After all, we completed state standardized testing last week; we're almost finished with our projects for the third quarter, and we're all so gosh-darn tired, it isn't funny.

It's safe to say - what with the testing relief and the projects and the exhaustion - my students and I alike are getting a little punchy. A little giddy, if you all.

A little free-for-all nuts, perhaps.

Things are not normal in Education Wonderland by any stretch of the imagination.

So, in order to keep the kiddos engaged, my fellow teachers and I have taken to pulling little pranks on each other, as well as the students, for the next few weeks.

Keeps things interesting, you see. And it's all in the spirit of good old March Madness.

I, for instance, used a picture of our P.E. teacher when showing my journalism students unethical photo manipulations in Adobe Photoshop.

And I may or may not have turned her various shades of green, painted neon pink high-heels on her feet, and rendered her completely bald. All to make an educational point, of course.

Another co-worker taught his entire English class in a sombrero - with no prior explanation given - and every time one of the students so much as glanced at him funnily, he shouted out, "What is it? Can you not just listen and process what I'm saying, please? Pay attention to the material!"

Not a student has dared to mention his headgear since.

Unfortunately, though, the pranks and general silliness don't end there.

Because the kids seem to have wised up to our merry March-Madness ways. And they're fighting back.

For instance, just last week, I went ahead and learned all the middle names of all of my students, so if one so much as even fluttered an eyelash over the line, I could bellow the old, "Michael Anthony, what exactly do you think you're doing?"

And everyone knows that when adults use your middle name, they mean business.

I was freaking my kids out right and left.

"Lauren Michelle, sit down!"

"Catherine Ann, you and I both know that's not appropriate!"

"Crystal Marie, stop that right now!"

The kids were wigging out; I was dying laughing under my teacher poker face.

Until finally, one student figured it out and asked, "Um, did you learn all our middle names or something?"

I smiled smugly and walked away.

Mrs. C: 1. Students: 0.

The gauntlet had been thrown.

Which brings us to yesterday morning, when I waltzed into my classroom, flipped on the lights, and found myself staring directly at a blackboard full of pictures of...

Me.

A wall of me.

A wall full of pictures, stuck all around the room, of yours truly.

Yours truly, it has to be said, doing something so ghastly that it almost hurts me physically to say it.

Pictures of yours truly...bowling.

The students had managed to drag up photos of last summer's yearbook camp, where I guardedly participated in a sport I never consider anything but a form of torture: Recreational bowling.

Bowling - a sport that is better suited for almost anyone but me, as I'm known to still require bumpers when I play.

So, yes, it was humiliating, having the pictures of me bowling (gasp!) stuck everywhere. All over my wall-sized blackboard. Around it. Tacked here. Taped there. Pictures, pictures everywhere.

All of me - sigh - bowling.

And bowling, nonetheless, in unfortunate khaki shorts and red bowling shoes. With ankle socks.

Ick.

But I'm not just talking about pictures of me posing in that unfortunate get-up with that bowling ball cocked over my shoulder.

I'm talking bent-over, full-lunge, swinging-arm, tongue-out, look-of-intense-concentration, circles-under-eyes, thighs-bursting-in-my-teacher-appropriate-shorts, under-pronating-in-my-bowling-shoes, sweating, hair-frizzing, cheeks-puffed-out bowling.

Everywhere. All over my very own classroom.

I'd been attacked.

And the carnage was a sight.

One ugly, ugly sight.

A sight I thought I had sworn my students to secrecy over, in fact. After all, on our way home from Yearbook Camp last summer, I basically threatened to make them repeat a grade if they so much as posted one picture of my ugly-bowling anywhere. They had agreed. And they had giggled.

They giggled the same giggle I heard coming from behind me as I stood in my classroom door yesterday, staring at the unfortunate paper montage of one unfortunate moment in my life.

So I turned to find my yearbook students, standing behind me, laughing.

Or, rather, stifling their laughter. And looking at me, glancing at each other, and trying to keep their faces from giving away their secret.

Until, finally, one got brave enough to just say it:

"Who posted the pictures up there of you at camp, Mrs. C?"

I didn't respond immediately. I was waiting for the right words to come.

I gave them all the Teacher Stink Eye and debated calling them by their full names, middle included.

Until, finally, it hit me.

I slapped on my most innocent and serious of teacher faces and spoke:

"Well, guys, I don't know. But whomever it was better know that, now, it's on. This. Means. War."

I then silently retreated to my adjacent office for two minutes.

By the time I got back, the pictures were gone.

And left on my blackboard, in their place, was a note:

"Happy March Madness, Mrs. C!"

***

Happy Tuesday everyone!

Let's blame it on the frontal lobe

I normally turn on National Public Radio to fill the empty space that is my classroom in the early morning hours before students arrive.

But last week, the NPR ramblings caught my attention when they began mentioning the "inadequacies of the adolescent mind."

Apparently, some researcher somewhere - who'd had one too many children who were currently driving her nuts in their teenage years - decided to study the brains of the world's most feared population: 12-18 year olds.

And what she found, quite honestly, explains so much about my hum-drum little job that I was blown away.

Let me explain it in English-teacher layman's terms:

It seems that teenagers have connection issues. Parts of their brain aren't fully attached yet. More specifically, they have dis-attached frontal lobes, meaning that the connection that happens in adults that allows us to act on logical, practical decisions doesn't exist in adolescents.

In other words, they know the right plan of action, but they still often choose the stupid path less traveled by.

Poor, dis-attached, angst-y teens. Their free-floating frontal lobes render them completely incapable of acting rationally.

Bless their little hearts.

Now, this all seems well and good - and obscenely abstract - until you spend most of your time around teenagers.

Then you really get an up-close-and-personal look at the havoc their frontal lobes wreak.

Because just last week...

I had a student tell me was I a) "really old" and b) "past my prime." All because I'm over the age of 22. She acted surprised when I was insulted.

I had another student attempt to leap over a large projector. Very unsuccessfully.

One kid sat on a space heater and burnt a whole in his jeans. He also singed his bum.

And yet another teenage boy wouldn't sit on anything my entire class because he said it ruined his "swagger." He stood in the back of the room taking notes and leaning on the bookshelf the entire time.

What can I say? I pick my battles.

The truth is, I constantly have students make poor choices. Every day, they do idiotic little things that make you wonder, "Why in the heck did they think that was a good idea? Are they stupid?"

The answer, it turns out?

Yes. Yes, they are.

And it's all because of their darn frontal lobes.

Still, there's always one or two students who exceed expectations, beat the odds, and attach that frontal lobe to the rest of their brain before the rest of their peers can say "Uhhhh..."

For instance, yesterday, I had a student answer a writing prompt about what her perfect world would look like.

Her response?

"If someone wasn't a productive member of society, I'd set up a system to dispose of them. So, if you could not perform your job to the best of your ability, you'd be off-ed. There would be a lot of jobs available - some in the home, some in the workplace. For instance, women of child-bearing years would be allowed to raise children in the home, but once they were no longer able to bear children and were incapable of working elsewhere, I'd get rid of them. This would improve our society by making sure we are competitive. Those of us left would be the best of the best."

Something tells me her frontal lobe attached itself a little bit too tight.

Sounds like I've got the makings of a genocidal tyrant on my hands. All in the bouncy, bubbly body of a 14-year-old little girl.

A bouncy, bubbly, 14-year-old little girl who's probably about to off me simply because I don't have any children yet.

Frankly, I'm a little scared now.

Scared enough to have changed my mind.

I'll take the kid who leaps over the projector any day.

Free-floating frontal lobe and all.

***

Happy Tuesday everyone!

My Unexpected Love Story

I started out teaching college students.

While working on my master's degree, I taught a basic communications course to incoming college freshmen and sophomores.

And just like that, I fell in love with the art of teaching.

I also felt its inadequacies with every step I took.

I worked with college freshmen who didn't know how to use a period. I met 21 year olds who didn't know the difference between "there" and "their." I met students who graduated high school - with honors - and couldn't write a coherent sentence.

And all those students? Communications and English majors.

It was terrifying.

Something was happening in high schools that greatly hurt my grammar-loving heart, and I was bound and determined to stop it.

So, I took my master's degree and headed off to teach high school.

I was filled with ideas that I could "save them all." I thought I could teach everyone of them a "love of the language." I believed I'd instill in them writing and reading skills they'd been missing up until this point.

And then I fell flat on my face.

Because high-schoolers are so much more than poorly educated.

And my job, as a specialized language arts teacher, very often has little to do with teaching the proper usage of a semicolon.

Instead, there are days when I'm a life coach; there are days when I'm mother; there are days when I'm a judge, and there are days when I'm a jury. I've been a police office, a preacher, and their worst enemy. I've also been their best friend and their shoulder to cry on.

Only once in a great while am I their teacher.

And then, we learn about semicolons and commas and non-essential clauses.

Sometimes.

My first year "in the system," as they say, was brutal. The attitudes, the behaviors, the problems, and the reactions the teenagers greeted me with were above and beyond anything I've ever experienced.

And I'd worked with plenty of teenagers before.

But, quite honestly, these teens ate me alive.

Between the lying, the cheating, and the stealing; between the melt-downs, the melodrama, and the mundane misbehaviors; between the unavoidable, the inevitable, and the un-exciting; there was very little room to impart a "love of the language."

So I taught what I could and survived the rest.

I dreaded my job, and by the time summer rolled around, I burned out.

Way out.

I wasn't even a flicker of a flame. I wasn't even an ember.

I was dried-up soot.

Dried-up soot that never wanted to see a child between the ages of 14 to 18 again.

I took solace in the fact that other teachers told me they "cried every day during my first year 'in the system.'"

Well, I cried a lot, but not every day, I told myself.

I took refuge in the fact that I learned the average job expectancy for what I teach, to the age group I teach it to, is two years.

Two years, and everyone else who does what I do had moved on to another job. Any other job, it seemed.

I even took comfort in the fact that I met 20-year-veteran teachers who were struggling with the same students I wanted to, quite honestly, never even think about again, let alone face in my classroom the next year.

I counted down every day of summer until my return. I debated calling up the principal and quitting. I dreamed of returning back to my old job - where I had deadlines, and pressure, and endless late nights of writing. But no teenagers in sight.

Instead, come August, I went back to work.

I went back to school, with the students in tow.

I took a deep, painful breath and faced those adolescent monsters that had made my life a living nightmare for the nine months prior.

Against my better judgment and my intense fight-or-flight response, I went back.

I chose to fight.

I chose to fall back in love with the art of teaching.

Except I didn't.

Because while I re-vamped my lesson plans and changed around my curriculum and mapped out my quarterly assignments, I began to lose sight of my beloved pedagogy.

And, without even knowing it, I began to fall in love with something else.

Because while I was teaching the essentials of good literature, I watched my kids start to adore story-telling. I laughed along with them while they played with bubbles and Play-Doh and a Barrel of Monkeys to create a children's story that contained foreshadowing, setting, and rising action, as well as a good dose of fun.

While I was teaching the importance of non-fiction, I watched my kids stare at images captured by photojournalist James Natchwey. I cried along with them while they viewed photos of major world tragedy and helped them along in frank discussions about AIDS, famine, and war.

While I was teaching editing, I watched my kids tactfully critique their peers' work, while helping those same peers complete a piece that was flawless. I clapped along with them when we finally were able to include every student's edited work in the school newspaper.

And before I knew it, I was beaming when they came bounding into my classroom in the morning, wanting to show me pictures of their new dog, new car, or new and improved math grade.

I was reveling when they knew the right answer to a question I asked, even when I assumed they'd answer incorrectly or snidely.

I was living for the moments when they were all intent on finishing a project, a paper, a yearbook page, a news article, a poem - so much so that completing it well was there reward, and not the good grade they'd receive from me later.

I relished every conversation I had with a student; I cherished every gift they gave me; I enjoyed every tidbit they told me.

Because instead of falling back in love with teaching, I'd fallen head over heels in love with my students.

And it took me until yesterday to realize it.

Because on Monday morning, I was actually excited to see them. I couldn't wait to tell my journalism students how wonderful the yearbook was looking. And I was anticipating all the photos my 10th-graders had to show me from the photo essays they were working on.

Without even realizing it, I'd lost that pit of dread that resided deep-down in my stomach every time I drove to school in the morning.

Instead of the pit, all I felt was love.

And, now, as I write this, I also feel twinges of sadness.

For I only have three months left.

Three months, and then I'm moving away.

Moving away from this school I once hated. Moving away from the students I've worked with for close to three years now. Moving away from people I love.

Luckily, kids are resilient. A few will lament me moving on, but most will bounce back with a buoyancy that is reserved only for 15 year olds.

By next year, I'll be a name in passing, a "Hey, remember Mrs. C?"

I'll be replaced with another teacher, who, in all honesty, will probably do a better job than I did.

And though I won't miss the stress and the craziness and the constant emotional tight rope that working with high-school-ers involves, I will miss the smiles, the hugs, the origami paper cranes, and the frank discussions about college admissions, sex, drugs, and, occasionally, rock 'n roll.

I'll miss watching my teenagers become published authors; though I've done it for a while now, the magic never wears off on me, and I'm never quite sure how my kids manage to publish a student magazine, newspapers and a yearbook in less than nine months.

I dare say, I'll even miss the drama and the heartbreak. The tears of a recent adolescent break-up and the sobs at graduation.

Those joys, just like all the burdens, will be handed off to somebody else.

Somebody else far better, who will teach these kids and guide them and, hopefully, learn from them.

Learn that they are prickly and difficult.

Learn that they are emotional and overbearing.

Learn that they are frustrating and hair-raising.

And learn that they are seemingly impossible to love.

Until, one day, you realize you've fallen for them. All of them.

You learn they've gripped your heart and that letting go will be far more painful than you ever expected.

Just like I did.

***

Happy Tuesday everyone! Come back tomorrow for another edition of Workout Wednesday!

The One Where I Argue with God

Yesterday, I met a 17 year old who was expecting.

She came in to see me with a question about senior pictures - a lovely task I'm in charge of at school - and she was obviously pregnant.

My senior students later filled me in on the fact that she was not only pregnant, but was also having her second baby at their age with the second baby's daddy she'd found.

So, yes, two different babies' daddies; two different babies; one extremely lost little-girl-turned-mommy.

At the time, I listened to my students express shock at even fathoming parenthood at their age.

They also expressed dismay that this girl, weeks away from her second birth, spent many a night out on the town, drinking, smoking and sleeping around. All while pregnant with - one more time for the people in the back - her SECOND child.

Not to mention that neither one of her babies' fathers had stuck around long enough to help her.

She was, quite literally, on her own in the world. With two babies. At 17.

My kids were disgusted.

I was just horrified.

And mad.

Really, really mad.

Because that little girl didn't want those two little babies. And that little girl didn't know how to care for those two little babies. And that little girl didn't have the means to provide for those two little babies.

After all, that little girl didn't even know how to love herself yet, let alone love those two little babies.

What was wrong with this picture? I just didn't understand.

I sat there and fought back tears. Angry, hot tears.

And I yelled - in my head, but still ever-so-loudly - at God.

Because I can't wrap my head around how this is OK. I don't understand how God would give her not one, but two babies.

Two babies she didn't even want, and two babies she's already well on her way to damaging.

It wasn't fair, I thought, it just wasn't.

For this very weekend, I'm off to throw a baby shower for a friend. One of my best friends. One of my best friends who, for the last three years, has fought tooth and nail to have a baby. She and her husband have endured grief and strife and pain and agony just to conceive and keep a baby warm and safe in her womb. And, thank the Lord, she's finally got her baby, due five weeks from today.

But it was painful while it lasted. As their friend, it was horrible to watch them suffer.

All while there was a little girl getting pregnant without wanting to.

So, now, I'm mad.

I'm mad that God let this happen; I'm mad that He hasn't, in turn, let it happen for so many of the rest of us.

I struggle to understand it; I ask for help understanding it. But I am still unsure why God has let countless women suffer, barren, while giving those not yet ready for motherhood a child, let alone more than one.

I worry about the children born into the arms of mother's who don't want them; I ache to hold my own baby and in some way, love it so much that I can counteract all that hurt in the world.

And I argue with God about why it hasn't happened yet. Why it hasn't happened for so many of us. Why it hasn't happened for me. For my friend. For some of you. For any woman who is married and stable and devoted and, in almost all ways, blessed.

Except she doesn't have her babies yet.

Others do.

Others have babies they give fetal alcohol syndrome; others have babies they leave with their parents so they can go out and party six nights a week; others have babies they curse and swear at during midnight feedings, mid-morning naps, and late-afternoon playtime; others have babies they'll tote along to their freshmen year of high school.

Babies have babies.

And I don't.

I've cried that "It's not fair!" I've screamed that "It's not right!" And I've argued.

And argued and argued and argued.

And prayed.

But I still don't understand.

Something tells me, I probably never will.

Even when I have babies of my own, I'll wonder about it. I'll pray about it. I might even still get mad about it.

But for now, I sit at my desk, alone. And cry after that sweet, lost, pregnant-with-her-second child little girl walks out the door.

For I don't begrudge her anything. I want her and her babies to be happy and healthy.

But she also has the one thing I want and can't have. She has the one thing I want that I won't be able to even think about having until at least June. She has the one thing I want that I'm afraid I'll never have.

So I sit, and I argue with God.

Because I don't understand. And I'm worried I never will.

***

I know, I know. It's like Debbie Downer Central around here this week. I promise, I won't be such a glum chum next week. I'm working on remaining positive during the hubs' absence, and I'm very excited to spend the weekend with one of my best friends and throw her a bang-up baby shower. I will have no choice but to smile through all of that!

So, until next week, Happy Friday! Hope everyone has a wonderful weekend.