Smile!  Tomorrow is Picture Day!  Many days are special in the lives of children  The first day of a new school year brings new clothes, a pencil box full of new crayons, sharpeners, and assorted school supplies.  Halloween brings a class party, games, and candy during the day with the prospect of more at night.  Thanksgiving is memorable for its parade and four-day weekend, and Picture Day is special because…you get your picture taken!

If this little message is already working on you because of its many exclamation points, then you must not be familiar with Picture Day, which does, indeed, carry that degree of excitement.  Like the first day of school, kids will probably wear new clothes, and, like holiday parties, they will spend much of the day doing something other than traditional learning.  Teachers will do learning of a different sort.

Picture Day Happening Number One.  Our school advises students to wear something nice, “As if you were going to church.”  Church, like weeping, lasts for one day (or a portion thereof.)  The image you take on Picture Day will not last only for a night or a morning, but for your entire 13 school career (kindergarteners take pictures too.)  The image of the year will be posted on the refrigerator door to bring either pride or shame for the 12 months between the old picture and the new.  Parents are aware of this, and “something nice” can run the gamut from “the preppie look” to “the princess look,” and “the why in the world did your mother dress you in that outfit?” look, which I reserve for jeweled tops and leggings.  (Did I mention I’m a first-grade teacher?)

All of that intro simply to explain that I am greeted with girls carrying backpacks full of hairspray, barrettes, ribbons, and beads and written requests from mothers that I comb hair, comb water through hair to make it straighter, comb  water through hair to make it curlier, help apply lip gloss, and tie many, many ribbons on hair styles complicated enough to be appropriate in the day of Marie Antoinette.  With boys, the instructions are something like, “make sure he wears a napkin over his shirt so he doesn’t get it dirty.”  One young man, whose parents are either brave or crazy, want his picture taken with his NY Yankees baseball cap on.  Surely I have mentioned before that I live in the Great Frozen, North, Red Sox Nation, and the sight of a Yankees cap may bring harm to some mother’s child.

Picture Day Happening Number Two.  The better angels of my nature and I spend all morning tucking in, wiping off, tying, and listening to complaints of “These shoes are too tight but my mother made me wear them anyway!”

Picture Day Happening Number Three.  Picture Day is practice for the adult world, which one spends mostly waiting in line.  So we wait.  We wait some more.  We wonder why we ever got called to the Gym, or Cafeteria or Music Room, or Auditorium, or any other location designated to bear the curse of Picture Day if we were only going to stand in line for half an hour.  We wait some more.  Some active boys start play-fighting and get their shirts dirty.  Girls play in each others’ hair (that’s right, I didn’t say “with” each others’ hair, I said “in” each others’ hair) with the expected results.  Since we’re waiting for such a long time, in between refereeing fights and patting down hair, I began to imagine what punishments parents will mete out to me when they believe that I did not care about their child’s pristine glory. 

Picture Day Happening Number Four.  Our line finally reaches our first destination:  the camera and bleachers for the class picture.  Did I bring everyone’s money?  “My mom says she’ll bring the money tomorrow.”  To trust or not to trust?  “I brought my money and you put it down.”  Plausible enough, so I pull out a few extra tens to make up the difference.  “My mother doesn’t have any money, so I can’t get my picture taken!” “Don’t worry. This is a class picture so everybody’s in it.”  Each child wants to be the first to line up, although I explain, and explain, and explain again that the photographer will arrange us the way she wants.  Popular culture has invaded the world of those in single digits, so the photographer and I have to discourage “model” poses, with the chest thrown out and one hand on a hip, ‘gangsta’ poses, with crossed arms and hunched shoulders, and rabbit ears behind one another’s heads.  We take our picture three times; the photographer is taking no chances.

Picture Day Happening Number Five.  We’re in the big leagues now (and not only the misbegotten Yankees fan.)  Individual pictures!  Help me understand, please.  While there is snow, and plenty of it, on our ground, and the kids are wearing turtlenecks, why does the photographer’s backdrop have leaves and flowers?  Backdrop number two is a classical motif of white Grecian columns with a sky blue background, again, difficult to take seriously because we are indoors.

The individual picture event has more competition than an Olympic event.  The hair must be cuter than the next girl’s.  The shirt must be cleaner than the next boy’s.  Whose artificial smile will take the gold; while some other smile, a grimace with teeth bared is clearly suitable only for the lead, or even clay, medal?  Who will wait more quietly in line after their picture has been taken?  Who will try to stand next to the photographer and direct their friend’s close-up?..And last, how quickly will the day end so the teacher can get her Red Bull? 

Picture Day plus three weeks:  The pictures have arrived.  At least one is missing, probably in a classroom and grade furthest away from ours, and darn, that mom never paid me the way she promised she would  Anyone for a Red Bull?

Just a note:  There is a book, whose title I can’t recall because I’m at home, that was actually written and illustrated by elementary school children about their Picture Day experiences.  On each page is an illustration with a caption to explain why the picture is particularly good or bad.  If you need to get some work done, despite the excitement of Picture Day, then you can have each child make his/her own illustration and caption.  If your school has a color copier, then the office staff may make copies for you to distribute to each child to take home.  If not, then you can always bind it yourself.  Place construction paper between each picture and let the student make a “cover” for their picture.  The kids will love it, their parents will give you a nicer parting gift, and your students will remember the experience that goes with the picture on the fridge door.

First, a little intro:

I woke up early

          (early in the morning)

Got out of bed

          (comfortable bed)

Jumped on my pillow

          (soft pillow)

Stood on my head

          (hard head)

In the 80s, a reading philosophy called “Whole Language” was popular.  Its theory is, essentially, that when we learn to speak, we are not taught one word at a time but by imbibing language as a whole, full of meaning.  These theorists posit that we should not learn an abstract set of letter and sound rules before we learn to read, but should be introduced to reading with whole texts and whole words.  Some expert will take me task for this truncated explanation, but it’s a blog posting, not a university seminar.  If you’re reading this for fun, it does get better.

Polka Dot Pajamas is a text popular with Whole Language advocates, and my students love learning to read with it.  But a side effect of its popularity is that, invariably, some happy child will say, “Hey, let’s put on a pajama party!”  Then, all of the other happy kids will join in, becoming happier and happier at the prospect of coming to school in their pajamas.  The refrain, ”Let’s put on a pajama party!” will then roll through the room, repeated by a thousand treble voices (o.k., it only seems like a thousand) until I give in and say, “Yes.”

What joy unspeakable; really, really loud unspeakability.  The date is set.  Parent letters go out.  Students cheer.  Then, the teacher realizes that Friday, February 13, is not only Friday the 13, but also the only logical date for our Valentine’s Day/pajama party.  A bunch of single-digiters ready to show their love of one another, of superhero-themed pajamas, and of candy in a small room at the same time with one tired 50-something. to supervise card distribution, pajama-changing, and candy gobbling. Oh, the humanity!

7:00 a.m.—The teacher arrives at school and changes into her own pajamas:  a modish ensemble of flannel pajamas and robe.

7:05 a.m.—The teacher prays; only one of many prayers she will chant during the day.

7:50 a.m.--The teacher drinks a Red Bull.  Her husband, Steadfast Mister disapproves of this beverage, so please don’t tell him that the teacher had one.

8:00 a.m.—The teachers goes to the bathroom.

8:15a.m.—The teacher says another little prayer, then goes to gather her children, half of whom are in their pjs, half of whom are not. The not half changes right away.

8:30 a.m.—The teacher drinks another Red Bull, but tells the students it’s tea.

9:00 a.m.—The teacher begins M&M bingo.  Some students actually use their M&Ms as markers; others just eat them.

10:00 a.m.-The teacher watches with joy as the students leave for a special class.  Says a little prayer of thanks.

11:00 a.m.—The teacher welcomes the students back and immediately puts in a video—something about Valentine’s Day.

11:40 a.m.  The teacher says a little prayer of thanks as she drops off the students for lunch.

12:00 .p.m.-The teacher enjoys a Red Bull and a bathroom break.

12:20 p.m.-The teacher welcomes the students back and they begin to party in earnest.  Students have no organizational ability, so passing out valentines looks like a dance of cotton candy spinning on cones—pink for the girly pjs and blue for the superheroes.  Students drink many red drinks.  More cotton candy spinning.

1:30 p.m.-The teacher sends up a prayer of petition; only thirty minutes to go—will she make it?

2:00 p.m.-The teacher helps to unsnap, unbuckle, pull up, and pull down.

2:15 p.m.-The Teacher has a Red Bull, goes to bathroom, Red Bull, bathroom, Red Bull, bathroom.

One year later—Darn those Whole Language theorists:  anything but “Polka-Dot Pajamas.”

Who Sank My Battleaxe?

I was sick.  I was so sick I had to stay home from school on both Friday the 6^th and Monday the 9^th.  I promise I wasn’t malingering; I had the sneezes, the coughs, the nose-blowing, the body aches, and some truly frightening dizzy spells.  As I lay in a supposed stationary bed, the bedroom whirled around just like one of our spinner games. I was so sick that the Love of my Life, Steadfast Mister, himself a teacher, had to stay home to look after me.

So, on those two days, I needed a substitute teacher, and perhaps the only thing worse than being a substitute teacher is being the regular teacher who needs a substitute.  I teach first grade.  Bev on the Web teaches little folks, and like most teachers who have younger students, my “stuff be ill.”  If allowed to tattle on myself, I do have “ill stuff.”

My name is spelled out on my desk with a magnetic alphabet train.  I have both a transparent stapler and tape dispenser.  My power strip and plugs are transparent.  I use fountain pens; ill in and of themselves, and some of them are transparent.  I have mini-transparent staplers for the students, which use ill colored staples, like turquoise blue and hot pink.  Even my students’ parents are transparent.  This new administration has got nothing on me—I am the Queen of Transparency. 

My marker collection is the envy of every art teacher in the developed world.  I have no advertising and endorse no products (but if anyone out there wants to use me in that shameful way, I may submit) so I cannot mention the name of the mega marker company whose products I buy.  Mega Marker Company claims more of my paycheck than even Mega Pencil Company, so my marker tub has Regular, Bold, Tropical, Pastel, Multicultural, Thick, Thin, Morbidly Obese, Pip-Squeak, Metallic, Color Changeables; for budding engineers, Connecting Markers, and for budding cheapskates, Two-Headed Markers.  They are all fodder for budding thieves.  Computer Guruetta has not shown me how to make the Registered Trademark symbol, so just pretend that it’s in this paragraph after every applicable product.

Let’s keep bragging.  My stationery collection for Writer’s Workshop (is that a Registered Trademark?) is seasonal, socially appropriate, colorful, and whatever else might capture the fancy of those between the ages of six and seven.

Getting tired of this, huh?  The penultimate more.  The magnets I use on my magnetic wall are transparent.

O.k., o.k. , just one more more.  My pop-up-fortune-telling M&M (another Registered Trademark, right?) dispensing machine is the illest of them all.

When I’m away, then the well get to play with the stuff of the ill.  “She lets us use her markers!”  No, she doesn’t.  “She lets us take all of the paper we want and staple, fold, spindle, and mutilate it until all 500 sheets are gone!”  No, she doesn’t.  “She wants us to use and break her transparent, battery-operated stapler and tape dispenser.”  No, she doesn’t.  “She wants us to pillage, tyrannize, maraud, eviscerate, and torpedo her stuff.”  No, she doesn’t, but now it’s too late.  Another substitute battle-axe has been sunk, and my empty M&M fortune-telling dispensing machine tells the fortune, “out of luck.” 

Yes, I told her she wasn’t grown up enough to touch anything unless I tell her to, ‘cause she doesn’t know what she’s doing!  Once she told me she was having some ‘puter problems and I told her I’d look at them when she came to my house.  She brought her laptop over and told me her dvd drive wasn’t working—she was just getting a picture...  I checked it out for her—she had the volume turned down. 

She tried to be a grown up and do something for herself on Tuesday when she decided to write in her blog—except she couldn’t get to it.  That’s what she said.  So she tried again on Wednesday and pressed a whole bunch of buttons and still couldn’t get on, so she called me.  “Help!  Help!  I don’t want people to think I’m ignoring my blog and I can’t get on it, and I’m desperate!”  Nam Myoho Renge Kyo.  I didn’t answer the phone ‘cause I was watching “Lost,” and she knows I’m not going to answer the phone during “Lost,” but she called me anyway.  I knew she’d be o.k. because I told her never to touch delete.

So, I called her back on Thursday, and my brother-in-law, the Love of her Life, Steadfast Mister, answered the phone and I asked him, “How do you stand it?” and he said, “It’s not easy, but where am I gonna’ put her after 25 years?”  So he put her on the phone, and I said, “What’s the matter NOW?” and she said something about not being able to get onto her blog, and I said, “What are you talking about, you can’t get on your blog?”  You’re worse than Juanita!”  (Our 80-year-old mother who owned a computer before my sister, and she doesn’t know what she’s doing either, but at least she has the excuse of being 80.)  Nam Myoho Renge Kyo.

I started telling her what to do--trying to tell her what to do, and she kept saying, “Wait a minute.”  “Wait a minute while I get back on the Internet.  Wait a minute while I get onto the website.”  “You’re not supposed to be on your site, Nam Myoho Renge Kyo.  You’re supposed to be on the hosting site!”  So, I wait a minute while she waits for that to show up, then I wait another minute for her to sign in and another minute for her to get onto site management, then she says, “What do I do now?” and I tell her, “Now you just wait until I tell you what to do.”  I told her, “Now look to your left.  Do you see where it says, ‘Blog?’  Click on it!”  So, she clicked on it, and guess what, it says “Post Entry.”  Now she’s happy and jumping up and down and telling me how when I come to visit how she’s going to treat me just like a queen.  (I’m thinking, “Yeah, I’m the queen and you’re the Court Jester.”)

That’s not enough.  She goes back to the Homepage of her so-called Website and says, “I don’t like the words on the blackboard; I want to change them.”  She wants to “change them.”  She wants to “change them.”  I called my son and said “Look, mommy’s right eye is twitching.”  Nam Myoho Renge Kyo.  I’m trying to chant quietly because I made her happy and I don’t want to hurt her feelings, but I’ve been telling her not even to tell people about her “website,” because when people click on a category they actually expect to find something there and not directions to put something there.  I made the website, I bought the domain, I put on every picture, I spent my time on it, and then she tells me she wants to “change” something?  I told her all the stuff I was going to have to do to make that one change, and she said, “I’ll do it.”  That’s when I told her she wasn’t grown up enough to do anything herself.  She thought I was joking.  Nam Myoho Renge Kyo, Nam Myoho Renge Kyo, Nam Myoho Renge Kyo.  She wanted me to show her how to put a "Banghead" here, Nam Myoho Renge Kyo, but I wouldn't do it.  Now she's banging her head.

Dear reader, and if you’ve actually looked at this mostly unfinished site and read my blog, then I thank you for checking back in, and my apologies to you for not posting sooner.  I had something wonderful to write about the snow (it did it again) and a truly profound dissertation on solving the country’s economic issues (well, maybe not), but I couldn’t get to this blog.  I pressed and I clicked, I guessed and I picked, but I just couldn’t find a way to post on this blog.  In frustration, I called my sister, Computer Guruetta, who walked me through finding this space.  She yelled at me a lot while helping me, and claimed I caused her eye to twitch.  When I asked her about making a desired change, she told me that I wasn’t “grown up enough” to do it by myself. I’m ashamed to admit that Guruetta was right.  The walk was just to the next door, but I’m back.

No surprise; it snowed again on Wednesday, the 4^th, which was inconvenient, but did not cause school to close.  Thank goodness.  After having been sick for one day and in DC for the Inauguration for two, I did not want to lose another day.  When I mentioned to my little loves that a week of vacation was coming up after February 13^th, they were most unhappy.  “Oh no!  Not another vacation!  We just had one!” Even if you’re six, or sixty, you know that coming to school is supposed to be a good experience.

It snowed again, and I was sick again.  As I write this, I have to admit to staying home today, hacking enough to scare the cats, blowing through a box of tissues so fast I burned my hand and exchanging my really cute nose for one reminiscent of a circus clown.  There’s not a lot more to say, except, that I’ll make site changes slowly, as I “grow up,” and join me fervently in my prayer that this last snow be the last snow.  Let’s not do it again.

Saturday, January 31, 2009