"...and that's how we complete the math workshop activity Number Flags. Are there any questions?"
After army crawling through the tunnel made by my long table and pushed in chairs, the student in question slithers face first onto the floor, hops up, and sprints over to me panting heavily. He's over there not because I can't control him (so I tell myself) but because he needs to be able to move around or he'll explode.
"CAN YOU CALL IMMANUEL'S MOM AND ASK HER IF HE CAN STAY THE NIGHT AT MY HOUSE?"
"I meant questions about the math game, but no. I will not call her."
Then, like a flash, he's gone. Back to searching for lost pieces of tape under my art cart. Eventually he had to leave the room when he started closing his eyes and karate kicking at random, which is also when we found out that he wasn't taking his medicine anymore from his mom. In a lot of ways I don't blame her. But it doesn't stop it from being incredibly frustrating, even though I know it's not his fault and he can't help it. He wants to be good- he really does. See note below, given to me on one of his very rare sit-down-and-work days. I'll be clutching that note until the end of the year, reminiscing about the one time that he did not sprint laps around the classroom. Ah, the joy of teaching.
Written EXACTLY how he talks |
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