Slept late. Dropped coffee grounds in my hot chocolate. Got stuck at every red light. BUT it's the last day of summer, there's no real humidity and someone brought me a peppermint mocha. Life is good!
Here's a picture of our class rules this week should you need a reminder about how to have a successful class experience. I particularly can get behind 'no pynching' - especially when I first read it as 'no lynching'...
It's Wednesday. Yesterday we were sitting in the teacher's lounge congratulating ourselves on a penis free week and then one of my kids drew this:
So there's that.
When Husband bought this house, it was listed as a having two-bathrooms but in the basement, among the spider webs and rodent droppings we found a third bathroom tucked in a corner near the laundry hook-ups. It was dark and dirty and the toilet was taped up and labeled winterized and you couldn’t pay me to pee in there let alone strip naked and shower but it was an actual third bathroom. Sure, we kept the door closed shut and only opened it up to show to visitors our own actual prison bathroom. Sure, we would dare them to go in there and sit down on the seat but no one ever took us up on it.
Which, it turns out, was a good decision on their behalf because when I finally took the tape off the seat and filled the tank it leaked it's dirty germy water all over the gross linoleum floor. Also because... well, IT WAS NASTY and who knows what kind of creepy skin eating disease they might have picked up from the seat. Or the floor. Or the walls. It was just plain disgusting.
But, with Husband’s deadline to get his studio up and running AND the fact that Famous Musician was coming our house for a photo shoot, the prison bathroom had to get finished. I demolished the linoleum and Husband spent a few days spraying the ceiling black and the walls white. He replaced and repositioned the toilet and the sink and now – drumroll, please - the prison bathroom is no longer a prison bathroom. Yee ha!
It's not going to win any design awards and I'm pretty sure Martha Stewart would still be horrified but it's freshly painted and smells a whole lot better! Sure, it's still a tiny room with holes in the walls where all the pipes used to be but the toilet is new and clean and the sink is new and clean and there is no longer a worry that you might get shived just stepping in there and so I consider that a major win!
We won't mention that the holes in the wall look like glory hole options. Nope, going to ignore that whole thing and just smile pretty. It ain't that kind of bathroom... anymore.
MONDAY: New batch of six and seven year olds but this group is mostly ‘just turned six’ year olds. In the treasure trunk I’ve stashed some birthday hats and streamers and an invitation with no details on time, place etc. The kids ‘decide’ that they’re doing a play about a birthday party. One girl raises her hand. She’s one of those quite talkers who likes to tap my arm in the middle of whatever I’m doing and tell on someone. “My birthday was yesterday.” She whispers speaks. I wish her happy birthday. Another girl raises her hand and tells me her birthday is tomorrow. She’s clutching her plastic pink necklace as she tells us all that she won’t be in class tomorrow because it’s her birthday. We wish her happy birthday.
She mentions her birthday a lot during the next five hours. She should be the birthday girl in our play because it’s her birthday tomorrow, she says. When the kids decide that they should bring gifts to the party, she says they should be for her because it’s her birthday tomorrow. At the end of the day, she reminds me that she won’t be here because it’s her birthday tomorrow.
“That’s right.” I say, trying to keep the sarcasm out of my voice. ”I forgot. Let’s all sing her Happy Birthday.” I tell the class. They do, shout-screaming the song. She grins, her shinny blonde bob shaking in time to our off key singing.
I wrangle them outside for pick up and, when it’s her turn to load up into her car, stick my head into mom’s window and say, “I know she wont’ be here tomorrow because it’s her birthday but she won’t miss much.”
Mom looks at me and, with a totally blank face says, “She’ll be here tomorrow. It’s not her birthday.”
“Oh,” I say, totally confused. “She told us it was. We sang her Happy Birthday and everything.”
“It’s not. She’ll be here.“ Mom doesn’t say anything else. I step back from the car. I guess we’re done talking.
Then I lean forward again, “When is her birthday?” I ask thinking maybe the kid is confused and it’s next week or was last week or…
“December 18” The mom says not at all fazed by this blatant lie her child has told.
“Okay.” I say, slightly bemused as I step back from the car and let her go on her way.
The next day the kid shows up, different plastic beaded necklace, very wiggly front tooth and doesn’t mention her “birthday.” And neither does anyone else! Even though we spend the entire day creating a ‘play’ about birthdays, not one kid wishes her a Happy Birthday or mentions the fact that she said she wouldn’t be there because it was her birthday. Not. One.
WEDNESDAY: Scripts in hand, I’m lining the kids up in the classroom to begin to set the blocking. Which, with this age group is really just having them all standing on a line of tape and stepping off when they have to speak. There are sixteen of them. They’re wiggly and hungry and I’m losing the battle for calm when I hear a thump and look over. Seven-year-old freckled faced boy has pushed the six year old who’s missing his front teeth boy against the wall.
“What just happened?” I ask as the class quiets down to see what happens next. “He said something really inappropriate.” Says Freckles, loudly and clearly.
Toothless denies it, lisping through his hole. “I didn’t. I told a joke.”
Crouching down, I look Freckles in the face and ask, “What did he say?”
Freckles turns his big wide blue eyes to me and unmistakably states, “He said I’m going to go up into my room and my mom is going to come in and kiss me on the lips and have sex with me.”
The world freezes. I’m no longer a referee; I’m now a child abuse advocate. I pull both kids out of the room and leave the fourteen other kids with the twenty-year-old intern as I try to find the lead administrator. In my old job, this would have been my problem to solve. I’m relieved I get to tag someone else in to help - and I feel totally guilty that relieved is an emotion I’m actually feeling right now.
Lead Admin is in the middle of sending home a seven-year old that punched another kid in the face. While we’re waiting, I have the boys go through the incident again. Neither one of them changes their story. I make them sit there while we wait. Both of them look guilty and neither one is crying the cry of the innocent. It's an awkward wait. So many words are swimming though my brain and none of them can come out in front of these children.
Finally free to deal with our problem, I fill in Lead Admin and have the boys tell them their sides of the story again. Neither one changes their version of the story. It's still totally horrifying. Freckles says Toothless really did say the “really inappropriate” thing and he repeats it word for word. Toothless swears he was just telling a hot lava joke and that he never said what Freckles said he said. They both know they’re in trouble but we can’t figure out who is fibbing. Either way, the sex statement is totally traumatizing.
We go back to class and I separate the boys and just hope that no other kid brings up the conversation - in class or at home. The last thing I want to do is explain what was wrong about what was said or heard or whatever. Lead Admin spends the next few hours running about placing phone calls and having conversations with the boy's parents that I’m sooooo happy I do not have to have. One parent thinks the story was fabricated the other is just plain horrified – like me. This whole situation is just plain yucky.
Add to the week two kids out with possible chicken pox, the nose punching seven year old in the class across the hall who also pulled out his junk and stood there, balls in hand, sharing them with the class and I am worried about state of the world.
I am ready to become a drinker, a smoker and a midnight toaker but I’m too tired, in both brain and body to try.
There are days I morn the fact that I haven’t had children and there are days that I celebrate my wombectomy. Want to guess what I’m doing right now?
My current schedule is a 5am wake up time followed by a groggy conversation with the dog outside in the 85-degree muggy heat about doing her business sooner than later. Five in the morning is seldom a pleasant time when you have to be up.
BUT, for the past few mornings, this guy has flown over for a drink and a bath and surprised me while I stood at the kitchen window trying to wake up.
I didn't get a picture of the bath but it was darn amusing to see him, feet IN the bird dish attempting to get water to the rest of him. But I did get these two relatively not blurry ones of him post drink, looking for breakfast among the idiot chipmunks below.
Sure makes that 5am alarm going off a lot more appealing.
My name is ej. I'm a girl. I say that because with the short hair and the short initials, folks aren't always sure. More brilliant insights to who I am in About me