It's the Little Things

We serve breakfast in our classrooms.  There is a rug.  Because these are eight and nine year old children, the rug would like to buy a train ticket for a Pacific coast spa and get the mashed in Trix, milk, and pieces of Healthy! Donut out of the pile.  This is not happening, so the rug lays there, resigned and sad.  Wide swaths of spilled milk, which contains casein, the ingredient in glue, have accumulated microbits of graphite from pencil shavings, sneaker prints, and just plain dirt.  The eight and nine year old children have not mastered the art of eating at a table with YOUR CHAIR PULLED IN so if anything drops it hits the table.  They do not listen to you until you scare the Skittles out of their gizzards.

I have rules.  Four main rules.  1) No talking.  2) Stay in your seat.  3) Follow rules one and two.  4) Get an education.  The rest of life I half expect to take care of itself; house-training, I like to think. But, these are eight and nine year old children who have the minds of Benny the Fish when it comes to getting what they want when they want.  A Morning Procedure Chart announces some of these ideas of mine, such as Put your backpack away.  Get all supplies for the day out.  Have two pencils sharpened.  Put your Homework in the Homework Duck Basket.  Get two Reading books for the day. Get breakfast.  Does any of it happen in order?  Sure, for many of the students.  There are the special little boys and girls, however, That Want Special Directions Everyday because they enjoy being singled out and hearing my voice directed at them and them alone.  That negative attention stuff, sometimes the spoiled rotten wait-on-me stuff.  Wastes class time and makes my blood pressure zing.

So yesterday, I went over the litany.  "Look," I says, says I, "I have had three hours of sleep.  What does this mean?"  They are watching me carefully. "It means that I am not dealing with drama, you are all good thinkers and know how to take care of yourselves.  You know the procedures.  This means, that unless you want me to snatch you all bald-headed (yes, I talk like that), you are thinking very carefully before you raise your hand, because whatever you ask me, the answer will be No.  I do not want to hear Ms. Coburn, can I sharpen my pencil?  The answer will be No.  That should have been taken care of before  8:30.  I don't want to hear Ms. Coburn, can I get my homework out of my bookbag? No.  Can I get a drink of water? No.  He's looking at me.  No.  I'm bleeding and it's a dried up scab from three days ago.  NO.  Nothing.  I don't want to to hear from you unless you are on fire.  Do. you. understand?"  Wiseguy class answering me back:  NO.  They laugh.  I try not to, but end up laughing with them.  They get the message, however, and the day goes somewhat smoothly, meaning only one cafeteria knock down drag out with four of my boys, a few hissy fits with stomping out of the room, and two here you can have my dollar, oops, I want it back now arguments.

This is the first time I will not be working a summer job in seventeen years...not a paid job, per say, but an at home job will be put in motion where I will find out how to sell my art.  And make art, lots of it.  Get faster, more accurate, different mediums, finish projects and learn how to build large canvasses. I'm excited, and am turning the whole place into an art studio, bit by bit.  Even the cats are wearing little berets, and critiquing in Fronch, well ah don' know, what does thees piece say to you, the shading, too much, ne c'est paw?

Today it will be very hot, close to ninety, and perhaps the air conditioner will be liberated.  I have things to do and two weeks left with children crabbing about wiggly teeth, tummies hurting, and he's got my pencils my mom told me not to do my homework.  I will miss most of these students, and look forward to seeing them in fourth grade, taller, and hopefully a bit wiser as they mature.

Sleep well, remember that you were young, so young that you weren't sure of who or where you were, that the world passed by slower, that it took forever for time to go by.   Dream of outside grass and found feathers, of drawing on sidewalks with a piece of broken red brick, of a pair of sneakers that made you run like the wind, a bike, a walk to the library, a secret club.  Remember and pass on the minor truth that some of that joy stays with you forever.  Sleep well, count stars and far-off suns.