Track and Field Day

Today, I picked up my supply plans for the day and written in pink highlighter across the top of the page were the words, “Track and Field Day!” Now, at certain schools and in certain weather conditions this would spell out a disaster day, but at this particular school and in this particular weather (20 degrees and sunny!) I was over the moon.

Track and Field Day tends to receive mixed reviews depending upon which of the following categories you fall into:

1. The Athletes: You are thrilled. You are walking home with multiple ribbons today, a ticket to the city finals, and a bucket full of pride. The only thing you are concerned about is whether your race is at a time of day when everyone will be able to watch you win.
2. The “Mehs”: (this was me as a student) This is a good day! You've set your sights low so you won't be disappointed, but you will likely do respectably enough in at least one event to boost your self-esteem. If it is a flukey day, you may even end up heading to the finals wondering how in the world you pulled it off.
3. The Non-Athletes: You are probably feeling one of two ways about this day:
   i) Vacation time! No one expects anything from you, so you are free to relax the day away.
   ii) This is the WORST. DAY. EVER.

These categories are what had me in tears at today's track and field meet. Literally. Let me explain...

Imagine the 800-meter race. 2 laps around the track seems so little now! But when you are 10 years old, and you are (adorably!) chubby, and the sun is hot, and you are a lap behind the rest of your heat, 800-meters is a never-ending death march.

Now imagine you are coming up to your last 100-meter dash. You are sweaty, panting, and the other guys have long since finished. But what's that you hear as you turn the final corner??? A roar from the crowd!! They are lining the track and cheering you on, and you feel like you might be able to pick up the pace just a little. And when you pick up the pace just a little, the chanting begins, “Bro-dy! Bro-dy! Bro-dy!” Suddenly, there are little kids and big kids running along the track, keeping pace with you while they clap their hands and shout your name. The Athletes, The “Mehs”, and The Non-Athletes have all banded together to carry you the final stretch of the way on the power of their optimism, and you feel like you have conquered the world when you finally cross that finish line.

And, on the side of the track, Mrs. A is discreetly balling her eyes out behind her sunglasses. 

SpongeBob to the Rescue

Ohhhhhhhh baby! Did I ever have a teaching day for the books last week. My closest friends and family members have already heard a few of the antics of my Grade 1/2 class on that fateful day, but let me share the full extent of the shenanigans with all interested parties.

Let me start by saying that I was not prepared for what I walked into. I knew the reputation of the school but I thought, “Hey, it's Grade 1/2, that's my niche, I'll be fine!” Not to toot my own horn, but I am a born primary teacher. My primary voice is calm, cool, and collected, and occupies a range of pitch so high I am certain that only dogs and 6-year-olds can hear and respond to it. I'm natural built low to the ground, so crouching for multiple face-to-face chats throughout the day is a piece of cake, and I have an instinctual draw to pink and pretty sundresses that quickly win the hearts of most students between the ages of 4 and 8.

This is the very confidence that blinded me to the following warning signs (which are now OH SO CLEAR):

1. The classroom was in utter disarray. Scattered papers, garbage-strewn floors, and a strong kindergarten-vibe assaulted my senses upon arrival. (*kindergarten-vibe : too many colours, disastrous sink area, no teacher's desk, general chaos, etc).
2. There were no names listed of students requiring my particular attention. Now, I can see how at first this would seem like a positive sign. No behavioural or academic special needs means an easier day, right? The simple answer is yes, but at a school like this, the chances of there being no students in need of extra support is miniscule. Therefore, it can only mean one thing: There are too many students to list.
3. The plans left seemed like far too little work to fill the amount of time allotted. Some possible explanations for this:
   i) The class takes an exceedingly long time to accomplish tasks in comparison to other students their age. (YUP!)
   ii) The teacher doubts her class' ability to work under the authority of a supply teacher. (correctly assumed)
   iii) The teacher had no time to create a more thorough lesson. (maybe?)

17 kids. 17 kids was all it took.

Getting students to congregate at the carpet was like herding cats. Actually, I have cats, and I really think it was more difficult than that. After (literally) 15 minutes of getting the students into a lopsided circle, we began our day by going around the circle and sharing our names and our favourite animals. Not shocking: many students told me their wrong names. Shocking: the other students did NOT correct them!! This was not good. I was now flying solo for the rest of the day, with not a single teacher's pet to help navigate the dangerous skies ahead.

How to remedy the situation? “I know!” thought the optimistic Mrs. A, “I will offer a reward to the class for good behaviour.” I proceeded to draw my “happy face” and “sad face” lists on the board, a method I commonly use in supplying. The idea is simple: good behaviour gets you on the happy face list with a positive note written in your agenda and to your teacher at the end of the day, while bad behaviour gets your name on the sad face list with an explanation note to your teacher as to why you got your name on the board. You cannot get your name removed from the happy face list (a good deed is a good deed!), but you can get your name removed from the sad face list by changing your behaviour. If there are no names on the sad face list at the end of the day, the whole class gets rewarded with free time.

This is a tried and true method. My favourite part is that I don't usually have to say anything else about it for the rest of the day. If a student is distracting their classmates, I simply stop what I'm doing and silently write their name under the sad face. In 9/10 classes, the negative behaviour stops immediately as every head turns in the offender's direction with eyes pleading to get the class back their reward. However, this was not one of those classes.

Not only did I hear the dreaded “I don't care” multiple times throughout the day, but students would take it upon themselves to add and erase names from the board at will when my back was turned. This may seem like an obvious move to an adult, but 6 and 7 year olds are not usually so bold, and tend to have a general respect for authority figures and a desire to please. These students also differed from the majority of kids their age by exhibiting a streak of cruelty and hard-heartedness towards their classmates. One of the few students in the class who obediently followed instructions was a Grade 1 boy with a distinct stutter. At one point, I found him encircled in the hallway by a group of his peers mimicking his stutter, crying so hysterically that it took me over 5 minutes to get him to breathe properly. When I reprimanded the bullies and tried to explain how hurtful their actions were, their responses were, “We don't care. We hate him.”

Later in the day, I caught three girls stealing treats from their teacher's desk. When confronted, they blatantly lied and shoved their hands in their pockets to conceal their loot (kids really do think we are stupid). As much as I hated to do it, I knew I was going to need to take them down to the office. Silliness is excusable, but stealing and lying require action. I thought I may have to deal with some tears after telling the girls I would be taking them to the office, but was startled by the eye-rolls and sarcastic, “So what?” I received instead. They skipped the entire way to the office singing, “We're going down to the office, and we don't care!!”

After depositing my prisoners with the warden, I returned to the lunchroom to find a student tossing food around the classroom. I politely asked him to stop and sit down, to which he responded with a whipped tomato at the face of the student next to him. Once again, I pointed towards the office and received the encouraging words, “I don't f*#*ing care! I hate this class and I hate you!” Now doesn't that just warm your heart?

As I suspected, the math activity scheduled for the entire hour and a half math block took a grand total of 20 minutes to complete. Thus, I bumped everything ahead of schedule one period and decided to end the day watching the educational film, SpongeBob SquarePants. I swear, I owe my present sanity to SpongeBob and Patrick the starfish. Those kids became zombies before the big screen, and I breathed for the first time that day. However, the peace was not lasting. A half hour into the film, I heard a loud cry from the first row as a little girl discovered that a classmate had embedded silly putty in her hair. I spent the remainder of the movie removing the putty, and french-braiding the girl's hair to disguise the putty-bits that refused to leave their new nest.

The saving grace of the day was a thank-you note from that little girl for taking the “pubby” out of her hair. It was enough to make me smile, but not nearly as big as I smiled when I removed my name from that school's OT calling list later that night. Supply teaching for the win!

The Staff Room

The Staff Room. The very words hold a magical ring. As a child, I can remember approaching The Staff Room door with the same tingling sense of excitement that one would have approaching the wardrobe to Narnia. Something about seeing teachers eating and talking with other adults made it seem like I had entered another dimension. (*Side note: If you have ever encountered a teacher outside of school, you will have experienced a similar feeling).

Not surprisingly, much of the magic of The Staff Room wears off upon reaching teacher-hood. The walls are made of the same 1980s pastel-painted bricks as the rest of the building. The fridge produces a dull hum that can quickly lull you into a semi-comatose state. The staff? Normal human beings. (WHAT!?)

However, there are a few things that go on behind the scenes that may surprise you:

1. There are almost always treats. There are a lot of staff at an elementary school, and that means a lot of birthdays. And what do birthdays mean? CAKE. COOKIES. FUDGE. And sometimes, if you are really lucky, they are even home-made.
2. In an attempt to make up for all the birthday sugar intake, on an ordinary day teachers are the healthiest group of eaters I have ever met. I mean, I usually feel pretty good pulling out my chicken quinoa leftovers, but only until I see the teacher next to me pull out a salad with no dressing. No dressing!? Are you crazy?!
3. Most staff rooms have at least one inspirational quote on the walls that are cringe-worthily cheesy. However, one staff room I have been in had a “Wall of Awesome” where teachers could post any awesome thing that happens in their life. (I.E. When your students get back from vacation and tell you they missed you. AWESOME). Now that is downright adorable.
4. Teachers refer to their students as “my kids” with no differentiation from talking about their biological children. They also talk about them with the same loving eye-rolls, frustrated sighs, and proud boasts which they would use to talk about their “real” kids.
5. There are cliques. Seriously. There are the newbies fresh to the scene, the lifers waiting on retirement, the go-getters who can't stop talking about lesson plans for more than 5 minutes. Sometimes it's like entering a high school cafeteria, particularly when the staff room is divided into 5 different tables to choose from. As a supply teacher, this is my cue to turn around, walk back to class, and eat lunch with the 7-year olds. One day is not enough time to break into an exclusive clique.

It was a sad day when the magic of The Staff Room was shattered for me, but I know from the look of amazement on the face of any student lucky enough to need to knock on the door for an ice pack or plastic spoon that the magic lives on. 

Yard Duty

When you are a kid, recess is THE BEST. For 25 glorious minutes, you are free of the teacher's watchful eye. You want to roll giant snowballs until they are too big to move or serve any purpose? Go for it. You want to dig a hole to China using only your fingernails and a pointy stick? Be my guest.

When you are a teacher on yard duty, recess is THE WORST. 25 minutes might not seem like very long when you are watching The Mindy Project, but those same 25 minutes are an eternity when your job is to walk aimlessly around a school yard on a frosty January day, eyes squinted against the glaring sun. Have you ever thought about how exceedingly boring yard duty must be for a supply teacher? I have literally counted out the seconds and the minutes during a 30 minute recess stint. You don't know anyone, there are no kids to talk to or joke with, and “Hey, you! The one climbing the fence!” doesn't tend to be a very effective reprimand.

In fact, there is maybe nothing worse as a supply teacher than trying to discipline a child who's name is unknown. Last winter, I found myself filling in for yard duty in a city school on the “Intermediate Field”, which happened to have a newly formed and very off-limits ice slide within its perimeter. After several attempts in my “nice teacher voice” asking a group of 13-year-old boys to please stay off the icy death trap, I eventually had to employ my “not-so-nice teacher voice” with some serious aplomb. Unfortunately, this group of boys happened to be of that particular breed that responds to neither type of teacher voice, and proceeded to take out little children as they defiantly slid across the icy field. I had just started walking in their direction for the 5^th time when the bell conveniently rang, sending them running in laughter towards the intermediate doors where they knew they would be freed from my nagging.

On a normal day, I would let it go. But after 30 minutes of bitingly cold January air, I was about as fired up as you could be in -20 weather. Upon entering the primary hall, I asked the teacher next door to watch my class for the next few minutes. I then proceeded to hunt the hallways, eyes peeled for two red hats and a camouflage coat. After several minutes of searching.....SUCCESS! I have never seen three children look less happy to see me than those boys did when I finally spotted them. I waited until they had finished getting out of their snow stuff, and followed them into their classroom where I gave their rather intimidating teacher the recess low-down. I won't say it pleases me to get students into trouble, but I will admit I felt a little shiver of happiness (or lingering cold) when their teacher turned his full wrath upon these three boys in the glorious way that only a regular classroom teacher can.

My duty done, I returned to my Grade 1 classroom where I was greeted by shining red cheeks, still-watery eyes and toothless smiles, and I thanked the Lord for primary students.  

My Most Powerful Teaching Tool

First, I would like to dedicate this post to all the wee students who hold my hand throughout my teaching days, not only melting my heart, but also effectively infecting me with all of their germs.

I pride myself on being the kind of person who rarely gets sick. I've thrown up once in the past 10 years, winter sniffles are a novelty, and head-aches a foreign concept. It is no surprise, then, that when my body decided to finally let down its defenses last Sunday I was attacked by every illness symptom in a matter of 7 days. It began with a fevered flip-flop between sweats and chills, then a sore throat and head-ache, topped off by a nauseousness that lent food the same appeal as a bowl of play-dough.

Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday were write-offs for teaching, but Thursday morning I woke up feeling well enough to take a job, choosing a Grade 1 class in hopes of an easy day. Upon entering the classroom and reading the plans for the day, I immediately questioned my decision. The top half of the page was filled with descriptions about which students to watch out for, with one boy's name being linked to the word volatile. (Volatile: tending or threatening to break out into open violence; explosive.) Two students were listed as “runners”, with instructions left on how to use the walkie-talkie in case of emergency.

On a normal day, this would be a daunting task. On a day when your voice decides to cease existence half-way through first period, this becomes an impossible task. While reading Howard B. Wigglebottom, one of my student's voiced his sincere concern and asked, “What is wrong with your voice, Mrs. A? It's so squeaky.” I smiled and continued on, my voice getting weaker with each moment. Finally, I had to admit defeat, putting the book away in surrender. In immediate response, the students' voices became a rising cacophony, as though they had been waiting all morning for my voice to give way.

What does a teacher do with no voice? Read-aloud? Nope. Present a math lesson? Forget it. Prevent an unruly child from escaping the classroom and running down the hallway? Ya right!

I will tell you what a teacher with no voice does. A teacher with no voice does 25 minutes of yoga with her students, inwardly praying that some of their energy will evaporate during downward dog. A teacher with no voice frantically searches YouTube for a Magic School Bus episode that will (vaguely) relate to what the students are currently learning. A teacher with no voice fiddles with the dead walkie-talkie while she pleads in whispers for her run-away student to return to the classroom.

Through trial by fire, I discovered that a teacher's most important tool is not her wealth of knowledge (ha!), or her classroom management skills, but her voice. So thank-you, God, for what my friends so (un)lovingly refer to as my “Teacher Voice”. It has saved me on many occasions and will never again be taken for granted.  

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".