I was at an IEP meeting yesterday for one of our students. In discussing her educational needs with the dad, her teacher mentioned that sometimes this particular student is unaware that she is talking out loud. The teacher gave an example of a time when she had redirected this student by specifically referencing what the girl had said and the student looked at the teacher in awe.
"How do you know that?" she asked her teacher. "Can you read my mind?"
Today at my team meeting, I had a similar experience. This was our last meeting of the year, and I was glad that the counselor could join us. Still, every person there had a million things on their to-do list, and one of us had to be downstairs in the gym in five minutes to play in the student-teacher basketball game.
I did my best to expedite the meeting, but when it came time for the counselor to talk, she offered a great activity to any teacher who had some time in these next two days. "I can't come to every class," she said, "But I'll come to the first one and do my spiel, and then you can take it from there."
Conversation followed, and the word "spiel" (pronounced "shpeel") was repeated over and over again like proverbial fingernails on the chalkboard as the science teacher and the counselor negotiated the implementation of this (very worthy) activity.
"Please don't say "spiel" anymore!" a voice interrupted, and in the surprised silence that followed, I realized it was mine. I had actually said it out loud.
"Spiel," said the counselor, "spiel, spiel, spiel!"
"So," added the science teacher, "when you come tomorrow to give your spiel..." she looked at me, "I'll listen carefully, so I can give the same spiel."
"If you don't like my spiel," the counselor answered, "then feel free to come up with your own spiel."
They continued unmercifully, and by the end of the meeting, we were all laughing hysterically.
"How do you know that?" she asked her teacher. "Can you read my mind?"
Today at my team meeting, I had a similar experience. This was our last meeting of the year, and I was glad that the counselor could join us. Still, every person there had a million things on their to-do list, and one of us had to be downstairs in the gym in five minutes to play in the student-teacher basketball game.
I did my best to expedite the meeting, but when it came time for the counselor to talk, she offered a great activity to any teacher who had some time in these next two days. "I can't come to every class," she said, "But I'll come to the first one and do my spiel, and then you can take it from there."
Conversation followed, and the word "spiel" (pronounced "shpeel") was repeated over and over again like proverbial fingernails on the chalkboard as the science teacher and the counselor negotiated the implementation of this (very worthy) activity.
"Please don't say "spiel" anymore!" a voice interrupted, and in the surprised silence that followed, I realized it was mine. I had actually said it out loud.
"Spiel," said the counselor, "spiel, spiel, spiel!"
"So," added the science teacher, "when you come tomorrow to give your spiel..." she looked at me, "I'll listen carefully, so I can give the same spiel."
"If you don't like my spiel," the counselor answered, "then feel free to come up with your own spiel."
They continued unmercifully, and by the end of the meeting, we were all laughing hysterically.
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