Magical came to visit the classroom today. It was the first time the class had seen him since he left us in the beginning of December when he was diagnosed with cancer. Partner-in-crime has done an amazing job of sending the message to the class that he is still a big part of the class and they frequently ask about him and what to know how he is doing. We tried to prep them yesterday for the visit, warning them that he would look different and asking them to do what is so hard for any five year- keep their shock and thoughts about how he looks to themselves. We practiced saying the phrase, "looking good!" if we feel like we need to comment on how he has changed. Still. Partner-in-crime and I were a bit worried about how it would go. Magical was excited to come visit, but if anyone made him feel bad it might make him hesitant to come back to school in the fall.
We were at a meeting when he arrived so by the time we made it to the classroom he was already sitting in his old seat eating snack with the class like he belonged there. He was beaming with happiness as his friends bounced around him, asking him questions and showing off new additions to the classroom. He remembered all our rules and may have been the only one who froze with the quiet signal when he heard the bell. He went straight back to his old seat on the rug and giggled through singing silly songs and reading Gerald and Piggy books. It was so, so good to have him back, if only for an hour. We have been going to his house for about an hour a day for home-bound instruction. We have watched him have a long, hard winter. It was amazing to watch him happily interacting with friends again in age appropriate ways. No five year old should have to suffer like he has.
Of course, leave it to Pixie to give the defining moment of the visit. She popped over to him, touched his arm and looked in his eyes. "Magical," she said in her most serious voice, "you fight those bad germs. Fight them!" Magical just grinned. It's what he's been doing all along.
Friday, May 13, 2011
If only we could all move to Australia...
Spring fever has unmistakably hit the think tank. There is not a child inside who does not seem to be infected by the wiggles. Even the shiest rule followers seem to be forgetting themselves and are being caught calling out in class or even, gasp, skipping down the hallway. It has been a long week.
Pixie was holding it together fairly well for herself, all things considering, until yesterday. When presented with a guided reading book about a frog playing in the mud she lost it. "I don't want to read that book!" she declared, slamming the book on the table. "I won't read it! This is a terrible, horrible day!" (we recently read Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day.) She managed to read all but one page when she became overcome with emotion again. Her eyes filled with tears and her lower lip wobbled as she again announced how much she hated the book, how much she hated school, what a horrible day it was, and how she wished she had missed the bus. I ignored most of this and in the end she read the last page with long, dramatic sighs. She finished just in time to head to lunch with her class where she announced on the way that she was moving to Australia.
Thirty minutes before the day ended the office called to ask if we could send Pixie down for an early dismissal. The minute she heard this she wailed, "but I don't want to go home! I'll miss all the fun, I hate missing all the fun!" It took me twenty minutes to get her to walk down the hallway to the office. I am sure anyone that passed us thought I was forcing her to march to her one death.
That afternoon I went to see Magical. Our hour of work wrapped up and when I told him I had to leave he looked hurt. "But I still need you!" he announced. Then catching himself he quickly changed his tune. "you have to go now," he said, "I am very busy. I have a very busy schedule this afternoon. I have to shower and eat dinner and watch tv and cuddle with my mom and talk to my brother and play on the iPad and go to sleep. I do not have time for you."
In the upper grades I think spring fever shows up in the way of general misbehavior. In kindergarten it comes out through a lack of all logic and reasoning. Which may be why I love my job so much.
Pixie was holding it together fairly well for herself, all things considering, until yesterday. When presented with a guided reading book about a frog playing in the mud she lost it. "I don't want to read that book!" she declared, slamming the book on the table. "I won't read it! This is a terrible, horrible day!" (we recently read Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day.) She managed to read all but one page when she became overcome with emotion again. Her eyes filled with tears and her lower lip wobbled as she again announced how much she hated the book, how much she hated school, what a horrible day it was, and how she wished she had missed the bus. I ignored most of this and in the end she read the last page with long, dramatic sighs. She finished just in time to head to lunch with her class where she announced on the way that she was moving to Australia.
Thirty minutes before the day ended the office called to ask if we could send Pixie down for an early dismissal. The minute she heard this she wailed, "but I don't want to go home! I'll miss all the fun, I hate missing all the fun!" It took me twenty minutes to get her to walk down the hallway to the office. I am sure anyone that passed us thought I was forcing her to march to her one death.
That afternoon I went to see Magical. Our hour of work wrapped up and when I told him I had to leave he looked hurt. "But I still need you!" he announced. Then catching himself he quickly changed his tune. "you have to go now," he said, "I am very busy. I have a very busy schedule this afternoon. I have to shower and eat dinner and watch tv and cuddle with my mom and talk to my brother and play on the iPad and go to sleep. I do not have time for you."
In the upper grades I think spring fever shows up in the way of general misbehavior. In kindergarten it comes out through a lack of all logic and reasoning. Which may be why I love my job so much.
Saturday, May 7, 2011
things we say
When dealing with complainers I tend to try to pull little phrases out to acknowledge that I hear the complainer, but deflecting any action on my part. Sayings like, "Wow, you must have been brave", or "It's ok that your pants are covered in mud! That's how we know you're a kid! Kids are suppose to have fun and get dirty outside." It's enough to confuse them and let them know that they are not going to get anywhere with sympathy from me.
Yesterday I was trying to run a reading group when a little boy kept trying to show me his scrapes from the day before. He'd been climbing a tree and had really scraped himself up and was suddenly overcome with the amount of scrapes on his hand right when he was suppose to be listening to my book introduction. The "wow, brave you" comment didn't work and I was a bit frustrated. The next thing I knew I heard myself saying, "AWESOME! Really? Those scrapes are from climbing a tree? So COOL."
There was nothing he could say to that. He quickly became quiet and read his book. Now I'm just worried about angry letters from parents complaining that their children went out to climb trees and get scraped up because their teacher told them that was the cool thing to do.
It could have been worse. I could have told his blood shot eyes from playing video games all night was cool. At least I was encouraging an outdoor activity. Still, something seems wrong about telling a kid that their scrapes are "cool".
Yesterday I was trying to run a reading group when a little boy kept trying to show me his scrapes from the day before. He'd been climbing a tree and had really scraped himself up and was suddenly overcome with the amount of scrapes on his hand right when he was suppose to be listening to my book introduction. The "wow, brave you" comment didn't work and I was a bit frustrated. The next thing I knew I heard myself saying, "AWESOME! Really? Those scrapes are from climbing a tree? So COOL."
There was nothing he could say to that. He quickly became quiet and read his book. Now I'm just worried about angry letters from parents complaining that their children went out to climb trees and get scraped up because their teacher told them that was the cool thing to do.
It could have been worse. I could have told his blood shot eyes from playing video games all night was cool. At least I was encouraging an outdoor activity. Still, something seems wrong about telling a kid that their scrapes are "cool".
kick kick
One of my little ones hugged me yesterday and then loudly announced to the class that she heard the baby kick. This is not true. The baby did not kick when she hugged me. I don't think she heard anything. But after her announcement, now all the little girls are convinced that if they keep their hands on my belly they will feel (or hear?) a kick. None of them believe the "baby's sleeping" story anymore since I'd just given it to the little one who claimed the kick.
I've never been so close to outright calling a child a liar in my life. I can't walk through the classroom without a little hand reaching up and grabbing my belly.
I've never been so close to outright calling a child a liar in my life. I can't walk through the classroom without a little hand reaching up and grabbing my belly.
Signs of Spring
The birds are chirping, the flowers are blooming, the trees have filled out with bright green leaves, and the kindergarten/first grade hallway looks like this:
It must be May.
The testing window opens in May and so it's time to start pulling our children aside one by one to assess how far they've come this year. In kindergarten for reading alone we pull each child aside 12 individual times to assess how they've come with their concepts of print, their letter knowledge, their phonemic awareness, and their ability to read. It's lovely, lovely fun as you can only imagine.
Since we use the same scoring sheet throughout the year for each child you get to see the progress they've made. To be honest, I completely forgot how low the little ones were when they came in. The majority of the kiddos in one of my classes knew almost no letters of the alphabet, and in fact, when asked to identify a letter, even a letter in their name, responded with "8", "29" or, "Hey, it looks like sponge bob!"
As I'm giving the spring version of the assessment and trying not to grind my teeth as a child confuses the lowercase f and t (arggghhhhhh..... ) I find myself glancing at the fall version of the test. Suddenly knowing all the letters but confusing b, d, p, and f and t doesn't seem like that bit a deal. In the fall they could not identify the first letter in their name, and in fact, had never recognized that those squiggly things on paper had names.
Of course, I'd prefer that they'd gone from not knowing anything to knowing all of their letters and letter sounds perfectly, so there is still a bit of sadness and teeth grinding when I realize we're not quite there yet. But that frustration is more with myself and what I've taught than with the child. When I realize how far the child came from September to May I'm suddenly filled with pride at how the little one changed from a timid, unsure 5 year old into a scholarly letter-identifying 6 year old. They did it. They worked hard in kindergarten.
In fact, so far I've only give 3 tasks of the 11 they took in September. But in those 3 tasks most of them have already out scored what they got in September when they were given the full 11 tasks.
In the same class the majority of our friends were unable to rhyme at all in September. Most of them got none of the rhyming questions correct. Yesterday when I gave the rhyming test they didn't even let me finish the question before they identified the rhyming words.
It's still not perfect. Like I said before, I wish they were doing better. There is still the feeling of sadness and frustration that I've missed teaching them important pieces- like the difference between t and f. That they should be even further along than they are and really that's my fault as their teacher. But it's nice to mix high expectations with the reality of how far they've come.
 |
| Note the small desks/tables outside of each classroom so that we can pull children for one on one testing. |
It must be May.
The testing window opens in May and so it's time to start pulling our children aside one by one to assess how far they've come this year. In kindergarten for reading alone we pull each child aside 12 individual times to assess how they've come with their concepts of print, their letter knowledge, their phonemic awareness, and their ability to read. It's lovely, lovely fun as you can only imagine.
Since we use the same scoring sheet throughout the year for each child you get to see the progress they've made. To be honest, I completely forgot how low the little ones were when they came in. The majority of the kiddos in one of my classes knew almost no letters of the alphabet, and in fact, when asked to identify a letter, even a letter in their name, responded with "8", "29" or, "Hey, it looks like sponge bob!"
As I'm giving the spring version of the assessment and trying not to grind my teeth as a child confuses the lowercase f and t (arggghhhhhh..... ) I find myself glancing at the fall version of the test. Suddenly knowing all the letters but confusing b, d, p, and f and t doesn't seem like that bit a deal. In the fall they could not identify the first letter in their name, and in fact, had never recognized that those squiggly things on paper had names.
Of course, I'd prefer that they'd gone from not knowing anything to knowing all of their letters and letter sounds perfectly, so there is still a bit of sadness and teeth grinding when I realize we're not quite there yet. But that frustration is more with myself and what I've taught than with the child. When I realize how far the child came from September to May I'm suddenly filled with pride at how the little one changed from a timid, unsure 5 year old into a scholarly letter-identifying 6 year old. They did it. They worked hard in kindergarten.
In fact, so far I've only give 3 tasks of the 11 they took in September. But in those 3 tasks most of them have already out scored what they got in September when they were given the full 11 tasks.
In the same class the majority of our friends were unable to rhyme at all in September. Most of them got none of the rhyming questions correct. Yesterday when I gave the rhyming test they didn't even let me finish the question before they identified the rhyming words.
It's still not perfect. Like I said before, I wish they were doing better. There is still the feeling of sadness and frustration that I've missed teaching them important pieces- like the difference between t and f. That they should be even further along than they are and really that's my fault as their teacher. But it's nice to mix high expectations with the reality of how far they've come.
Monday, May 2, 2011
Hello baby
Last week I explained the reason for my growing belly to one of my kindergarten classes. No one had asked about it yet, but I figured that for my ego a preemptive strike was necessary. They are thrilled, fascinated, and a bit confused on timelines.
I told them on Thursday and on Friday they all asked me if I remembered I was having a baby, or if I'd had the baby the night before. It's funny how many of them were worried that I may have forgotten the baby... some seemed truly concerned. I liked the shy little boy who whispered, "hey, don't forget your baby" as he came into the classroom in the morning, and the one with limited English who drew me a picture of me and the baby, brought it to me and repeatedly pointed to my belly and then back to the picture as though he was explaining to me what was going on inside me. His mother had a baby earlier this year so I suppose he felt that he was sharing some expert advice with me.
Today though the kids hit a whole new level. After not seeing me for the whole weekend they were thrilled to see my belly Monday morning. Not me, my belly. They each asked to hug my baby, or didn't ask and just patted my belly, said hello baby, and talked directly into my stomach. One little boy nestled his face against my belly to get closer to the baby. I suppose I should get use to having people address the baby and not me when I enter a room, I just expected it would start once the baby was actually out of my belly.
I told them on Thursday and on Friday they all asked me if I remembered I was having a baby, or if I'd had the baby the night before. It's funny how many of them were worried that I may have forgotten the baby... some seemed truly concerned. I liked the shy little boy who whispered, "hey, don't forget your baby" as he came into the classroom in the morning, and the one with limited English who drew me a picture of me and the baby, brought it to me and repeatedly pointed to my belly and then back to the picture as though he was explaining to me what was going on inside me. His mother had a baby earlier this year so I suppose he felt that he was sharing some expert advice with me.
Today though the kids hit a whole new level. After not seeing me for the whole weekend they were thrilled to see my belly Monday morning. Not me, my belly. They each asked to hug my baby, or didn't ask and just patted my belly, said hello baby, and talked directly into my stomach. One little boy nestled his face against my belly to get closer to the baby. I suppose I should get use to having people address the baby and not me when I enter a room, I just expected it would start once the baby was actually out of my belly.
Sunday, May 1, 2011
"I love you, but I can't talk to you right now"
My first year teaching a little friend made me a "puppet" at the art center during free choice time. He'd used a purple foam flower, attached a close pin to the bottom, and drew two eyes with angry eyebrows and an angry mouth. He said it was me when I used my mad face.
It was my first year and I'd taken a lot to get to the point where my mad face was extremely effective, so I attached the puppet to my badge. The class loved it. Instead of me having to use my actual mad face at them I could just flash the puppet. They'd immediately know I was giving them the evil eye (even those who had difficulty reading my actual facial cues knew it meant they were on thin ice) and would stop their behavior.
The next year I overheard one of the most amazing teachers in my building say she writes the phrase "I love you but I can't talk to you right now" on her writing workshop conference hat so that children knew not to bother her when she was conferencing. I kept playing that phrase over and over in my mind. I love it- it acknowledges the person and that you still care about the person, but also sets a limit.
I told my class that my angry purple flower meant just that "I love you, but I can't talk to you right now." Just like the year before I wore it all the time, not just during conferencing. It was relatively small and just lived on my ID badge but was easy to flash when a child came to interrupt me when I was chatting with another teacher, another student, or just trying to organize myself for the next lesson. I did not have to turn and make eye contact with the child, I simply just picked up the flower and held it up so they could see it.
"Oh yeah," many of them would say, "You love me but you can't talk to me right now" and they'd go back to work.
For whatever reason they loved the saying too. I loved that they repeated it to themselves "You love me but you can't talk to me right now" as though they were reassuring themselves that I did in fact love them.
For me it worked better than a designated hat for writing or reading workshop because I was able to acknowledge their presence with an action (holding up the flower) without making eye contact. When I used a hat for reading/writing workshop I'd find myself stopping and talking to the child to remind them what the hat meant. Tapping the hat didn't get their attention, while holding up the purple flower did. Plus the purple flower was around all day so they saw it all the time and were less likely to forget what it meant.
I also paired it with a "notes for Ms. L" box so they could go and leave me a note about what they needed. For first graders I wanted them to write anyway, so writing their notes to me was meaningful writing. They had even more incentive really listen to the sounds in those words because they knew I'd be reading them when they were not around to translate for me. By the middle of the year most of them were leaving notes without me having to give them the "I love you" reminder.
Now that I work in 3 different classrooms it's hard to do something that consistently. I don't have the luxury of having those moments of whole group lessons where I explain procedures. And since I'm not in their rooms all the time it's not as consistent. As the kinders are getting more and more bouncy with spring fever- and more likely to leave their seats to "need to tell me something so, so, so important" I need to find a way to make it work... my end of year survival may depend on it.
It was my first year and I'd taken a lot to get to the point where my mad face was extremely effective, so I attached the puppet to my badge. The class loved it. Instead of me having to use my actual mad face at them I could just flash the puppet. They'd immediately know I was giving them the evil eye (even those who had difficulty reading my actual facial cues knew it meant they were on thin ice) and would stop their behavior.
The next year I overheard one of the most amazing teachers in my building say she writes the phrase "I love you but I can't talk to you right now" on her writing workshop conference hat so that children knew not to bother her when she was conferencing. I kept playing that phrase over and over in my mind. I love it- it acknowledges the person and that you still care about the person, but also sets a limit.
I told my class that my angry purple flower meant just that "I love you, but I can't talk to you right now." Just like the year before I wore it all the time, not just during conferencing. It was relatively small and just lived on my ID badge but was easy to flash when a child came to interrupt me when I was chatting with another teacher, another student, or just trying to organize myself for the next lesson. I did not have to turn and make eye contact with the child, I simply just picked up the flower and held it up so they could see it.
"Oh yeah," many of them would say, "You love me but you can't talk to me right now" and they'd go back to work.
For whatever reason they loved the saying too. I loved that they repeated it to themselves "You love me but you can't talk to me right now" as though they were reassuring themselves that I did in fact love them.
For me it worked better than a designated hat for writing or reading workshop because I was able to acknowledge their presence with an action (holding up the flower) without making eye contact. When I used a hat for reading/writing workshop I'd find myself stopping and talking to the child to remind them what the hat meant. Tapping the hat didn't get their attention, while holding up the purple flower did. Plus the purple flower was around all day so they saw it all the time and were less likely to forget what it meant.
I also paired it with a "notes for Ms. L" box so they could go and leave me a note about what they needed. For first graders I wanted them to write anyway, so writing their notes to me was meaningful writing. They had even more incentive really listen to the sounds in those words because they knew I'd be reading them when they were not around to translate for me. By the middle of the year most of them were leaving notes without me having to give them the "I love you" reminder.
Now that I work in 3 different classrooms it's hard to do something that consistently. I don't have the luxury of having those moments of whole group lessons where I explain procedures. And since I'm not in their rooms all the time it's not as consistent. As the kinders are getting more and more bouncy with spring fever- and more likely to leave their seats to "need to tell me something so, so, so important" I need to find a way to make it work... my end of year survival may depend on it.
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