The depressing post, I mean. It's been a long time. For some reason I've been completely turned off by the blogging world. I blame the time of year and the situation described below. But my mom threatened to cut off my phone bill if I didn't blog soon, so I figured I HAD to write something. She also told me I needed an attitude adjustment.
Probably true.
My days have consisted of working and forgetting. I "forget" that three kids admitted to peeing on the floor in our class bathroom for a measly Dum Dum sucker (I had to get the truth out of them somehow), then explained that it might be happening because they're standing too far away from the toilet. I "forget" that one of my girls told me her butthole itched then proceeded to stick BOTH hands down her pants to scratch it.
One of my girls, a little redhead, was hanging off the monkey bars today with her shirt around her neck. Baring it all. She didn't hear me screaming pull her shirt up, but just hung there, letting the breeze cool her off. I had to run across the playground to get her to cover up her Janet Jackson-esque wardrobe malfunction. I think she thought it was okay because she had Bandaids covering up her... well, you know. Like if that part was covered she wasn't being inappropriate. I couldn't forget that story because it was too funny. I think we all wish we could be that free still.
Tomorrow, I'm going to try a little harder to stop this whole forgetting thing because as excited as I am to have only ten days left, I know I'm going to miss it. And while the part I'm going to miss only makes up about 10% of my (the other 90% being about testing and school/district administration and kids being brats and bodily fluids), it's the most important 10% of what I do.
More on that sentimental topic later, when the cabin fever of the past nine days has worn off.
Thursday, May 26, 2011
Return of the First Year
I chose that title because in spite of the fact that I have been teaching for 350 days, in spite of reaching the ten day countdown in my second year, today took me back in a time machine to a feeling I was used to having in my first year. A feeling of hopelessness. A feeling of being trapped. A feeling of wanting desperately to escape. Or hide... possibly inside a small, inconspicuous cupboard.
I hate that people reading this are probably wondering how bad six and seven year olds can REALLY be. Suck it up, you're saying at home. Hear me out.
Let me paint a picture for you of the last two weeks. I get to school at 6 in the morning and prepare my classroom. This is actually my favorite part of the day. It's quiet and I have a large amount of coffee to enjoy with no one else around. I've already gotten my daily dose of adult news thanks to a 20 minute commute and NPR's early morning programming. I'm not trying to make people feel bad for me because I get up early- I would do the early morning for the rest of my life if I could.
At 7, kids get there. They unpack, start their morning work, and try not to bug me. At 7:35, the late bell rings and I close my door. I close my door very slowly because it is the last time my students and I will see the light of day until 1:45 pm. I whisper last words to the other teachers on my hall, all closing their doorways equally slowly.
Okay, okay, I'm over exaggerating. We are allowed to leave for 20 minutes to eat lunch. But because of testing, there have been no specials, no recess outside, and absolutely NO noise. Ever. And my lunch break isn't so much of a lunch break. After 10 minutes of putting food on their trays at (they can't reach the plates themselves), I run to the bathroom for my one bathroom break of the day and scarf down my food in the remaining 10 minutes. And then we trek back to the room, silent, for the rest of the day. It feels like jail, not because I don't want to teach my kids, but because we are not allowed to leave the room and get some space from each other.
It's enough to put a strain on any relationship, but little kids need to move around. They need fresh air. They need to hear someone BESIDES me. They need a break. I NEED A BREAK. It's been nine days of this. Today, something finally snapped.
I won't go into details because it is not funny. Plus, I've been able to get over it thanks to some Starbucks, retail therapy, and a wonderfully intense power yoga class. But I wanted to be on the cyber record so that when it has been FOURTEEN days of no specials or outdoor recess, people know what happened to me when I don't return from work... yes, that's right. We still have five days of this solitary confinement left. Five more days of kids wanting to go to the hallway bathroom just for a change of scenery. Five more days of "Can we please go outside today?" Five more days.
I'm trying to stay positive. You can do anything for five days.
...except go without food. Or water. I fear this situation may be just as dire.
I hate that people reading this are probably wondering how bad six and seven year olds can REALLY be. Suck it up, you're saying at home. Hear me out.
Let me paint a picture for you of the last two weeks. I get to school at 6 in the morning and prepare my classroom. This is actually my favorite part of the day. It's quiet and I have a large amount of coffee to enjoy with no one else around. I've already gotten my daily dose of adult news thanks to a 20 minute commute and NPR's early morning programming. I'm not trying to make people feel bad for me because I get up early- I would do the early morning for the rest of my life if I could.
At 7, kids get there. They unpack, start their morning work, and try not to bug me. At 7:35, the late bell rings and I close my door. I close my door very slowly because it is the last time my students and I will see the light of day until 1:45 pm. I whisper last words to the other teachers on my hall, all closing their doorways equally slowly.
Okay, okay, I'm over exaggerating. We are allowed to leave for 20 minutes to eat lunch. But because of testing, there have been no specials, no recess outside, and absolutely NO noise. Ever. And my lunch break isn't so much of a lunch break. After 10 minutes of putting food on their trays at (they can't reach the plates themselves), I run to the bathroom for my one bathroom break of the day and scarf down my food in the remaining 10 minutes. And then we trek back to the room, silent, for the rest of the day. It feels like jail, not because I don't want to teach my kids, but because we are not allowed to leave the room and get some space from each other.
It's enough to put a strain on any relationship, but little kids need to move around. They need fresh air. They need to hear someone BESIDES me. They need a break. I NEED A BREAK. It's been nine days of this. Today, something finally snapped.
I won't go into details because it is not funny. Plus, I've been able to get over it thanks to some Starbucks, retail therapy, and a wonderfully intense power yoga class. But I wanted to be on the cyber record so that when it has been FOURTEEN days of no specials or outdoor recess, people know what happened to me when I don't return from work... yes, that's right. We still have five days of this solitary confinement left. Five more days of kids wanting to go to the hallway bathroom just for a change of scenery. Five more days of "Can we please go outside today?" Five more days.
I'm trying to stay positive. You can do anything for five days.
...except go without food. Or water. I fear this situation may be just as dire.
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
Real Life Quotes
From the end of year survey/letter my reading class did... yesterday was my last day with them because of the crazy testing blitz schedule at my school. Seriously though- the official admin name is the testing blitz schedule.
"My best part of Ms. Fiorillo's class is testing ."
"Ms. Fiorillo helped me become a better reader by testing me a lot."
"My favorite memory from Ms. Fiorillo's class is the last time she tested me ."
Also, this gem:
"The most important thing Ms. Fiorillo taught me is math ."
Except I only taught you reading. Oh well. It's the thought that counts, right?
So I want you to take a wild guess at what I'll be focused on the last 22 days of school. Yep, that's right. I'll be giving each of the kids in my class FOUR tests, one-on-one with me. I guess I'll have to save up the anxiety and nostalgia and all those other good feelings until after my 42 hours of testing is over. Talk to ya then.
"My best part of Ms. Fiorillo's class is testing ."
"Ms. Fiorillo helped me become a better reader by testing me a lot."
"My favorite memory from Ms. Fiorillo's class is the last time she tested me ."
Also, this gem:
"The most important thing Ms. Fiorillo taught me is math ."
Except I only taught you reading. Oh well. It's the thought that counts, right?
So I want you to take a wild guess at what I'll be focused on the last 22 days of school. Yep, that's right. I'll be giving each of the kids in my class FOUR tests, one-on-one with me. I guess I'll have to save up the anxiety and nostalgia and all those other good feelings until after my 42 hours of testing is over. Talk to ya then.
Saturday, May 7, 2011
Missed Moments
A lot goes down in my classroom that I do not blog about. Either I forget, can't word it right, or fall asleep before I can share it with the internet. And then my faithful twelve readers are deprived of that hilarious or important moment forever. I realized that one of my favorite stories from this year is one of those. And, as Jack just reminded me ever so kindly, now is the best time to begin blogging about it (as the Celtics/Heat game begins).
Anyway, it's short. Plus everyone knows the beginning of basketball games don't matter. Not the first five minutes, at least.
Qwaseem, one of the kids in my class this year, is one of the happiest and most carefree little kids there is. Unless he has to do something he doesn't want to do, which is 95% of all first grade requirements. Then his face turns sour, he gets mad, and he snorts and grunts like a bull.
Key difference between this year and last year? I can deal with that now. I had to escort him one-on-one out to the bus lot one day because he wouldn't leave my room with the rest of my class because he didn't get a SECOND piece of candy. He glared at me the whole walk out, slamming his bookbag on the sidewalk as he trudged along.
"Pick it up," I commanded.
"Why are you ruining my life? I hate you."
"I'm sorry to hear that." Last year that would have haunted me all weekend. This year, I'm not letting a six-year-old ruin my Friday because he didn't get his way.
NOT the story I intended to tell. The one I'm talking about happened during math class, when Qwaseem waved one finger in the air emphatically to show me that he had to use the bathroom.
"Someone's in there," I replied, "You'll have to wait."
"But I CAN'T," he whined back. "Let me go in the hall bathroom."
Unfortunately for Qwaseem, two unidentified K-2 students had been dumping our toilet paper rolls in the toilets, so student were generally not allowed to go to the hall bathrooms anymore. And I've gotten Rainman-good at being able to tell when kids can wait and when they are actually going to pee their pants. This was not one of those moments. When I told him to wait, he continued to glare at me in spite of my insistence that he just keep working to make the time go by faster.
His classmate finally came out of the bathroom, grinning because he had probably been using toilet paper as a makeshift toy car for 10 minutes while in there. "Go, Qwaseem. Sean's out."
Instead of wiggling on over to the bathroom like most first graders (and college boys) when they REALLY have to go, he stood up slowly, staring at me. Each step he took had a calculated, even slap to it, like the steps of someone walking the plank on a pirate ship. It took him about 45 seconds to walk to the bathroom like that, his eyes on me the whole time.
When he finally got to the bathroom door, he lingered for about fifteen seconds with his hand on the doorknob, still looking at me. What a drama queen, I thought, believing he'd break the stare down to finally go in. But he didn't.
He turned around, walked just as slowly across the room back to me (where I was working with another kid) and told me flat out-
"Why do you have to be WASTING my time?"
I just looked at him. Wasting your time? You're six. What else do you have to do beside these addition problems I just gave you? Tie your shoe? Oh wait, you still don't know how to tie your shoes.
Meanwhile, as Qwaseem's nostrils were flaring and daggers were shooting out of his eyes in my general direction, the sweetest kid in my class walked up to me doing the telltale "I have to pee" dance.
"Go ahead," I said to him, then turned back to Qwaseem. "I'm sorry I wasted your time."
First graders telling me that kind of stuff is one of things I will NOT miss about teaching. Along with a whole bunch of stuff I will miss. But you won't hear about that until I start getting sentimental... on the last day of school.
Anyway, it's short. Plus everyone knows the beginning of basketball games don't matter. Not the first five minutes, at least.
Qwaseem, one of the kids in my class this year, is one of the happiest and most carefree little kids there is. Unless he has to do something he doesn't want to do, which is 95% of all first grade requirements. Then his face turns sour, he gets mad, and he snorts and grunts like a bull.
Key difference between this year and last year? I can deal with that now. I had to escort him one-on-one out to the bus lot one day because he wouldn't leave my room with the rest of my class because he didn't get a SECOND piece of candy. He glared at me the whole walk out, slamming his bookbag on the sidewalk as he trudged along.
"Pick it up," I commanded.
"Why are you ruining my life? I hate you."
"I'm sorry to hear that." Last year that would have haunted me all weekend. This year, I'm not letting a six-year-old ruin my Friday because he didn't get his way.
NOT the story I intended to tell. The one I'm talking about happened during math class, when Qwaseem waved one finger in the air emphatically to show me that he had to use the bathroom.
"Someone's in there," I replied, "You'll have to wait."
"But I CAN'T," he whined back. "Let me go in the hall bathroom."
Unfortunately for Qwaseem, two unidentified K-2 students had been dumping our toilet paper rolls in the toilets, so student were generally not allowed to go to the hall bathrooms anymore. And I've gotten Rainman-good at being able to tell when kids can wait and when they are actually going to pee their pants. This was not one of those moments. When I told him to wait, he continued to glare at me in spite of my insistence that he just keep working to make the time go by faster.
His classmate finally came out of the bathroom, grinning because he had probably been using toilet paper as a makeshift toy car for 10 minutes while in there. "Go, Qwaseem. Sean's out."
Instead of wiggling on over to the bathroom like most first graders (and college boys) when they REALLY have to go, he stood up slowly, staring at me. Each step he took had a calculated, even slap to it, like the steps of someone walking the plank on a pirate ship. It took him about 45 seconds to walk to the bathroom like that, his eyes on me the whole time.
When he finally got to the bathroom door, he lingered for about fifteen seconds with his hand on the doorknob, still looking at me. What a drama queen, I thought, believing he'd break the stare down to finally go in. But he didn't.
He turned around, walked just as slowly across the room back to me (where I was working with another kid) and told me flat out-
"Why do you have to be WASTING my time?"
I just looked at him. Wasting your time? You're six. What else do you have to do beside these addition problems I just gave you? Tie your shoe? Oh wait, you still don't know how to tie your shoes.
Meanwhile, as Qwaseem's nostrils were flaring and daggers were shooting out of his eyes in my general direction, the sweetest kid in my class walked up to me doing the telltale "I have to pee" dance.
"Go ahead," I said to him, then turned back to Qwaseem. "I'm sorry I wasted your time."
First graders telling me that kind of stuff is one of things I will NOT miss about teaching. Along with a whole bunch of stuff I will miss. But you won't hear about that until I start getting sentimental... on the last day of school.
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
Appreciation
This week is Teacher Appreciation Week, with the official Teacher Appreciation Day being TODAY. What does this mean? Free chicken sandwiches for teachers at Chick-fil-A, for one thing. It also means an onslaught of gifts from kids ranging from homemade to store-bought to I found this somewhere in my house, put it in a plastic bag, and then gave it to you.
I blogged about awkward teacher gifts at the end of last year when I got (so far) the most random gift ever- a pajama romper. The roll-on gel deodorant and cologne two-pack I got Monday is in a close second... but I have high hopes (It's only Tuesday after all).
For some kids, Teacher Appreciation Week is a year-long things. One of my girls this year has brought me a gift at least once a week since school started. So far, just from her, I have accumulated:
I blogged about awkward teacher gifts at the end of last year when I got (so far) the most random gift ever- a pajama romper. The roll-on gel deodorant and cologne two-pack I got Monday is in a close second... but I have high hopes (It's only Tuesday after all).
For some kids, Teacher Appreciation Week is a year-long things. One of my girls this year has brought me a gift at least once a week since school started. So far, just from her, I have accumulated:
- A shrink-wrapped toothbrush
- A Yoplait yogurt
- Several tracings of Little Mermaid scenes with captions in Spanish
- A smushed Twinkie
- A miniature Mickey Mouse snow globe
- A Barbie band-aid
- Three Christmas tree marshmallow mints
I think she has the most potential to beat the romper, but again... still early.
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