Shake it Up, Baby!

I'm pretty sure there's a "spectrum" when it comes to creatures of habit. Individuals probably range from loosey-goosey, to up-tight, to obsessive compulsive. If I asked my friends and relatives to rate me (which I most definitely will not) I'd probably be leaning heavily toward up-tight. . . OK, obsessive compulsive. My point being, most of us exhibit some habitual behaviors. What's interesting is how others rely on my habits to fulfill their own. Let me explain.

Earlier this week, I prepared for my day as usual. Rise and shine. Shower and dress. Juice and cereal. Check facebook and email. Jump in the car. Arrive at school. Park my . . .uh, park my . . .uhh, what the. . . ? You see, someone had parked in my place. Momentarily stunned, I didn't know what to do. Had I driven to the wrong school by mistake? Should I go back home and start again? And . . . whose car is that anyway?

As I began to recover from the initial shock, my rational self slowly emerged. "You don't own that spot," I reminded myself derisively. "They probably didn't mean anything personal," I reassured. "New is good." (OK, I really didn't say that last one.) And finally, I chose another place to park. By the time I turned off the ignition and gathered my belongings, I was actually chuckling to, or at, myself. "Julie," I said. "Get a grip. In the grand scheme of things, this is nothing." And so I unlocked my classroom door, hung up my coat, turned on my computer, straightened the desks, wrote the date on the board, and . . .

Truthfully, I had put it behind me. It was no longer in my thoughts, when suddenly an indignant colleague appeared at my door. "Whose car is that?" they asked. "Everybody knows that's your spot!" Grinning, I charitably said, "Oh, I don't know whose car it is. It's no big deal. I don't own that spot." "Yeah," she said, "but you're parked in my spot!" And she set off in super sleuth mode to uncover the identity of the "parking place poacher."

Throughout the day, I was asked again and again, "Who parked in your spot?" followed up with, "I had to park, blah, blah, blah." It seemed that the whole order of things had been disrupted. (Oh, to be the principal or assistant principal, with a clearly designated parking spot with a sign.)

For three days this travesty continued. (Four days would have qualified it as the new norm.), but suddenly, on what would have been the fourth day, all was well. As if awakening from a bad dream, I pulled seamlessly into my own (after all, it was in fact mine) parking spot. No one said a word, but I noticed the panicked look had left my friend's eyes, and a bounce had returned to her step. And the tone throughout the building? Well, let's just say, it was more relaxed.

Sorting Things Out

School was out last Friday, and I would have to say it was bittersweet.  I mean, who doesn't look forward to a break in their routine.  I certainly do.  However, I had a really sweet group of students and I am going to miss them . . . a lot.  (Notice that is two words, not one.  Something we try to master in 5th grade.) 

As I think back over the year, I realize we shared a lot of life with each other.  One student had a beloved dog die, one lost a grandparent, and we had three broken arms.  There were nosebleeds, loose teeth, braces, and, ah yes, glasses.  It's interesting how different students navigate these events.  Take braces for instance.  Some kids purposely choose the neon colored ones so everyone will be sure to notice.  Others, slink into class, mouths tightly sealed, strangely mute for the entire day.  (This can be a good thing.)  Glasses are much the same, though I believe more kids secretly harbor a desire to wear them.  Most adjust quite well.  They seem to understand it as a rite of passage.  Notice I say most, because I can remember at least one child who needed a little encouragement to put on her new glasses.  In spite of the fact that she was practically feeling her way down the halls, she did not want to wear them.  After cutting out paper glasses for everyone in the class to wear, I decided a poem might fit the occasion, and so I wrote "Meghan's Glasses."

Meghan's Glasses
Mom took me to the doctor
'Cause I couldn't see that well
The doctor had an eye chart
And he wanted me to tell

The letters that I saw there
And the top row looked just fine
But when I viewed the next row
The letters seemed to intertwine

The first one was the letter B
Or was it number 8?
The lines appeared quite hazy
And I wasn't doing great

The doctor said, "That's good enough."
And I knew just what that meant
I'd be getting glasses
And I started to lament

"The kids'll call me four-eyes;
They'll say that I'm a nerd.
I simply refuse to wear them."
Mother said, "Don't be absurd."

We left the doctor's office
And headed to the mall.
That usually would excite me
But this time, not at all.

'Cause we passed right by the food court,
And we didn't stuff a bear;
Mom headed straight to VisionWorld
Where I tried on my first pair.

They were big, and black, and awful,
And they overpowered my face
I stuck my lower lip out,
And I howled in distaste.

Mom said we'd try some others,
But they all seemed just as bad;
The salesman said I'd have to choose
'Cause that was all they had.

And though I didn't want to,
I knew I might as well,
So I settled on the blue ones
And then we bid the man farewell.

Mom said I had to wear them,
So I slowly slipped them on,
And suddenly the world looked new;
The blurriness was gone.

The next day I was nervous
As I headed off to school;
I knew the kids would laugh at me
And some would just be cruel.

I pulled my coat around me
And I tried to look real small;
I slid into my seat
And no one noticed me at all.

I got a sticker on my warm-ups
'Cause I could read the words just fine,
And in math, I knew the answers
'Cause I could see the division sign.

It wasn't until recess
That my best friend stopped to stare.
And she said, "There's something different."
But by then, I didn't care.

So I said, "It's my new glasses.
They really help me see."
"I've always wanted some," she said.
I think she envied me.

So that's the story of my glasses
I've learned they're not that bad to wear,
And by the way . . . I'm getting braces,
And I don't even care.

Snooze News

Experience has taught me that everyone is good at something.  I marvel at the amazing talents possessed by family members, friends, and students.  And though I hesitate to brag, most who know me well will agree, that I . . . am an excellent sleeper.  I look forward to sleep more than most.  Rarely do I toss and turn.  You might say I'm blessed.  My head hits the pillow, and I am gone.  I might awaken at 1:00 and 3:00, but I don't consider this a problem.  I acknowledge the hour and rejoice that there is additional sleep time remaining before my alarm will sound.  I always fall back to sleep.  (Some say it's a clear conscience that allows this.)  Okay, I'm gifted.  I'm a great napper, too.  Just this afternoon I managed to sleep for three hours.  This, is where the giftedness comes in.  I will still be able to sleep tonight. 

Now, before my post puts you to sleep, let me get to my point.  My precious slumber is being compromised.  Perhaps yours has been too.  I blame Brian Williams, for he was the first to report the disturbing news.  Bedbugs.  At first I wasn't too concerned.  They were in New York.  And then, they began to report outbreaks other places.  This week, Tennessee.  I received a package in the mail on Wednesday?  Could there be . . .?  I brought a bag home from the mall last weekend.  Do you think there were . . .? 

So, while lying awake pondering possible pests, I was inspired to write the poem, Snooze News.  Enjoy.

Snooze News

The evening news has filled my head

With thoughts of doom and a sense of dread.

No, not the approach of a hurricane

Nor the jobless rate that’s higher again;

Suspected terrorists I’ve learned to accept

It’s something else that recently crept

Into my thoughts and made a nest.

It’s wreaking havoc on my rest

I don’t leave home, no hotel stays;

What happened to the good old days?

Since Brian Williams reported these,

I greet repose with dread and unease.

Oh, blessed moment when I crawl beneath

Eight hundred thread count Egyptian sheets

And stretch my legs and rest my head

And thank the Lord for a clean, fresh bed

Has now become a moment of fear

And Brian’s words ring in my ear

And when I lay me down to sleep

I’m praying that those bedbugs keep

Out of my house and away from me

It’s worth an exorbitant exterminator fee

To rest assured when I say goodnight

They’ll be no bedbugs there to bite.

Cursive Writing

In third grade I learned cursive
And I loved the way it looked
While others clung to printing
I admit that I was hooked
On the swirls, and curls, and flowiness
Of the letters on each line
And I practiced each with diligence
And attempted to refine
The subtle, forward slant of it
The loops and ending strokes
My teacher said I had a flair
Unlike some bumbling blokes
Who never seemed to understand
Just how to make a z
And never mastered bridging
From a w to an e
It seems that cursive’s heyday
May reside now in the past
But I’m convinced if John Hancock knew
He’d certainly be aghast.

Twists and Turns

Driving to school this morning, I was listening to my favorite radio station.  Jerry House was already mid-topic when I tuned in at 6:40.  As usual, he was discussing a recent statement he had read in the newspaper or heard on the news.  This one caught my ear and a piece of my heart as well.  It seemed Jerry had heard that schools would no longer be teaching cursive handwriting.  Not a huge shock to me.  I don't think we've really been teaching it for many years now.  Oh, it gets introduced in third grade, probably by a teacher young enough to have barely learned it herself, but it doesn't get practiced.  And it isn't revered.  At least not by most.  And I'm pretty sure I know why.  It's the obsolescence of the cartridge pen.

Back in the day, learning cursive was a rite of passage that carried with it the use of . . . the cartridge pen.  Oh, you didn't receive the privelege right away.  One had to practice the strokes diligently.  And a student was not left to their own devices.  Every stroke was announced and modeled.  Using one's finger as an imaginary pencil and holding one's hand high into the air, eight and nine year olds would write in the sky.  "Swing up, slant down, loop back, push up and around, and swing.  Again . . ."  Groups of 6 or 8 would go to the chalkboard (yes, the chalkboard) and practice there while the rest of the class practiced on their specially lined writing paper at their seats.  Each letter was practiced individually and then in tandem with a variety of other letters.  By the end of third grade, one would have mastered cursive.  And then you were ready for fourth grade.

Fourth grade was the year of the cartridge pen and Washable Blue ink.  (Oh, how I wanted Peacock Blue, but that apparently was being saved for junior high.)  Practicing cursive now included holding the pen correctly and applying just the right amount of pressure to allow the nib to glide smoothly over one's paper. 
How I envied those whose names began with the "beautiful letters."  A properly made capital F was regal.  An S or an E held such possibilities if curled just so.  My sister, Sue Ellen, had them both and I'm not sure she appreciated the gift.  I on the other hand had the dreaded J.  It hung down below the baseline and ruined the symmetry of my initials.  My friend Janice and I attempted all known nuances to elevate the beauty of that letter, but eventually had to accept it for what it was.

As you can tell, cursive was more than just a skill to me.  It enhanced every assignment I was given.  Even if the language sentences assigned for homework were dull, I could enjoy the beauty of the letters on the page.  I wonder what young girls do today with their first crushes.   My friends and I would write, for example,  Mr. and Mrs. Jimmy Jones (name changed to protect the innocent) over and over again in cursive as a symbol of our "love."  I can't picture it in elementary print.  It just isn't the same.

And so, you can see how this morning's radio topic affected me.  The deletion of cursive from the curriculum is crushing.  Must everything beautiful be bidden bye-bye.  What's next?  Alliteration?  I have some thoughts on that too.

I Like Cute

I confess, I like anything cute.  I appreciate classic. I get professional and chic.  But what I really love . . . is cute.  Cute shoes rank high on my list, followed by cute handbags, cute puppies, and well, you get the picture.  Over the years, my husband has discovered that there is a hierarchy to cute.  If I say something is cute, that's his first hint that I might want it; but, if I say it's a "cute, little something" it is probably already in a bag in the trunk of my car.  "I saw the cutest little pair of shoes at Dillards today."  I bought them, they're mine.  "I found the cutest little dress at SteinMart, honey."  I'll be wearing it to dinner tomorrow night.  "I watched the cutest little show on TV lastnight."  We'll be TIVOing it for the rest of the season. 

As you can see from above, cute does not just apply to apparel.  It might surprise you to know that cute can even be used to describe foods.  For example, an orange is nice, but a clementine is cute.  A pie, nice . . . a tart, cute . . . a cake, fine; but cupcakes, cute.  Definitely cute!  So cute in fact that I made it my summer's goal to perfect the art of decorating the cutest little cupcakes you've ever seen.  And what ensued . . .well, let's just say, it wasn't cute.

First, I purchased a book, an entire book, on cupcake decorating.  I spent days looking through the book and finally settled on the sunflower design.  It was too cute.  An Oreo cookie would be placed in the center, delicate golden leaves would be cleverly piped around the edges, and a red M & M with tiny chocolate spots would finish off the delectable, but more importantly, the cutest little cupcake ever.  Soon, my favorite on-line catalog store was offering a frosting deco pen as their item of the week.  Actually, it turned out to be "a cute little frosting deco pen."  I bought it.  And then I planned.  School would be out soon, (I'm a teacher.) and that's when I would do it.  A whole day set aside to decorate my cupcakes.

The summer went by.  I carried my cupcake decorating book and my frosting deco pen to the beach with me, thinking a rainy afternoon would be the perfect time.  It didn't rain, I didn't make them, and I carried everything back home.

This morning I woke up and realized I had three days left before I would return to work.  The cupcakes weighed heavily on my mind.  And so, I began. 

I opened the frosting deco pen package and read the directions (I mentioned I'm a teacher, did I not?) I washed all the little tubes and tips and installed the double A batteries. I filled a cartridge with frosting and attempted to add food coloring. This was the part I had looked forward to. The fancy frosting deco pen had a stirring device that allowed you to mix the frosting and food coloring in the tube. This would make cupcake decorating easy for novices like me. However, the food coloring managed to seep out through a minute opening and run down the sides of the cartridge I was holding.. My hands were instantly stained red and yellow. Committed to the task, I continued. I decorated two, only two cupcakes, and the cartridge was empty. In order to decorate my 24 cupcakes, I would have to load that "blasted little" cartridge 12 more times. I ate an Oreo cookie and gave it some thought. And right then and there I decided, understated may be the new cute for me.

Out of the Mouths

I just spent the last week administering TCAP, our state's standardized test.  It's a measuremnet tool used to see what our students have learned throughout the year.  Are they on target?  Have they met the standards?  (Are the teachers doing their jobs?) No matter what their stanines turn out to be, I'm convinced my students will do well in life.  You see, from a very early age they develop some pretty high level life skills.  For example, they know exactly when to add the lower lip quiver to an excuse for not having their homework.  Should it be needed, puppydog eyes can be summoned quite effectively when making a request.  And stalling tactics, well that's an art children have taken to its highest level.  "What was it like when you were a kid, Mrs. Schuh?" asked just as I begin to write the homework assignment on the board, mixed with, "I think I'm having an asthma attack.  Will you write me a note so I can go to the clinic?" almost certainly mean no homework. 

I'm sure you can add more to this list.  As parents, we see it all the time. (Why, I may have used a stalling tactic or two myself.)  My next poem, "Beddy-Bye Teddy Gets Lost" was an attempt to capture some precious moments and some very clever stalling techniques. 

P.S.  I was always onto you, Jamie.