"You Go to Heaven, Mama!"

Children are no different than adults. Really.
When exhausted, hungry or jealous both kids and grown-ups seem to explode into a variety of complex, and often times, unacceptable moods that can only be viewed as eye-rolling.
The Cousin has a grandpa in Sonora, CA and she and 'Lil Sis, along with their parentals, spent the Thanksgiving holiday there.  On the long drive home, laden with exhaustion and out of her routine, I'm told she played a little "test" on her mom.
"Please stop squeezing that toy." Her mother politely asked, showing a great deal of restraint even though the high-pitched squeaky sound was ear piercing.
(If you want to really annoy your friends who have young children, give their kids loud and obnoxious toys during this holiday season.)
The Cousin continues to squeeze the toy, offering up full-on eye contact while doing so.
"I said, I need you to stop squeezing that. It's hurting mommy's ears."

Ignoring someone's words is such a fantastic weapon. It's strong, forceful and gets instant results.
The Cousin continues.
Her mom then reaches over and grabs the damn toy right out of her hands!

The Cousin bursts into a loud and uncontrollable cry that bounces off the walls of their vehicle. The tears flow like a mighty rain and the screaming is almost as bad as the squeaky toy.

With a beet red, puffed out face and an index finger shaking straight at her mother's nose, The Cousin responds like any of us would...

"YOU...YOU GO TO HEAVEN, MAMA!"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When my friend, Barbara Tieken, first visited us in Monterey, I hosted a small gathering of whimsical and free-thinking women folk at our cozy abode on Hermann St and Barbara analyzed all of our handwriting.
It was quite interesting and made for some good laughs. My pal, Angela and I were told, due to the loop in the top half and the intentional line in the bottom, that we had the "Go to Hell K" in our writings.  She then asked us if that rang true to form. I can't speak for Ange, but as for me, well, if the shoe fits, proudly wear it.

The Cousin, in all her innocence, and thanks to her wonderful parents, has never heard the saying 
"go to hell" but she has heard that her great grandmother now resides in heaven.  Evidently, she wished her mama would join her.

I love this kid so much. Her little sister "Ginger" also. And for those of you who have been long-term, faithful followers, Sweet Pea is equally forever etched into my heart. There's a new one too. Sweet Pea's mom gave birth 3 days ago to a stocky little boy named Will who I have yet to meet...
Life, as they know it and as we know it, is changing. And isn't that really the only thing we can be certain of?  Change. Impermanence. Yet, though even when expected, it's not always easily accepted.
Perhaps this is why it is somewhat difficult to inform y'all of the change that is upon us.


As of this writing, the nanny gig comes to an end, at least in the form that we have all come to 
know and love.
Since many of you have followed this blog from its trailer park beginnings to the 3 girls, whom many you have told me you feel as if you've grown up with them, this is a closure that might be as sad for you as it is for me.
The news had been coming for sometime, so it wasn't a shock. But even when things of importance are "known" they still tug hard at your heartstrings. Not surprising, I burst into tears when The Cousin's mom told me they found a nanny who can work at least 3 days a week, comes highly recommended, lives up the street and, the most knife-stabbing, The Cousin instantly bonded with her! F*#@k! Is she the true Mary Poppins reincarnated?

I began taking care of Sweet Pea when she was 4 months old. She was rough and tough from the very day she shot out of the womb. I recall having to firmly lay my left forearm across her chest while I changed her diaper so that she wouldn't kick me in the face or fly off the changing table. The high chair was a scene as well with food flying every which way and laughter flying with it.  The nanny cleaned up everything from squash to applesauce off floors, chairs and hair. 
Bursting with personality from day one, Sweet Pea strengthened my patience, provided me the stamina to deal with the smelliest of green poops, prepped me for becoming an RN if I ever choose to take that route one day and basically captured my heart so snugly and tightly.  
I knew from the start, I would never be able to let go...

  

                                      

The Cousin was skeptical of me from the start and insisted grandma come to our first few "sessions." She was the polar opposite of Sweet Pea, timid, cautious, reserved. I won her over with my dance moves, storytelling and infamous "project time" where we would create with play-doh, paints, paper mache, and other various artist tools. She and I soon became the best of pals. She endured my singing, humored me by drawing on sidewalks and enjoyed our routine trips to "our" coffee shop for hot cocoa and cinnamon cookies.
Her love for literature, music, art and conversation (and cookies) made us the best of friends. It's a seal that can't be broken.  (Not even by the new "Ms. Perfect" nanny. ;)

When 'Lil Sis arrived on the scene, I thought I had enough training under my belt. Clearly, I live in a dream world. She was a red hot firecracker from day 1 and I almost threw in the towel in the first hour. Armed with piss and vinegar and a very high pitched scream, she made it clear at the early age of 3 months, that I was not her mommy, that she hated that cage we grown-ups refer to as a crib and if my boobs didn't have milk, she wanted nothing to do with the fake rubbery nipple of a bottle. I have never sang a song, especially one as sweet as Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, with so much tension in my jaw that it actually throbbed.  She and I battled. Duked it out.  But, then as if magic does exist, I learned to listen to her in a different way. I learned that if I take her outside, that she loved the cool breeze on her face. I learned that she enjoyed the birds chirping and the grass beneath her bare feet. I learned that my chest, though it was not a meal ticket, was an awesome and comfortable mattress for her at nap time. "Ginger", as she will always be to me, etched her way into my heart and it is there she will always remain. After months of sad, pout-face greetings, I am now greeted with a huge smile. She's walking now. And that, my friends, sets her free!

And Will makes 4. Four small beings on this planet; small beings with big ideas. Four little humans full of wonder, curiosity, laughter, love. Four people who hold no prejudices or hate. I think these traits are why I love young children so much. That hippie song, "Teach Your Children Well" resonates because we big folks have the power to make or break kids. But we also have the opportunity to teach them about honoring and respecting differences, about compassion and kindness. We hold so many keys for them if we don't mess it up.
As my role changes with these children from nanny to friend, I feel so hopeful because they have such wonderful parents and role models in their lives. Indeed. And I feel very fortunate to know them and their families.
I'd like to take this moment to thank you all for your following of this blog over the years. It's been a fun ride, hasn't it? From trailer park to nanny...What's next? you might ask.
Well, a haiku/photo book is in the works for me and it will be hot off of some damn press, hopefully, in January 2015! There is a website that I am building as we speak and on that website, though a whole different feel, will be (of course)  a blog.

Stay tuned. Be well. Walk in joy.  And GO TO HEAVEN, Y'ALL!
~tpg

"No, I don't have a penis. I just need a diaper change." said 'Lil Sis

I Miss You, Leonilda, When You Don't Call

This was written in March of 2011, when we were trailer park managers in Prunedale, CA...

I think I “get” Leonilda at unit 18.

She reminds me of one of my long lost relations from the hills of Sweetwater, Tennessee.

Perhaps one that would likely slam the cellar door when she saw me comin!

At times, she reminds me of one of the women on the television series, Big Love.

One of the sister-wives that lives out on the compound, wears her hair long, her bonnet tight and has her hands elbow-deep in cannin' apples before winter done hits.

Leonilda doesn’t like me and I understand that.

Last spring, when she called to let me know “someone” was shooting at her because the side of her 1979 mobile had fresh bullet holes in the skirting, I did in fact burst out laughing.

I didn’t mean to.

I was just lacking in the self-control department in that moment.

Then there was the time she called to let me know “someone” had been trespassing in her carport and left a cherry pit in the crack of asphalt near her back door.

She informed me she hadn’t eaten cherries since high school when she got sick on ‘em, so therefore, she knew it had to be a trespasser.

I sent my partner to investigate that situation and she did in fact locate a single cherry pit in the exact location as Leonilda stated it was.

As a trained professional, I know that I need to show restraint, as well as, compassion but as the years roll on, I find it a bit of a challenge.

And Leonilda knows it. She ain’t no dummie.

She can hear it in my voice, see it in my eyes and that’s exactly why the other night when she phoned and I answered, she immediately asked for my partner. She don't want to talk with me anymore!

I put on my sweet, soft-toned, sympathetic voice and offered my assistance and willingness

to meet her every need. After all, isn't that what I get paid for?

She asks if we had received a package in the mail that belonged to her.

I told her that I hadn’t checked the mail today but I would go right out, check and bring any mail that belonged to her, right down. Mind you, Leonilda and her brother, Leo (No lie, that's his real name) don’t live next door to us. They actually live on the other side of the park, so why we'd have her mail is beyond me, but I question nothing.

She informs me that it wouldn’t have been in today’s mail. “Someone” took it a month ago.

(RIGHT, LEONILDA! LIKE I HAVE BEEN HOARDING A PACKAGE OF YOURS FOR 30 ‘EFFIN DAYS! OR THIS "MYSTERY SOMEONE" IS OUT TO GET YOU, YOU PARANOID WEIRDO!)

Breathe in. Breathe out.

After a mini-Zen-breathing exercise, I find my polite button, press it, and tell her that I haven’t seen any mail of hers, but if there was a tracking number, perhaps the post office could attempt to locate it for her.  But Leonilda feels quite strongly that our postal service does not lose packages and that “someone” either stole it or is holding it.

Hostage I suppose.

Holding it hostage for some kind of trailer treasure ransom that I’m sure will allow us all to buy Boardwalk AND Park Avenue, maybe even all four railroads.

My partner’s jaw never clinches like mine in these situations.

I remember one late afternoon last summer, I phoned Leonilda because I received a call from one of her neighbors reporting she was getting ready to spray paint her mobile with a small hand-held sprayer, not an industrial. The neighbor was concerned the paint would get on his unit.

Before I could explain the rules with regard to painting the trailers at our park, she asked me this, “Can you please call back later… I’m drunk right now.”

That's when I "got" Leonilda.

I actually clung to a tiny, thin thread of commonality in that moment.

I wished her a relaxing afternoon, hung up the phone and poured myself a strong one.

It doesn’t get any better than this, people.

-tpg

Being Ginger, Fairy Dust Cookies & Matters of Such Importance

It's been awhile. I still have a pulse. So do they.  I told the mom yesterday, "Feel free to check the hidden cameras for verification that I'm not harming Lil Sis."  
It's been 4 weeks since our courtship began.  Four long weeks of this:

"This nanny is not what I ordered!"

And this:

"Where's my Grandma? My Momma? Anybody but the woman in glasses."

During meltdowns (mine not hers), I've actually pleaded with The Cousin as to why this is happening? "What am I doing wrong?" I pathetically ask the 3-year old. 

"She's just not used to you yet, Valerie." She replies matter-a-factly.

Well, that's bullshit! Kids love me! I wanna scream these words at the top of my amateurish nanny lungs and yet, I regroup in a mindful, yoga type pattern of breathing. 

"I'm not Cinderella. I'm the Fairy Godmother."

Thank God I have a Fairy Godmother! I'm on the verge of asking her to do some "bippity boppity boo" and make Lil Sis turn into a pumpkin.

She wore this outfit yesterday and proceeded to make me "fairy dust cookies." 

They were absolutely delicious! I tell her so. I tell her she can be anything she wants; an artist, a chef, a mechanic, an architect. She tells me she wants to "go on expeditions with Chrissy." 

(Christopher Robbins) This guy is her current favorite and I can see why. He's smart, kind, 

well-read, curious and adventurous. The Cousin and I have these discussions when Lil Sis is snoozing. They are now routinely interrupted when the vocal and independent "ginger" is awake.  

Whew! All fire, man!  If it wasn't me attempting to tame the flame, I'd find her quite charming I'm sure.

One week, Lil Sis slept for 3 hours.  (Nanny Confession: I didn't check to see if she was still breathing.)

Can one say, "Paradise?" It's paradise when she naps.  Let's just be honest. 

It's the fucking Garden of Eden. 

It's true, The Cousin and I are having to adjust. You see, pre-Lil Sis, she and I had lots of time to explore, create, discuss matters of such importance, get into trouble.  That's all changed slightly.

And, she's a bit irritated about the change and the whole "attention thing."  Can you blame her?

"Valerie?"

"Yes?"

"Let's give her privacy. Just put her in the other room and close the door."

I can see where The Cousin is coming from. 

The Cousin and I have a lot in common, as I've had the same thoughts. 

When I was in my junior college years, I studied child development and then went on to get my teaching credential. I was a pompous, 'know-it-all' when it came to children and other important matters and I swore, (even wrote papers about it) that I would never plop my child or any other person's child in front of a television, video, etc.  I spewed the research to anyone who would listen about "the evils and harm" of those types of distractions.

Let's just say things have changed.

"Valerie, I'll be done in a minute." 

"Go ahead and stay 5 more minutes." Hell, stay as long as you like.

I say this in order to get Lil Sis' diaper changed. I say this to give me time to feed Lil Sis. I say this because I have learned to carry Lil Sis in a pack on my chest while I do dishes and clean up the house. 

I say this because I'm not very good at doing all of the above and, simultaneously, engaging in conversations with a 3-year old.  

Lil Sis is a challenge, but there are others in this household...

Challenge # 104 for the nanny.

Challenge #105

This house is a diabetic wet dream.  

Each Wednesday, amidst the shitty diapers and screams of discontent, I fight off binging.  I can see why stay-at-home-parents do it. I can see why they down a box of Wheat Thins or a bag of Milano cookies, while listening to Ellen and looking at their Iphones.  Do I condone it? Hell no! Do I have a great understanding and appreciation for it now, hell yes! 

Folks, it is getting better. The Cousin loves to bake and a couple Wednesdays ago, we made her mom a Mother's Day cake.  (Let me be clear, though tempting, I did not partake in the bottles of red liquid behind the mixing bowl.)

"I don't crack eggs, Valerie."

"But I do shake, shake, shake the sprinkles."

"Happy Mother's Day, Momma!"

Yesterday, we met Sweet Pea and her mom at the park.  

Carrying a baby in one of those chest/back contraptions isn't easy, but I forged ahead because Sweet Pea's mom is young, energetic, in shape and I fully intended to take advantage of her being there.

First, I practiced...

"The bags under my eyes are well-earned."

Then, the real deal...

"This is gonna be interesting."

Caledonia Park, Pacific Grove, CA...

Sweet Pea aka "I can do it myself."

We made it home before the "tireds" set in, and in all honesty, it was a pretty good day.

Let's call it a "half bottle of red" rather than a "full bottle of red" kinda day. 

However, a question, to all you parentals out there, continues to loop through my brain-feed, 

"After having one, why in the hell would you have another?!"

Thanks for reading, y'all!

~tpg

"I'll ease up when I feel she gains an understanding of who's really in charge."

Keeping It Short & Bittersweet

Circle Share

You learn a great deal about 7 year olds at "circle share".
The "juicy" learning commences after first recess, when the eager blabber mouths file in and hurry to the carpet to form a circle. This in and of itself, takes time.
Since math needs to start in only 15 minutes, I remind them that they need to "share only one thing, in a couple of sentences, not a lengthy paragraph connected together by 20 "and then and then and then..."
It sometimes takes bribery to get them settled and quiet, ready to begin. I want to bribe them by saying, "If we can't get in our circle and quiet down, we won't get to have math today."
Instead I say, "Ok. If we can't get quiet and ready to share, we won't have recess this afternoon."
I don't want to say it. It's not what I learned in the credential program. And I hate when every other damn teacher on the public school planet says it.
I want math, reading and various other essential subjects of academia to be what they hunger for rather than music, art and recess and yet, I spew the words to get instant results. I get instant results because so much of the arts and physical eduction have been removed from our public schools, and the children are literally starving for it. Unfortunately, the recess bribe works.
We are ready to begin our circle share:
(We pass around this purple bean bag and whomever is holding it, gets to speak while the rest of us get to listen)

"Well, yesterday I saw Nick at the mall (outbreak of giggles by the 1st graders)  and I got new shoes and then my mom said we could go to Dave's BBQ and after that we went to my tia's house and then..."

"Ok. We need to pass the bean bag."

"Last night, I was watching the news and I heard Noah's name on the news. (class bursts out giggling and Noah, our student, blushes and hides his head between his knees) It was a movie called Noah's Boat." (Class is overcome with laughter. Katie starts to blurt out the correct name and I remind her it's not her turn, hoping she forgets the sermon by the time the bean bag reaches her.)

"My therapist told me it's not ok for my step mom to be mean to me."

"What's a therapist?"

"Shhhhhh."

"Yesterday, my sister played Spin the Bottle." ( Ms. Fern seems to be the only one present familiar with this game. No one in the circle bats an eye.)

"Pass."

"Pass."

"Janelle took cuts in the line after recess."

"No, I didn't!"

"Shhhhh..."

"My mom is taking me to get new shoes after school today but if we can't find any shoes, then I get two shirts and if we can't find anything we get to go have ice cream."  

"We're taking Flopsie to the doctor to have her baby-maker taken out after school today."

...And the bean bag continues around the circle where honest, and sometimes, excruciatingly detailed accounts are shared, one kid at a time.  And one teacher, listening, learning, holding back the bursts of laughter that seem to be building in her throat and biting her tongue until it requires medical attention.

You know, kids are no different than adults. They want to be heard.
And as with adults, it's extremely hard for them to listen to each other without thinking, planning, conspiring what they are going to say.
Lesson to self: Listening is more important than speaking.


My Last Day

As you might suspect, there's been MANY days I thought the 7-week stretch would never end; many days (and nights) I feared the whining (and wine-ing) would never end.
However, yesterday, came out of nowhere and hit me like a bolt from the blue.
And though my head has been throbbing as a result of rising before humans actually should and from listening to a constant, daily barrage of "Ms. Fern....Ms. Fern....Ms. Fern..." 
It won't come as a huge, teary-eyed surprise that, as I hugged each one good-bye when the dismissal bell rang, that's exactly what I did...
I cried.

I'm so spent from this highly respected, grossly underpaid profession called elementary school teacher, that I really have no more details floating around in what's left of my brain.
So, I think I'll just leave it at that.

~tpg

Stuck in a Plasma Globe. Be Home Soon!

You know, today's kids don't get out much. I'm speaking specifically about urban kids; the children of the hood. The kids that live in small apartment complexes on the East Side with a slew of family members and friends, all sharing a one or two bedroom apartment with no yard. And even if they had a front yard, they wouldn't be allowed to go outside and play in it for fear of drive-by's, drug dealers and other various daily occurrences of their lives. Those children don't know what a dirt trail feels like beneath their feet.  Or what it's like to smell a freshly mowed lawn or run through piles of crunchy autumn leaves. Those kids spend a huge amount of their spare time inside. Those kids take care of their younger siblings. Those kids, the ones who have never splashed in a rain puddle because it's not safe outside or their clothes will get dirty, stay inside a lot and as a result, they feel uncomfortable out in nature.
Dr. Stephen R. Kellert of Yale University devotes a chapter to the subject of "Nature and Childhood Development." Combining his original research with well-documented references to the research of others, this chapter is a powerful synthesis of what we know, and what we do not know, about the importance of nature to children's healthy development. Kellert states, "Play in nature, particularly during the critical period of middle childhood, appears to be an especially important time for developing the capacities for creativity, problem-solving, and emotional and intellectual development." He includes research to indicate optimal learning opportunities at age-appropriate times and differentiates between indirect, vicarious, and direct experiences with nature — with the latter less and less available to children. He urges designers, developers, educators, political leaders and citizens throughout society to make changes in our modern built environments to provide children with positive contact with nature—where children live, play and learn.

This epidemic of keeping children inside and away from nature is also quickly becoming the norm in our public schools.  With standardized testing, fast-paced curriculum, newly adapted "Common Core" requirements, children working "far below basic" in Language Arts (I hate to even use the word "arts" in this way because the manner in which we are teaching language, grammar, writing and so on is the farthest thing from "the Arts") By cramming children inside all day; sitting them at their desks in order to "teach them" by teachers' ignorant lecture-babble... Aren't we actually robbing them of the essential tools to help them grow,develop, problem-solve, empathize, create, think critically and understand each other and the world around them?
Amy Barra, an environmental specialist for the Montezuma Audubon Center wrote in an article for the The Finger Link Times:

Children who spend time in nature are shown to be happier and have higher critical thinking skills than their peers who have not had access to natural spaces. A research article published in 2004 by Francis Kuo Ph.D., and Andrea Taylor, Ph.D. showed that children who suffered from ADHD had reduced symptoms after a short 20-minute walk through a natural area. Students who are exposed to nature also achieve higher test scores in math, reading and writing than their non-nature-exposed peers. Children who play together in nature are less likely to take part in bullying behavior and instead are shown to develop more collaborative skills and will demonstrate respect for others. All of these benefits come from time spent exploring outdoors and connecting with the natural environment.

Higher test scores? Less bullying? Collaboration skills?  You'd think we'd be outside every fucking day for most of our academic time!!!! But no! We give 'em 10-20 minute recess, tell 'em to use the bathroom and get water, and then hurry them back inside to their seats, for more lectures and more "learning", all the while, reminding them to be quiet.

At the site where I'm teaching, there's a huge lawn and a beautiful corner area shaded by a couple of mighty oaks and other foliage. The children aren't allowed to venture to this corner of the lawn "because there's too many bees" So I'm told. (Actually, there aren't too many bees thanks to the
Roundup being sprayed.)

I took my students to the 'forbidden' lawn one afternoon, two days after the most welcoming rain left it a rich, vibrant shade of green.  The sky was breathtaking and the clouds, plentiful. We had just read the book "It Looked Like Spilled Milk" and I thought it appropriate to lie on our backs, breathe in the fresh air and share a discussion about the various types of clouds (science, language arts), how they are made (science. For Katie, God), verbal discussion, (language arts, critical thinking, listening skills), counting the number of clouds, (math) and what each cloud formation looks like. (language arts, expanding the imagination, listening to and learning from peers)

We walked to the farthest corner. There were mustard colored dandelions and miniature daisies all around our shoes. I shared with them what little I knew about the healthy and healing properties of the dandelion root and we discussed how killing them with chemicals not only hurts them, but also goes in our water systems.  When we got to the perfect spot to lie down, they all, except Layla and her best pal Arianna, went ballistic!  Of the thirty kids that I was responsible for that afternoon, 28 flat-out refused!
"It's dirty, Ms. Fern."
"My mom doesn't want my clothes dirty."
"There's bees here."
"I'm allergic to bees."
"Me too."
"It's too wet."
"The sun's in my eyes."
"Mine too."
Ms. Fern, I don't want to."
"Me neither."

I ignored them, in a way that only a teacher knows how to do, and I proceeded to lie down
with the 2 girls and a small handful of  "reluctants" who hesitantly decided to risk it.
We had our discussion, took deep 'yoga breaths', breathing the fresh mid-day air into our lungs and enjoyed ourselves before heading back to our room.
Layla spoke, "My mom and dad take me hiking in the Sierras a lot and sometimes we make bonfires at the beach. We also go camping a lot."
"We go to Arroyo Seco and play in the river" shared Arianna.

Well, there's the explanation.
The girls' parents must value the great outdoors and the connection we humans need to have with nature. Not surprising, these two are well-balanced, attentive in class, are able to problem solve, read above grade level...Oh sure, there's a number of reasons as to why these two excel besides Mother Nature, but certainly their experiences in the great outdoors contribute to their language development and their fearlessness about getting a grass stain on their pant legs.

You know, first graders are whiners.  There, I said it.
It's actually, secretly, driving me nuts.
"Ms. Fern, she said mean things to me."
"Ms. Fern, he took cuts in line."
"Ms. Fern, my finger hurts."
"Ms. Fern, she won't be my friend."

I'm ready to snap at the end of the day. I pull all my tricks out of my hat: encouragement of problem-solving, conflict-resolution, class meetings, even humor. But there are days that I am at the edge of simply using good old-fashioned public humiliation.
On the whole, second graders have passed that stage in their development. Thank God half of my class has an element of maturity.
They are hilarious, though. The first graders.
One morning, one runs up to me, wearing her hot pink Hello Kitty winter gloves and holds up both her hands, 10 pink fingers open wide in my face. Well, 9 pink fingers. The middle finger, on the left hand, was all skin as it poked straight up through a hole in the glove. "Ms. Fern, I have a hole in my glove!" she innocently exclaimed as she (unknowingly) flipped me off.

So, I have 13 first graders and 17 second graders; a perfect, even number of fiery, kinetic energy balls.
If you've ever been in a room with thirty children, all under the age of 8, it's similar to one of those plasma globes, with electrical currents bouncing off the glass. Only noisy.

I'm stuck in the middle of this bold, spontaneous burst of fun. The truth?
It's not that bad. It's kinda growing on me.  In fact, I'm sort of getting the hang of it again and I'm sure, that when this gig ends on March 7, I'll actually have it down.
Most likely, I'll even miss it a little.
And them.

"Ms. Fern? Why is your nose so red today?"

(Oh, Jasmine, it's just from the bottle of Cabernet Ms. Fern drank last night.)

~tpg (aka Ms. Fern)

Hail to the Teachers!

It's 5:37 p.m. and the cats and I are nodding off. The sun is barely beginning to set.
I take a sip of "adult grape juice" and my thoughts ricochet from "Did I say the 'right' thing to the speech teacher?" to "We haven't done reading fluency this week in grade 2" to finally, "I have to get up in 12 hours." And then, of course, there's a hundred others thoughts bouncing from wall to wall in my brain.

You know, when you teach, the word "multi-task" is no longer current. It's like a Gilligan's Island episode; a telling, interestingly descriptive adjective, but hugely out-dated. I used to use it, the word 'multi-task', when I was applying for teaching positions:
"I have many strengths, but one that stands out in my mind is I'm excellent at multi-tasking."
It could be my age. It could be the broken, out of touch, ridiculous system. It could be the kids.
But whatever the fuck it is, multitasking doesn't come close to what this job requires.
Try SUPER-HUMAN, EXTRATERRESTRIAL, GOD-LIKE POWERS. That'll work.

When you're swimming for your life in the sea of public education, it's the little things that get in the way; leaving your papers by the copier, leaving your lunchbox in the supply room, not locking the bathroom door, turning your key the wrong way 50 times, calling Angel Alex and Alex Angel at least a dozen times in a day and searching for crap you need. Where did I put my water bottle? What about the notes from the office, the homework packets, my keys?  It's spacey, menopausal amnesia times 1,000.  And you what? Every minute of your break time is precious, so when you waste it on the 'little things', the big things suffer and your day ultimately sucks.
I wasted at least 10 minutes scouring the classroom for my purple fork.
I finally located an old white one at the bottom of a large tub. I'm finally able to sit down, relax
and graze.

I'm teaching them yoga.  Did I mention that? It's not really for them, but I tell them it is. I tell them it will help them think better. I tell them it will help them remain calm. I tell them it is good for their muscles. I tell them whatever the hell I can think of, in a split second, that will shut them up and get them engaged and silent.
"Silence" is like the coveted, golden Oscar when you're trapped in a classroom of 30, especially on a rainy day.
When six and seven-year olds enter the classroom on a rainy, stormy morning, its like a stampede of bulls down the narrow streets of Spain.  Only louder.
Katie: "God made the rain because he knows that all living things need water. I learned that in church."
Nick: "Nuh uh."
Katie: "Yes, sir."

I'm with Nick, but I move on.  Because nothing says rain quite like poetry. And Nick is a poet, an artist and just about the coolest kid alive, under his beanie and baggie Transformer tee-shirt.

First and second graders love poetry and their ability to capture life, in a few lines, is nothing short of refreshing. It tastes of fulfillment.
Nick also lives in an imaginary world in his head. I spent a good 15-20 minutes teaching a lesson on base words and endings with my group of 1st graders. I was quite animated up at the white board.
I gave example after example. I had students come up and underline the base words and circle the endings with dry eraser pens. I did page 237 with them. Then we checked it together. Then they did page 238 on their own. Then we corrected it together.  "Give me a thumbs up if you understand what we're talking about, friends!"  All thumbs go up. I sigh a penny-size breath of accomplishment.
Then Nick raises his hand.
"Nick, do you have a question or comment about base words and endings?"
Nick doesn't pause, "My mom just got a new dog."  

Nick also was in the center of a large crowd at morning recess that gathered around a small mountain of dirt near the climbing structures. Being the yard duty aficionado, I moseyed on over to survey the situation...
"It's a mole in there, teacher!"
"No, it's a gopher!"
"No, it's not! It's a mole."

"Okay, boys and girls. It's a gopher-mole and we need to just go play and let it alone because it's in its own habitat just digging tunnels and minding his own business."  Nick lingers with his recess pal who looks up at me and says, "I know where his wife is."  
"Really. Where?"
"She lives in my backyard. My dad and I saw her."
Nick and his pal are serious as a heart attack and I hold back the burst of laughter that forming in my throat.
"That's cool." I say. "All families are different and some live in separate homes."

Kids are cool. But they're weird too.
I was in a restaurant recently with my partner and a kid, who was too old to make a decision like this, walked in waving a large purple balloon as he walked in between tables toward his booth.
Since I took this teaching assignment, I can't stand to be around kids when I'm not at school. I sit away from them in the theater, I ask for a booth at the other side of the restaurant, I change lines at the grocery store.
Listening to them whine and listening to their weird, inappropriate parents deal with them (or not) is almost too much to bear.
I watched this immature kid, waving his fake sword in his sibling's face and all I could see was a large, purple penis.

Obviously, I'm exhausted. Or have penis envy.  Or both.
Actually, I'm losing it.
That's what teachers really do, you know.  After a long day of holding it together, biting your tongue with the principal, smiling at jerk colleagues, teaching every subject over and over because nobody's listening, tying a shoe, cleaning up a dropped bottle of glitter, making copies, getting a key sucked in a laminator, reteaching, reteaching, writing lesson plans, introducing a new concept, addressing the needs of the parents...After all that and much more, teachers fucking lose it in the privacy of their own homes.
And they lose it in the confines of their own minds, imagining a large purple penis, while dining in a restaurant on their day off.

I saw Sweet Pea and The Cousin the other night at a basketball game. It took awhile for The Cousin to warm up to me. (Her punishment for choosing to make bank over her) But soon, she took my hand and we were outside the gym dancing and running through rain puddles just like old times.
I look forward to getting back to the "easy life".

Have a good week, pals. And hail to the teachers!
~tpg


.

Why Teachers Drink

This will be fairly short for a few reasons.
1. I'm so f!@*ing exhausted, my head is nodding into the keyboard.

2. The past 2 weeks are somewhat of a blur, therefore some details escape me.

3. I'd rather drink wine than talk to y'all.

Coffee in the cup holder.

I left the house yesterday at 7:15 a.m. and returned at 7:30 p.m. A 12 hour day of teaching, staying after school to prep for tomorrow, (teachers are always, always staying after school to prep for tomorrow), then an hour power walk around a track with my "teacher pals", wine, more wine, appetizers at a local bar and debriefing at a local bar because teachers need to debrief and debrief and debrief.

I told The Cousin and Sweet Pea I'd be back. That Wallery needed to work (not play) for several weeks in order to earn some extra money. Then, I took what's known as a "long-term sub position" in a combination classroom of 30 1st and 2nd graders. (you read that correctly)
If I've ever complained about a 1.5 year old and a 2.5 a half year old, shoot me now.

Every inch of my skin; every orifice, my feet, shoulders and head, all ache. My throat is on fire and I sound as if I've smoked a pack of cigarettes today. Sexy? Maybe. Demi Moore? You wish.
Gravelly sandpaper? For sure.
I took the 5-week position for the bank. $$$$$$. There, I said it.

Yea, there was a time, a long, long time ago in a far away land, that I taught for the pure joy,
the love of teaching. There was a time when I taught because I felt like I could make a gigantic difference and that my hands were the hands of change; molding, shaping, guiding children like an artist carefully and passionately shapes her clay.  I can honestly say, without an ounce of doubt, that those days are a colorful tapestry whose threads linger like a sweet song, but are no longer a part of my current tune.

When you're a sub, you're not a "real" teacher. Well, let me rephrase that. You're not a real teacher to the permanent staff. You are to the children, especially 6 and 7 year olds. They adore you no matter how many f!@*ing mistakes you make in an hour. But the "real" teachers, check you out, just like a bunch of high school Heathers and you put on your best face, use your most professional and positive language and avoid the staff lounge at lunch at all costs.  Most staff lounges, for the readership that are not in public education, are filled with gossipy vipers and Negative Nellies. Besides, if you're a sub, especially one that hasn't worked full-time in several years, you need to isolate. You need to prep. You need to pray. And you need, ache, crave and deserve the quiet solitude of your classroom for the 50 minutes you are allotted at lunchtime.
You sit there staring at lessons that need to be updated, stacks of folders that the real teacher left. You wonder not what's inside, but when the hell you'll have time to take a look. You breathe in through your nose and blow out, with exaggeration, through your mouth.
You're wiped and it's 11:40 a.m.

Noone. NOONE knows this state quite like another elementary school teacher.

You have to pee. You have to check your blood sugars. You can't recall who goes to speech after lunch. There's crap all over the floor. The phone rings. One of your students is unaccounted for.  You head for the cafeteria, but you can't figure out how to use the key properly in the lock. It's day 4.
Two girls come running up to you! "Teacher! Teacher! Isabella called me a cry baby and said she's not my friend."  You give the right answer and continue to the cafeteria. You see the kid. He's throwing spit wads in the bathroom. He sees you and runs into the stall. He knows you can't go inside. You scream his name from outside the boys' bathroom and you wonder where the fuck are lunch aides?
You still have to pee.

It is a blur, the past two weeks. Here's what I remember:

Establishing Routines:
Establishing routines, discipline, norms and gaining understanding of 30 small people takes time and exceptional talent. I have neither.
Noise Level:
Going from one day a week with toddlers and 2 days a week in a Japanese tea boutique where shamisen music drifts in the background versus a room crammed with 30 children all screaming, talking, laughing, whining simultaneously, all the while the phone is ringing, a parent has a question and there's an all-call over the intercom, is nothing short of hell.

Teacher Camaraderie: Fitting In
The look. You walk into the office and you are as sweet as summer apple pie. You introduce yourself to the principal, the secretary, the health aide, the custodian and every teacher that walks by you. They all have the same look in their eye: "If she's the sub, she better be good."

The Laminator:
I'm unsure if I've mentioned to y'all that I obtained a teaching credential in 1982 from SFSU.
(Go Gators!) I first subbed in Sonoma County, then later was a director of a state funded preschool in that area. Then, after years in the coffee industry, I finally found my way back to public education.
There was no gold medal waiting for me.
Since 1983 or 84, and what the hell does the year matter, I have used laminating machines.
Never with a problem. Fast forward to 3 days ago.
We had made bookmarks, after a firm and meaningful lesson on why we don't fold page corners of our library books, and I headed to the staff room to laminate the children's work.
Being the conservationist that I am, I tried to line up as many bookmarks as I could, as to not waste the plastic. The machine gave me the green light; it was hot and ready to go!
As I'm feeding the row of 8 markers through the two hot, plastic cylinders, I lean forward into the machine and without notice, my room key, which hangs from a lanyard on my neck gets sucked into the piping hot, oval pistons and I am in a serious adult jam.

Quietly, but with a sharp element of panic shooting through my veins, I search for the "stop button".
A crowd gathers.
By the time I locate it, I am 3" away from having my lips laminated. I can't move. Of course, the children will arrive at the classroom any minute.

The culprit

Notice the clip in the above photo. A good samaritan approaches, attempting to hold back the laughter, and unclips the keys from the lanyard, since my face is too close to the machine and I'm unable to remove it over my head.

Meanwhile, there's a secretary on a walkie talkie seeking a custodian. There's an all-call for the woman in charge of the laminator. There's teachers chuckling and, of course, there's the raising of eyebrows.
I feel a joke coming on...

"Well, folks, this will certainly give you something to gossip about when I'm long gone. Meet here, at the same time tomorrow, for my next act."

When maintenance finally separates the cylinders and removes the key, it's hotter that shit.

It's thrown up in the air like a hot potato and teachers are ducking. 

I'm late. And you know what?

When you're late for 30 kids under the age of eight, it's far more stressful than when you're late for the office.

First Graders:

I've only made 3 cry.

Come on! I forgot how sensitive they are! It's totally my fault and I take full repsonsibility. I moved too quickly that first couple of days. I gave them too many tasks in a row. I also forgot that Band-Aids were so important. When I taught 4th-6th, they didn't say a thing. But these rugrats tell you every single damn detail, right down to the imaginary, minuscule splinter that's in their right thumb that needs attention.

Second Graders:

Tattle Talers.

Sore Throat:

Yes.

Know the Schedule:

So the regular school day begins at 8:15 a.m. and ends at 2:41 p.m.  And there's lots to share of the minute to minute detail that goes on between those times. But one day a week, due to meetings, leadership gatherings, grade-level planning and principal "wisdom" pow wows, the schedule is different... So, afternoon recess normally begins at 1:40 p.m. I bribe my class by telling them if they're organized and prepared and "show me they're ready" by quietly putting their heads down on the 1983 desks they're provided with, I will take them out to recess 15 minutes early. I figure, since I don't have afternoon recess duty, I can hold my pee until the teacher on duty relieves me (no pun intended) at 1:40 p.m. Bribery prevails and we're soon out running, jumping, climbing, building sand castles all by ourselves. I still have to urinate. I look at my watch and it's 1:50 p.m. I feel a slight irritation that the teachers are tardy. Time continues to pass. Play continues to happen. Then all of a sudden I hear a first grader's voice,"Ms. Fern! Today is short-day Thursday!" Holy crap! I now have 5 minutes to get 30 children, who are thousands of miles away from me and in their own worlds, off the playground, to the classroom to collect their things and then to the bus.
I still have to pee.

Teacher Bathrooms Lesson #1:
All the staff bathrooms can be opened with room keys, hence the slider bolt lock inside the door, which I neglected to lock the first time I used my new school's bathroom. Surprise!
I met another staff member.

Yes, it is a tiring profession; one that you never just "shut off." I'm experiencing long periods of sleeplessness, usually between 1:00 a.m and 3:00 a.m. where I turn on an old episode of Law and Order just to stop thinking about tomorrow's lessons, order of the day, what's due, and which children need special help. Teaching is not for sissies.

These two things are saving my ass:

So, in closing, I raise my glass to teachers! If there's a heaven, I'm positive there's a billboard with bright lights stating, "Teachers: This Way To The Bar!" 

~tpg

Letting Go and All that Other Crap that Goes Along with It

Buddha said it. Great poets and writers have written it. Teachers, therapists have lectured it...
Let it go! Let it go! Let it go! (read to the tune of Let It Snow) Let go of anger. Let go of hostility.
Let go of anything and everything that bogs you down. Let it go; release it like a feather on a warm, mid-day breeze. And in doing so, you will find peace of heart and mind everlasting. Ready?
Let's get started! It's as easy as one, two, three...
Or is it?
Letting go of a hurt, a lie told to you, an action(s) that led to mistrust, sadness or even physical and emotional detriment is easy when you're sitting at the water's edge and pretty monarchs are dancing around your shoulders. Sure!
Good-bye thoughts that bring me down! Good-bye tightness and unforgiving images that create illness in my body! Good-bye all the memories and reminders of what you promised and didn't do or your actions that have left an invisible scar on my skin. Good-bye judgmental thoughts!
BAM! Good-riddens!
Hello forgiveness! Hello moving on! Hello sweet letting go!

But what about when you fall short?
What about when you're not in the "sunny side of life" space at water's edge? What about when you're driving in your car or awake at 3:00 a.m and the little bastard of a memory creeps up from behind, out of nowhere, and fills your head with so much anger that you just want to re-live the unjust over and over again and then punch the person's lights out? Then you work, work, work and you breathe in, breathe out and work some more...

Okay, that would be truly immature, now wouldn't it? To punch someone's lights out? And yet, that feeling heats up like liquid in a pressure cooker and then it bubbles and bubbles up to the top of your throat; the place where all your self-control must take residence...
I know I'm not alone in this.  You just don't talk about it.

So, there's this guy whose quotes speak to the whole healthiness of letting go:

“Renew, release, let go. Yesterday’s gone. There’s nothing you can do to bring it back. You can’t “should’ve” done something. You can only DO something. Renew yourself. Release that attachment. Today is a new day!”  

“It is important that we forgive ourselves for making mistakes. We need to learn from our errors and move on.” 

“You must learn to let go. Release the stress. You were never in control anyway.” 

Okay, Mr. Steve "Fucking Perfect" Maraboli, aren't you the fortunate one?  I'm always skeptical of these dudes (and women) who publish books and hold expensive clinics and conferences on this subject. Like, what's  happening in their private lives, behind closed doors? 

But that last quote, that last sentence, flickers at me...
"YOU WERE NEVER IN CONTROL ANYWAY."

Now, isn't that the truth. And perhaps the hardest pill to swallow. Relinquishing control is one thing, but letting go of control that you never had is pretty damn rough for some of us, at least those honest enough to admit it.

Those of us, who from time to time, experience that lack of control, are reminded of that in the middle of the night, at some ungodly hour, and that's what makes it so challenging. I'm referring to personal situations, of course, not huge events like where our tax dollars go, etc. The personal events that hit one's  pissed off, achey, breaky heart even though, it's a simple fact:  You had no control of how the other person treated you or handled a situation that involved you.

And then where do you stand? I mean after all the self-help books have been read. After all the meditation cd's have been purchased and played.  After all your hard-earned money has been spent on workshops, shamans, life coaches, psychologists, day spas, vitamin supplements and green tea cleanses... I mean, where does one turn? What does one do to just let it all go?

I'll tell you. Why not sing a catchy tune of Do Re Mi?  Could anything else be more healing? 

Can you think of a better way to let go of anger, sadness, resentment, regret or just the f@!#king blues than to belt out a verse of Do a deer a female deer...Re a drop of golden sun... Mi a name I call myself...Fa a long, long way to run, especially butt naked!? 
Me either.

I want y'all to try it next time this crap gets in your way. I know I'm going to. In fact, I'm singing it loud and proud as I type this blog this afternoon! It seems to be working, at least in the moment, and HEY!  Isn't the moment all we really have anyway? I mean a massage only lasts for so long, then the neck ache returns, right? Go ahead.  It worked for the von Trapps, now didn't it, and it can work for you and me.

This works too:

Bear and I so beautifully captured by the artistic genius of The Cousin

This aids in the letting go process as well. Joining in a group activity, while retaining your own unique style:

"Screw you guys. I'm doing my own thing!"

I don't know about you, but it takes some work to let go. And then it takes some reserve or back-up for when the little conniving bastards return.  Because unless you're Mr. Rogers or Dora the Explorer,
both perfect in every way, my presumption is that you too have trouble letting go from time to time.

Perhaps that's the weight of being human. 

Today's writing is a bit reckless, kind of all over the map with perhaps a beginning, but certainly without a consistent trek to a well-planned destination. My sincerest apologies for that.
Welcome to my head.

But since it's come to this, I will add even more directionless chaos by closing with a poem that a dear friend sent to me this week. Sometimes, timing is everything and I hope the timing of Mary Oliver's words are perfect for some of you as they are for me.

~tpg

Flare

12.

When loneliness comes stalking, go into the fields, consider
the orderliness of the world. Notice
something you have never noticed before,

like the tambourine sound of the snow-cricket
whose pale green body is no longer than your thumb.

Stare hard at the hummingbird, in the summer rain,
shaking the water-sparks from its wings.

Let grief be your sister, she will whether or no.
Rise up from the stump of sorrow, and be green also,
    like the diligent leaves.

A lifetime isn't long enough for the beauty of this world
and the responsibilities of your life.

Scatter your flowers over the graves, and walk away.
Be good-natured and untidy in your exuberance.

In the glare of your mind, be modest.
And beholden to what is tactile, and thrilling.

~ Mary Oliver ~