We ended our school year in a fast and furious twister of appointments, testing and reviews. It was stressful and insane and I hated every moment of it. There wasn't enough school getting done, the kids weren't learning anything and would therefore be hoodlums, living in my basement or in a van by the river for life.
I didn't have any patience. I was well aware that I was turning my kids into the $15 an hour McDonalds' workers I was actively disgusted with. They were going to be barely literate, understand minimum math, know history only from their birth date forward and be weird. We were engaged in mundane errands for hours on end, so no socializing was happening. That was surely going to negatively impact them - just as everyone had been telling me.
The school room was a disaster of papers, half finished year end projects, crafts, rough drafts of papers with the final draft having been lost. The floor had been used as a garbage can for the scraps of a diorama. There was a mug with the sticky residue of tea collecting dust on the table.
In short, it was sickeningly messy and unorganized. Complete chaos.
When we 'officially' ended our year, I slammed my binder closed, turned off the lights and walked out of the room. I did not pick up one thing - not a scrap of paper, not the tea stained mug. I left it all to continue collecting dust. I kept my head turned away from the doorway whenever I walked past. If I didn't see it, I didn't need to deal with it. Then one day I was hauling laundry past the door and forgot to look away. My eyes roamed over the disaster and I thought, "Wow. Look at that. A LOT of learning was going on there. That's a cool diorama-- is that a well so the crops can be watered? I can use the rough draft of the William Tell paper, she took good notes on what to correct and add. Nicely done, Kim, nicely done. Look at this room. What a success!" (OK, it may not have been that pretty, but you get the idea.) And then I walked away, smiling.
That quickly I learned an important lesson. While I'm actively homeschooling I am in a constant state of second guessing myself. Of worrying that whatever we're learning is not enough, is too in depth or not in depth enough. I'm afraid that I'm failing my children, my husband, myself and society in general. Because if my children do not become a successful dancing and cooking attorney (Violet), a dolphin researcher who experiences and stars in the next Dolphin Tale (Sarah) and a Master Builder with a masters from MIT and working for Lego (John), well, then, I've failed.
Makes sense.
When the year is over and I'm 'simply' planning for the next year, I am a freaking ROCK STAR HOME SCHOOL MOM. I know that what I'm doing is the absolute best thing for my kids, my family, and yes, for society. I know that nobody else can teach my kids as well as I can - well except for science. We have to farm that subject out. But I can teach them about nouns, ancient Rome, Gettysburg, sentence structure and spelling. I can assign research papers and create a rubric for it, then correct a rough draft and grade the final paper - and it will be incredible. . Violet did her first paper on Baryshnikov and she still talks about what she learned. (And his feet. Good lord. Google his feet. Or... don't.) I can help John focus, I can get Sarah to write wonderful journals. I can get Violet to work things out for herself instead of assuming I'm going to feed her answers. I can do all those things. I can. I know this.
And here's something funny. I have a pretty extensive teaching degree. I can teach kids age birth-21 years of age with special needs. I can teach kids in grades KDG through 8th grade in self contained classrooms. I can teach kids with mental impairments, emotional impairments and developmental delays. In all of these situations in a classroom I would be given a curriculum. Let's read that again, shall we? I would have a curriculum if I were teaching in a brick and mortar school, chosen by a school board (is that who picks?) for an entire district of children. Here, at home, I.Have.A.Curriculum. Only this one is chosen by a mother who intimately knows her children's individualized needs, strengths and weaknesses and makes her choices based on those. Well. Then this scenario should be vastly more successful.
So why do I not know this while teaching? *sigh* I don't know. But I'm going to try much harder to remember this feeling, to remember this knowledge and this confidence. I've got until August to get it in my brain -- wish me luck.
Showing posts with label teaching. Show all posts
Showing posts with label teaching. Show all posts
Monday, July 6, 2015
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
I Prefer The Word 'Breast'
My child says the word 'breast.' And I'm totally fine with that. But that's not the story I want to share with you. Oh no. The story I want to share with you is the one where another mom is not fine with her child saying the word breast. In fact she is anything but fine. She is all kinds of not fine.
I mentioned here that I taught special education for three years. I absolutely loved it. The kids were amazing and I learned something from them every single day. What I did not love? The parents. Wait, wait, wait. Don't get all judgey. Let me explain. Most of the impairments that I dealt with were the kind you call 'familial.' Which means that most likely Grandma and Grandpa were slightly impaired, and had a child. Said child married another child like themselves. And they in turn had a child. Follow me? So the parents I saw every day were not always fully cognizant. They were not always on my side. They did not really understand the need for proper nutrition, clothing, diapering, behavior, hygiene, etc. It was an uphill battle. Not all the parents were like this, obviously. But most were, yes. I quickly learned that if I wanted to stay sane (a relative term, I understand) I had to keep a sense of humor about these parents. I had to deal with them gently but state the expectations firmly.
So. One day, a parent came to me, Becky. Becky and I had a long history at this point. And it was not a good one. Just a few high lights:
* My first meeting with Becky found her in a sports bra, sheer prairie skirt, no underwear, and massively pregnant. Also? She was a very large woman. And she kept dipping her hands into her skirt to rub her lower belly.
* My first home visit to Becky's house. I'm pretty sure something was dead in there. I couldn't see it, but I know. I moved a pile of clothes to sit, then saw the dirt under them, and promptly moved them back for a barrier. There was a piece of sausage on the floor. A baby was crawling around. I assumed that when you live this way you don't really know you do. Like, you're blind to it. But as the baby grabbed the sausage, Becky snatched it out of his hand, smacked him and tossed it out of his reach, saying,
"Don't eat that! That's from dinner like a week ago! David threw it on the floor and it's been there since!"
Note that she knew when it had landed on the floor, yet had not thrown it away nor did she throw it away then.
* Becky got a job at the local grocery store. In the bakery. Baking cakes. Don't ask me how, I have never understood this part. I went into the grocery store. I saw her mixing dough with her gloved arm, mixing that dough, up to her unshaven, unwashed armpit. I left very, very fast. This is for real. I could not make this up. The stores sales of cakes, doughnuts etc dropped so much, they had to 'let' her go. (I mean, she was 'known' in the community. She was kind of hard to miss.)
* We had to mark David, her son, diapers' with a big 'X' on them to prove that they were ours. We'd put him in one of our diapers at 12:30 p.m on a Monday and he'd return on Tuesday at 12:30 with the same diaper on. We knew it was the same diaper because we had marked it with that great big 'X.' And I told Becky we were doing this, told her we were tracking how often his diaper was being changed.
Back to the original point. Becky came to me one day. I was standing outside my classroom when she thrust herself in front of me and demanded,
"Did you teach my kid the word 'breast?' Because we don't use that word!"
Remember, I taught 3 and 4 year olds with various impairments. Anatomy? Not a big subject. We concentrated more on, "My name is" and toilet training, walking, proper letter sounds etc. I assured her that no, I had not taught David, the word breast. She persisted that I had. I finally reminded her that David was in a class of 8 children, 4 of whom were non-verbal. It took me 3 months to teach David his name. I was pretty sure David didn't learn the word 'breast' in passing. She persisted. Finally, I said,
"Becky. If one of the students had asked what that particular body part was, yes, I would have used the word 'breast.' But no student did."
Becky took a deep breath of victory and yelled at me,
"I knew it. You taught him breast. And we don't use that word in my house. We use the word 'teet' or 'tit.' Because a 'teet' could be anything. But I like the word tit. So if he asks, use it."
And she walked away.
Reactions?? (because really? I prefer the word 'breast')
Kim
I mentioned here that I taught special education for three years. I absolutely loved it. The kids were amazing and I learned something from them every single day. What I did not love? The parents. Wait, wait, wait. Don't get all judgey. Let me explain. Most of the impairments that I dealt with were the kind you call 'familial.' Which means that most likely Grandma and Grandpa were slightly impaired, and had a child. Said child married another child like themselves. And they in turn had a child. Follow me? So the parents I saw every day were not always fully cognizant. They were not always on my side. They did not really understand the need for proper nutrition, clothing, diapering, behavior, hygiene, etc. It was an uphill battle. Not all the parents were like this, obviously. But most were, yes. I quickly learned that if I wanted to stay sane (a relative term, I understand) I had to keep a sense of humor about these parents. I had to deal with them gently but state the expectations firmly.
So. One day, a parent came to me, Becky. Becky and I had a long history at this point. And it was not a good one. Just a few high lights:
* My first meeting with Becky found her in a sports bra, sheer prairie skirt, no underwear, and massively pregnant. Also? She was a very large woman. And she kept dipping her hands into her skirt to rub her lower belly.
* My first home visit to Becky's house. I'm pretty sure something was dead in there. I couldn't see it, but I know. I moved a pile of clothes to sit, then saw the dirt under them, and promptly moved them back for a barrier. There was a piece of sausage on the floor. A baby was crawling around. I assumed that when you live this way you don't really know you do. Like, you're blind to it. But as the baby grabbed the sausage, Becky snatched it out of his hand, smacked him and tossed it out of his reach, saying,
"Don't eat that! That's from dinner like a week ago! David threw it on the floor and it's been there since!"
Note that she knew when it had landed on the floor, yet had not thrown it away nor did she throw it away then.
* Becky got a job at the local grocery store. In the bakery. Baking cakes. Don't ask me how, I have never understood this part. I went into the grocery store. I saw her mixing dough with her gloved arm, mixing that dough, up to her unshaven, unwashed armpit. I left very, very fast. This is for real. I could not make this up. The stores sales of cakes, doughnuts etc dropped so much, they had to 'let' her go. (I mean, she was 'known' in the community. She was kind of hard to miss.)
* We had to mark David, her son, diapers' with a big 'X' on them to prove that they were ours. We'd put him in one of our diapers at 12:30 p.m on a Monday and he'd return on Tuesday at 12:30 with the same diaper on. We knew it was the same diaper because we had marked it with that great big 'X.' And I told Becky we were doing this, told her we were tracking how often his diaper was being changed.
Back to the original point. Becky came to me one day. I was standing outside my classroom when she thrust herself in front of me and demanded,
"Did you teach my kid the word 'breast?' Because we don't use that word!"
Remember, I taught 3 and 4 year olds with various impairments. Anatomy? Not a big subject. We concentrated more on, "My name is" and toilet training, walking, proper letter sounds etc. I assured her that no, I had not taught David, the word breast. She persisted that I had. I finally reminded her that David was in a class of 8 children, 4 of whom were non-verbal. It took me 3 months to teach David his name. I was pretty sure David didn't learn the word 'breast' in passing. She persisted. Finally, I said,
"Becky. If one of the students had asked what that particular body part was, yes, I would have used the word 'breast.' But no student did."
Becky took a deep breath of victory and yelled at me,
"I knew it. You taught him breast. And we don't use that word in my house. We use the word 'teet' or 'tit.' Because a 'teet' could be anything. But I like the word tit. So if he asks, use it."
And she walked away.
Reactions?? (because really? I prefer the word 'breast')
Kim
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
It Itches
Ok, I totally stole this idea. I am confessing it right up front. I was reading this post at Pretty All True and just dying with laughter. And it reminded me of two incidents I had while teaching that I knew I had to share. You'll thank me, really. (Or hate me. One of the two.)
It was my first year teaching special education. I'd spent six years preparing for that moment, that first day of school. I was so nervous, so excited. I prepped for hours. I was teaching a pre primary impaired classroom of 24 kids -- 12 in the morning and 12 in the afternoon. I had two incredible paraprofessionals with me who had been in the classroom for years. My kids had disabilities ranging from speech impairments to cerebral palsy. You name it, we had it. It.was.awesome.
There were two little boys who will forever be on my heart, for various reasons. But these two times I'm going to tell you about were by far, two of the funniest times ever. They are real. I can't make this stuff up.
First. My first day teaching. Pay attention here. First day. Fresh out of college. I look across the snack table and see something crawling in Patrick's hair. (I'm like five feet from him, and I can see it.) I nab it. Ohhhhhh. Gaaag. It's a louse. Yeah. Lice. My paraprofessionals talk me down, then take me through what I have to do. I script out what I need to say to the parents, so as not to offend them. Patrick's dad comes to pick him up. I clear my throat. Here is our conversation. Verbatim.
Me: During a routine head check it was discovered that your child, Patrick, has head lice. This does not mean he is dirty or unkempt. In fact .. .
Dad (interrupting): eeh?? Lice? You sure 'bout that?
Me: Yes sir. As I was saying, this does not mean anything about your hygiene. But until . .
Dad (interrupting again): Are ya sure it ain't fleas? 'Cuz we was at my sisters and she was infested with fleas. (cue deep crotch scratching. Really.)
Now, there weren't any college classes that prepared me for that.
Second. It was my second year teaching. I was a bit more 'seasoned' if you will. I was also the queen of lice in my school. Nice title, no? If any child in the school was thought to have the little buggers, they were brought to me. I'd have a look and declare them clean, or not. The biggest one I 'caught' I could feel move under my thumb when I trapped it. I'll wait for you to quit squirming. I kept that one in scotch tape, up on my bulletin board just in case somebody tried to argue with me. But I digress. Clayton was not a well kept child. He wore the same clothes every day. He was often dirty. So when he had a dirt mark on his forehead one day, I wiped at it. It didn't come off. I kept wiping at it. And kept wiping at it. All day. It was only as I was wiping at if for the oh, 100th time or so, that I realized it was in the form of a perfect circle. How odd. It made a perfect circle. Like ring worm. And I'd been licking my fingers and rubbing at it all.day.long. A very long, very panicked call to the health department came after that.
I felt so smart.
Happy I shared?
Kim
It was my first year teaching special education. I'd spent six years preparing for that moment, that first day of school. I was so nervous, so excited. I prepped for hours. I was teaching a pre primary impaired classroom of 24 kids -- 12 in the morning and 12 in the afternoon. I had two incredible paraprofessionals with me who had been in the classroom for years. My kids had disabilities ranging from speech impairments to cerebral palsy. You name it, we had it. It.was.awesome.
There were two little boys who will forever be on my heart, for various reasons. But these two times I'm going to tell you about were by far, two of the funniest times ever. They are real. I can't make this stuff up.
First. My first day teaching. Pay attention here. First day. Fresh out of college. I look across the snack table and see something crawling in Patrick's hair. (I'm like five feet from him, and I can see it.) I nab it. Ohhhhhh. Gaaag. It's a louse. Yeah. Lice. My paraprofessionals talk me down, then take me through what I have to do. I script out what I need to say to the parents, so as not to offend them. Patrick's dad comes to pick him up. I clear my throat. Here is our conversation. Verbatim.
Me: During a routine head check it was discovered that your child, Patrick, has head lice. This does not mean he is dirty or unkempt. In fact .. .
Dad (interrupting): eeh?? Lice? You sure 'bout that?
Me: Yes sir. As I was saying, this does not mean anything about your hygiene. But until . .
Dad (interrupting again): Are ya sure it ain't fleas? 'Cuz we was at my sisters and she was infested with fleas. (cue deep crotch scratching. Really.)
Now, there weren't any college classes that prepared me for that.
Second. It was my second year teaching. I was a bit more 'seasoned' if you will. I was also the queen of lice in my school. Nice title, no? If any child in the school was thought to have the little buggers, they were brought to me. I'd have a look and declare them clean, or not. The biggest one I 'caught' I could feel move under my thumb when I trapped it. I'll wait for you to quit squirming. I kept that one in scotch tape, up on my bulletin board just in case somebody tried to argue with me. But I digress. Clayton was not a well kept child. He wore the same clothes every day. He was often dirty. So when he had a dirt mark on his forehead one day, I wiped at it. It didn't come off. I kept wiping at it. And kept wiping at it. All day. It was only as I was wiping at if for the oh, 100th time or so, that I realized it was in the form of a perfect circle. How odd. It made a perfect circle. Like ring worm. And I'd been licking my fingers and rubbing at it all.day.long. A very long, very panicked call to the health department came after that.
I felt so smart.
Happy I shared?
Kim
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