Not a Chance-Growing Up a Teacher’s Daughter

Growing up in a family of teachers is quite unique and taught me many things.  Several episodes of my past attempts to sneak my way past any necessary extra work to spare both of my parents any more stress or additional emotional pain never-ever-ever-ever-EVER worked (phew!).

It’s like they had a Sixth Sense, a Spydee vs. Spidey Sense-

Trying to copy another’s paper? Busted- Mom was my 4th grade teacher for a bit. Nothing slid past her. Learned this the hard way. Also went for passing notes. Was humiliated. And grounded. This is a story that lives on today in my history of poor decisions regarding my education.

Interested in skipping school? Busted- My anxiety and fear of being caught by my parents generally overruled any fun that may have been had. The thought never even crossed my mind…until I realized we were able to sign ourselves out at 18 from the front office. Even then it was only to run home to grab a sports uniform or a snack because, well, what did someone DO when they skipped school? #naive #catholicschoolgirl

Looking to sign FOR your parent? Busted- Pencil, purple crayon, 6th grade. Weekly grade sheets for some reason were thrust upon the scene.  Most likely a poor math grade, I had been diligently practicing my mother’s specific teacher-scrawl for years for occasions such as this. Quelling 11 year old panic (as only the child of a teacher can do), tried to cross it out via a purple crayon-because what Math Teacher DIDN’T correct any signature requests with a purple crayon? Dang it. That signature just poked right on through the back of the sheet.

When it was time to face the music, all my Mom had to do was hold it up to the light she was sitting next to and out came the indentations of my misguided attempt to spare her any pain. Her bullsh*t meter didn’t even tremble. I was rewarded for my brave foray into the world of forgery by being one of the few who had to continually use a grade sheet longer than any other child in the history of the 6th grade.

Invited to an after-prom-party? Busted. Spent the night out after a dance with a bunch of others and LIED about where I was actually spending the night ( I know, right? Super original). All they had to do was pretend they had seen the parent of the supposed-parent-chaperoned-overnight at the local grocery store and out came  my story.

Practicing to be a race-car driver in your parent’s station wagon? Busted. My parents seemed to have spies out for me whenever I drove that tan and brown gateway to my (limited) freedom. “I spoke to Mrs. Daniels and SHE said she saw you driving WAY TOO FAST on Montgomery Village Avenue. Give your Dad the car keys.”  SH*T! BUSTED!

Now that I am a teacher and the parent of two strikingly different boys in regards to general awareness of WHAT NOT TO DO when you are the child of a teacher, I try to remember those good old days of generalized paranoia and give them one or two chances in addition to many stories of my growing up. Because the time is rapidly arriving that I, too, shall demand return of those keys to freedom- to keep my boys safe, to keep others alive, to keep pushing for self-restraint where necessary. It’s tough, being the child of a teacher.

Now, go back and re-do sentences 7-19 and correct those wonderful mistakes I just found on your homework, sweetie. Also, we will expect you to know your 9’s in multiplication tables by the end of dinner tomorrow night. Love ya! 😉

 

 

 

Countdown

I tried to conjure days of yore, the days before our work day punch in and punch out was switched to nautical time keeping.  The time when we realized the time had indeed come to switch from the stiff, yellow-stained-white long sleeved oxfords of our uniform policy to the stiff, yellow-stained-white SHORT sleeved oxfords. The space between May and June is a tricky one to fill. Having attended the same school with basically the same kids for 8 years meant we had it down to a science.

The hints that our future was shiny and bright often began with an amazing thing called outdoor recess-one that occurred for 4 days in a row without rain. This is when we realized that the saddle shoes STILL weren’t scuffed enough to stop a running gal in place during a game of Rounders or Run-Across or, God forbid, Red Rover-the violent game that would cause chaotic juvenile arrests today.  This is when we watched the gym teacher lazily perched on the side wall with a whistle and a bag of Fritos (so unfair!) , chatting with another teacher as we ran and often policed our own fun.

The best part about that playground was that it was an empty church parking lot.

When it wasn’t filled with cars, it was absolute nirvana. BOYS CHASE GIRLS! Someone always screeched and yelled and ran. Everyone followed.

We had Playground Mothers- when I was stuck on some type of playground equipment- between the years 1981-1984- and that large hand bell rang to signal the end, I often found myself calling out tentatively, “Mother?” “Mom?” I can’t remember now if we were told to just call them Mom or what, but eventually one would see me and haphazardly lift me down and I was really embarrassed every time.

I watched with jealousy as other girls and guys who were clearly more gymnastically inclined spinning spinning spinning with one leg wrapped around the bar, arms hooked, never stopping. I cringed and almost barfed when another student flew off the swings on swingjumperthe “jump-off” swing game and broke his leg.  I remember one unfortunate 1st grade event in which a school mate peed on the swing seat and wouldn’t move until a Playground Mother swooped in to save the day.

I remember warning others to BACK IT UP!!!! WAYYY UP!!!! when the stars of our group were up to kick during kick ball. We knew everyone’s kick style. We knew who would be the one that acted as though that ball was gonna soar over the building onto Frederick Avenue (now a major road connecting major cities) and actually stopped the ball with the foot and ran like hell for first base.

We knew which girls had the hardest shoes and the longest legs and the boys who were tough ones and the ones who would swoop over when attempting to strike.

We had water fountain lines and no-buttsies. We had a bell ringer and large classroom windows that had no screens.  We only had to navigate 2 levels and 2 hallways.

St. Martins

The author’s school from Grades 1-8.

We knew on Wednesday we had confession in the church and some of us would wait, heart beating, destroying nail beds while waiting for our turn. I would finally be ensconced in the confessional and confess things like, “I told my Dad I turned the TV off when I really didn’t…” and dutifully counted off my penance prayers on my fingers while watching the rest of the class enter and exit the booth. Our biggest scandal was having the priest snoring on the other side of the mysterious grate.

IMG-1274I imagine that at this time, our teachers, as well, were counting down with as much, if not more, enthusiasm as we were. The last minute assignments meant to push the grades up a notch went in and came out of their boxes with alarming speed.It was a time that I miss. I didn’t even know how much until now as I sit, prepping for my day as a teacher, 13 days before the end. The Countdown Continues.

 

Spelning Sissues

Yesterday we spoke briefly about the structure of a story and how plot is important to dissect.  I’m going to read a short story to you and as I’m reading, you are to fill in the Parts of a Story Organizer you have on your desk.

I perch precariously on the desk with 4 different leg lengths. Not a great idea. I stand and begin.

“Maybelle was a short haired chihuahua that was found wandering my neighborhood at dinnertime on Wednesday.  Sara was the one who noticed her right…..”

I hear the shuffling of slippers before I see them standing directly between me and the rest of the class.

Um, can I help you?  (and why are you wearing slippers to school, again?)

Pregnancy-test

She hands me an index card, folded 4 times over to make a teeny tiny square (THIS BETTER BE GOOD, I scream in my head and thank Wellbutrin)

I open the now warm, faintly damp, missal.

R U PERGO?

It is SO darn refreshing how honest kids these days are.

(The answer is NEITHER)

Our Community

Dear Trailer 4A,

Time to make that important connection between your real world and our classroom.  Yes, we are actually heading to our community Food & Clothing Bank to help sort donations.

Yes, CONNECTION, people. It means “a relationship in which a person, thing, or idea is linked or associated with something else”.  Let’s brainstorm a list of CONNECTIONS we could make between this trip and our recent classroom lessons on Giving Back: Our Community.

1. My Earrings – Um, well, yes, a connection of some sort, but not quite the connection we’re mining for today.

2. My Dealer- Next.

I see we could use some modeling here: An appropriate connection would be GIVING BACK=PERSONAL SATISFACTION or COMMUNITY SERVICE=RESPONSIBILITY

3. Community Service+ My Dealer= Probation!?

Ohhhh-kaaaayyyyy….  Gotcha. Not a convo that’s going to happen today…

Isn’t it spelled volun-TEAR?  No.