Amy’s Thoughts

Thanksgiving greetings from the Underworld of Teaching.

Teaching is wonderful.  It truly is.  If I were going to write about the greatest profession on earth, I would right about teaching.  Yep.  Teaching’s great.

Of course, the pay is kind of crappy.  And the hours really suck.  And sometimes the end of the day (or week… or in some truly abnormal cases, year) can’t come soon enough.  But if you’re considering teaching as a career, please don’t let this discourage you.  Because I’m here to say… teaching’s great and the kids are awesome!

Now keep in mind that I teach first grade, so I can’t really speak for all those kids stuck in the deepest, darkest reaches of teenage hormonal hell, but here in first grade, well… it’s kind of like being stuck at the zoo, only it doesn’t matter whether you’re a zookeeper or an animal.  And if you are an animal, it doesn’t really matter whether you are prey or predator, mammal or reptile, because everyone’s housed together in one humongous cage.  And even the zookeepers CAN’T GET OUT!

But that makes it all sound like teaching’s a bad thing.  And it’s really not.  Here at the zoo, we have lots of fun.

Like that day last week, when we were exiting the church, and found at the bottom of the steps…. a coffin.  Yes, that’s right.  The “limo” dropped off a coffin on the sidewalk outside our church I suppose in preparation for a funeral later that morning (after all, it IS a real church).

Now I don’t really know how an ordinary child at a normal gathering might react to a coffin on the sidewalk.  After all, most children I’m around are not at “normal” gatherings.  Remember, they’re at the zoo, surrounded by every other species of animal known to man, and in such circumstances, they have the infinite capacity for wild behavior beyond anyone’s comprehension or imagination.  And a coffin is just the sort of trigger required for full-scale insanity.

Of course, I tried to stop, for I immediately foresaw all the terrible repercussions of walking past this coffin.  But there was a pile-up of other classes behind me.  There had been no warning.  No announcement from the altar, informing teachers that the front entrance was currently being blocked by the delivery of a corpse.  No suggestion that we use an alternate route (the side entrance perhaps?) to escape the church.

Thus I was trapped.  And the animals rioted.

“Ooooooooooooh,” cried one student, disgust in her voice.  “COOL!” exclaimed another, excitement in his.  And then my personal favorite.  “MS CULEY!” (in a very loud and echoing voice) “IS THERE A DEAD BODY IN THERE?”

I wanted to run.  I wanted to hide.  I wanted to pretend I was just another animal at the zoo.  But no.  I was the zookeeper, and thus responsible for the crazy things my kids were saying.

I raced us away as quickly as possible, admonishing my students to be sensitive (like they even know what that means — remember, they’re animals!) all the while sending apologetic looks to the pallbearers who quite kindly pretended they hadn’t heard my students’ most strident calls.

Of course, far ahead, the other first grade teacher (whose class always sat next to the side entrance, thus her fortuitous avoidance of my fate) was laughing at me.  How wrong is that?

In any case, it’s Thanksgiving time, and and even we zookeepers get to have a little break from the madness.  Of course, I have a portfolio to finish for K-State and my thesis for KU is still hanging over my head.  Not to mention that my classroom looks like a bunch of wild animals were caged in there for hours on end.  (Go figure.)  But I’m sure I will eventually get a few moments to myself to down a bit of tofurkey.

In the meantime, I need to go take care of that lollipop someone left in my chair.  That unwrapped, soggy, sticky lollipop clinging to the seat of my chair, daring me to peel it away.  I don’t remember reading about the remnants of lollipops in my teaching contract, but who knows?  It probably comes under the umbrella of zookeeper management.

And so, from my zoo to yours… Happy Thanksgiving.

To Whom It May Concern:

It has recently come to my attention that at some point over the last nine months I have lost my innate capacity to socialize as an intelligent, rational adult human being.  Instead, my interactions have deteriorated to such a degree that I no longer recognize the very scary woman I have become. 

To illustrate:  my brother and I went to a movie last weekend and at the end of it, he announced that he was heading for the restroom.  Thankfully there was enough background noise that he more or less missed my response, which was something along the lines of, “Very well, but go quickly please.” 

Excuse me, but when the hell did I become the bathroom police?!?  “Your bodily functions are now subject to Amy’s approval.  You have exactly one minute to finish your business and if you are not back within that time frame, she WILL come and haul your ass out of that bathroom stall post haste.  And by the way, do not think that she will not hear you howling like a loon or that she will not find out if you decide to overflow the bathroom sinks or fill the toilets with paper towels and soap.  You WILL be on your very best bathroom behavior or YOU WILL REGRET IT!!!”

Yes.  I have indeed lost all touch with reality. 

And really, that whole bathroom thing is just the tip of the iceberg.  I find myself saying the most god-awful things all the time, and while out in public no less.

For example, I’ll be out with some friends (with not a child in sight) when suddenly out of nowhere I will hear myself saying “Okay, it’s getting a little loud in here, let’s try to keep our voices down.  Remember:  be peaceful.”

Oh.  My.  God.

Someone shoot me now because I did NOT just say that.  Of course, I immediately try to play it off as a joke, but no one ever really laughs; instead they just look at me like I’m crazy, and frankly, who can blame them? 

Sometimes I think there should be a sign, one that says “Scary teacher lady on the loose.  Flee the area now.”  Instead there’s just me in my sad teacher outfits with an infinite number of pockets filled with crazy confiscated crap:  everything from matchbox cars and doll heads to “shiny jewels” that are really just bits of collected glass (the joys of having an urban parking lot serve as your school playground). 

Yes, every night I get home and it’s like my pockets held a party during the day.  They’re filled with candy wrappers and tiny bits of erasers, hair clips and shoelaces, rings and bouncy balls and stickers and tattoos and every other piece of crap you can possibly imagine that might fit inside a child’s pocket or shoe.  And then sometimes there are the more valuable items, like what appears to be mom’s diamond engagement ring, and the scarier unidentifiable items that make you think that maybe someone has a criminal or a spy living at home because no law-abiding citizen should ever have an item that looks like that. 

But then mixed in among all that worthless junk are the tiny bits of treasure:  the carefully plucked flowers given with a smile, the exquisitely written and illustrated letters (“I know you loved your kitty very much, Ms. Culey;” “you are a good teacher;” “I love you;” and “Can I come over and play at your house?”) and the crumbling cookies and cherished Hot Cheetos innocently shared.

Sure, maybe I’ve turned into some crazy bathroom monitoring dictator, and maybe my pockets ARE filled with crap these days, but at least I’m greeted with 23 smiles and an endless number of monster-sized hugs five days a week.  

Then again, I also get to deal with little boys sneaking behind the trash bins at recess to have pissing contests and little girls obsessing over my status as a mom (Do you have any babies, Ms. Culey?  When are you going to have a baby, Ms. Culey?  Are you going to have a baby, Ms. Culey?  How many babies do you have, Ms. Culey?  Why don’t you have any babies, Ms. Culey?  Aren’t you ever going to have a baby, Ms. Culey?)  I’ve even had little girls pat my admittedly not as flat as it should be stomach and ask when is my baby going to be ready.  GOOD GOD.  If I actually wanted children, I would be a basket case by now, obsessing over my baby-less state!

And to top it all off, for the first time ever, I was wished a “happy mother’s day” not once, not twice, but three times.  Of course, they don’t get it.  They’re young enough and come from fairly traditional families, so they assume I’m a mom and they say it with so much love (“Happy Mother’s Day, Ms. Culey!!!) that I can’t help but think that being a mom wouldn’t be so bad if I could be mom to all these wonderful, adorable, lovable children.  So maybe, a hundred years from now, in my next lifetime, I’ll adopt a dozen or two.

I’m sort of rambling… hmmm, that’s so unusual for me.  Can’t imagine what’s gotten into me.

I feel like I started this blog with a purpose, but now, well, it’s just … fluff.  So there you have it, my fluffy first grade life.  Isn’t it grand?

And speaking of first grade (which we certainly haven’t been doing before now), my darling first graders are wrapping up their year.  The last day of school is May 21st and we’re in an all-consuming rush to get everything done before then.  (Nine days of instruction, one school play, two school masses, one field day and a celebration cookout and then we’re home free for the summer!) 

Here’s hoping the kids and I make it (without losing too many more brain cells in the process) and that snickers bars and dr. pepper IVs remain in constant supply throughout these, our final school days…

Well, here I am, adjusting to life in the states again, experiencing a form of reverse culture shock (what’s up with those huge super-sized french fries and monster soda cups?)

I have received a number of emails from people wanting to know how Kitty is, how teaching is going, how the car hunt went, etc.  I thought I would post here to give everyone a quick update on my life and to apologize for not sending more personalized responses.  I promise to start replying to various emails soon.

For those of you who have not heard, I arrived home on Sunday, Aug. 10th and was met at the airport with the news that my grandmother had had a heart attack the day before and was in a coma.  She never woke up and in fact, passed away (the night before my first day of teaching) and her funeral was that Friday, my third day of school (which meant of course that I had to arrange for a substitute, and thus get my sub folder together at super-sonic speeds.)  For those of you who have taught in the past or are currently teaching, you can just imagine my general sense of panic at the time, which of course, made me feel even worse about my grandmother’s death — I was in essence raging at the world because of the atrocious timing!  Ultimately, the result was that my first two weeks back, in particular that first week of teaching, were extremely stressful and emotional for me.  Luckily for me, working for a Catholic school has its benefits — my principal was very supportive and insisted that I take that Friday to attend the funeral and to be with my family.

Of course, the fact that I missed the first Friday of school meant that I also missed the first all-school mass, which I have to say was simply a matter of delaying the task that I dreaded more than any other in the world — being responsible for 24 squirmy, wiggly, whiny, giggly first graders.  In church.  With my friend and classmate Michael (who also happens to be the priest of the church) watching from the pulpit as I grabbed a child by the nape of the neck and dragged him off that damn pillar.  With the other teachers in the building cringing in despair as my first graders dropped their kneelers to the floor with a loud, resounding bang, because I forgot to lower them before allowing them to enter the pews.  With one of my children bouncing forward and backward off the kneelers, despite our reviewing all the proper and appropriate behaviors for when we are in “God’s house.”  With another child hanging over the pew in front of him because “Miss Uley, I’m tired” (in a whiney voice, of course).  With a third child swinging his feet so that they connected with a massive thud against the pew in front of him.  With a fourth child trying to rip a fifth’s child’s ponytail from her head.  With a six child crawling on the floor for god knows what reason.  With a seventh, eight and ninth child sitting in dead silence, their eyes focused forward, their hands in their laps, their backs straight, their mouths closed, because someone in their life had obviously pounded into their heads the deadly consequences of misbehaving in church (they’ll go to hell, no doubt).  And I haven’t even reached the tenth child.  Let alone the 24th.

Suffice it to say, there is a reason so many religions invented such a thing as Sunday school.  Because their parents couldn’t take the pressure of dragging their children to church service week after week!

And that doesn’t even enter the realm of Amy, who is not Catholic and is not familiar with all the various rituals involved in this mass.  There were the hours spent in the privacy of my own home, practicing the sign of the cross, not to mention that whole genuflecting thing (I had to practice to be sure I wouldn’t fall flat on my face… it’s harder than it looks!)  There was the whole I’m moving my mouth trying to give the impression that I actually know the words to these songs, not to mention the rote responses (I have to get my hands on something called a missellette — okay I have no idea if that is how it’s spelled, but I went with the whole French spelling, since it sounds so very francais — I guess this little book spells out everything I will ever need to know about attending a Catholic mass and looking like a native.)

As for the actual teaching portion of the job, I believe I have the international poster child for ADD in my room, and I most certainly have several poster children for the ”we took naps all summer long and it doesn’t matter what you say, come 2:00 we’re going to be napping one way or the other” club.  I can’t begin to tell you how many times I’ve had to pull a child upright in their chair and be the mean teacher who makes them wake up from a sound sleep (which they arrived at in literally 2.9 seconds).

Ah, the joys of teaching.  The thing is the kids are great.  They’re fun and cute as anything and their level of bad just doesn’t even begin to reach the darkest levels of junior high bad.  So, I’m counting it all a plus, and hey, if I have to drag a couple kids down from pillars in church or wake up the nap brigade or even ring my bell 20,792 times in one day just to get their attention and maybe actually get a word in edgewise, well at least I’m not confiscating fart machines and sending kids to the office because they’re threatening physical violence and squaring off with kids who are a foot taller than me and a hundred pounds heavier and confiscating notes about doing the nasty (in truly vulgar terminology) re other 14-year olds.  Then again, junior high had its rewards too.  As a teacher anyway.

And that’s really all I have to say about the teaching right now.  I’m still getting into the swing of things and expect everything to continue along its merry, crazy path for quite some time before it begins to settle down.  But hey, as long as we’re having fun, who minds crazy?

As for Kitty, he’s doing okay.  I picked him up from the vet almost immediately after arriving in town.  I was given two prescriptions and a saline solution, all of which have to be administered twice a day.  If someone had told me, even three months ago, that I would be inserting a needle under Kitty’s skin every 12 hours, I would have told them they were fricking nuts, that I couldn’t possibly handle anything like that.  But the reality is we do what we have to when we care enough.  This treatment is really about maintenance as without it, he probably wouldn’t make it.  So, I will continue the treatment as long as he is able to enjoy life and is not in pain and hopefully my budget will continue to support that decision (given that the treatment costs around $200 a month).

I have had some minor difficulties in the process.  The first night I administered the saline solution, it took me 30 minutes to get up the courage to actually pierce his skin and by that time, he had almost finished eating and got quite irritated with me, resulting in him receiving less than the required amount that first time.  I also had technical difficulties with the line last night (I had just added a new bag to the line) and had to call my vet at her home (the emergency clinics were less than helpful — I actually called two before resorting to my vet).  Dr. Stuart was wonderful and walked me through all the various things I could do before we finally hit upon the solution.

Of course, by that time, Kitty had finished eating and was quite irritable with me when I followed through on the whole saline solution thing (I think he thought he might get out of it for once!)

In any case, Kitty and I are enjoying our time together, for however long it lasts, and of course, I haven’t yet given up hope and am still holding out for one more year.  We’re determined to beat Dr. Stuart’s “he may last a day, he may last a week, he may last a month” warning as we were leaving the clinic.  Though I know she doesn’t want to raise any false hopes, Kitty has surprised us before and may just do so again.

And lastly, my car hunt met with success.  I actually purchased my car the day after I got home and picked it up one day later. It’s a 2003 Honda Civic and basically has everything my other car did not.  Power windows.  CD player.  Working power locks.  Rearview mirror.  Working a/c unit.  Transmission.  Yes, indeed.  I’m living the good life.