So much for a career in the ministry

I have one little friend who is very outgoing, friendly, etc.... so much so that we'd joked that he had a future as either a Baptist preacher or a politician.  Yesterday, however, I believe he disqualified himself from the ministry.....


You see, we were making our "Brown is a bear" page for our color book and everyone was decorating their bear.  I demonstrated, adding a face, a shirt, pants, shoes and an iPod to my own bear (I can't keep things simple, you know.....LOL).  So they start in on their bears, most of which look remarkably like my own because Kindergarteners have huge imaginations when it comes to making excuses for why they did something, but very little when it comes to art.  Then I get to this one friend and after doing a double take, I have to ask him to tell me about it.  Because to my eyes, the bear is wearing a crop top and a g-string.

His answer?  His bear was "trashy like that lady at the beach."

Rightly so, sir. 

Behavior Sheet Comments

Already this year I have had cause to write things on students' behavior sheets that I never thought I would write in my life...

* Please remind your daughter that bottoms go in chairs and faces go in the air, not faces on chairs and bottoms in the air.

* Your child seemed very tired and was confused by being at school today

* I was unsure of whether marshmallows and pretzels were your child's lunch or snack?

* Your child thought it was funny to spit her snack out on the table today.

* Your child changed their color after being caught dancing and singing Taio Cruz' "Dynomite" in the bathroom.

Yeah.  That's a pretty clear description of my daily life.

If I don't write something people will throw things

Let's talk about sinuses.

Sinuses are the bane of my existence, possibly moreso that mayonnaise.  And I seriously hate unnecessary mayonnaise on things like sandwiches and burgers.

And mayonnaise is actually the perfect segue here because at this moment I wouldn't be surprised if the substance being produced by my sinuses and trickling down my throat was some sort of jacked up variety of mayo.

And whose fault is this?  I can blame it on many different sources. First, my parents.  Not only are hypersensitive sinuses a genetic curse, but I imagine growing up in a house of chain smokers didn't help.  I haven't lived with either of my parents for nearly 15 years and I still can't breathe.  Second, I can blame it on Virginia.  Virginia's weather did this to me.  On Thursday it was 90 degrees. On Friday it was 65. 25 degrees makes a grouchy sinus.  Add rain the next day and we have achieved goop.

On the plus side since I'm now right on the edge of sick, Husband didn't argue with my impluse purchase of a vat of cheez balls at Sam's Club today and then willingly brought me chocolate cake and let me watch Project Runway. 

You don't hit thumbody elth.

Just quickly,  I am STILL Mrs. Teacher Person.  So I told him I'll just call him Mr. Student Boy.  Obviously he didn't get it.

Today we were discussing, for the 6th day in a row (this IS Kindergarten), the Rules.  I tell my kids that there's one rule: Be Kind.  Then we talk about the different things that you can do that are kind, along with things that you do that are not kind. Kind things would include the obvious ones like sharing, keeping hands to yourself, using nice words and manners.... but I also include things that are kind to grownups like not interrupting, doing what a grownup asks you to do right away, using your nose and bellybutton to listen (face and body facing me).  So today we were discussing things that are not kind after a few boys decided that they'd hit each other (and hit back, and hit someone because he hit your friend, etc.... it was very Three Stooges).  I have a little guy who has barely spoken a word since he came in.  When he needs to go to the bathroom, he points and raises his eyebrows questioningly (we're working on that).

So this tiny hand is in the air for the first time, and clearly I must acknowledge it. (again, name changed for privacy)

Me: So boys and girls, Big Kindergarteners never, never hit or kick on purpose, right?  Yes Antonio?

Antonio: You don't hit thumbody elth.

Me: (stifling a giggle) That's right, Antonio.  And why not?

Antonio: They might fart on you.



I just left that one alone.

On a far more serious note than usual

I'm attempting catharsis.

Having just finished an unpleasant conversation with someone, I find myself in quite a reflective and introspective mood.  If this post depresses you, feel free to wait until the next one that's entertaining.  While this one may turn out to be enlightening, I'm damn sure it won't entertain you.

A good friend of mine asked a question the other day- How many of you bullied or were bullied when you were in school but are trying to teach your children to behave differently now?  And I answered with a little snippet about my experiences in high school and how they have shaped my responses now to social interactions with others.  I sit here wondering if maybe this is the struggle that I've had as the result of being a "gifted" kid. (I know that by simply being willing to identify myself as one of "those" people, the average person and possibly even readers of this blog will dismiss anything I have to say about how I feel as self absorbed, having a high opinion of myself, etc.... whatever.  If you truly knew me you'd know that I don't actually have any self esteem at all. But am constantly accused of it.) Anyone who spends time with me picks up pretty immediately that I'm a reasonably intelligent person.  Some have a higher opinion, which is flattering, but mostly I've just always found academic stuff (language especially) to be second nature and enjoyed "knowing" and letting the things I've learned shape who I am and what I want in life.  But if you read academic research about gifted kids, you see that they often struggle with the social aspects of growing up, as their world view isn't quite focused on the same point as their peers.  They come across as "not quite like us," and end up ostracized by the average peer group, usually bunching up in groups of similar "friends" with whom they forge an unusual "friendship" that is not quite the same as what other people enjoy with their social groups.

In high school it was particularly painful.  Probably because that's the time in our lives when we truly begin to pick up on the subtle differences between this person and that person, and those chemical responses bond groups of people into friendships.  In high school, I had a group of friends.  Sort of.  It was more like a group of other people who weren't quite right for the established social groups who ended up together by default because we all thought that we deserved a social group.  In truth I think I had one, maybe two actual friends.  And in truth, my willingness and desire to be friends with one of them no matter what the opinion that others held of her closed so many doors in my face that I will never go to a reunion, and will only even stay in contact with a handful of people I knew at that time in my life.  But it was worth it.  She was a true friend, and even though we lost contact during college, getting married, having kids, etc... just the little bit of interaction we have now (mostly on FB) reminds me that even in that time when nobody else liked us, we really, truly had each other.  (Thanks MBK, I love you and will never tell anyone your middle name, promise).  It got so bad that the group of people I thought were my peer group intentionally kept a graduation party a secret from ME because they didn't want me there. Not because I personally was so "wrong," but because a) I dared to be friends with this person and b) I dared to have developed feelings for a guy in our group and attempted to act upon them.  So I spent my high school graduation night at home with my parents, watching TV in my room.  Thanks.  Yes, I hate most of them for that.

So where does this leave me?  Well, now that I'm an adult and married to one of my "kind," I experience the same sort of crap regularly, but I admit to being fairly hypersensitive to it.  Mostly because the sting of the way I was treated for refusing to ostracize someone, I think.  Even 12 years later that hurt is still appallingly fresh.

Everywhere I go, I try to make friends with people.  I try to show that I am willing to accept you, whoever you are and whatever you do, no matter how different it is from me.  I will do anything that anyone asks me to do, as long as it's even remotely feasible.  I spread myself pretty thin.  And every time I start to feel myself falling into a "place" that I so desperately crave, I realize that I am being held outside by the same invisible barriers that have always kept me from everyone except my husband and a very small group of people who are more soulmate than just friend. I don't hide who I am.  But it seems that others hide their opinions in a way that I don't truly understand.  I don't understand the impulse to encourage someone to do something that you will judge and disparage them for behind their back.  And I have never, never understood why MY actions have always been judged far more harshly by the mob than those of others.  Am I held to a higher standard because I have a larger vocabulary?  Am I intentionally not invited to things because I understand things faster than others?  I always feel like there is a contingency of people who are content to use my strengths without reciprocating by offering the thing I crave the most; acceptance and a "place" to belong within the group.

In a series of meetings a few years ago, a group of teachers were trying to help another deal with the emotional tendencies of a young man who is substantially gifted.  While the rest of the group was trying to offer suggestions for how to reshape the young man's reactions to things, all I could think about was how this child was going to suffer.  His entire life the rest of the people around him were not going to see him for who he is, but they were going to judge his actions in comparison to what they had established as "normal."  And maybe that's what I've always done that gets me into trouble? Refusing to let the opinion of many dictate my opinion of one. Refusing to de-friend someone that the general consensus had found wanting.

So here we are again.  Once again I have clued in to the fact that despite efforts, I am found to be made of the incorrect cut of cloth.  And therefore, the barriers that I so desperately want to come down are caulked up tight, and I will be used for what I can do instead of wanted for who I am.  And all because I dared to not hide myself, to try to let people see me truthfully as I actually am, thinking that maybe in a new environment that would be accepted.  But it's not. And I guess I give up on ever finding a place other than my marriage that it is.

"Georgie" Update

Today he came to me very concerned that I'd given him the wrong rest mat.  Seemed he knew that his first name started with a certain letter, and that letter wasn't on his mat..... and that would be because his mat has his last name on it.  Yep.

And I'm still Miss Teacher Person.

The One Where I Laughed A Lot

Today I had a cherubic little friend who kept calling me "Miss Teacher Person."  Well, I grew tired of it, and invited him to come talk to me during snack time.  I told him that if I could remember his name, that it would be very nice if he could remember mine, too.  Here's how that went....(changing first name for privacy purposes)

Me:  Georgie, if I can remember your name, don't you think you could remember mine?
Georgie: No, maybe not.

Ok.... well, then later on the guidance counselor was checking the bus roster on his bus to make sure everyone was where they should be.  When she got to Georgie, she asked him what his name was.

Georgie:  Georgie Davis.
Counselor: Georgie Davis?  I don't see anyone on the list named Georgie Davis?  Are you sure your last name is Davis?
Georgie: Yes, I'm Georgie Davis.
Counselor:  Do you mean you're in Mrs. Davis' class?
Georgie:  Yeah.

Well, so I think we've solved the problem of him forgetting MY name.  The question remains as to whether or not he knows who HE is.

Less Effective Management of Herds of 5 Year Olds: A Treatise

Each year, kindergarten teachers greet their newest crop of little ones and walk out the door on the first day with the same general consensus:

Kindergarten showcases the reasons why humans don't have litters.  Nobody sane can handle 21 five year olds in one room.

Today we were off to the races for the 2011-2012 school year, and what a send off it was!  Having had approximately 1/32 the needed amount of time to actually prepare physically and emotionally for the first day of K due to Virginia's rapidly deteriorating reputation with natural disasters, I entered my room with at least a vague notion of what I was doing (a nice side effect of staying in the same grade 2 years in a row for a change).  I had a to-do list for the day, I was ready to get the things that needed doing done.

Of course, by 9:15 I couldn't find the damn list so I resorted to just flying by the seat of my pants, only to find the list right there. In my pants.  Well, in the pocket.  Sort of like the lost-glasses-on-the-head trick.

So we alternated between reading stories and using the different items of interest around the room, letting the little ones explore and experience this new environment where they will spend so many hours until June.

No, wait.  That's not quite as picturesque as it sounds.

Picture, if you will, a carpet.  That carpet attempting to contain 20 totally spastic wildebeasts, and failing.  3 are sitting nicely, waiting for directions.  Five are untying their shoes because it will be fun to ask me to tie them again. Four are spinning hypnotically on their butts, oblivious to those around them.  One is attempting a headstand.  The other 7 have their hands in the air to "tell me" something that has no actual relevance to well, life on this planet.  And me.  Little old me, in my teachery chair, story in hand, interrupting every page to say "No, please stop, that's not how we sit, show me what big kindergarteners do, everybody freeze, show me criss-cross-applesauce-hands-in-your-lap, it's my turn to talk, it will be yours in a minute....." on a running loop.

But my "favorite" moments revolve around the bathroom.

Me: Ok, boys and girls, Mrs. Davis has one very important rule about the bathroom.  When we are all sitting on the carpet, you can't ask to go to the bathroom then.  So everyone look right now.  Where are you sitting?

Kids: On the carpet

Me: So can we go to the bathroom right now?

Kids: No

Me: Great!  You guys are super smart!

Kid 1: I need to go to the bathroom
Kid 2: Can I go to the bathroom, too?
Kid 3: I want some water.
Kid 4: I'm THIRSTY!!

Me: *headdesk*

And so begins another of Davis' Bathroom Training Sessions.......

Mean Old People

There's something I don't like that I feel we truly need less of on this planet.

Mean old people.

And I do actually mean senior citizens. The media paints a picture of old people as this kindly, snowy haired understanding and supportive demographic, when in reality a damn lot of them are just mean.

  And the thing is, it's the kind of mean that I totally am on the inside. The difference here is that time has not yet stolen my filter (though some people may argue that my filter is often defective).  So maybe I'm extra sensitive because it's a slippery slope?

  Take, for example, the husband's great great aunt.  She's well over 90 and just mean.  She's doted on the husband since he was a kid for his enviable intelligence and self-confidence (thanks genetics!), so when he brought me home as the girl he wanted to marry, I was immediately subjected to Cranky Old Person Critique and clearly was found to be lacking,  despite the fact that in addition to possessing intelligence, self-confidence and wit to rival or often exceed my husband, I also can find a trash can and operate a washing machine.  All my my ownself, ya'll.  And you wonder why I have designs on becoming Queen of the World.

  So my first experience of unpleasantness was the first time I met her. As time progressed, the encounters grew more and more ridiculous until shortly after The Squirt was born. Now, you ought to know that I spent the "floundering" time of my early to mid twenties nannying for a series of fantastic families in Atlanta and Richmond.  Through doing that as well as having babysat and camp counseled since I was 15, I am pretty comfortable with babies and kids.  They don't freak me out with their babyness.  When The Squirt came home, we were actually quite comfortable with how to take care of her. I'd done it with so many other babies that didn't come out of me that doing it with my own was pretty much second nature.  We were laid back.  And she was an easy baby (but now often a Toddler of Doom).  All in all, I've had a hand in raising 4 or 5 babies from very early babyhood on.

     So Madame Unpleasant comes over to see her Precious Great Nephew and the Chosen Child that he frivolously begat upon an Undesirable.  At the time, The Squirt was about a week and a half old, and settling nicely into a routine. When she arrived, Squirt was sound asleep in the cradle we'd set up in the living room so that she could be used to sleeping in a not-silent environment. She'd been asleep for about an hour, which is pretty good for a newborn.  Anyway, when she started making her "I'm awake and hungry now" noises, I got up to get her from the cradle.  Unpleasant says "You're going to have to take some parenting classes, aren't you, because you're already messing that child up." Thus continued a good half hour of praising everything my brand-new-to-this husband said or did with the baby, and disparaging me.  At this point I could have hauled off and punched the witch in the throat, however in the interest of familial peace I chose ice cream instead.

   So my question is this, why are old people so MEAN?  I mean, sure, they have the advantage of having lived a lot longer than the rest of us, but I don't think age gives one carte blanche to be rude.  I'm putting Old People in time out.

Puppy Love

All those who have ever had a conversation of more than 5 minutes with me will have discovered my near-unhealthy level of obsession with my dogs.  Here they are:

The one on the left is Roxy, who is never called Roxy.  She's The Pickle.  She's a Pembroke Welsh Corgi.  She's a midget.  No really, like in a full on Munchkinland kind of way.  Corgis have these short stumpy little legs that often look more like flippers than feet.  The Pickle is everyone's best friend, including yours.  Did you know?

The red and white dog on the right is Gus.  Also referred to as Gus-Gus, The Dude and the Retread.  I will explain how exactly he is retreaded later.  Gus is a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel supposedly, but he doesn't act like one and although he has the correct bone structure, markings, DNA, etc... he sure doesn't even look much like my friends' cavvies.

   Pickle is our family supervisor.  We are not allowed to do anything without Pickle's help and supervision.  She's friendly, earnest, smart and absurdly patient with the kid.  Very good dog.  Her negative personality traits include being overly talkative for someone who refuses to learn English along with a deep desire to herd things which she is actually pretty terrible at, and results in her pretty much being underneath your feet no matter where you're trying to put them.

    Gus is a lemon.  There's no other way to put it.  Cavaliers are supposed to be intelligent, friendly little fearless bundles of social skills.  Gus is afraid of cellophane. The only two things on earth that are not threatening to Gus are me and the husband.  All the rest of the world is secretly a Dr. Evil plot to kill or maim him.  Seriously, it took him 3 months to learn to use the doggie door because TODAY might have been the day when we added the guillotine attachment to behead him if he dared to poke his little black nosey out of it.  He's simply not very smart.  In fact we joke that he's so very un-gifted that he's retreaded because he would fall below retarded on the spectrum and probably couldn't spell it anyway.   But on the plus side, he desperately loves his Mommy. In fact, I believe his life's dream is to wake up one moring having morphed into a parasite that could live inside of me, or perhaps to be surgically grafted to me somehow.  His most common emotion seems to be suspicion.

 However defective my dogs may be, I wouldn't trade them for much. Growing up my family had a little terrier named Muttley who didn't particularly like me.  She didn't dislike me, but I just wasn't particularly intresting to her.  So Gus is the first dog who has ever been unquestionably, unequivocally mine.  And being loved that much by a little doofy looking creature will inflate an ego faster than anything else I know. Pickle belongs to whoever is paying attention to her.  Including The Squirt, with whom Pickle has enviable patience.  The Squirt is occasionally stricken with Doggie Mania, wherin she MUST manhandle a dog.  Well, that would send Gus straight to the grisly jaws of death, so Pickle almost always takes one for the team.  Her ears are pulled, her eyes poked, her legs grabbed, even occasionally her nose is picked or her teeth examined and she just takes it as it comes, never growling or snapping and only rarely even running away.

   Now, my dogs aren't all sunshine and roses.  Both of them tend to forget that they're housebroken, especially in the event of a precipitation event.  They LOVE to bark at cats.  They believe that the fridge being opened means they're entitled to a Cheese Tithe. They surround me in bed at night, forcing me to sleep in some sort of pretzel contortionist position that makes my chiropractor a lot of money.  They REALLY like to roll on the dead things that Pepper the Ninja Cat of Death murders and brings home for us.  They like to eat only the chewy bits of artificiality in their dog food, but insist on being fed a fairly steady stream of french fries and pizza crust.  But they snuggle with me on the sofa in the winter and we make a big warm pile of person and dog fur.

   So if you don't have a dog you should get one.  But you can't have mine.

What to Expect when you're Expecting Kindergarten

Today we greeted a fresh new crop of 5 year olds to the public school system. Wide eyed and adorable, they timidly took their first steps towards being educated and productive members of society.

Wait, who am I kidding?  Kindergarten ain't nothing like that anymore! Kindergarteners are all about the sound bites.  Take these gems:

"My mommy said to let me use the potty because I just pee when I want."

"My mommy and daddy SLEEP IN THE SAME BED!" (said with great gravity)

Me: "Why did you throw that kangaroo?"
Kid: "I just felt it here, in my liver."

Kid: "You're really big.  Are you a ninja warrior?"
Me: "Why yes I am.  Now go sit down."

"I was in the bathroom a long time because I had to do a really big poop."

"I just CAN'T use crayons that don't have a pointy end."

"Can I have your snack?"

Me: "Tell me about what you drew."
Kid: "Well, that's my mommy and those are her boobies."


Me: "So if you had three balloons and I give you another one, how many would you have then?"
Kid: "Probably just two because I'm hard on balloons."

So if you're sending a kid to Kindergarten this year or sometime soon, take notes.  They're damn funny.