My First "I Love You"

Before my first day as an occasional teacher, I began my educational career as an emergency educational assistant. Did I have experience working as or with an EA? Nope. Did I feel overly prepared for the role? Not really. Was I ready to take on any job that would get my foot in the door at a school board? You bet. 

My first few days as an EA soon rolled into a 2-month commitment, as one of the school's regular EA's could no longer work afternoons. I was thrilled at the opportunity to make a better connection with the kids and teachers, but felt under-qualified for the task at hand. Fortunately, I thought, the two boys that I would be spending most of my afternoons with were in Grade 1 and JK, and how much trouble can a 6-year old really get into? (*present self rolling eyes) 

On one my first afternoons, the entire school was participating in an outdoor fun day (which was made slightly less fun by the fact that it was 13 degrees that day). All of the EA's were matched with a child to travel around with for the afternoon, and I was excited to be paired up with *Bobby, my adorable little JK. Seriously, he was stinking cute. Blonde hair, big blue eyes, and the chubbiest cheeks, he looked like the 5-year-old version of the Gerber baby. 

The afternoon started wonderfully. Besides some minor admonishes to "wait your turn" and "stay next to me, please", I had little to do to keep things running smoothly. Eventually, we made our way to the game where you run from bucket to bucket with a sponge, trying to squeeze as much water as possible into your team's empty bucket. You know, the game you've played at every "fun day" you have ever been to. Ever. However, Bobby decided he could not be limited within the confines of the game's rules. Rather than dipping his sponge, he proceeded to grab the edges of the full bucket (while I am deciphering his intentions and dramatically yelling, "Bobby, nooooooo!") and throw his entire body head-first into the frigid water. How he thought he would get out of the bucket on his own is beyond me, as now it was only his little spider-man shoes that could be seen wiggling out of the top. A Grade 8 student and myself teamed up to pull him from the water, to which his response was not, "Thank-you" but rather, "I'm cold." Shocker. 

Now that I was also covered in water from Bobby's under-water expedition, the two of us made our way shivering to the kindergarten classroom. We managed to find some extra clothes, but when I handed them to him to get changed in the kindergarten bathroom he said, "Oh, I'm not allowed to get changed in the class bathroom. I lock myself in by accident. We have to go to the boys' bathroom and you hold the door for me." So, there I was, standing in the boys' bathroom holding the stall door while pleading with Bobby to stop throwing his soaked clothes over the top of stall. 

You can imagine that by the time we headed back outside I was slightly frazzled, but there was only an hour left in the day. My mental pep-talk went as follows: "You can do this. The rest of the day went great. Look how cute he is! You just need to keep a closer eye on him." While I was beginning to reassure myself, Bobby was scouting out his next adventure. We spotted the puddle at the same time. And not just your average puddle! The kind of mini lake that forms after a week of rainy, wet weather, and can only be found in elementary school yards. I looked down at Bobby. Bobby looked up at me. Before I could tighten my grip on his hand, it was ripped from mine and he was sprinting towards the lake-puddle. "Bobby!! That's your last change of clothes!!"

But there he was, sprinting through the knee-deep water, mud splashing up to his arm-pits. He spun around with his arms raised high, 5-year-old Moses in the middle of his very own Red Sea, a huge smile plastered to his face. I'm not sure what my face looked like in that moment but I can guarantee there was not a huge smile plastered to it. 

He made his way towards me, and I took several quick steps back as I realized his objective. Too late. With his chubby arms wrapped around my knees, Bobby looked up at me and matter-of-factly said, "I love you, Mrs. A." My first "I love you" from a student. Instant forgiveness for all of Bobby's transgressions. 

*names changed for privacy

Teenage Teacher

There are advantages and disadvantages to being a young teacher. People often ask me whether I have issues with authority over older students because I am so young, but the truth is that most Grade 8 students are thrilled to have a teacher who looks the same age as them. As soon as they spot me, I hear whispers of, "She's so young!", "She looks like a teenager!", and "She looks really nice!" The truth is that I don't look any nicer than any other teacher, I simply look relatable. I am instantly viewed as hip and cool, and I don't correct their perceptions by sharing that I read the entire Harry Potter series this summer for the third time, and my favourite pass-time in high school was self-induced solitary confinement in the library.

While my youthful appearance makes me popular amongst the students, it often confuses my fellow teachers. I can't count the number of times I have heard:

"How old are you?"
"Are you sure you're a Missus?"
"You must have been a child bride!"
"You make me feel old."

Once, while on yard duty, I saw a principal hesitantly approaching me across the field. I walked to meet him, and when I was within a few metres he called out to ask me my name. I told him my name and who I was in for that day, and with a sigh of relief he said, "Oh, good! I thought you were a student and someone had forgotten their yard duty today." Let me remind you this was an elementary school. I was mistaken for a 13-year-old.

However, this slightly embarrassing occasion does not compare to one I experienced the prior year. Working both as a supply teacher and a restaurant waitress, I had the immense privilege (*note the sarcasm) of serving one of my Grade 8 students and his mother. Upon noticing that her son recognized me, the mother knowingly smiled, leaned over to him and not-so-quietly asked, "Is this pretty girl someone I should know about, Matt?" As her son attempted to simultaneously shake his head, slink under the table, and turn the approximate shade of a beet root, I explained that I was, in fact, her son's teacher. Rather than an apology for creating the most awkward situation of my teaching and waitressing career, the mother simply said, "But you look like a teenager!"

Well, I can't fault her for telling the truth. Most of my female Grade 8 students wear more make-up than me, are more stylish than me, and look 3-5 years older than me. I know one day I will be glad to be mistaken for a student, so for now I will not complain about being referred to as "the teenage teacher".