Too Old For Late Nights

Last weekend, I didn't write a new blog post. I barely made it this weekend. I think it has something to do with my age. The older I get, the less capable I am of managing busy weekends.

Let me just start by saying I had the best weekend even though it prevented me from updating my blog. Here are some of the things that went down last week. (You will probably notice that my "best weekend" consists of pretty simple pleasures.)

Friday, September 21: 
6:00 p.m. - I danced all night with some of my best friends at a wedding. (By "all night," I mean that I was in bed by 12:30 a.m.) These best friends of mine were also theater friends, so you can imagine how uninhibited that dance floor was.

Saturday, September 22: 
7:45 a.m. - I met my school team for the Women's Fitness Celebration 5K. I had a blast running with my students. Yes, I am one of those crazy teachers who would choose (and sometimes prefer) to spend the weekend with my kiddos. However, I came home and crashed for a couple of hours because, apparently, I can no longer stay out all night (until 12:30) and get up early the next morning without feeling very tired.

8:00 p.m. - Dan and I saw Les Misérables at the Morrison Center. It was fabulous, but it meant another late night. (Again, late night translates to 12:30 a.m.)

Sunday, September 23: 
10:00 a.m. - Woke up - I don't usually sleep in past 7:00. Incidentally, I skipped church because, even though I woke up, I didn't really wake up until Monday afternoon . . . when the school bell rang at 3:15.

Some of the festivities at the end of the race on Saturday. I'm not allowed to post the cute pictures I took of my students without parent permission.

In conclusion:
In college, consecutive late nights used to be nothing. Now I know why I have no social life. Last weekend, I discovered that I am too old for late night social occasions, but it was still one of the best weekends I have had in a while. Next week, my brother and his wife are coming to visit, and I am expecting to have yet another fun-filled, busy weekend. We'll just see if I can keep up with them. 

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How I Really Survive My School Year

A couple of weeks ago, I wrote quite a witty post, if I do say so myself, on How I Survived the First Week of School. Of course, as witty as it was, I left out the real way I survive my school year. And really, it's less about survival and more about why I chose my career. (It sure isn't the mad-crazy-huge paycheck I get every month.)

Here are a few anecdotes that remind me why I love what I do. These happened over the last couple of days. Just think how many of these cute little stories I accrue by the end of the school year.

What's in a name: 
One little girl told me she was named after a wildflower "because sometimes I'm kind of wild."

Animal lessons: 
My student teacher called on a kindergartner who told him, "Do you know that lizards are hard to catch with your big hands?"

"Yes," my student teacher responded as though it was the most normal question in the world.

The observations of children:
One teacher told me that she was standing in front of her classroom projector the other day. The image that was being projected onto the screen, and incidentally onto her face, was green.

One child called out, "You have lettuce on your face!"

Pointing the finger:
A second grade class had to return to the risers the other day when they couldn't handle one of the activities.
One student said, "Everyone causing trouble . . . except me!" 

Teacher titles:
When I tell them my name is Mrs. Duggan, what I am actually called is like a lesson on Theme and Variations. 

• Mrs. Doostan
• Mrs. Doogie
• Mrs. Doodans
• Mrs. D
• Music Teacher
• Music Guy (This is what the kindergartners call my student teacher. I am Music Teacher. He is Music Guy.)
• Mrs. New Teacher (This is what the first graders called a teacher who filled in for our PE teacher at the last minute on Thursday.)

Where did you get that idea?
Maybe we teachers make it look too fun, and kids get the wrong idea about our profession. One of my sixth graders told me that he has already decided to be a teacher when he grows up. But his reasons weren't quite as altruistic as I hoped.

"Great pay and summers off," he said.

Boy, is he in for a rude awakening. Neither of those things are true. Neither of those things make the profession worth it.

Here is why I do it . . .
One of my students, an immigrant from Africa, wanted to join choir so badly this year. Unfortunately, his parents have no way of getting him to school by 8:00 a.m. His father leaves in the family car at 5:00 every morning, and the little boy has no way of getting to school other than by bus. (The bus doesn't usually get the kids to school until right before the bell.) As my student told me all of this, his eyes welled with tears. I wracked my brain as to how I could get him to school in time for choir. Deciding that driving to the opposite side of town and picking him up myself at 7:00 a.m. was probably not the best option, I told him to jump off the bus and run to my room as soon as he got to school the next morning, even if he was a little late for choir. On Thursday, he showed up to choir twenty-five minutes late, but we still had twenty minutes of singing left.

His ear-to-ear grin is what really makes my profession worth it.

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I Don't Speak Teenager Anymore

So there I was, sitting at a coffee shop, perusing the Internet and Facebook for humor blog material. I found that after two weeks back to school, I needed a little help in the funny department.

I quickly discovered current event humor was few and far between, mostly crazy political conventions and crazy education superintendents (Idahoans, you know what I'm talking about). And Kristen Stewart hasn't cheated on anyone since July. Of course, Clint Eastwood did a bit with an empty chair this week - funny in a senile way, but old news by now. And I've been meaning to blog on Chick-Fil-A for - like - two months, but that's kind of old news too. (Just a hint - not a fan of the franchise. Shakin' my fist, shakin' my fist.)

All of a sudden, I heard it reverberate from the table next to mine. I'm still not sure what it was, but it sounded a lot like, "Acck yack pedakt reafent ubbege?"

And the response was, "Acck yack fegakt pearickle cudgegge."

I surreptitiously turned my head to check out the source of this bizarre but seemingly human chatter, half expecting to see a Klingon seated behind me. I started to Google "Klingon Translator," but I soon ascertained that this strange talk was actually a language as foreign to me as any of the alien dialects on sci-fi movies - Teenager.

I don't know when I lost my ability to understand Teenager. It must be a gradual process. One day you wake up, and all of a sudden, Teenager sounds like, "Acck yack fegakt pearickle cudgegge."

I spent all summer working with teenagers, and many of my former students are now teenagers (and Facebook friends). When these teens speak directly to me, I can still understand them. In other words, our youth must be the more evolved segment of the human population - able to communicate fluently in both Adult and Teenager.

I completely missed the MTV Video Awards this year, although I am confused as to where people see music videos anymore. Must be that newfangled "YouTube" thingy or something. Just another clue I am no longer part of the youth demographic.

At some point, these teens at the table next to mine took a break from their native tongue and said something I could understand.

"I just don't know what he wants on that assignment!" one of them said. She had sparkly eyelids.

"I know, and I asked him when I needed it memorized, and he said, 'Yesterday,'" her friend said. She wore a ponytail on top of her head. They were wearing matching red shirts. "That doesn't tell me anything."

I smiled at the adult humor that was causing these teenagers such affliction.

I almost leaned over and said, "That's pure awesomeness."

But I didn't. Here is a little advice to my adult friends. Don't try to talk Teenager. You might think you still know the language. Trust me - you don't.

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How I Survived the First Week of School

 Here is how I survived the first week of school: 

• I avoided coverage of the Republican National Convention (too crazy and a little depressing) . . . unless it was on The Daily Show or The Colbert Report.
• I ate leftovers all week. As an equal-opportunity-loving feminist, I would have been happy to let Dan cook for us. And Dan, also an equal-opportunity-loving feminist, would have been happy to do so. But we would have ended up eating cheese quesadillas every night.
• I repeated this mantra: "Labor Day is just around the corner."
• Caffeine! And only because Valium is a controlled substance.
• Chocolate! And only because Valium is a controlled substance.
• Zumba! A little healthier than Valium.
• I laughed with my colleagues. We have plenty of material at an elementary school.
• I focused on anecdotes like this: A little student of mine, who looks just like my brother did at age six, called a picture of a trumpet a "trump-bone." Adorable!

At the end of the first week of school, Dan and I were both comatose by 9:00, even though I had been the one herding six hundred kids all week.

"When can we retire?" he asked. He was having sympathy fatigue, I guess.

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