On the Right Foot

I'm not sure what I expected when I planned to tell students today about my retirement, and I wasn't quite sure exactly how to approach the topic at all, even up until the first bell rang and kids came into my room.

"Today's my last day!" announced one of the seventh-grade boys who has made my room a home base this year. He and his buddies stop by almost every morning before homeroom to chat, mess around with the fidgets, and catch up with me and each other before heading off for their day. The same group returns for a few minutes at the end of the day, too, before catching a bus, going to sports practice, or attending another activity. There's usually a quick game of something and a Jolly Rancher in it for them, and it's become a fun tradition this year.

Sixth graders are enchanted by the whole situation, and some of them have started joining us, too, creating a mini-carnival atmosphere in my classroom at the start and end of each day. They love it, and to be honest, having the kids' affection only makes class management easier. Happy kids make happy teachers.

So this morning, when the first student in the room said it was his last day, I paused, preparing what to say. He plunged ahead with the conversation before me, though. "Yep!" he said, "you won't see me for eight weeks!"

"Well, actually," I replied, clearing my throat, "I won't see you then, either. I'm retiring."

He never missed a beat. "I'm happy for you!" he said. "You deserve it after all the years you've been here!"

His reaction was definitely not what I expected, but like every morning, it set the tone for the day, which turned out to be pretty good.

We're Moving On

Our school gave all the sixth graders and staff t-shirts for our end-of-the-year celebration. They are a nice, buttery yellow, emblazoned with the IB MYP Logo on the front and "6th Grade Best of the Best" on the back. Even so, there was a level of unappreciation among the students along the lines of probably never wear this again-- we're only going to be in sixth grade for a few more days.

I get it. There is no stopping time, although sometimes it feels that there might be. When colleagues compliment me on my understanding of the sixth-grade mind and personality, I shrug. "Well, I have been in sixth grade for over thirty years," I might demure. It took me a while to realize that my perception of the passage of time is skewed by the fact that the kids never really get older; we just switch them out for another group of 11- and 12-year-olds, and so sometimes it feels like we don't get any older either.

Essentially, I've had 31 do-overs of sixth grade, starting with my first time through when I was that age. I've had 31 tries to figure out what makes kids that age laugh, what makes them happy, what is hard, and how to help. I'd be a pretty poor student myself if I wasn't good at what I do.

But today, like the kids, I looked skeptically at my own t-shirt, because I'm only going to be in sixth grade a few more days, too.

True, That

We were on our way out to run an errand this afternoon when we bumped into a neighbor. "This is the last Sunday afternoon errand of the school year," she reminded us. "After next week you can do your errands any day you want, all summer long."

We laughed in agreement, but then she cocked her head and raised her eyebrows. "Or any day you want, forever, Retiree," she said to me.

Fidget Emergency

Heidi and I were talking about my impressive collection of fidgets and what might happen to them upon my retirement. "I'll definitely take them," she said.

"I know I use them more as toys than fidgets," I told her, thinking of the yo-yos, speed cubes, flip sticks, pop tubes, whizzzzers, and assorted balls both squishy and bouncy that reside on the corner of my desk, "and the kids are really just allowed to use them during breaks."

"That's true," she agreed.

"But they do love them," I added. "And sometimes they try to sneak them to their seats at work time. And sometimes they literally beg me to use them while they are working." I laughed. "Can I pleeeeeeaaaaaaase just have this Rubik's cube with me while I write?" I imitated a desperate sixth grader.

"What do you do?" she asked.

"It's a lot like the bathroom situation," I shrugged. "I can tell by their faces if it would actually help and if it will,  then I let 'em."

Under Pressure

I wasn't surprised this morning at 5:30 when I flushed the toilet and it didn't fill; we have been having a bit of trouble with a sticky float cup, although I thought I had finally fixed it. I sighed, lifted the heavy porcelain lid from the tank, reached in, and jiggled the assembly. That usually does the trick, but today the toilet remained silent, no matter how vigorously I pumped the float cup. It finally occurred to me that perhaps it wasn't a mechanical issue at all, and I reached over and twisted the cold water handle on the sink.

"We don't have any water," I reported to Heidi who texted the neighbors immediately. One by one they reported in, and we realized the problem was pretty widespread. A little while later, someone sent a social media post from an adjoining HOA informing us of a water main break just a few blocks away.

Downstairs in the kitchen, I started my morning routine. The kettle had been filled the night before, so I made coffee and emptied the dishwasher which had completed its cycle before the outage. I wet a paper towel with a little of the filtered water we had in a pitcher in the fridge and used it to wipe my fingertips as necessary while I packed lunches and prepared breakfast. 

I relaxed when I realized that except for my morning shower, our preschool procedures could be conducted as usual. It was then I received the community alert that the road to school was closed because of the repairs. "How can schools be open?" Heidi wondered as we realized the scope of the impact. But there was no word from central office so we headed off on a detour route to work.

Once we arrived we did find water flowing, but even so, the news of delays for other schools arrived quickly. In fact the start time for the building that is no more than 50 feet from ours was pushed 2 hours. How is it possible for your school to stay open when the elementary school is closed for a water main break? a friend texted from home because her high school right down the road was also closed.

But it wasn't possible for long. First, the county issued a boil water order and the administration closed all the water fountains and bathrooms assuring us they could make that situation work. But a few minutes later we received official word that we were closing in an hour. 

It wasn't pretty, and when at last the students were all on their way, it was clear that our organization could use some organization.

For One More Week

As we wrap up the final unit of the school year, where students interview each other, choose an angle, and write a journalistic profile, some kids have got it, and others are really struggling. It doesn't help that the end of the year is close and somebody somewhere in our school has given them the impression that they no longer have to work. 

I learned long ago that the closer we can stick to routine up until the end the better it supports students in managing their behavior, and that's the way it is in my class. Today one of the kids who hasn't written much sat next to me trying to put together some ideas. Her assignment was me, and I asked her for the tenth time to choose a focus. 

"I want to do teaching," she said.

"Well, ask me some questions about teaching," I prompted.

"Do you like teaching English?" she started.

I paused, suddenly overwhelmed. "I do," I answered.

"What do you like about it?" she asked.

"I love spending time with kids," I said, "and I like reading and writing." I shrugged.

"So, is this the perfect job for you?" she continued, typing my words on her iPad.

I hesitated again; for the first time in 31 years, I was unsure of how to answer. I decided to keep things simple.

"Yes," I told her, "it really is."

This Time

The radio in the car squealed with a familiar emergency broadcast tone and a mechanical voice recited the National Weather Service message that there was a tornado warning in our region. The sky above me looked innocuous enough, there were even patches of blue in between the gray clouds, the storm was rushing in another direction, and I soon understood that the threat was not imminent for me, but the urgency resonated even so. 

It might have been otherwise. 

Somewhere, nearby, the wind was picking up and the sky was darkening. People were weighing whether they should evacuate their homes, retreat to their cellars, abandon their cars, or otherwise find shelter. I wished them all the luck in the world. It could have been us, but it wasn't.