And She Rambles, And She Rambles Some More With No Definite Conclusion

In my long-ago journalism classes they taught us that good writing involves saying what you're going to say, saying it, and then restating what you just said. Today's blog will not involve good journalism.

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In a gift so great it could easily be confused with a multimillion dollar Wall Street bonus, my district has been blessed with a bona fide snow day on the DAY BEFORE SPRING BREAK!! Normally I would respond to this by saying, "w00t!" but my mole in the teenage world says that that is no longer cool. So instead I say: "w00talicious.!"

This snow day is a good thing because I had planned not even a minute of therapy today, so the little children were going to be treated to a view of Miss Wicked sitting on a stool in the front of their classroom, eating from a big bag of Doritos and giving them the stinkeye. Procrastination--it can work for you!

That doesn't mean I don't have stories, of course. I've been trying to mentally save them up for you for the last week or so, but you know how that goes--I'm lucky to remember I have a job, much less the details. This doesn't stop me from sharing, though! I'll put your heart at ease right this minute and tell you that not one of these stories involves diarrhea. w00t!

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Sometimes the tables get turned and children teach the adults something, and usually that thing is: "You're an idiot." I've been working with a class of 3rd graders on writing narratives, not only because my student in there desperately needs someone to sit on him and say, "No, you may NOT have flying monkeys and endless potato burgers in your story. THEY DO NOT MAKE SENSE" (killing the spirit of a child is just one of the many benefits of working in the public school system!), but also in anticipation of the Evil Advent of Testing, which involves a narrative-writing segment. So I gave them what we call a story starter to get the ol' writing juices flowing. As I was planning this Very Important Therapy in the 30 seconds before I walked into their class, I decided that there's nothing better than a good, old-fashioned UFO story. So I worked up a beginning to the story, then decided to work on some descriptive aspects cause, you know, kids should know how to do that stuff. I drew a picture of a UFO on the board (yes, I do know what they look like, and no, I can't tell you why) and had them come up with descriptive vocabulary. Oh, I got the usual: silver, circle, bright lights, aliens, blah, blah, blah. I decided they needed a bigger word, a better word, a word that really captured the essence of the flying object. So I taught them the word oblong. Hey, it's a shape. They're 8 years old--it's time they learned a little more than circle, square, triangle and star. Oblong. We reviewed it and moved on, with them writing their wonderful little stories.

So it came time for them to read their epic creations. The teacher and I sat back, ready to reap the rewards of our hard work and take full credit for all their work. And this is what happened: to a child, they said things such as:

"Then the oblong flew over the school."

"The oblong landed and the aliens got out."

"After the kids saw the oblong, they screamed and ran inside."

"The aliens took the principal on the oblong and it flew away."

We looked at each other and, in unison, sighed.

(For tales of a REAL! OBLONG! SIGHTING!, go to http://www.ufocasebook.com/roaringriver.html)

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As previously touched upon, the Season of Testing is upon us. It's no longer about just spelling tests and math pop quizzes, gang, now kids get the screws put to their thumbs for two weeks every March whether they like it or not. Thanks to that fabulous law, No Child Left Untested...um, I mean Left Behind, mammoth amounts of data are collected as some part of an effort to get every child in the nation up to grade level in their academics. Had a brain injury and no longer recognize the alphabet? Too bad, bucko, we'll expect grade level reading skillz next month. Maybe your brain didn't develop fully in utero? Ya big sissy, better start studying those algebra equations because they're going to be on this year's test. Your parents work two jobs to keep you from living in a van by the river, so they don't have time to do homework with you? That's a shame, because there's a whole lot of general knowledge that you're going to need to know to pass that test. How you gonna get that, mm? Kids are uber-aware of the importance of the assessment and stress over their performance. Eight-year-old kids. Stressing. Over a test. Hmph.

Well. That wasn't at all the story I intended to tell., so I'll just step off my soapbox now and regroup and tell you the more important aspect here, which is all about me and a radio. Because the students' environment must be carefully controlled, no child is allowed to leave the classroom during testing unless they have an adult escort. Lord knows they might have a cheat sheet tucked into the third stall of the bathroom, and we don't want them having access to THAT. That could really set the curve. This means there has to be hall proctors who can take kids hither and yon as needed. I was asked to be a backup escort, which was fine, and then given my very own walkie-talkie so that I could be accessed wherever I was. So I took my little radio into the preschool classroom, where I see the children and we run around and have lots of fun. Oh, and we were just having the best time--it was the 3- & 4-year old class, who require lots and lots and lots of support just to stay in their chairs or not blurt out answers or pick each other's noses, and that involves some very loud voices and the occasional shunning.

(Is it just me, or is this story getting longer and longer? With all this buildup, it's sure to have a disappointing ending. )

All righty, so there I am with the preschoolers, when someone from the front office comes in with a very determined look on her face. And she is eyeballing me. She clickety-clacks over to circle time, where I am leading the children in a brilliant, but loud, activity, puts her hand out, and says, "Give me the radio." She did not look amused. Well, turns out I was inadvertently hitting and holding the "send" button on the walkie-talkie, entertaining the front office with all the joy and volume that is preschool. I guess at some point they got weary of the yelling and constant redirecting and general chaos and so my principal instructed someone to come and take away my radio. Pah. Talk about being shunned. How humiliating.

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Well, enough already. I'll end with this: remember Ozzie?? He moved away last year, but now he's baaaaack, making us happy with his own self. And that is the end of my stories, where I conclude absolutely nothing. Good day!