They Aren't All Bad

Teaching high-school left me with post-traumatic stress disorder.

Honestly, sometimes, when I walk by a child within the ages of 13-17, I cringe.

I can't help myself; I literally wince.

I'll even notice, sometimes, that I hold my breath.

Or, if I'm anywhere near a group of teens, I'll veer away sharply, visibly disturbed.

For awhile, I thought it was because I was afraid of seeing an actual student of mine out and about at Target, or the grocery store, or the nearby park. Nothing's more awkward than being caught unawares by the kids you're put in charge of five days a week.

But now that I'm no longer teaching and have moved far away from the town I taught in, I notice that I still do it.

I get all kinds of angst-y when I'm near teenagers.

God forbid they do something annoying or outlandish or inappropriate near me, too.

Because, almost as if I can't help it, I turn on them. And immediately fix them with the glare I patented over my years in the classroom that seems to say, "I'm watching you. I see what you're doing. And I'm not happy. So keep pushing it, and just see where that gets you."

If they're being particularly annoying in, say, a family restaurant on a Friday night, I will even go as far as to say something to you.

In the last two months alone, I've called out a kid for trying to trip a mother holding a toddler in the mall. And I politely, but seriously, asked a group of teens to knock it off, after they'd positioned themselves near a soda fountain in a local pizzeria and proceeded to make copious farting noises behind several older people's backs while they filled their drinks.

I just can't take it; I demanded respect from teenagers when they were in my classroom, and somehow, I revert back to that modus operandi when functioning out in the real world.

I loved working with teens, but they are a challenge. And they have a huge propensity to be rude and mean and inappropriate if not subtly guided down an alternate path.

In fact, most interactions I've had with even good teens involved lots of eye-rolling, whispered cuss words under their breath, and out-and-out hostility.

It took me months and months with my kids in my classroom to win them over. To make them realize that I wasn't the enemy and that, if we all played by the same basic rules of decency, we could even have a good time at school together.

But I've built up no camaraderie with the kids I encounter on a day-to-day basis.

And, so, sometimes, I wince. And I cringe. And I hold my breathe when I walk on by because, like someone who's lived through a war, I'm kind of worried about what kind of bomb they're going to drop in my presence.

Blessedly, most teens are wholeheartedly unaware of the world around them. They're too busy being pre-occupied with their own selves - a classic symptom of adolescence So most of my interactions with teens today are non-issues.

They don't notice me; I warily watch them from the corners of my eyes until I realize they're completely harmless and not about to pick-pocket the elderly man standing in front of them.

It's very symbiotic, if a bit paranoid on my part.

And yet, still, my paranoia continues.

The grocery store is, in fact, one of my biggest sources of Teacher PTSD. On our Navy base here, most of the employees and baggers are teenagers from the local high-school who work there in order to make extra pocket money.

Most are sullen and cranky about it, too.

They kind of grunt at you and refuse to engage you in conversation while they're scanning your produce. They're very age-appropriate and awkward.

So, in an effort to avoid them, most of the time I attempt to bag my own groceries at the self-checkout counter.

Plus, I don't feel a need to tip them that way, and the whole process tends to move a bit faster.

So, a few weeks ago, that's just what I did. I helped myself to the self-checkout.

I was scanning carrots and eggs and cheese and peanuts and tea bags. You know, just doing my thing.

Then, it came time to hoist up my big items - a super-large bag of dog food and two big watermelons - onto the belt.

I reached for the first melon without a second thought. But I could barely get my hands around it before I heard her:

"Oh, ma'am, please don't pick all that up! I'll get it! You shouldn't be lifting all that! Here, let me help you!"

A 17-year-old girl, neon jewelry a-jangling and gum a-snapping, came rushing over and lifted all my heavy items onto the belt, finished scanning them for me, and then bagged every single last one of the items I purchased.

She even scolded me for "trying to lift that dog food, pregnant like you are."

She then helped me out to my car, unloaded my purchases into my trunk, and congratulated me on my upcoming baby's arrival.

I was so touched - and shocked - that I immediately started digging through my wallet to pull out a tip for her.

But before I could even scrounge up a few dollars, she was vigorously shaking her head and protesting, "No, ma'am, no no. I'm not taking your money. This is my job. You keep that. I just wanted to help you. You shouldn't be doing all this all by yourself."

I quietly thanked her as she then bounced her perky teenage self back into the store from whence she'd came.

And I stood there, flummoxed.

That day, I'd been the one taught a lesson. I'd been the one chastised. I'd been the one who heard a silent message from a relative stranger about basic human decorum.

Turns out, they're not all bad.

Some of them have been taught manners. And some of them have positive attitudes.

Some of them even respect others and embrace hard work.

In fact, some of them don't deserve my winces, glares, or silent stares of death.

I am grateful for those teens, and I'm grateful to the parents and teachers who raised them to be such upstanding citizens at such a young age, especially when their peers are still out there wreaking havoc, poking fun, and generally causing un-rest.

I have hope when I see those kids.

Granted, sometimes, I fear they are in the very small minority.

But they are there. Out there. Doing good and not simulating bowel movements right smack-dab in the middle of a family establishment.

With that, I can rest a little bit easier tonight, knowing that not every teen I trot on by tomorrow will leave me wincing out of fear.

That, indeed, they can be good people. Looking out for each other. Caring for each other.

Fighting the stereotype so often filled with eye-rolls and whispered cuss-words and out-and-out hostility.

They are teenagers, but they are decent people, too.

***

Happy Thursday, everyone!

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!

A Bad Egg

I was a home-schooled kid.

For elementary and middle school, my mother was my teacher. She was also my brothers' teacher.

So it should come as no surprise to you that our education, well, it was an adventure sometimes.

Home-schooling mothers are notorious for their hands-on methods of pedagogy. In fact, their modus operandi is much like Nike's ever-inspiring "Just Do It."

If I had a nickel for every time my mother said, "Why read about electricity when we can build our own circuit board?"

Or "Why learn about colonial times when you can visit Colonial Williamsburg?"

Or "Why study agriculture when you can grow vegetables yourself?"

Come to think of it, this is precisely why, in all of my childhood photos, I'm sporting either a small electrical burn, a mob cap, or a plentiful supply of dirt.

Anyways, our (school) house was all hands-on, all the time.

Which is why it came as no surprise when my mother announced excitedly at dinner one night that we were going to hatch and raise our own chickens.

There we were, stuck smack dab in the middle of suburbia, and my mother was renting out an incubator and buying a dozen chick and duckling eggs. And, being all of 11 years old, I wasn't in a position to argue.

Plus, I thought chickens and ducks were cute. In an abstract, pre-teen kind of way.

Which is how three kids, a mother, and a semi-reluctant father ended up incubating poultry one Florida winter.

First, my mother led us on an exploratory study of chick care, teaching us all sorts of useless facts about creating and growing chick and duck fetuses.

For instance, did you know that, sometimes, chickens incubated outside of hen's nests often struggle to hatch because they stick to their shells?

Well, we knew. We knew that all too well.

Which is why my brothers and I would traipse out to the family garage every day, lift the lid off the rickety incubator, and dribble water over the brown shells - a technique my mother taught us to help the eggs when it came time to hatch.

We followed this process painlessly, wondering and waiting, would we ever get our own bevy of chickens and ducklings? Worried that, once again, this would be a project much like the one we tried the year prior, where I tried to make a to-scale model of the solar system, which ended up being so long that it didn't fit in our house.

In other words, would this poultry project turn out to be another epic fail?

Still, we held on, waiting, watching, dripping water over those seemingly fragile shells.

Until, finally, we reached the half-way point - a moment we'd all been waiting for.

You see, when chickens are half-way through their gestational phase, they are ready to be "candled."

Kind of like the 20-week ultrasound, "candling" basically involves holding the egg in front of a lit candle, lighting the shell to see if the little fetus is growing.

It's an out-dated technique used by farmers to see what eggs still needed to be inside the incubators. If they didn't see the developing fetus, they used to discard the eggs.

So there were we were, huddle around the incubator, my mother a candle in hand. She lifted the first egg, it's pretty brown shell radiant, and held it in front of the candle, and....

Nothing.

Zip.

Zilch.

We didn't see a fetus. In fact, we didn't see anything.

We had a dead chick on our hands.

As children, we'd been warned that the home-owner's average incubation survival rate was only 50-50 at best. So we weren't terribly shocked that we'd found a bad egg. We'd already resigned ourselves that half our flock would never live to be, well, a flock.

So one bad egg didn't scare us off.

Until my mother went a step too far.

Being the hands-on homeschool-er that she was, she decided that this dead egg was yet another prime learning opportunity.

So she took that egg, my brothers, and me, straight into the kitchen and got a bowl.

"This is another fabulous chance to learn, guys," she chirped. "You see, this poor baby chick just stopped developing, so it's dead. In nature, that happens sometimes. But now, we have a chance to see what a real fertilized egg looks like on the inside. We'll get to see, at what point, the chicken stopped growing."

With her justification in place, she hit the egg on the counter-top.

But the shell didn't so much as crack.

So she tried again.

Nothin'.

Turns out, real live egg shells are strong.

Which is why my mother added even more force the third time around, slamming the chicken egg down on the edge of the bowl and opening up the broken shell as if she was baking a cake.

Which, last I checked, she wasn't.

And thank God. Because no recipe I know calls for real, live chicken fetuses.

Which is what came out of the egg when she finally broke it.

Oh, yeah. That poor baby chick wasn't dead. Not in the slightest. It was very alive. Though not for long.

My mother yelled out, "Oh no!" My brothers peered in, murmuring, "Oh, cool!"

And I ran out of the room screaming, "WE KILLED A BABY CHICK! WE'RE THE WORST PEOPLE EVER! GOD WILL NEVER FORGIVE US FOR THIS! I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU JUST DID THAT, MOM!"

I then proceeded to wail on for two straight hours.

Poor Mom. Her science experiment had gone awry, and her daughter was crying "Murder!" It's a wonder she didn't ship us off to the nearest public school right then and there.

All the more so when she later learned that you can't always successfully "candle" brown eggs. Turns out that, when you can't see through a brown egg's shell, it doesn't mean the chick is necessarily dead.

Hindsight is 20-20. Not that it did her any good.

Being a melodramatic pre-teen, I wasn't quick to forgive, either, yelling instead, "Why didn't you teach us that before, Mom? Gosh! You're the worst science teacher ever!"

Then, our chicken depression only got worse when not a one of the rest of our fowl eggs hatched at all later that year. We sadly watched their due date come and go without a chick or duck in sight.

It was all for the best, though. Frankly, we all wanted to forget this science experiment ever happened.

So all proclaimed this the "stupidest project ever" and wrote off poultry science as a future career choice.

***

Until you flash-forward 15+ years later.

I'm a grown woman. Married. In my own home. And fall is in the air.

It's yesterday - a Wednesday.

And I'm feeling inspired, so I decide to bake up as many cinnamon-y and pumpkin-y things as I can.

Luckily, I have two dozen, ready-for-use, free-range, organic eggs in my fridge, rarin' to go. Sure, these eggs are a lot more pricey than the regular kind, but seeing as they are hormone-and everything-else-free, I spend the money.

It's for my peace of mind.

Or, rather, it was.

Because, two recipes into my afternoon, I'm baking pumpkin bread.

It calls for two eggs.

I grab one and crack into a small bowl.

And then I go for the second, banging the egg against the side of the bowl, and with the splitting sound, open the egg up.

And, then, I see it.

A vision straight out of my pre-adolescence.

A little, floating egg fetus.

I screamed so loud, I got the sweats. Marvin the Dog ran to hide. I instinctively turned around to yell for my mother.

Except she wasn't there.

Oh, the horror.

I hung my head, realizing that this is what I get for buying my cage-free, fancy-schmancy, organic eggs.

Two dead baby chicks. Their blood on my hands.

Oh, the shame.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a mixing bowl to burn. And an apology letter to write to PETA.

Forgive me, chickens, for I have sinned...

***

I was in total shock when this happened to me. Again. Unlike my childhood experience, this one wasn't alive anymore, but it was developed enough to seriously make me reconsider never eating scrambled eggs again. Cage-free or not, I didn't know there was a possibility that I could get a fertilized egg in my weekly dozen. Seriously, has anyone else had this experience with free-range eggs? Or am I the only one destined to go through life as a poultry axe-murderer?

Anybody? Anybody?...

***

Happy, Chicken-Free Thursday, everyone!

Another Indication That I May Be a Bad Person

School started Monday at the high school where I used to teach.

And, at around 11:30 a.m. yesterday, I got an e-mail from a former student.

In it's entirety, it read:

"Your replacement is evil. Love, D."

I gasped, checked the time-stamp on the e-mail, and quickly and responsibly typed back:

"Hello, D! Good to hear from you. Hope your summer was great. I'm sorry to hear you're unhappy with one of your teachers this year. However, as a former educator of yours, I must scold you for using your cell phone to send me an e-mail during school hours. Pay attention in class, please. Sincerely, Mrs. C."

A good, solid, adult response, right?

Well, my friends, I have to tell you a secret.

On the inside, on the not-so-deep dark places of my conscious, I felt worlds different than what my solid, adult e-mail implied.

I was actually - Gasp! - happy about it.

I felt a little giddy that the woman hired to teach in my classroom didn't measure up to me, in my beloved students' eyes.

Trust me, as an advocate of education, and as somebody who believes all children deserve good teachers, I realize how horrible this sounds.

Me, a former teacher, glad there's a sub-par woman teaching in one of this country's public-school classrooms. My old classroom, nonetheless.

Not that she's necessarily sup-par. I've worked with my students long enough to know that just because they think she's "evil" doesn't mean she isn't a good educator.

In the never-ending battle of Teenagers v. Teachers, adolescents always go on the offensive. They immediately assume that the adults are bad, and that they are their innocent victims, subjected to unfair amounts of homework, strict rules, and endless diatribes about safety and professionalism.

That, in the world of the adolescent, qualifies almost any adult - and teachers, especially - as "evil."

In fact, a fair bit of those now-beloved former students of mine didn't like me on first meeting, I can guarantee you.

But that's not really the issue at hand.

The fact remains that, while I was at that high school, I had a good relationship with "my kids." Most of them liked me well enough and respected my rules, and by the end of our years together, a lot thrived in my classroom.

And now, now that I'm gone, they've met my successor, and they're not happy.

They don't want to bring her their secrets. They don't want to retreat to her classroom after-school. They don't want to work for her and laugh with her in the same instant. They don't want to like her, and they definitely don't want to trust her.

Not yet, anyway.

And, to my own horror, that makes me happy.

That makes me thrilled, actually.

Horrible, right? Embarrassing, isn't it?

How pedestrian of me!

I'm acting like a teenager myself, excited beyond belief that they like me more than they like her.

It's Mean Girls all over again, except everyone but the judge's panel is made up of adults of (hopefully) sound minds.

I'm winning some sort of popularity contest against an opponent who I don't even know and, if things were just a little bit different, could very well have ended up on the same team as me.

And, worse yet, I'm letting teenagers decide our fate. I'm letting children judge our competency. I'm letting kids dictate my feelings.

Something is wrong with me.

Because, seriously, what does this say about me? Why am I placing so much store in what others - and teens at that - think of me? And why do I care how I measure up to another woman, another teacher, and for that matter, a complete stranger?

What kind of educator I am?

Seems almost sinful, really. Seems like I'm taking stock in something that lacks any real value whatsoever.

For me. For my former students. And for that poor "evil" teacher who inherited a room full of kids I spent years building a rapport with.

Am I just being human, or does this actually make me a bad person?

***

By the time school was out yesterday, I got seven other e-mails from former students saying the same thing. I got a lot of "Your replacement is stupid...doesn't know what she's doing...doesn't even like us a little."

Honestly, at that point, I felt bad for my kids and for their new teacher. Something must have gone terribly wrong on their first day of school. And, I have to say, it amplified my guilt and made me even more worried about the selfish, petty reaction I'd had earlier that morning.

As a teacher, we've all had bad days. Days where things didn't go as planned, and where the kids, quite literally, want to eat you alive.

That poor, poor teacher.

Hopefully, today will be a new day for them all.

And for me and my selfish attitude.

Happy Tuesday, 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!

Oh, the irony!

It takes an act of God to get me dressed on the weekends.

Saturday roles around and - I swear - my body actually repels all synthetic fabrics, under-wire undergarments, and form-fitting pants.

Once the weekend hits, you're likely to find me in an elastic waistband and an oversized sweatshirt that allows me to walk around sans bra more than anything else.

My body, just like my mind, needs a break.

So it was no surprise that last weekend, I walked into the grocery store wearing an old bathing suit covered with a one-size-too-big maxi dress.

A one-size-too-big strapless maxi dress.

A one-size-too-big, pink and purple maxi dress.

A one-size-too-big, pink and purple, TIE-DYED maxi dress.

Don't ask me why I still wear it.

Better yet, don't ask me why I still own it.

Because I'd be forced to tell you that that dress is my idea of heaven - it's big; it's comfy, and it affords me the ability to go stealthily bra-less. (Yes, my idea of heaven is a place where people don't need bras. Because God loves me, and I figure, he'll give me that sweet relief once I get there.)

So there I am, casually wandering the aisles of the otherwise empty grocery, grabbing yogurt and fruit and cereal, when I see her.

Wearing a buttoned-up polo shirt and crisp khaki pants.

The mother of two of my "favorite" students - one of which, you all may remember, once accused me of smoking mar*juana in my past.

I'll admit, I attempted to hide behind the condiments section. After all, I spend 40+ hours a week attempting to masquerade as an upstanding citizen and role-model to my small-town community by working as a high-school teacher. (Ha!)

But with my big pink-and-purple tie-dye virtually screaming, "Look at me! Look at me!" it couldn't be helped.

She saw me.

My face hung lower than my chest in my un-supportive dress. I'd been caught. Bra-less.

So, we had the inevitable teacher-parent conversation. We chatted about her darling children and their progress in school. My job. Her job. Graduation dates. The weather. Church that morning. What she was shopping for. What I was shopping for. My favorite squash recipe. Her favorite way to hide ground turkey in her husbands' preferred meaty dishes. Her younger children. My dogs. The neighborhood. What she was reading. The price of corn these days.

She oh-so-politely ignored my dress while I pretended to furiously scribble down her recipe for Mexican lasagna.

It was awkward.

Still, we finally managed to graciously part ways, each of us breathing a sigh of relief. The worst was over. We'd done our job as good Southern women and covered the four Fs of conversation - family, food, fun, and faith.

Mama would be proud.

I was just relieved she hadn't mentioned the dress.

Until I saw her son - my student - this week.

I told him I had had a nice conversation with his mom in the grocery store that weekend.

He laughed and said she had enjoyed talking to me, too. And then he laughed some more. Snickered, really.

"She also said you were wearing a crazy dress."

It was this point that I started praying, begging God to send help, a distraction, something.

"She told me she thinks you must have been quite the hippie back in the day."

It was at this point that I told God to "Forget the help! Just let the ground open up and swallow me whole and take me up to my bra-less heaven right now!"

But God didn't answer my prayers. And I was left wondering what to say to when, essentially, that was just the honest truth.

I mean, let's call a spade a spade.

If it walks like a duck, and talks like a duck, and is wearing pink-and-purple tie-dyed cotton...

***

The funny thing is, I returned home later that day to realize Brittany, over at Sweet, Sassy, and oh so Classy, had tagged me with the following Preppy Mafia award!
Literally, Britt, you are too sweet and kind! Your benefit and trust in my preppy fashion sense is most gracious. Although I'm sure I've let you down in many ways with the story I just recounted, and if you'd like to renounce my membership in the preppy mafia now, I totally understand.

That being said, I'm a good sport. And I thought, Heck! I'm not all hippie! I've got a little prep in my step now and again!

So why not play along (before they revoke my mafia membership) and answer the following preppy questions:

1. Who is your style icon?

source

Oh my. That's tough. I enjoy a big range of fashionable looks. I might have to go with Sarah Jessica Parker, mostly because she always looks comfortable and eclectic. I'll admit, I'm not nearly as brave as she is, but I do enjoy how she mixes chic pieces with cozy knits and pretty florals. The only difference is her shoes. I don't hear heels. I'm always a flats girl. Always.

2. What is your favorite socialite book?

Open admittance: I didn't know there were such things as "socialite books." My apologies. But never fear. I've now been properly schooled, and I will travel out and find one post-haste.

3. What is your favorite party theme?

Tea parties! Mostly because I love tea. And vintage china. And finger sandwiches. And lots and lots of bright, beautiful, mismatched dishes. And party dresses. And cardigans. And flowers. And ruffles. And antique silver. And...maybe I'm more preppy than I thought...

4. What is your go-to Halloween costume?

Well, I'd say a hippie, but...

In all seriousness, I'm not a huge fan of Halloween, and we really don't celebrate it. So I don't get dressed up. Sorry to be such a party-pooper. Horror and gore (and the color orange) are just not my thing.

5. What is the extravagance you just can't live without?

Books. I love to read, buy, and swap books. Although, apparently not socialite books, as I've been unaware of their existence up until now.

6. Who is the living person you admire?

I adore my parents, and I think they've raised a wonderful family and kept a wonderful home over the years that I'll never be able to replicate, no matter how hard I try.

7. What is my greatest fear?

Well, I'm a huge advocate of killing all snakes. Everywhere. Because I hate them. A lot.

But on a deeper note, I'd have to say losing my husband young. As dark as it sounds, with the hubs now in the military, I worry about something happening to him before we can have children, raise them, and grow old together. I don't want to be widow; I don't want to marry anyone else. My heart breaks for those who this has happened to already. They are much stronger than I could be; it would devastate me. (I know how ridiculous this sounds, but it's a fear of mine, nonetheless.)

8. What's the trait you dislike about yourself?

I sincerely lack patience when it comes to order and routine. Other people who don't see the method to my anal-retentive madness can inadvertently feel my wrath, and I hate that.

9. Which talent would you most like to have?

I have secret dreams of singing and dancing on Broadway. Which will never happen because I can neither sing nor dance. But I can dream. And sing "525,600 Minutes" in the shower over and over again.

1o. What is my greatest achievement?

Oh, tough one. I don't know. I have to admit that the most important things in my life were blessings, not achievements. My friends, my husband, my family, my faith, my jobs, my passion for exercise and literature. Those are what make my life beautiful, and I am so incredibly grateful for them all. But I was gifted all that by God. I didn't "achieve," per se, any of it.

So, to be honest, I don't know if I have a greatest achievement yet. But I do have a lot of blessings.

11. Who are the 10 people I'd like to tag with the Preppy Mafia award?

OK, I'm going to pass this along to some of my preppier friends....

Maria at Two Hearts Made Four
Anonymous Prep at Adventures of Anonymous Prep
Jess at All-American Jess
Heather from Beautiful Life
b.e.g. at Brown-eyed Girl
Maegan at Classy & Fabulous
Mrs. Potts at Experiments in a Galley Kitchen
Name Twin at Molly Lou Gifts
Shaina at Post Smith
Susannah at The Edwards Edition

Any of the rest of you want to embrace your inner prep? The award is yours, too! Consider yourself tagged!

***

Be back tomorrow with more ramblings! Happy Thursday!

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!