SLICE 14- A DAY IN (BAD) LIMERICKS

A teacher named Carol did stumble
To school with her head in a jumble.
The math skills she'd taught
were so easily forgot,
Down the toilet the test scores could go.


A mother named Carol did go
To the kitchen to whip up some dinner
Those tangy fries and frozen gourmet fish sticks
Made her sons do some pretty awesome lip licks
Too bad the ketchup cache was just  drips!

A school in Carol's district did call
A literacy coach they'll be needing this fall
If only her Spanish,
Did not so easily vanish,
Tomorrow's interview might  be a ball.

There once was a fool named Carol

To a poetry contest she did barrel

And now she's sitting her panicked

and a little bit frantic

Cuz her poetry bones just won't go. 

Procrastinator Carol was trying

To learn Spanish with poetry flying,

Her lesson plans weren't done

And her teenagers weren't fun

She felt like she oughta start crying!

Slice #14- The Beginning of Goodbye

The conversations started today. A little sooner than I expected. And I don't think I'm quite ready.

We had just finished Session #2 of our state math test and gathered on the rug for snack and read aloud. A, one of the "math goddesses" in my class, but also one of my star worriers, asked, "So what happens if you don't pass the test? Do you have to stay in fourth grade?"

I told her that I was sure she had done fine, and that no, simply doing badly on the state math test did not mean that a person had to stay in fourth grade another year.

My kids weren't done though.

"Actually," said J. "I wouldn't mind staying in fourth grade. I'll just stay here with Ms. Wilcox."

"Hey, me too," said D.

And pretty soon the entire fourth grade had decided that we were all just going to stay in Room 121 another year. If the school wasn't closing, that would be fine with me. I adore my class.

But the conversation wasn't over yet.

"But you're not staying here," says J in a kind of a half statement/half question.

"No," I said. "Remember, we talked about that. I work for *** Big District***. Next year this school is going to belong to ***Charter  School.*** You guys will go to the charter school and I will work somewhere else for ***Big District***

"But can't you just work for **** Charter School?"

"No I can't work for them, hon, I work for *** Big District***" I don't explain to the kids the financial logistics of charter schools, where I would probably make only a little more than half of what I am currently making.

We finish snack and read aloud, and the kids go to their seats to create game cards for Math Vocabulary Weirdo (stay tuned for a post- about when dorky test prep math review games become the all-time favorite, regularly requested class game!).

R circles back to talk to me. How  I love this smart, still-waters-run-deep basketball dribbling mathematician. "So where will you go, anyway?"

I have kind of moved onto other things. "We go to art today babe."

"No, where will you go?"

"When?" I ask.

"Next year. Where will you go next year?"

"Oh. Next year. I don't know, sweetie. I'm still trying to figure that out."

"Well I'm going there too," he says firmly. "Maybe we can all go."

"I would love that if you could all go with me." I say. And then I have to turn around so R won't see me cry .

I am not ready for these goodbye conversations. Not yet anyway.

SLICE #12- ARE YOU A DOG PERSON?

I am, much to my boys' consternation, a dog person. It's not that they don't like the dogs, but they think I go a little overboard. I disagree. I like my four-footed fur babies. A lot.

You can tell you are a dog person if:

• You talk to your dogs. My boys occasionally, ok, actually pretty regularly, tell me that I am nicer to the dogs than I am to my children. It would probably be rude to tell the boys that the dogs, who smile, and jump up and down, and wag their tails when I walk than the door, are generally more pleasant than the teenagers, who at best, manage a surly, "Hello," or sometimes, "What are we having for dinner?"
• You put a quilt over the new couch so that the dogs will be able to look out the front window when  no one is home.  You would actually rather have dogs than nice furniture, a nice yard, and nice clothes.
• You don't mind sharing your bed with two 80-pound black labs, even when you have to fight one for the covers and the pillow every night. You actually even kind of like waking up with a dog pressed tight on either side of you. 
• You consider dog compatibility when you purchase a new car-- "Umm, do you have any without those light gray seats, because those are really going to show the dirt/mud after the dogs have been at the dog park." 
• You spend $5000 to remove a 99 cent dishtowel from your dog's stomach, then spend the next three years defending the decision to your teenagers.
• You know all your friends' dogs' names. And cry when their dogs die, or when they have to give them away because their toddlers are allergic. 
• You regularly stop people in public places to ask them about their dogs, "What kind is it? How old is she? What's her name? Have you had her since she was a puppy? Do you go to the dog park?"
• You don't mind if other people's dogs kiss you, even on the face sometimes. It's also not a big deal when they chew the little bow thingy off your best work/interview shoes. They're only shoes, after all.

I have news. I pretty much fit all of the above. If you answer yes to more than two, you might be a dog person too!

Slice #11- Unloading the Groceries

We have a new tradition in my house. And it's one I kind of like. Actually I like it a lot.

Every weekend I go to the grocery store. And come back with somewhere between $200 and $300 worth of groceries. So that my kids don't starve to death in the next week.

Most weeks, if they are around, the boys help me bring the groceries in from the car. After that, they usually disappear. And I unload all of the bags and put the groceries away.

 The last few weeks, however, have been just a little different.

Three weeks ago, after we had carried the groceries into the house, my oldest son stood in the middle of the kitchen. "You need to leave me alone,"he said, "just go somewhere. I'm going to do this."

"You're going to unload the groceries?" I asked.

"Yes," he said, "but you need to leave me alone. I'm serious, just go somewhere else."

"OK," I said, heading for the basement to do a load of laundry.

Twenty minutes later, I came back upstairs. The groceries were, for the most part, put away. Granted, they weren't all exactly where I would have put them, but they were put away. And I didn't have to do it.

Last week the same thing happened. It was the first weekend of the month, and I had been to the grocery store and also the local food warehouse. I had a ton of stuff. But once again, Son #1 unloaded everything.

Today when I came back from the store, the boys came out to unload the car. This week, I thought we might be back to our old pattern. "I'm going to carry stuff in," said Son #1, "but I'm not unloading it. That's too much work."

"OK," I said externally. My inner voice was saying, "Darn!"

The boys carried the groceries in from the car and I started unloading. About three minutes later, Son #1 was back.

"I'll help if you need it," he said. "You do as much as you can do, and I'll do the rest." Then he turned and went around the corner toward his bedroom.

"Hey, Zay," I called, "I've done as much as I can do."

 My son turned around. "Get out of here," he said. "I'm going to do it."

"You are?"

"Yeah," he said. "I'll do it. You can go do something else."

And so once again I left. And once again, he unloaded all of the groceries, all by himself. And once again, things are in somewhat unusual places, but it will work. Things are put away. I didn't have to do it.

And now I am sitting here. Writing my slice. Thinking about my sweet, sweet guy. What a great man he is growing into. How crazy I am about him. And most of all, how much I am going to miss him. Starting in August. When he leaves for junior college, 800 miles away. I'm going to miss him. Who will unload the groceries?

Slice #10 of 31

Not a lot of time to post today. I am going to a wedding. And not just any wedding. My sister's wedding.

It's actually kind of a crazy story. My sister, Betsy, met her husband, Paul, when they were in high school. Paul lived down the street from us. Every afternoon, after school, he had to take Cherie, his mom's standard poodle, for a walk. Paul hated that dog (he still doesn't like dogs) and he used to walk Cherie down the street, out of his mom's sight, tie her to a post, and hang out at a convenience store by our house. My sister and mom watched "the cute guy with the dog" for several months, and then my mom convinced my sister to go meet him. And she did. And the rest, so they say, is history.

Paul and Betsy started dating during their senior year in high school. My bedroom was right above the front door, and several nights a week, I was privileged to their torrid love scenes, or squabbles, depending on the night.

Neither of them was a big fan of school and when they graduated, Paul went to work managing the pro shop at a racquet ball court. Betsy tried college, but only for half a semester, then came home and went to business school. She became an executive assistant at a bank.

And they got married. When Betsy was nineteen and Paul was twenty. I don't know if anyone thought it would last. They were both so, so young.

Paul and Betsy have been through a lot. When they were married, my sister was an anorexic. Paul walked beside her through several very rough years. And then my dad had stomach cancer.  My dad wasn't about to let any of us, the three girls he had always protected, take care of him. And Paul, the son my dad never had, along with my mom, became the primary caregiver. And he was so, so good to my dad.

The last seven or eight years have been especially rough. Paul and Betsy own the business my dad started fifty years ago. The business is connected to the construction industry. The economy has really impacted them. And it's been super, super hard to keep things afloat. Paul and Betsy have had to shut down branches, lay off valued workers, and pray a lot…

It's been a hard time for their family, too. Their kids, now young adults, have both struggled. Are still struggling. My niece and nephew will be ok, eventually, but they have been through some really, really tough times. And Paul and Betsy have had their hearts broken again and again.

Today, they are going to put that all the sadness and hard times of the past few years aside. Because today, Paul and Betsy are getting married. It's kind of a complicated story…

Paul's family was Catholic. His mom was a devout, devout woman of the faith. She worked for the Catholic church for many, many years, first in Colorado, and then in California. Paul and his brother were raised Catholic. They attended mass every week and went to the Catholic high school. My sisters and I were raised in a variety of Protestant churches. Our family was not nearly as devout.

When Paul and Betsy got married, they crossed those faith boundaries. I am only now beginning to understand what a big deal it probably was to his family. Paul and Betsy raised their kids in the Protestant Church, then when the kids were teenagers, the family pretty much stopped attending church.

A couple of years ago, when things were really hard, Paul went back to his Catholic faith. He started attending mass on Saturday afternoons. Soon, Betsy started accompanying him.  She decided she would convert to Catholicism. And she has spent the past six months or a year preparing for this change. Betsy and Paul, married for 28 (I think, although it might be 27 or 29) years, have attended classes on marriage and family planning.

I have to confess, I don't quite understand it. I am a follower of Christ. I read my Bible and pray every day. I attend church pretty much every Sunday.  I have several friends that are Catholic. But I don't quite understand the tenets of my sister's new religion. I don't understand why my sister and brother-in-law, who have been happily married forever, are not recognized as a married couple by the Catholic church. I don't understand why my mom, who is not Catholic, cannot read scripture in the ceremony.

But today, my sister and brother-in-law are getting married. And I am going to a wedding.

Slice 9 of 31

T enters the classroom on Thursday pretty much like he always does- with crash, a bang, a thump, and often an "oops," or  “oh, sorry.” He is a gentle giant, as tall as I am today, probably taller tomorrow. His coordination has not quite caught up with his rapidly growing body, and every day something— a can of markers, the electric pencil sharpener, a vase of flowers—or someone, most often his table partner, Kanesha—falls victim to his klutziness. 

This morning T greets me by saying, “I have food poisoning. I was up all night throwing up.”

I have a momentary picture of T spewing his cookies on the state books. “Really?” I say. “Does your mom know you are sick?”

“Yeah,” he says, taking a chug from a 32 ounce bottle of apple green gatorade, “but she didn’t have anywhere to leave me, so I just came to school.”

“Great,” I think, imagining green gatorade on the test books. “Don’t drink too much of that, sweetie.”

T wanders off to his desk, stopping along the way to announce to several of his friends that he was up all night “puking.” His friends are only mildly interested. "Dang," says J. "Everybody's puking in our class," referring to an incident from the day before, where my quick moving para had saved the day by shoving a wastebasket under someone's chin five minutes before our second round of state testing.

We start testing half an hour into the school day. Each morning this week, I have given the kids a snack, just to make sure they have something in their stomachs when they take the test.  Today it is granola bars. Given that his stomach hurts, I think probably T will not want a granola bar.

“Hey,” he says, as I hand a bar to Kanesha, “I’ll take one of those.”

“Are you sure? Doesn’t your stomach hurt?”

“It only hurts a little,” says T taking another slug of the the green gatorade, “I think it’s getting better. Can I have one of those please?”

I give T a granola bar and continue my distribution rounds. As I finish, I glance over to the other side of the room. T is eating powdered donuts.

“Hey,” I say, “I thought your stomach hurt.”

“It only hurts a little now,” he says, licking the powdered sugar film off his lips, then taking another slug from the now half empty Gatorade bottle.

About five minutes later, the assistant principal brings our bucket of testing materials.

“I don’t feel well,” says T, “my stomach hurts.”

“I can’t imagine why,” I think, picturing the 16 oz of Gatorade, and the granola bar, and the 6 powdered sugar mini-donuts T has consumed in the last half hour.

“I thought you said it was better,” I reply.

“It’s not,” T says, assuming a pained expression and clutching his stomach.    

       

“Do you want to use the restroom before we test?”

“Nah,” says T. “I’ll be ok.”

We test for an hour. As I am proctoring, I keep glancing over at T. Visions of green Gatorade and powdered sugar doughnut, and granola bar continue to dance through my head.

We finish testing. T’s hands me his book and says, “I don’t feel good. I threw up like three times last night.”

“I know,” I say, “you told me that. Do you want to use the restroom?”

“Nah,” says T. “I’m ok.”

After the tests are turned in, it really is snack time. Our  morning is four hours long and the school provides fruit every day. A few of my kids, T included, usually bring their own snack as a supplement. Today, T has a quart-sized Ziploc bag of chips. He inhales the chips as he makes the rounds, chatting with first one group of kids, and then another. He finishes his chips as he reaches the last group in the room.

“Hey,” he says to J. Can I have some of your cheetos…”

SLICE #8 OF 31

The job fair.

I walked in the door…

         And stood in line.

Found my first school

       And stood in line. 

Saw an unposted humanities facilitator (my district's code for literacy coach) position.

       And stood in line. 

Found a couple of possible classroom positions.

       And stood in line. 

Interviewed for a reading interventionist position

with a very nice young man  who was probably not even born

when I started teaching.

       And stood in line. 

Finally found a school I had looked for all night located in a back hallway.

       And stood in line. 

Went back into the big room to interview for a second or third grade position.

       And stood in line. 

Talked to a person from Human Resources

trying to find another school with a literacy coach position.

She didn't know where that school was.

But she knew about another primary reading specialist position.

I went to that school's table.

       And stood in line. 

I do not have a job.

But I do, I hope, have a couple of possibilities.

And 

I am going to add "stands nicely in line"

to the qualifications on my resume.