Crossposted: Valuing Ourselves and Our Time, Influencers Should also Share the Basics

 There's a barrage of summer classroom setup posts, photos, and videos to sift and scroll through when I check in on my social media, which is very much aligned with my own work calendar as I officially return to my library this upcoming week.  I'm discovering new-to-me posts with educators and friends of education reminding colleagues and others that none of us should be giving our employers our work "for free" by returning to classrooms and libraries and labs and school buildings any earlier than our official report date.

Which I totally get.

At the beginning of my teaching career, I couldn't ever enter my classroom over the summers (unless I was teaching summer school within the same building). I was afforded some access during the weekends, and I could stay into the evenings during the weekdays if the night custodian was in the building.  After Uncle Sam started moving our family from post to post, I was allowed "new-teacher-time" so I could see my teaching space, put my hands on curriculum materials, and deliver my own gear to be sorted and stored. Since arriving in this district, I've had access to my classroom space each summer after our incredible custodial crew has shampooed carpets and rugs, dusted nooks and crannies, and cleaned windows inside and out. I shared many a post at Kindergarten's 3 Rs describing not only classroom organization, space arrangement and decor decisions that I made during these before-contract hours, but also quick-peek photos explaining other tasks that a veteran teacher simply didn't have time to work through during the actual school year, such as sorting through posters and bulletin board displays accrued over eighteen years of teaching.

Could I have taken care of this job during the one and a half work days scheduled?  Possibly, after scrambling through furniture arrangement, opening curriculum boxes, student materials prep, bulletin board displays, lesson planning, teacher mentoring, collegial hey-how-was-your-summer chit-chat, lunch, etc. but... likely not. 

"Your classroom doesn't have to be a Pinterest/TikTok/Whatever showcase, you can just do the minimum" is also advice currently being shared by well-meaning folks.  Creating an inviting space that didn't terrify kindergarteners was my goal before social media existed. That's right, stuffed animals, my own picture books placed within easy reach, puppets, building blocks, paint, brushes and smocks, Play Doh, computers, beanbags, word walls containing students' names, pencils, crayons, markers, construction paper and glue, and letter and alphabet posters and toys ("manipulatives") were always part of my classroom set up and after get-to-know-your-teacher-day greatly influenced whether or not a child sobbed and screamed for their parents on the first day of school or bravely entered the classroom solo, quickly making new friends.  Photos providing a classroom tour were also added to our web page so incoming students and families could have a sneak peek before arriving. Hallway displays welcoming students to our classroom made it easy for five-year-olds to find our shared space as they became familiar with the building. The week after school started, they and multiple surfaces within our classroom were covered with student work, crafts, and creative constructions.  Our space screamed to be shared, not only with those in our building daily but with our families who couldn't visit often, so I took photos and emailed them. To help other teachers and to document my own work for myself and my professional reflection, I shared pictures and ideas via the blog. I never became famous or trended, but college students and other new-to-service teachers reached out on occasion, asking to share my content as a resource.  After a while, colleagues would tell me that they saw my craft idea or table arrangement on Pinterest.  It was cool. But it wasn't my focus.

The bare minimum for many teachers has meant classrooms with damaged vinyl floors, empty bookshelves, peeling paint, no air conditioner, and few if any materials for student use. Despite districts' responsibility to provide for their students, it can often appear (for whatever reason) that their practice is to supply as little as possible and/or to allow retiring teachers to leave behind file cabinets bursting with outdated worksheets and cabinets full of "someday I'll need this" items, hoarded (yet unused) for decades.  A single work day isn't going to cut it in these cases, and if you're a teacher with kids, coming in on the weekend during the school year isn't always feasible either.  As inappropriate as it may be and may feel, sometimes we do take what we can get, so many of us spend unpaid time over summer break which we use for the most part to acquaint ourselves with our learning space in order to make it efficient, effective, and welcoming for students. Some classroom spaces need more work than others, and some look like they need an exorcism. I appreciate colleagues that rise to the challenge, and I sympathize with teachers who find themselves drowning in overwhelming seas of isolation. 

I've spent three half-days in the library this summer, which is the least amount of time I've ever been in the building outside of the school year since joining my district sixteen (seventeen?  Goodness, I've lost count.) years ago. Last summer I spent fourteen ten-hour days straight in the space because of the complete overhaul it needed.  I'm certain that investment of energy and thought directly correlates to the small amount of time I've needed so far this year, though it was made necessary in the first place because the librarians before me didn't have the time to sort through all that they had inherited and should have purged before leaving. Would I have liked to have been paid for one hundred and forty hours of my time and effort or been recognized in some other way by administrators?  Absolutely.  Should I have been paid for the work?  I believe so, but the applause during our first staff meeting had to be enough before I'd reap the eventual rewards that were to come throughout the year.  While those rewards did not put food on my table, gas in my truck, or reimburse me for the thousands of dollars of my own money that I spent to get the space in order, the peace of mind I experienced in knowing that my students and I were as sure-footed as we could possibly be was worth it.  During this time of COVID, in my starting this new job, having a sense of control served as a significant part of my self-care, but not every educator can find a silver lining or balance without actual income. 

Before you think I'm representative of solely one side of a range of edu-issues, there is a facet of the current criticism of unpaid summer work that does resonate with me, and it has for at least a decade now: zhushing classrooms rather than setting them up for mutual use by teachers and students. Seeing so many classroom "transformations" that include wallpaper, paint, faux-foliage walls and boards filled with funky-font anchor charts and signage, and every surface covered with contact paper with no apparent areas left for student input, work, artwork, and creative contributions appalls me. Seriously: pre-printed everything has become the new sage on the stage.  When you leave no room (or only a single 3 X 5 board that you change quarterly) for student work/contributions, you imply that you do not value their work, and you make it near impossible for them to reflect upon it, take pride in it, learn from others, and solicit and provide feedback to one another.  As for the affirmation posters and anchor charts featuring cursive or other funky fonts that younger students C-A-N-N-O-T  R-E-A-D and certainly cannot write being plastered all over doors and walls and bulletin boards and easels in primary classrooms?

Teachers downloading and reprinting or recreating from scratch every single printed element in their classrooms each August because they "must" have a different theme?  No... no.  That's not working smarter. And as for those companies who promote cute over substance (you know who they are, they're the ones that have you convinced to go out and buy ten vintage-looking candy jars so that you can run them across the top of a bookshelf and fill them individually with single colors of crayons so your students can "go and get the color that they need" when they've lost, or eaten, or broken, or whittled theirs...) they're not helping you (or your students, who need many opportunities to sort, classify, search, track, compare, evaluate, develop fine motor skills, and select) work smarter, either. A classroom's purpose isn't for social media accounts or to provide affirmations that your employer and/or colleagues might not be offering you.  Your primary job as a teacher isn't to trend, it's to teach. Your space doesn't belong to only you, and your favorites don't appeal to everyone. Engage your students and provide them with a template or canvas, but put every tchotchke that speaks to YOU behind and on your desk, above your bookcase or file cabinet, and on the pinboard in your space where you can see it. Allowing students to have and contribute to their spaces, with their writing, coloring, and creativity frees up your time from decorating (and spending a lot of your money on) every available inch within your room.  Define your "influence" by your contributions to education and your support of students and colleagues. Maybe you'll choose to share via social media, or only via in-building or in-district mentorship, too.

Whatever algorithm I toggled after searching for and viewing classroom and library decor on social media, it's been difficult to adjust in order to find more middle of the road, veteran educators such as myself. The "influencers" that my searches have shown to me aren't sharing some truly helpful, non-stylized teacher tips when considering your students' learning environment, such as:

• If you're able to plan for another year or three to five in advance, create organizational and instructional goals that you can work on over time.
• Ask a veteran teacher about the meat and potatoes, the substance of teaching and learning, and don't be surprised when they don't mention desert, jungle, rainbow, or beach color schemes.  
• Your goals should be longer than your list of decor trending items that you're replacing every year.  
• Take a week this summer to envision and build the foundation of the environment you will share throughout the year with other contributors (the students). You're going to need the time to arrange and rearrange. 
• Sort, purge if necessary, and determine actual essentials, identifying the difference between needful things and wantful things. 
• Give yourself an hour (or three) to make your own space comfortable and appealing to you. Your own space is your desk area, a bookcase, file cabinet, cabinetry, or shelving behind your reading table or in my case, the book repair room behind the circulation desk.
• If your job or placement might change after a year, invest in a neutral or simple theme, no unicorns, cacti, ninja, or rainbow characters overload.  
• Next summer, take a day or a day and a half to do these same jobs, without having to recreate the wheel. Acquire over time, and keep and replace when necessary tried-and-trues.

Like most things in education, one size really doesn't fit all when it comes to how we value our time and one another. Should teachers ever have to work for free?  No, yet we've had to for generations.  Is it appropriate to advocate for ourselves?  Yes, because the majority of us understand that being at our best benefits students. Finding what works for you without it depleting your life savings or negating any contribution by students is a reasonable back-to-school goal, which from my quick peeks at social media isn't necessarily what influencers seem to be advocating, nor a truth that all teachers naturally intuit.  

*****

Crossposted at From LMNOP to LMS: Learning in the Library.

Back to Work Tomorrow

The cleanout of my greenhouse has begun. I'm down to one cucumber plant and a handful of cherry tomatoes, some parsley and "nasty urchin" (nasturtium's nickname bestowed many years ago by a Super Star kindergartener) blooms.  After an initial harvest, dry mold took the peppers and a different cucumber plant, and a frog took over my barrel of green onions. 

Thanks a lot, Kermit.

Despite the rapidly multiplying beetles that I've been unable to deter or kill, the pumpkin vines they inhabit are still busily producing, to the point that I have greenhouse porch and house porch pumpkins.

I love pumpkins.

I return to work tomorrow for Convocation.  Student tables or desks or chairs or stools (who knows what I will find) have already been arranged in my classroom, and I'm not to move them. I have no idea if my increased risk factors for COVID complications will mean that I'll be assigned to teach as a remote learning instructor.  I do know that if I am to teach remotely, I will do so from within the school building, though not necessarily from my own classroom. I may have to pack a little and try to make the walls of my classroom more appealing, or I may have to pack everything and move to a different space, possibly sharing it with another remote teacher. 

I'm of the opinion that remote teachers remaining within school buildings will likely end up serving as substitute teachers.  If schools don't return to full-time distance learning, I wonder how many teachers will break their contracts and quit at the semester. I know, I know. These are not cheerful ponderings, but I don't have to channel Pollyanna here, so I won't.  I'm wondering how much of my back to school PD will be structured as school-as-usual pantomime... theater.  Going through the motions and "acting as if" there's some normalcy to be had, and as if that appearance of normalcy is of some benefit to teachers who, though wearing masks, will still be sharing air and thinking about the colleagues sitting to the right and left of them, six feet away. 

My usual routine of getting my hair done and indulging in a pedicure before the first day back isn't in the plan for today.  I've watered the pumpkins, harvested edibles, and will be baking cookies that will be well-wrapped in individual servings for our custodians. I'll do a grocery pick-up run, come home, shower, iron clothes, play with Google Sites to see if I can make a more appealing, navigable and intuitive resource for parents and students before they dive into Google Classroom (we no longer have Seesaw, which is difficult), make dinner, pack tomorrow's lunch, lay out my clothes, masks, visor (or glasses, I haven't decided yet), and put my tech devices into my teacher's bag before starting on my manicure. 

I still haven't decided whether or not to wear makeup tomorrow, aside from waterproof mascara and some moisturizer.  I'll be behind a mask all day, after all.  And seeing my classroom so visually sterile is going to be a punch to the gut. 

I'll need to bring a camping chair so I can sit outside and eat my lunch too, come to think of it. 

If you're new to Google Classroom and Google Sites and Google anything for schools, explore Google for Education and seek out groups/pages on Facebook such as "Google Sites for Distance Learning" and "Google Classroom for Kindergarten and Primary Teachers." There's bound to be similar pages for other grades, too.  If I can make progress on my Google Site I'll make sure to screenshot it and share it here at the blog- we need inspiration, right?

Don't forget that there is a sale over at Teachers Pay Teachers today, too.

Hindsight

Hindsight is the understanding of a situation or event only after it has happened or developed.  Interestingly, it is possible to both anticipate and understand scenarios, especially if 1) you're older and 2) you've been paying attention.  If your resulting decision-making culminates in better choices and more satisfactory outcomes, you end up being credited with demonstrating common sense.

In so many aspects of life, common sense often partners with compromise, especially when mitigating factors make it near impossible to follow your plan as originally imagined. When faced with a forced, unanticipated readjustment, you experience shock, denial, anger and/or frustration, and you try to bargain with whatever the opposing element may be to see if you can't work a compromise to get back what you're terribly anxious to not lose, even if the loss is temporary. You may wallow in despair when a compromise can't be reached, finding no point in the idea of trying to carry on. You refuse to accept the simple truths laid before you as you repeat the cycle of anger, bargaining (even begging) and depression over and over again.

You grieve, which is normal for all of us. 

Some educators have been grieving since mid-March, while others, likely administrators, haven't been able to grieve fully since they first caught wind of the directives that were going to come from their governor's offices.  They had to experience a much-abbreviated moment of shock before being leapfrogged into acceptance and action, being problem-solvers first, keeping their students, teachers, colleagues and staff safe before steering the ship to turn on a dime while advocating that the need for schooling, the establishment of new learning routines and environments and the building of even stronger parent-teacher partnerships were necessary for the emotional and academic well-being of all of our students.  They reminded us that we'd all be in the business of granting and receiving grace and that our own self-care was critical.  They led and gave us direction.

Families grieved while having to take back many of the responsibilities that they've ceded to schools over the years. Some succeeded, some struggled, and some failed.  Some parents, who previously demonstrated little appreciation for their child's teachers experienced cathartic revelations of having seen the light, pledging to purchase any and all future class supplies and offering to subscribe teachers and staff to wine-of-the-month clubs and advocate for higher pay if we'd "just take my kids back."  Humorous bargaining, but bargaining just the same. "I don't know how ya'll do it" and "no one will ever take you for granted again" were some of the affirmations showered upon us.  March to May was doable for some families, a blessing for others.  Some families, for whatever reasons, never rose to the occasion.

My grief cycle has been dictated by my self-and-family-preservation button remaining engaged causing me to hurdle back and forth through and/or over the usual stages. Schools are now closed: shock, d-e-n-i... acceptance. You have thirty minutes to grab necessities from your classroom: shock, acceptance. You'll be using tools that you've never used before in your classroom beginning next week: s-h-o... acceptance. No, you can't use appropriate content even though you know how to run it through filters and have been for years: anger, acceptance, depression. You'll be teaching your teenager curriculum content along with digital resource navigation while you teach from home: bargaining, acceptance, anger.  You can have fifteen-minute Zoom meetings once a week for your seventeen students and their families: bargaining, anger, acceptance, bargaining, depression. Time to come back to the building to pack up for the summer: acceptance, depression. 

All of these emotions have continued to be in play for me this summer as I've watched and reflected upon the civil unrest, racism, inequality and frankly bad behavior of rather entitled members of our society.  My husband and I continue to discover COVID19 infiltrating our circle of friends near and far, and we see that the numbers haven't dropped, the curve hasn't flattened, realizing now that it likely won't thanks to so many Americans placing their wants before their neighbors' needs.  Taking part in PD and regularly crocheting between visits to my greenhouse and tending my gardening spaces has provided me with pockets of peace and glimmers of hope, but they're not as enduring as I'd like them to be.  As I navigate suggested solutions via social media ranging from homeschooling or digital academy options, pool-noodle hats, temperature checks that don't identify asymptomatic carriers, seven or eight students per classroom, ten online with the acknowledgment that it's likely to be all seventeen or eighteen online a month later, optional mask-wearing partnered with masks worn incorrectly, and at least four times more cleaning and disinfecting that will increase the likelihood of poisoning which is still preferable to dying from "the 'rona," my mind remembers the already present avalanche of other germy, illness-producing normalcies that still occur in classrooms during the best of years.  Twitter users and those posting on Facebook are being polite by not mentioning the urine and feces that accompany the snot, saliva and barf.  I'm thinking this isn't the time to adhere to decorum and professional mystery.

Like many other educators, I'm having a great deal of difficulty believing that the lives of my students, myself and my colleagues are of much value as people granted more decision-making power who want to get back to their own sense of normalcy push us into environments that are now deadlier than they were in March.  They are dancing every version of the sidestep possible in order to justify avoiding common sense and simple truths, and they are willfully, stubbornly committed to the present, not the future.  They're acting as if they'll never have to look back and measure the costs of the decisions they've made. 

I get it. But it's not good enough.

This is tough and it's going to remain difficult.  We don't have all of the answers we need... yet.  They're coming, but not on our fall-through-spring/early summer school schedule.  We're wasting time pretending that they will.

It's also a waste of time trying to ease people into the idea that it will only take some adjustments to get students back to a traditional-ish school setting, and once that setting closes again (which it likely will... ~hindsight~), we're back to square one.  To quote a tweet I stumbled across, "rip the bandaid off, already." Commit to remote learning, and ease back into shared spaces.  We could start making tangible, real plans and preparing, acknowledging that it's a difficult precedent, and sharing the common goal of being back together when it's the right time.  It will only be right when it's more, not less safe for us all, no matter what the budget ledger looks like.

Calling this pandemic a hoax doesn't make what we're experiencing any less deadly.  Not everyone believes what they should, but educators, child advocates and mandated reporters don't get the luxury of being passive spectators. We must err on the side of safety even if it's not perfectly defined and we have no guarantees.  Our solutions can be imperfect, but they must not be dangerously so. 

Setting a precedent happened in March.  It can happen again in August.  It's easier to do difficult things when we can reassure ourselves that the price is worth it.  My son's life is worth it. Your life, my life, our lives are worth it.  Simple.

Inconvenienced is better than suffering and dying.

Grief is normal.

Unpopular is better than guilt-ridden. 

Hindsight is 20/20.

(found on Facebook- contact me if you're the creator so I can credit you, and thank you for the common sense)

An Educator's Code of Conduct

I've spent my summer participating in and learning a lot from an online teaching workshop (about online teaching and remote learning, of course), growing cucumbers, cherry tomatoes, and bell peppers in my greenhouse (melons, cantaloupes and pumpkins are just starting to take off), keeping up with household chores, crocheting and reading.  As I surf social media, I find myself intending to sift through but often drowning in updates, news, and opinions expressing not only how we might safely open schools this summer, but IF we should even try until winter, or spring...or next fall.

Watching and listening to the President, the Vice President and the Secretary of Education, none of whom could teach their way out of a paper bag (if they even know what a paper bag is) insisting upon our schools opening sooner rather than later at full capacity, just-throw-them-into-the-deep-end-of-the-pool-without-floaties-and-they'll-either-sink-or-swim style is something I find maddening.  I consider this an incredibly appropriate response because it means I'm neither numb nor indifferent to the responsibilities of my job: I am a kindergarten teacher.  I am a mentor.  I am a colleague.  I am part of a district team, and our shared goals are to educate children, guide them, and support them in the hope that they develop a love of learning and many talents that will help them live what we all hope will be long, happy, illuminated, creative, purposeful, giving, inspiring, joyful, healthy lives.

I'm an early childhood advocate and I'll be starting my twenty-fifth year of teaching this fall which should make it fairly clear that I'm committed to much more than my paycheck.  I love teaching.  I love coaxing unsure children and families into larger learning communities and watching them blossom and grow as they make friends, broaden their understanding of the world, all while being safe, kind and helpful along the way.  I love doing the voices of characters during storytime.  I was an anxious and insecure child, which is perhaps why I cannot contain my pleasure and awe as I watch my Super Stars explore and share freely, considering it a success when their use of me evolves from wanting me as their training wheels to simply going about their business with confidence and purpose while still considering me good company. Parents' heartstrings are pulled when they realize their children don't need them as much as they used to, while I revel in seeing how far my students go after our time together.  I've reported parents to Child Protective Services and I've encouraged families to seek out counseling and help, all as an advocate of children. "My kids" aren't mine because I'm some sort of surrogate parent, they're mine because of the affirming relationships and experiences we had during our time together, even if some of them weren't fun.  I have been and continue to be invested in not only their academic success but their well-being.

This morning, after reading through tweets and posts volleying back and forth debating teacher responsibilities, parent needs, and the disparities between state and national agencies that can't seem to get their stories straight regarding school openings, I thought it might be interesting to check back in on my state's Educator Code of Conduct.  Have you read your state's guiding educator document?  Mine is divided into three components, beginning not with responsibilities to my district or the profession itself, but to my students. I cannot help but believe that this is by design: children, our students, must come first.  Responsibilities to students include:

"Make reasonable effort to protect the student from conditions detrimental to learning, health, or safety." 

"Nurturing the intellectual, physical, emotional, social and civic potential of all students."

"Fulfilling all mandatory reporting requirements for child abuse."

"Fulfilling the roles of mentor and advocate for students in a professional relationship."


Inappropriate conduct includes "committing any act of child abuse."

Recall that "child abuse" is defined as physical, sexual, and/or psychological maltreatment or neglect of a child or children, especially by a parent or a caregiver. Child abuse may include any act or failure to act by a parent or a caregiver that results in actual or potential harm to a child, and can occur in a child's home, or in the organizations, schools or communities the child interacts with.


Educators should understand that these responsibilities have been articulated not as suggestions but as requirements. We must protect children from anyone or any situation that may hurt them.  I would like to believe that students are listed first in the Code of Conduct not for sentimentality's sake or to advance public relations, but because a commitment to them must be prioritized.  I don't see how we can allow ourselves and others to pretend that schooling, education and child protection should take place as usual with possibly insufficient modifications touted as "protection," ignoring that we're in the middle of a global pandemic. COVID-19 is a potentially life-altering, deadly virus that we're still learning about.  Trying to convince others that it's a hoax, pretending that if we just turn off the television and unsubscribe from news alerts that all of this will just go away is irresponsible. So too, are punting and not-so-blindly hoping that our gamble will pay off as we "act as if" we're able to safely maneuver around a virus that may be transmitted in aerosol form in classroom settings.  NASCAR won't even allow adult spectators who choose to observe social distancing into an open-air venue and many colleges and universities will spend the next semester or year only delivering content online.   Fake it 'til we make it isn't good enough, and hoping isn't an actual strategy.  Inventing "solutions" that from the outside appear creative, proactive and even entertaining, such as the pool noodle hats shouldn't actually convince anyone that schools will be safe enough.

This summer, like spring, has been overwhelming for us all. No matter how tempting, don't sit at home waiting for someone else to come up with a way forward that sounds doable to you.  Check your state's Code of Conduct for Educators, articulate your intentions and purposes as a teacher, and find a way or better yet, several, to contribute to the health, wellbeing, and safety of your students. Putting them first might require that we teach remotely even if our spring baptism wasn't all we had hoped it would be. Don't expect to have closure this weekend or at the end of the month.  We may not even get closure if we're back to brick and mortar, settling into a new routine when COVID-19 reminds us that we're on its timeline, not ours, and sends us all back into lockdown.  We're going to be uncomfortable, and frankly, we should be.  No one should be sleeping easily over the decisions we're trying to make, because we're the guinea pigs in the experiment that will create a data set from which future decisions will be made... unless we choose an experiment with a far less harmful and much less deadly possible outcome.

Sounds remarkably well aligned with my code of conduct, come to think of it.  How about yours?


*****

I did not specifically mention accessibility, home abuse/neglect or inequality in education issues in this post because I'm assuming educational professionals are already well-versed in how they weight either side of the scale of school and other societal responsibilities.

Kindergarten Teacher Truth: The Laughing Emoji Encapsulates Some Days Perfectly

Star 1: Teacher! HE SAID MY FARTS FLY!

Me: Uh... what?

Star 1: He said my farts FLY!

Star 2: No I didn't.

Star 1: Yes he did!

Star 2: That's NOT what I said, I said-

Star 1: Yes he DID!

Me: Uh... wait... come here please (both a buy-myself-some-time-so-I-respond-correctly AND good-lord-I-need-these-two-to-stop-shouting-this-across-the-room-right-now tactic).

~Stars 1 and 2 approach my desk~

Me: Now, with an inside voice, please explain what has happened.

Star 1: We were playing with the dolls and puppets, well, I was playing with the dolls and puppets and HE was playing somethin' else and-

Star 2: I don't want to play with the dolls and puppets. I was making dinner (dramatic play center).

Star 1: Yeah, he was making dinner, and I showed him, well I wanted to show him that I put the clothes on the baby AND on a puppet, but he wouldn't look, and I asked him again, and he wouldn't look, and then he said my farts fly.

Star 2: I didn't want to look at the doll. I was busy making dinner, and I was almost done.

Me: Did you say something to her when she tried to show you the dolls?

Star 2: Yeah, I told her "I'm cooking. I can't look right now."

Star 1: AND THEN HE SAID MY FARTS FLY!

Star 2: (sighing) No, I didn't say your farts fly. *** I SAID*** I don't give a flying fart if you dressed up the baby. I'm cooking dinner!

Me: (dying on the inside, amazingly straight-faced on the outside) Honey, is that a nice way to talk to a friend at school? Next time please tell her that you'll look in a little bit, or ask her to show another friend.

Star 1: Yeah, don't tell me that my farts fly! That's not nice.

And then I sent them back to the dramatic play center.

That's right, I GAVE UP.

There was no neat and tidy resolution.

I couldn't embrace the teachable moment because I was too filled with desperation to not let loose with wild peals of laughter.

*****

Do you have any idea how *awesome* this week's parent teacher conferences are going to be?

I Sit

I sit during our "Meet the Teacher" event. 

Yes, I *sit*. 

I tell families before they ever get to school that I'm going *to sit*, and I explain how I don't want to make kindergartners even more nervous or anxious (or wound for sound) than they already are as they see and explore our learning space for the first time.

Sitting works. The cautious ~eyeball~ me as they wander, put supplies away, and explore. The confident and/or practiced come right up and offer to shake my hand, and say "nice to meet you," while parents lip sync "nice to meet you" behind them. Some kiddos pull up a chair with me at the reading table much to the surprise of their parents. Two or three might try to hide behind Mom's or Dad's legs, with one outright refusing to so much as take a peek at me. Through it all, *I sit*.

Then there are the take-chargers... they don't always talk to me, but I notice a little side-eye action as they navigate the room, dictating to parents which supplies go where, explaining the correct use of play-dough to their siblings, and expressing their approval over some, many, or all elements of our classroom that they've critiqued. Because I'm sitting, they know exactly where to stop with their peripheral glances.

One take-charger did it all tonight, then gave me a thumbs-up as he walked out the door, saying "I'll be back tomorrow. I am going to be one of your best helpers. Your chair must be really comfy."

No *sit* people, it's going to be a good year.

My 2016 Classroom Sneak Peek for Students

 Before my new Super Star students and their families visit the school to drop off school supplies, meet me, and tour their classroom, I email them a "sneak peek," just to help calm any fears they might have about navigating their new learning space.

I use a stuffed animal friend (our school mascot) who narrates the photos and introduces me.  Have a look!

 

 

 

 

 

My friend sits on my desk in plain sight and enjoys excited squeals of recognition and quick cuddles when the kindergartners arrive, and he's always happy to see them again in a few days for the first day of school.

When are YOU back to school?

Teacher Truth: We Shop 'til We Drop

 Go ahead, ooh and ahh for just a second:

Non-teachers might think that the goodies above have been purchased for a party, and in a way, they're right: the beginning of my 20th year teaching kindergartners occurs in August.  What they might not be aware of is the fact that ~every~ year I've taught I've HAD to make similar colorful, cute, usable, necessary, and SUBSTANTIAL purchases.  I had to build my class library.  I had to feed more than a few students.  I had to purchase items that a one hundred dollar classroom budget couldn't cover. There was a year I bought used iMacs so my students could have technology tools, and another where I created a housekeeping center from scratch.  Educational videos, music c.d.s, my own printer, laminator, storage tubs for organization, paint, colored pencils, google eyes, glitter... I've shopped 'til I've dropped.  

Hunting for and finding perfect classroom essentials can be a lot of fun, until you realize that it's your own wallet making purchases to support 16-30+ students, in addition to the children who may reside with you under your own roof.  We are never done shopping, trading, recycling or making, and as a result many of us become hoarders of:

Manipulatives, reading buddies (stuffed animals), markers, crayons, folders, pencil grips, paper, desk tags, ink, play dough, storybooks, paper towel and toilet paper rolls.  

Shoelaces, spare winter gear (scarves, hats, mittens) and coats, and NOT for dress up bins or dolls, because those, by golly, are kept in their own separate stash. 

Plates, cups, plastic food, puppets, sensory bin supplies, bulletin board trimmer, curtains, pocket charts, measurement tools and tape.  Lots of tape.

Cereal, snack bags, crackers, and juice which are stockpiled ~before~ "treat" purchases like Smarties or valentine lollipops.  Birthday pencils, gift books, supplies for parent gifts, paper, label packs and ink to print off name tags, anchor charts, and organizational signs. 

... and volunteer appreciation gifts, notecards, and "Welcome to School" postcards. 

Manipulatives wear out or disappear over time.  If you're a kindergarten teacher, you regularly encounter teeth marks, bends, folds, and tears.  Maybe you're stuck with a grade level or district-wide school supply list, and you're inundated with materials that you have no need for, but certainly don't want to go to waste.  Two-thirds of your students will come to school with the exact tools they'll need, but one-third won't even have a backpack. You will shop. 

The more you think about it, the less you see these items as "cute," "fun," or "sweet."  Your professional filter accommodates your utilitarian intentions.  You recycle, repurpose, and rethink furniture, toys, books, and your own child's outgrown clothing or shoes.  You find stores with teacher discounts, and learn to track down coupons and annual sales.  You use spray paint and a glue gun.  You accept any and all donations.  Every year that you're an educator, you'll buy before you teach a single lesson.

(Walmart)

(Target)

(Target)

(Kohl's)

(Target)

(Thrift store, Target)

(Walmart)

Except for the star-shaped chalkboard tags, none of the items above were a "fluff" purchase.  Everything will be put to good use, right down to the last marker that will dry out prior to May, at which point I'll have my summer shopping list ready.

Once Upon a Time: a Barn Makeover

Once upon a time, two years ago, a Kansas kindergarten teacher had to miss work due to a yucky tummy bug.

Sub plans were prepped on the computer with care, center materials were ready, brain break videos of yoga and dance-a-thon activities were waiting on the SMART Board, and the para and aide were in the loop about the teacher's expectations for the day.

The day passed without incident at school (or so the teacher thought).

After recovering from the tummy bug's assault, the Kansas kindergarten teacher happily returned to the classroom, relieved to find the walls still standing and her students in good spirits.

And then the Kansas kindergarten teacher saw the wooden barn in the dramatic play center:

"LG."  In black marker.  On the roof of the barn.  The barn where no markers were allowed.  Not ever.

Calling "L" over to the barn, the Kansas kindergarten teacher asked, "L... why did you write letters on the barn?"  L replied "I didn't."

The Kansas kindergarten teacher asked again, "L... why did you write letters on the barn?"  Eyes growing as wide as saucers, L replied "How did you know it was **me**?  I put G's letter next to mine so it wouldn't match my initials!"

And ~that's~ how the Kansas kindergarten teacher learned that on sub days, classroom marker sets needed to be put up high, out of reach.

*****

Fast forward to Summer, 2014.  "LG" is still on the barn, but not for long.  After obtaining permission to paint the barn, the Kansas kindergarten teacher got to work.

Sanding:

Wiping off sawdust:

Letting a smile grow across her face as she fondly remembered L:

Taping off the exterior using newspaper and painter's tape so the interior could get a quick dusting of ivory paint:

Working in a well-ventilated area:

Taping off the dried exterior ivory paint so the red wouldn't dribble onto it:

Posing for a shadow selfie:

... and letting everything dry.

Once dry, the Kansas kindergarten teacher lightly sanded over the barn's exterior, dulling the gloss a bit  and roughing up the edges:

Something tells me that both the Kansas kindergarten teacher and the barn that needed a makeover are going to live happily ever after.

Now all it needs are some farm animal toys and some Super Stars, eager to play!