What Could Possibly Go Wrong? Part IV

Years ago we used to organize a field trip to the skating rink just up the road from our school. In our minds, skating was just good, old-fashioned form of healthy recreation, and the facility was new, not many of our students had been skating back then, and so the novelty was a thrill and the trip was always a hit. 

The problem was that every time we went, some kid got injured: lacerated hand, sprained wrist, bump on the head: ultimately, it was the broken leg that put an end to our skating excursions. Even so, we briefly considered reviving that field trip when we were planning our end of the year activity, but the threat of injury waved us off.

So we ended up with a wholesome day at summer camp-- capture the flag, tent races, team building, arts and crafts, a bounce house obstacle course relay, hot dogs and s'mores. Super fun, but safe.

Until that kid dives down the slide in the bounce house and, yes, breaks his arm.

Recipe for Slime

And today?

The teacher-for-a-day lesson was slime, fluffy slime.

My niece is a slime expert, but I must confess to only being a slime observer from afar, until today. Everything was going great-- the *teachers* were organized, the students were engaged, until I decided that I wanted to get in on the fun, too.

My first mistake was my last mistake. When I dipped my fingers into the pale green concoction of glue, shaving cream, food coloring, and detergent, instead of coming together into a smooth, squishy ball, mine glommed onto my fingers like sticky dough. Had I been cooking, I would have added a little flour until I achieved the right consistency, but in this case, adding a little more laundry detergent only made matters worse.

Of course it was at that exact point in the lesson that several other students had the same problem as I did, but with my fingers covered in failed slime, I could not offer assistance or redirection. In a matter of moments there was slime on the tables, chairs, carpet, and walls. A quarter of the class dashed to the bathrooms to wash their hands, and I did, too.

In the end? It was nothing that twenty Lysol wipes and five greased elbows couldn't handle. A few kids left with a satisfying baggie of slime, but the trashcan was full of goop.

Lesson learned.

When the Volcano Blows

Never mind the cupcakes, perhaps I should have hesitated when it came to the lava lamp lesson-- but what could possibly go wrong with baby oil and food coloring in a class of 21 sixth graders during the last week of school? To be honest, the teacher-for-a-day and I had it pretty well organized and mess-free until that final student inexplicably squeezed her bottle with all her might. The lid flew off in an eruption of red water and baby oil which drenched her, the girl doing the lesson, and the the carpet, as well as liberally spattering my desk, including my phone, iPad, and computer.

I confess to being livid, and I may have even raised my voice in frustration. (Although I might not have been quite so aggravated had she either apologized or offered to help clean up.) A spare t-shirt, a container of Lysol wipes, and a roll of paper towels later, things were looking a little less greasy, but I was still sliding over the slick spots on the rug.

And then there was the one thing that was damaged beyond recovery-- my end-of-the-year checkout form!

What's Your Objective?

When it comes to Teacher-for-a-Day, our final activity of the year where the students plan and implement a lesson for their peers, I'm usually quite liberal about approving the students' activity proposals; ownership is the foundation of the project.

Today was an exception. I just could not say yes to a lesson about healthy eating that involved decorating cupcakes.

"We're going to have them calculate the calories after they decorate them," the student told me earnestly.

"Why?" I asked, bewildered.

"So they know how bad they are while they are eating them," she informed me.

In the end? It was a lesson on decorating techniques; no nutritional awareness involved.

Hearin' There

Overheard around town today:

"Where did you get all this stuff??"
-Goodwill attendant to Heidi as we dropped off the first batch of attic purge.

"That's a gun, right, Mama? Guns aren't allowed!"
-three-year-old shopper looking wistfully at a Nerf tennis ball launcher at the pet store.

"Self Checkout is open with no waiting!"
-Target employee pointing to the line of customers at the self checkout

"My name is Jack, and I'm a dog lover."
-boy on elementary school playground greeting Heidi and Lucy

"I don't even know what you eat on those. The tail?"
-my neighbor on the phone on her balcony as I potted plants on the front stoop.

Eight is Great

"It feels like summer!" Heidi said as we walked down to the movies this warm and sunny afternoon, and I nodded in agreement.

Once at the theater we found our seats and settled in with some popcorn. After a full 25 minutes of (very enjoyable!) trailers, the feature started. Oceans Eight was as smooth as a pebble from the beach in Maine. Loaded with solid girl power, it was still light and fun, with some gentle curves, and nothing to complain about.

I felt relaxed and entertained when I stepped back out into the June afternoon. "It feels like summer!" I said, and Heidi nodded in agreement.

Betwixt and Between

My senior project student finished her internship today. Six years on, I think she saw her former classroom through new eyes, although I'm pretty sure she still identifies more with the students than with me. Having a more sympathetic person in the room was a plus for me, too, though, especially as we made the push to finish the last big writing project of the year.

For example, when a very capable student literally whined that she really had no idea why I would think that He Shoots for the Stars was kind of a cliche as the headline for a piece on soccer, I referred her to Madeline. "I think Ms. S might be right about that," I heard Madeline tell the student kindly. "It is a bit cheesy." And so they worked it out together.

At the end of the day, when I was showing another teacher the list of students in the last class who had successfully revised and polished their writing to a published draft, Madeline looked over my shoulder and gasped. "That's all that actually finished?" she said, counting the names. "Six?? Out of how many?"

"Twenty-four," I told her.

"But isn't it due today?" she asked.

"Yep," I answered. "Oh, everyone has something written," I explained, "but not everyone completely finished."

She looked aghast.

"You were always one of the six," I laughed gently, "but if you're going to be a teacher, you have to be prepared for the other 18."