Sunday, February 13, 2011
My Big Secret
I finally came clean about it. Everyone knows.
Sometimes, after the really bad days, I need a pick-me-up. There's only one thing that can pull me out of that bad-day coma. Sometimes I even need two hits, one right after school and one on my way home.
I'm talking about Poptarts. The nutritional equivalent to spreading jam on cardboard and sprinkling it with confectionary sugar. My addiction can't be helped, and I finally shared it with my team last Wednesday when we had a potluck to send off my principal to her new school.
It's too easy to give in to the temptation, especially given the vending machine situation at my school. To save electricity, the machines and the lights in the teacher's lounge operate on a motion sensor, so when you walk in the room they all boot up and light up as if to say "Ah, hello Sara. We knew you'd be back." It makes me feel like I'm in some kind of messed up abusive relationship with the thing, always crawling back to it when things go bad.
75 cents and an E6 later, and I'm walking down the hall chewing the crusts off one of the tarts like a desperate raccoon. On especially bad days, I do so cradling a Diet Dr. Pepper with my free arm, but only if I can scrape enough change together to get both. Junkie habits.
The funniest parts of the whole situation happened in the past week, which was hands down the worst week I've had this year. Circumstances that make me especially vulnerable to my vending machine Poptart relationship. The first happened on Monday, when I beelined for the machine right from the bus lot, clutching quarters in my hand to make sure I didn't drop any. Clunk clunk clunk and I have a strawberry Poptart in my hand. Sweet relief. I ate them in approximately one minute and forty-seven seconds.
After working for two more hours, I realized that one was not going to be enough for the day. I would need another on my way out. Another 75 cents squeezed into my hand. I checked the hallway before going in to make sure no one would catch me getting another one. Brown sugar cinnamon was the next flavor... perfect. I deposited my money and waited anxiously for it to drop. It didn't. It was stuck.
At that moment, I had a decision to make. Clearly, some higher power was trying to tell me, "Don't do it Sara! Leave the Poptart! Just go!"
Did I listen? Of course not. I checked the hallway again and then body slammed the machine three times before the Poptart fell out into its proper place. Was I ashamed? Yes. But once that cold toaster pastry got into my mouth, I didn't care.
The second situation happened the next day, which was somehow worse than Monday. I didn't have time to get my money before taking my kids out to the bus lot, so I grabbed my wallet and walked back after doing some stuff in my room.
Let me preface this by saying that the vending machine can get kind of testy. That day was one of those days. I walked away 15 minutes later $2.75 poorer because my quarters got eaten. To be clear, you can buy two entire boxes of Poptarts for that price at Walmart. I couldn't stop feeding them into the slot, holding on to the vain hope that maybe, MAYBE this quarter would be credited on the machine. They never were. At that moment, I hit rock bottom.
That's why I told my team about the ongoing problem. The itch that constantly needed to be scratched. On Monday, I'll greet them at our weekly data meeting with, "Hello, my name is Sara. And I'm a Poptart-aholic."
Pray for me.
Sometimes, after the really bad days, I need a pick-me-up. There's only one thing that can pull me out of that bad-day coma. Sometimes I even need two hits, one right after school and one on my way home.
I'm talking about Poptarts. The nutritional equivalent to spreading jam on cardboard and sprinkling it with confectionary sugar. My addiction can't be helped, and I finally shared it with my team last Wednesday when we had a potluck to send off my principal to her new school.
It's too easy to give in to the temptation, especially given the vending machine situation at my school. To save electricity, the machines and the lights in the teacher's lounge operate on a motion sensor, so when you walk in the room they all boot up and light up as if to say "Ah, hello Sara. We knew you'd be back." It makes me feel like I'm in some kind of messed up abusive relationship with the thing, always crawling back to it when things go bad.
75 cents and an E6 later, and I'm walking down the hall chewing the crusts off one of the tarts like a desperate raccoon. On especially bad days, I do so cradling a Diet Dr. Pepper with my free arm, but only if I can scrape enough change together to get both. Junkie habits.
The funniest parts of the whole situation happened in the past week, which was hands down the worst week I've had this year. Circumstances that make me especially vulnerable to my vending machine Poptart relationship. The first happened on Monday, when I beelined for the machine right from the bus lot, clutching quarters in my hand to make sure I didn't drop any. Clunk clunk clunk and I have a strawberry Poptart in my hand. Sweet relief. I ate them in approximately one minute and forty-seven seconds.
After working for two more hours, I realized that one was not going to be enough for the day. I would need another on my way out. Another 75 cents squeezed into my hand. I checked the hallway before going in to make sure no one would catch me getting another one. Brown sugar cinnamon was the next flavor... perfect. I deposited my money and waited anxiously for it to drop. It didn't. It was stuck.
At that moment, I had a decision to make. Clearly, some higher power was trying to tell me, "Don't do it Sara! Leave the Poptart! Just go!"
Did I listen? Of course not. I checked the hallway again and then body slammed the machine three times before the Poptart fell out into its proper place. Was I ashamed? Yes. But once that cold toaster pastry got into my mouth, I didn't care.
The second situation happened the next day, which was somehow worse than Monday. I didn't have time to get my money before taking my kids out to the bus lot, so I grabbed my wallet and walked back after doing some stuff in my room.
Let me preface this by saying that the vending machine can get kind of testy. That day was one of those days. I walked away 15 minutes later $2.75 poorer because my quarters got eaten. To be clear, you can buy two entire boxes of Poptarts for that price at Walmart. I couldn't stop feeding them into the slot, holding on to the vain hope that maybe, MAYBE this quarter would be credited on the machine. They never were. At that moment, I hit rock bottom.
That's why I told my team about the ongoing problem. The itch that constantly needed to be scratched. On Monday, I'll greet them at our weekly data meeting with, "Hello, my name is Sara. And I'm a Poptart-aholic."
Pray for me.
People Like Me.
This weekend, my roommate banned me from doing anything work or future related. Anything. Apparently I worry a lot about having everything figured out and perfect (I know, I was surprised too). It turned out to be a pretty awesome weekend in spite of my constant urges to search for jobs, update my resume, and write lesson plans.
The best part was our Saturday night date night at one of our favorite places to go from last year that closed and just recently reopened. They took off the best thing on the menu (reopening with that item would've been too good to be true) but other than night it was like we were back in last year.
Except not. We were laughing, and not the kind of laughter that covers up how much you hate your job and think that maybe laughing will make it disappear. I mean REAL laughing. After dinner and two bottles of wine opened by a waiter who had apparently never handled a corkscrew before in his life, we took the party to a bar and proceeded to order two beer towers and continue our real-life laughter (I-like-my-life laughter).
Nights and weekends like this make me want to stay in Charlotte and prance around with restaurants where waiters and waitresses know me, bars where the bartenders can have "my" drink ready for me when they see me walking in. Is this going to be a lasting tradition? Going out with friends and being able to be pretty content? We'll see. After all, we have another date tomorrow night. Yes, a SCHOOL NIGHT. I am so popular.
The best part was our Saturday night date night at one of our favorite places to go from last year that closed and just recently reopened. They took off the best thing on the menu (reopening with that item would've been too good to be true) but other than night it was like we were back in last year.
Except not. We were laughing, and not the kind of laughter that covers up how much you hate your job and think that maybe laughing will make it disappear. I mean REAL laughing. After dinner and two bottles of wine opened by a waiter who had apparently never handled a corkscrew before in his life, we took the party to a bar and proceeded to order two beer towers and continue our real-life laughter (I-like-my-life laughter).
Nights and weekends like this make me want to stay in Charlotte and prance around with restaurants where waiters and waitresses know me, bars where the bartenders can have "my" drink ready for me when they see me walking in. Is this going to be a lasting tradition? Going out with friends and being able to be pretty content? We'll see. After all, we have another date tomorrow night. Yes, a SCHOOL NIGHT. I am so popular.
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
Knowing Better
At 8:00 am: "I know you know better."
At 11:40 am: "Come on! You know better than that."
At 3:40 pm: "He knows better than to act that way."
How many times have you heard someone say that? "You should know better." The more I say it, the more awkward it sounds and the more I think about it, the less it makes sense. When you have to say it out loud, whether it's to yourself or someone else, obviously the person it is directed towards either DOESN'T know better or doesn't really care.
Prime example: when I was 15, I drank vodka out of a water bottle, passed out within an hour, talked about drinking vodka out of a water bottle on AIM, and left the whole conversation in the trash can on our family computer. Should I have known better? Probably. Did it stop me? No way.
I had a point when I started this post, but I'm too tired to make it now. I should know better. Maybe I'll do a Part II on this one as well.
At 11:40 am: "Come on! You know better than that."
At 3:40 pm: "He knows better than to act that way."
How many times have you heard someone say that? "You should know better." The more I say it, the more awkward it sounds and the more I think about it, the less it makes sense. When you have to say it out loud, whether it's to yourself or someone else, obviously the person it is directed towards either DOESN'T know better or doesn't really care.
Prime example: when I was 15, I drank vodka out of a water bottle, passed out within an hour, talked about drinking vodka out of a water bottle on AIM, and left the whole conversation in the trash can on our family computer. Should I have known better? Probably. Did it stop me? No way.
I had a point when I started this post, but I'm too tired to make it now. I should know better. Maybe I'll do a Part II on this one as well.
Monday, February 7, 2011
Part II
All that sappy stuff I said yesterday about the teachable moments? And the children teaching me life lessons?
Yeah, I take that back.
Not entirely, but today was pretty bad. I think I might need get some kind of mister that sprays out a mild sedative every 30 minutes or something. My kids this year... are CRAZY. Or "busy." Or "active." Whatever you want to call it, they are all over the place. Need constant movement. And today, the only thing they were teaching me was how to lose my patience. One of them was acting crazy enough to prompt another student to call out, "I think he needs Ritalin!" Probably so.
*By the way, how do you know what Ritalin is?*
The nice thing about this year is my ability to forget about the day's events and chalk it up to them being juice box hungover from the Super Bowl. Tomorrow's another day, or something like that, and no matter how bad things get in my room one day, they could be perfect the next. Plus tomorrow's the hundredth day of school, which is always a pretty cute time. By always I mean it was last year.
What was supposed to be Part Deux of this blog post was the difference in teaching children something and teaching adults something. And that the older you get, the harder it is to teach people.
Why? Because kids have faith. Adults have less. Right now, my faith is pretty low. I'm hoping that will change tomorrow.
Pretty much all you have to do to teach a kid is to show them something that doesn't fit into their schema. Show it to them, and they adjust what they think to include that event, even if what they see might be wrong. To them, there is no trickery. There's very little skepticism. Whatever they see is truth. If they don't see it... then, it's not true. Duh.
Adults are not that way. You could show them something a million times and they might still lean back and shake their heads. They might come up with a million excuses, a million reasons to counter what they've seen. Adults are (generally) very protective of where they place their faith, if they place it anywhere at all.
That's why in some ways, I'd rather have the kids. That look in their eyes when their skepticism melts away is something that you rarely see in people over the age of 12. It's something really special.
The only problem is that in the precious seconds after you've gained that trust and faith, they start sliding Bruce Springsteen Super Bowl show style underneath tables. Does it still count when they do that?
Yeah, I take that back.
Not entirely, but today was pretty bad. I think I might need get some kind of mister that sprays out a mild sedative every 30 minutes or something. My kids this year... are CRAZY. Or "busy." Or "active." Whatever you want to call it, they are all over the place. Need constant movement. And today, the only thing they were teaching me was how to lose my patience. One of them was acting crazy enough to prompt another student to call out, "I think he needs Ritalin!" Probably so.
*By the way, how do you know what Ritalin is?*
The nice thing about this year is my ability to forget about the day's events and chalk it up to them being juice box hungover from the Super Bowl. Tomorrow's another day, or something like that, and no matter how bad things get in my room one day, they could be perfect the next. Plus tomorrow's the hundredth day of school, which is always a pretty cute time. By always I mean it was last year.
What was supposed to be Part Deux of this blog post was the difference in teaching children something and teaching adults something. And that the older you get, the harder it is to teach people.
Why? Because kids have faith. Adults have less. Right now, my faith is pretty low. I'm hoping that will change tomorrow.
Pretty much all you have to do to teach a kid is to show them something that doesn't fit into their schema. Show it to them, and they adjust what they think to include that event, even if what they see might be wrong. To them, there is no trickery. There's very little skepticism. Whatever they see is truth. If they don't see it... then, it's not true. Duh.
Adults are not that way. You could show them something a million times and they might still lean back and shake their heads. They might come up with a million excuses, a million reasons to counter what they've seen. Adults are (generally) very protective of where they place their faith, if they place it anywhere at all.
That's why in some ways, I'd rather have the kids. That look in their eyes when their skepticism melts away is something that you rarely see in people over the age of 12. It's something really special.
The only problem is that in the precious seconds after you've gained that trust and faith, they start sliding Bruce Springsteen Super Bowl show style underneath tables. Does it still count when they do that?
Sunday, February 6, 2011
Teachable Moments
A catchphrase in education, often an excuse for diverting from the plans that are supposed to be the law and order of classrooms (in my school, at least). Teachable moments are times that present themselves without warning or preparation, a chance for a teacher to divulge his or her priceless knowledge to some unsuspecting child who has asked a golden question, a question that opens the floodgates for the wisdom of the elder. Early in my Teach For America experience, the people training us spoke about these times as if they were more valuable than gold, and yet still manage to happen at least once a week.
To be honest, the only teachable moment that I ever really remember is when one of my kids asked me what a sea urchin was. And the only reason it was a teachable moment in the first place is because my photographic memory (which never fails to deliver) remembers a book from my childhood that I knew was in my classroom library in the "Fun Books" bin. Not exactly the most glamorous kind of teachable moment.
Certainly there have been more, because I do recall times when I left work feeling as if I had capitalized on some invisible opportunity to give out a little nugget of information that my students otherwise would not have gotten. But in my experience, I have been the recipient of teachable moments more often than my students have.
One happened on Friday. And it was probably one of the most dynamic ones yet.
As I have mentioned a few times this year, one of the students in my class has VERY severe ADHD. It's at its worst after lunch and recess, probably because of all the movement and transition. He swings his arms, jumps over desks, mashes pencils into the floor... for awhile I was convinced that he was the devil reincarnated, sent to destroy any ounce of desire I had to continue teaching the next day. I changed my mind slowly and with much hesitation. By now, I've realized that he can't help it and that he has an unfortunate imbalance of something that makes him different. He needs something else. I haven't figured out just what that something else is yet, but I have figured out some things that can work for him. Sometimes.
One strategy I've reverted to is having him walk with me in the hall instead of in line with his classmates. He's there to pick out the kids who are doing a good job in the hallway, a task that keeps his focus enough to prevent him from windmilling his arms and legs violently as he walks. I was pacing next to him, one arm around his shoulders as he pointed out kids who were showing good behavior. It was a particularly... challenging day for him.
"Jaelyn," I started. "Did you take your medicine today?"
"A little bit," he said, not looking. "But that medicine don't work anymore." He frowned, crossed his arms, and stopped walking. Meanwhile, his peers were puffing out their chests and holding their breath dramatically, trying to get chosen for best hall-walker. I have the dumbest rewards.
"Well maybe you need to talk to your mom about it." For my sake. I thought it selfishly. I hate when I think those things. "We want you to be able to do well in school." We also want you to be able to walk in a line without acting spastic.
He looked right at me then. Right in my eyes. When six-year-olds look you in the eyes, REALLY look at you in the eyes... I can't even explain it. They have that saying about things coming from the mouths of babes... I'm convinced they're talking about six-year-olds when they're talking about the mouths of babes.
"It's so hard for me to be good."
He didn't turn his gaze right away. He held it just a little bit longer. Then, it broke.
"Sean's doing a nice job... Emmanuel, too."
Right there it was. My failure as an adult to acknowledge that there was a legitimate thing holding him back, something that I could not and would not ever understand. I had ignored it. I brushed it off as an excuse he was making, an act he was putting on so that he could play instead of work. There he was, a first-grader, capitalizing on a teachable moment he probably couldn't even recognize.
I felt guilty the rest of the day.
To be honest, the only teachable moment that I ever really remember is when one of my kids asked me what a sea urchin was. And the only reason it was a teachable moment in the first place is because my photographic memory (which never fails to deliver) remembers a book from my childhood that I knew was in my classroom library in the "Fun Books" bin. Not exactly the most glamorous kind of teachable moment.
Certainly there have been more, because I do recall times when I left work feeling as if I had capitalized on some invisible opportunity to give out a little nugget of information that my students otherwise would not have gotten. But in my experience, I have been the recipient of teachable moments more often than my students have.
One happened on Friday. And it was probably one of the most dynamic ones yet.
As I have mentioned a few times this year, one of the students in my class has VERY severe ADHD. It's at its worst after lunch and recess, probably because of all the movement and transition. He swings his arms, jumps over desks, mashes pencils into the floor... for awhile I was convinced that he was the devil reincarnated, sent to destroy any ounce of desire I had to continue teaching the next day. I changed my mind slowly and with much hesitation. By now, I've realized that he can't help it and that he has an unfortunate imbalance of something that makes him different. He needs something else. I haven't figured out just what that something else is yet, but I have figured out some things that can work for him. Sometimes.
One strategy I've reverted to is having him walk with me in the hall instead of in line with his classmates. He's there to pick out the kids who are doing a good job in the hallway, a task that keeps his focus enough to prevent him from windmilling his arms and legs violently as he walks. I was pacing next to him, one arm around his shoulders as he pointed out kids who were showing good behavior. It was a particularly... challenging day for him.
"Jaelyn," I started. "Did you take your medicine today?"
"A little bit," he said, not looking. "But that medicine don't work anymore." He frowned, crossed his arms, and stopped walking. Meanwhile, his peers were puffing out their chests and holding their breath dramatically, trying to get chosen for best hall-walker. I have the dumbest rewards.
"Well maybe you need to talk to your mom about it." For my sake. I thought it selfishly. I hate when I think those things. "We want you to be able to do well in school." We also want you to be able to walk in a line without acting spastic.
He looked right at me then. Right in my eyes. When six-year-olds look you in the eyes, REALLY look at you in the eyes... I can't even explain it. They have that saying about things coming from the mouths of babes... I'm convinced they're talking about six-year-olds when they're talking about the mouths of babes.
"It's so hard for me to be good."
He didn't turn his gaze right away. He held it just a little bit longer. Then, it broke.
"Sean's doing a nice job... Emmanuel, too."
Right there it was. My failure as an adult to acknowledge that there was a legitimate thing holding him back, something that I could not and would not ever understand. I had ignored it. I brushed it off as an excuse he was making, an act he was putting on so that he could play instead of work. There he was, a first-grader, capitalizing on a teachable moment he probably couldn't even recognize.
I felt guilty the rest of the day.
Saturday, February 5, 2011
Fashion Show, Fashion Show, Fashion Show at Lunch!
My kids were funny this week. With the exception of Wednesday, when I had to eat two Poptarts after school in response to the day's events.
I recently decided to try to have a mindset change about my relationships with my kids because, after all, they are just kids. I hold them so accountable for what they do and get so angry with them, forgetting the whole time that they don't mean it. They can't mean it. They're SIX. They are not barrel rolling around on the carpet when they should be measuring tape on the floor to annoy me or to ruin my day, but because when you're six, barrel rolling on the carpet seems a hell of a lot more fun than measuring something with craft sticks. When I think of it that way, I don't really blame them.
In fact, it made me wonder why I'm not doing more of that stuff. Not necessarily the rolling and flailing parts, but the having fun parts. It's not hard to have fun teaching little kids, especially for someone like me who thinks they are endlessly funny and likes to be the center of attention. That's where the attitude shift came in. I decided to stop being such a party pooper and let myself and my kids have a little more fun. Then we could give each other a break with all this making each other angry stuff.
So this week went a lot better.
First of all, one of the girls in my reading class complimented me on my dark purple nail polish, then said,
"Miss Fiorillo, when you wear that dark nail polish it makes me think you're going moth."
"Oh really," I replied. "Going moth? What does that mean?"
"You know, when you wear black nail polish and pretend you're a vampire." I guess that's what they're calling it these days, then.
Then, during math, I explained that we were going to be practicing measurement all week so we could get really, REALLY good at it (god, doesn't that sound exciting? Doesn't it just make you want to follow the rules?) .My little hyperactive ADHD friend piped in right there with-
"Why can't we get better at flying?"
Last year, that little blurb would've puzzled me. I would not have known how to respond. Why is that even coming up when we're talking about measurement? This year, I can go with it.
"Well we'd have to know how to fly first to get better at it, wouldn't we?"
Apparently that answer was sufficient for him because he cocked his head to the side, looked up, and nodded a cursory nod before continuing to listen. It's scary that I know how to answer that kind of six-year-old question with so little effort.
Yesterday I took a little video to record them doing a fake fashion show during indoor recess. One of the girls in my homeroom thinks she's Beyonce, strutting down the hall with her hand on her hip and her little pigtails bouncing. She taught me how to dougie on the playground, and at the age of six is already a better dancer than most people I know. Weird how you can see it come out that early. It makes me wonder what some of my friends were like at that age.
The funny part of the video wasn't the girls doing a make believe fashion show, but the kids in the foreground who decided their indoor recess activity would be to put on the puffy winter coats and have back scooting races on the floor at the back of the room. Kids are entertained by anything-- except maybe measurement.
I recently decided to try to have a mindset change about my relationships with my kids because, after all, they are just kids. I hold them so accountable for what they do and get so angry with them, forgetting the whole time that they don't mean it. They can't mean it. They're SIX. They are not barrel rolling around on the carpet when they should be measuring tape on the floor to annoy me or to ruin my day, but because when you're six, barrel rolling on the carpet seems a hell of a lot more fun than measuring something with craft sticks. When I think of it that way, I don't really blame them.
In fact, it made me wonder why I'm not doing more of that stuff. Not necessarily the rolling and flailing parts, but the having fun parts. It's not hard to have fun teaching little kids, especially for someone like me who thinks they are endlessly funny and likes to be the center of attention. That's where the attitude shift came in. I decided to stop being such a party pooper and let myself and my kids have a little more fun. Then we could give each other a break with all this making each other angry stuff.
So this week went a lot better.
First of all, one of the girls in my reading class complimented me on my dark purple nail polish, then said,
"Miss Fiorillo, when you wear that dark nail polish it makes me think you're going moth."
"Oh really," I replied. "Going moth? What does that mean?"
"You know, when you wear black nail polish and pretend you're a vampire." I guess that's what they're calling it these days, then.
Then, during math, I explained that we were going to be practicing measurement all week so we could get really, REALLY good at it (god, doesn't that sound exciting? Doesn't it just make you want to follow the rules?) .My little hyperactive ADHD friend piped in right there with-
"Why can't we get better at flying?"
Last year, that little blurb would've puzzled me. I would not have known how to respond. Why is that even coming up when we're talking about measurement? This year, I can go with it.
"Well we'd have to know how to fly first to get better at it, wouldn't we?"
Apparently that answer was sufficient for him because he cocked his head to the side, looked up, and nodded a cursory nod before continuing to listen. It's scary that I know how to answer that kind of six-year-old question with so little effort.
Yesterday I took a little video to record them doing a fake fashion show during indoor recess. One of the girls in my homeroom thinks she's Beyonce, strutting down the hall with her hand on her hip and her little pigtails bouncing. She taught me how to dougie on the playground, and at the age of six is already a better dancer than most people I know. Weird how you can see it come out that early. It makes me wonder what some of my friends were like at that age.
The funny part of the video wasn't the girls doing a make believe fashion show, but the kids in the foreground who decided their indoor recess activity would be to put on the puffy winter coats and have back scooting races on the floor at the back of the room. Kids are entertained by anything-- except maybe measurement.
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