The Second Third: Sanctions, Speech and Stats

My kids are antsy. I can see their little toes tapping and eyes twitching. You’d think they were all about to pee their pants, but no, it is not their bladders that are about to burst, it is their heads out of pure excitement. The bell pierces our ears at 9 a.m. – RECESS. They all start to sprint out of their seats, but I have trained them better than that. Excruciatingly slowly, I allow the girls to line up, then the boys (to try to crush the machismo seed before it will inevitably blossom into a catcalling/sexist monster), and then they are free to scream and act like animals for 40 minutes. UNLESS you have committed a “no no,” and have to spend your recess with me.

This of course is their worst nightmare. They are tormented by the idea of their peers bounding through the courtyard in slow motion, while they sit in their desks staring at my beautiful face and wishing they had stopped talking when I had asked, or resisted that last spit ball. Despite the fact that I don’t get to chat with my teacher friends for the recess period, hearing them repent for what they have done is oh so satisfying. Sadistic? No. Entertaining? Yes. Speaking of sadistic, if I’m feeling really underappreciated, I like to bring the kids who are b-a-d bad outside so that they may watch their friends frolic in delight. They sit by me, and are not to talk to anyone, “just watch what you’re missing.” I like to call this “Kamp Kaleigh.”

While I’m watching my sinners squirm, I like to think about if my teachers from the past enjoyed giving out detentions and other punishments if it was deserved. Since I’m pretty sure I’m not mentally unstable or akin to Jeffrey Dahmer, I like to think the answer is yes.

I was only held in for recess twice, and both times were painful. The more tolerable of the two was in third grade when I couldn’t pass my 7’s multiplication test. The heartbreaking punishment happened in kindergarten after a misunderstanding during naptime.

At Portsmouth Catholic Elementary School we were allowed to play with our Quiet Boxes during naptime. A Quiet Box was a magical shoebox capsule, which held any quiet toy we wanted to play with – as long as we did it silently and in our personal space. This was PCES’s first mistake (The second being hiring a middle-aged, sour ex-nun for its principal). Let’s be real. Expecting five and six-year-olds to remain silent for 40 minutes while playing with toys is like asking Kanye West to stay in his seat at an awards show. It.Will.Never.Happen.

Being the Tom-boy that I was, my box was filled with Luke Skywalker action figures and matchbox cars. On that fateful day, one of my cars lost its wheel and I could not find where it rolled off to. I finally spotted it, lying lonely next to Chelsea Flemming. Everyone knows you cannot roll cars unless you have all the wheels, so I NATURALLY wanted it back. After a successful Morse Code session, Chelsea quietly rolled the wheel in my direction. Just as I was reaching for my missing piece, a mammoth-sized white tenni smashed it into the ground. That was that. I spent the next two hours bawling my eyes out next to the teacher’s bowl-cut assistant. And so I ask you, what’s wrong with wanting all the wheels?

As my kids die from heat exhaustion, I begin V.H.S. (Vocabulary,Handwriting,Spelling). In my class though, it’s pretty much V.S. Cursive is archaic, haven’t you people heard of computers! Admit it, you always hated those kids who ACTUALLY tried to be the best in handwriting class…unless you are that kid. Getting my kids to pronounce our new words is time consuming and very hilarious. If someone walked by our room they would think it was 30 Hispanic whales trying to communicate…

ssssssccccrruuuuuuubbbbbbeeeeeeedddddddd

After a few hearty laughs about how ridiculous we sound, I hit them with horrific news: Time for English. Not much to say about this class, we’ve all been there and probably hated it. Turns out, if you’re a non-native English speaker, you hate it more. I don’t blame them, last week I spent 30 minutes practicing how to indent a paragraph and a large majority of them still indent the second line of the paragraph…I am truly confused.

What I find myself even more confused about every day is math. I understand math about as much as Sarah Palin understands the respective geographic locations of Alaska and Russia. I was overexcited to find out I would be teaching fourth grade until I remembered I cried during a fourth-grade fraction test, and part of the reason I opted to become a communication major was the alluring six-credit maximum for math. I am coming around to those crazy numbers because the kids love it. It’s their easiest subject because there are no English words, just beautiful universal numbers.

Plus, if I don’t know the answer to a question, I pull the old “Class, can anyone help Raul?”

Works like a charm.

The third third is coming soon.