Amy’s Thoughts

26 June 2007

8:15 p.m. 

Hola!                         

Well, my time in Villa Maria has officially come to an end.  The first two and a half weeks of my stay in Argentina (minus four days in the hills of Córdoba) have been spent here in the small city of Villa Maria, which is located in the province of Córdoba.  Argentina has 23 provinces and Córdoba lies at the center of the country, much I have been told as Kansas lies at the center of our country.  In any case, this missive covers the past week and a half, which began with a short road trip.

This trip, which later became known as the trip from hell, began promisingly enough.  We all boarded a bus at 8 a.m. to travel to the city of Córdoba, about a three hour bus ride (not too long when compared to our previous 12-hour bus ride from Buenos Aires).  We went on a tour of the city, visited a shopping mall (why on earth when visiting a city in a foreign country these people would choose to visit a shopping mall, I have no idea, but that’s where we ended up for lunch and to do some shopping…  I couldn’t even find a bookstore in this so-called mall, so I generally considered that trip to be a complete waste.)

Eventually we left the mall and found a bookstore, where I promptly bought a trashy romance novel in Spanish (hey, you never know when the words “sexy” and “biceps” might come in handy), and a child’s novel I recognized (Artemis Fowl).  Trust me, if you had to settle for reading books in a foreign language, you wouldn’t buy Lord of the Rings either. 

After the bookstore, we headed for an artisan fair, where I promptly bought items that I have no idea how on earth I will be getting them home.  Really they were so far outside the realm of realistic, I don’t know what I was thinking.  (No, I did not buy a dining room table.)  However, they might as well have been tables and chairs for the amount of difficulty I’ll be having in transporting them.  Thank god I packed a suitcase inside a suitcase.  Basically, I bought artwork for my house and it’s awesome but too big to be believed and too heavy for shipping and WHAT WAS I THINKING?  Why can’t we have amazingly cool artists willing to sell their gorgeous artwork for a song in the United States, where I could just load my car and drive home? 

Anyway, that pretty much sums up the extent of the trip that was reasonable or enjoyable.  We returned to our hotel room, by which point I was not feeling so great and I promptly went to bed.  When I woke up the next morning, I had no voice.  And we had to travel.  And so I packed, loaded the FREEZING COLD bus and we hit the road.

We went to an Estancia (a Jesuit plantation) where we saw very cool things and beautiful scenery that I could not appreciate because I was too busy freezing my buttooockus off and hacking up a lung.  Eventually we got back into the freezing cold bus and headed to Ascochinga where we checked into the hotel from HELL.

The original plan was to visit a second estancia, go to dinner and check into the hotel later that night, but because I was obviously miserable, we went to the hotel first and everyone unloaded their luggage, took a restroom break then left me at the hotel while they headed off to visit some other estancia.

I feel it necessary to insert in here that I use the term “hotel” loosely.

Perhaps if I had been feeling better, I might rhapsodize here about the beautiful scenery surrounding the gorgeous cabin in the woods, the rustic feel to the cabin, the wonderfully authentic feel of it all.  Unfortunately, I was so sick, I was unable to appreciate these aspects of our stay.  Instead, I could only focus on the following:

1. The temperature outside the cabin was approximately 2 degrees.  The temperature inside the cabin was approximately 20 below zero.  The management had failed to turn on the heat before we arrived and so the cabin was ice cold upon arrival.  After 24 hours of solid heating (and again, I use this vocabulary term loosely), the temperature in the cabin had not risen at all.  I would simply like it noted that central heating should in no way refer to scary-looking radiators that put off enough heat to burn you if you got too close but not enough heat to raise the temperature of the room more than 2.9 degrees.
2. The first time I attempted to use the toilet was a disaster.  First, finding the handle to flush a toilet in Latin America can often be an adventure.  Handles as we know them do not exist in Argentina.  Instead, there are usually buttons (very well-hidden) or occasionally a cord hanging above one’s head.  It took me a while to find the cord, but find it I did.  Sadly, when I pulled it, the damn thing broke apart in my hand.  This necessitated standing upon the bedet to reach above my head to re-attach the damn thing.  After many excruciating moments of reaching above my head trying to tie the two pieces of the cord back together again so that I could flush the damn toilet, I finally met with success.  The stupid thing was back together.  Sadly, the damn toilet would not flush, so I had to climb back up on the bedet and manually flush the stupid thing, which was practically impossible to do without pitching headfirst into the toilet.  I promptly decided the next time I needed to use the toilet I would use one from someone else’s room.  Sadly, upon exploration later in the day, I discovered everyone had locked their doors.  The closest restroom necessitated a hike. 
3. The first time I took a shower, the water sprayed me in the face with the sting of a thousand ice blades.  There were only two settings in the shower:  scalding hot and freezing cold.  I chose scalding hot because I froze the rest of the time.
4. It was freezing.
5. The damn toilet didn’t work.
6. I had a headache and I couldn’t breathe, I was hacking up two lungs, and it was FREEZING.
7. The damn toilet didn’t work.

This was pretty much my life for the next two days, as everyone else went off to climb mountains of mammoth proportions, leaving me behind to fight the toilet and shiver under a mountain of covers (I raided other people’s beds while they were out mountain climbing so that when they came home, they usually found a sheet and that was all).

Eventually after a day of misery, Samuel (the leader of our humble group) brought me some antibiotics he purchased over-the-counter (it’s a different world down here) and I spent the next seven days downing pills the size of a horse. 

My fellow teachers trooped in on the second night covered in mud and fairly exhausted.  They told tales of scaling mountains the size of Everest and falling down giant slopes into muddy water.  They scoffed at Sammy’s leadership abilities, rolling their eyes at the stories of him “leading” them to a point of no return where they had to continue forward even when this would leave them wet and exhausted and ready to mutiny.

I suppose I should give my thanks for the convenience of an illness, but I endured my own form of hell, huddled under my covers, watching my breath swirl around the trashy romance novel I tried to read between each nerve-wracking shiver.  And I was assured by all the weary travelers trooping into our rooms that night that “dear god, it was a lot warmer outside than in this icebox!”

By our final night in this Argentine igloo, the majority of our group had dragged their “mattresses” (or what we might commonly refer to as giant flimsy pillows) into the hallway, where they huddled around various radiators, desperately seeking warmth.

Finally, it was time to move on, so, hacking and coughing, I packed up my things, dragged my weary body to the bus, and huddled under my blankets as we ventured down the road to the next town.  We visited another estancia (their third, my second, and I must admit, having already seen one, I sighed at the thought of enduring another).  However, despite not feeling well, I have to admit the scenery was quite beautiful.

We then went to Che Guevara’s childhood home.  It was very interesting learning of his early life.  I had to wonder how a child who grew up so privileged managed to develop such a strong sense of injustice.  It’s interesting because in some ways, though his methods for protesting injustice were vastly different from those of Martin Luther King, Che is as great a hero for many Latin American citizens as Martin Luther King is for North American ones.

Eventually we arrived back in Villa Maria, where we settled back in with our host families and continued our rounds to elementary and secondary schools.  We had a chance to observe the Argentine flag ceremony at various schools on June 20 and participate in a few folkloric dancing lessons (I don’t think these people understand that I have no rhythm). 

I had a chance to observe in several elementary school classrooms on Friday, both by myself and with another teacher named Tom.  Tom’s wife is pregnant and due in August, AND was accepted to participate in this program but chose not to come due to the pregnancy, so I’m thinking he was very brave to come on this program (I know if I were married and my husband abandoned me, he’d probably never survive the trip home, which would probably be one of the many reasons I never plan to marry!)  In any case, we had a lot of fun with the students, quizzing them in English and giving them prizes if they could answer appropriately (prizes were from Kansas – like a bookmark, pencil, that sort of thing).

The most bizarre thing I’ve seen in a school so far though has to be the video shown as part of a sixth grade presentation.  It involved very loud and ominous music, incomprehensible words (even if they had been in English, they still would have been incomprehensible), fleeting war-like images, etc.  They took us through the history of the man who created the Argentine flag (his name escapes me at the moment) and his very important role in history, but in such a bizarre, disturbing fashion I’m surprised the children didn’t all have nightmares.  If I showed something like that to my students, I’d undoubtedly get fired (though this was presented by sixth graders, all primary students attended the presentation, so yes, there were 1^st and 2^nd graders there).

Our last Sunday in Villa Maria, we had a dinner / talent show for the families.  By talent show, I really mean a non-talent show.  My contribution was to put together a slide show of a collection of our photographs to share with the families.  I even inserted background music (all appropriate Spanish songs) and everything.  It was lovely, except for the whole non-working sound system which meant the Spanish songs I slaved over were barely audible.  Then, and don’t ask me how this happened, I got roped into singing Yankee Doodle Dandy (like I even know the words) and Home on the Range. 

THEN, as if things weren’t already bad enough, we danced the Cha Cha Slide and the Chicken Dance, all to practically non-existent music, at which point, we decided we’d shown enough non-talent, and ended with a giant bonfire and S’Mores, which were a big hit (thank god, we needed something to redeem us from tripping over each other while doing the reverse during the cha-cha slide).  Overall, it went well, and hopefully those video tapes of me singing and dancing will meet some unfortunate yet tragic end.

We ended our school visits in Villa Maria at Escuela Granja, a school that specializes in teaching boys who have been working in the streets of Villa Maria.  Each of us brought activities to do with these boys and we had a wonderful time, drawing, painting, sewing, playing dodgeball and cooking S’Mores.  The kids LOVED the activities, and the S’Mores were a big hit, once again, with both staff and students.  Note to self:  when traveling to a foreign country, ingredients for S’Mores are a must-have.  With these in hand, I am guaranteed to be loved and remembered for all the days of my long and graceless life.

One of the things I noticed the most in traveling from school to school is that it really didn’t matter whether we were in a private school, public school or some combination of the two, heating was non-existent.  Students and teachers alike were bundled in layers, completing their work and teaching while draped in scarves, hats, gloves and heavy outerwear.  At some of the poorer schools, like La Granja and a school that served the children of migrant workers from Bolivia, children also came to school dressed in the same outfits day after day, and were often covered in dirt and sweat.  Many children worked at home or in the fields or at some other place of employment before arriving at school.  A number of boys were seen washing windows and completing other odd jobs around town, while still more were reported to work at a brickyard completing masonry work.  These boys ranged in age from 9 to 15.  Every last one of them broke my heart and filled me with a bittersweet hope for their future.  With so much going on in their lives, the fact that these children still make it to school on a fairly regular basis is an amazing accomplishment, and is a tribute to the teachers who work so hard to make sure these students know that they are missed when they do not show up for school.  The dedication of these teachers becomes even more apparent when one learns that an average teacher’s salary here is typically 900 pesos – or 300 U.S. dollars – a month.

I suppose that sums up our Villa Maria experiences:  families, friends, schools, teachers, students and real moments filled with real teaching and real life.  Ultimately, we had a lot of fun and a lot of laughs, plus a few embarrassing moments as well (like when a fellow unnamed, and no it wasn’t me, teacher mentioned at a school, in front of a number of teachers, the principal and 20 high school students, that the U.S. might actually beat Argentina in the soccer match since it was on our home turf and stranger things have happened – only instead of saying home “turf” which is “cancha” she said “concha” which is slang for pussy).  Yeah, things have definitely been interesting.

And it’s time for me to wrap things up here for I’m leaving my host family’s home in a few moments to catch a bus north.  We’re heading into the foothills of the Andes next.  Life is definitely on fire right about now. 

More later…

Amy

Buen día, amigos!

Well, I have survived my first week in Argentina and what a week it has been!  I feel like I have been here a month (or more) so much has happened.  First, the trip here was unbelievably long.  We were delayed leaving Kansas City by several hours (due to the threat of thunderstorms) and were concerned we were going to miss our flight to Buenos Aires as a result.  Luckily, the flight to Buenos Aires was also delayed (as we arrived in Atlanta, Georgia a full forty minutes AFTER our international flight was scheduled to depart).  Once we boarded the plane in Atlanta, we waited so long to take off we had to return to the terminal to be refueled.  Then we had the lovely overnight ten hour flight from hell.  Once we arrived in Buenos Aires, we were forced to circle the airport for almost an hour due to fog in the city.  We finally landed, gathered our luggage, went through customs, and immediately caught a bus for a twelve hour trip to the interior of the country.  To give you an idea of how long we had been traveling, I left my house in Kansas City at noon on Thursday afternoon.  We did not arrive in Villa Maria until 10:30 Friday night.  We were utterly and completely exhausted by then.

My host family greeted me at the bus stop.  They are a family of four – Leticia (or Leti) the mom, Eduardo (or Edu) the dad, Leila who is 12 and Elin who is 9.  I was so excited to be placed in a family with children again (children always make the experience so much more enjoyable) and they are truly a lovely family.  Leticia and Eduardo have gone out of their way to make the most wonderful vegetarian meals for me – they have made the most unbelievable vegetable tartas (the best I can compare them to is a vegetable pie, some like a pot pie and some more like a pizza).  And speaking of pizza, Eduardo has made some incredible vegetable pizzas.  Not to mention the salads and postres (desserts that are absolutely to die for).  I’m eating VERY well here, most definitely better than I eat at home.

The girls are thrilled with the gifts I brought for them – the three Sandra Boynton CD/book collections from Kohl’s.  This is a very musical family, so the gift was very much appreciated.  Leila has already learned the words to one of the songs from Dog Train AND has learned to play it on the piano as well (as the music scores are included at the back of each book).

As for my experiences in Villa Maria, we have been on the go from the day we arrived, visiting schools, speaking with students and teachers, and attending lectures.  All of the schools have welcomed us with open arms, usually offering providing some form of refreshments and often giving us a gift as well.  Today we visited a vocational school (a lecheria where students participate in processing of dairy products) and were given a gift bag with a block of goat cheese and a jar of dulce de leche (a creamy form of chocolate that is found in many of their desserts).

And what is Argentina like you might be asking (seeing as I’m rambling about food and schools, but am not really saying anything of particular interest).  Well, first and foremost, Argentina is currently very COLD.  It seems even colder due to the lack of central heating.  Some of you may be thinking that I’m probably exaggerating since I hate the cold, but trust me, when they said winter, they meant winter.  Luckily, Leticia had an extra winter coat she was able to loan me, because otherwise, I’d be utterly miserable.  Of course, my body is having a riot trying to understand why it went from summer to winter so quickly and I have a terrible cold to go with the wacky change in seasons.

What else can I tell you about my experiences here?  The people here in Villa Maria are by far some of the kindest people I have met anywhere.  When you enter their store or restaurant or business, they are thrilled to greet you.  They welcome you with a kindness that never feels artificial and are willing to spend as much time with you as needed, patiently wading through our sometimes limited Spanish.  I can also say most sincerely that all of the people here on this trip with me are wonderful.  Everyone is so concerned about everyone else, sharing medicine and ideas and clothing so that each person has what he or she needs.

Of course, things here are not perfect.  Life in Argentina moves along at its own pace.  No one is in a hurry; things happen when they happen.  I’ve visited a local travel agency every day for four days in a row, trying to arrange hostel stays in Buenos Aires and Foz do Iguaço, and each day, after a lovely, meandering conversation about everything we can possibly think of, all of it in Spanish; Mariana tells me that she is still waiting to hear from the hostel in Buenos Aires, is working on arrangements for Iguaço, and should have more information for me the next day.  And so I return the following day, to indulge in another lovely conversation and to receive the same information again.

It’s impossible to become upset because Mariana is so kind and because she is doing the best she can, waiting on others to respond to her attempts to contact them, etc.  It is quite simply a different pace and in most aspects, it’s very nice not to be rushed and stressed and watching the clock all the time.  On the other hand, when it’s freezing out and all I want to do is buy a warmer pair of socks, but can’t because all the shops are closed for siesta (which lasts four HOURS), I have to wonder which is better – the laidback, relaxed society where I can’t buy a pair of socks to save my life, or the extremely time-conscious society that will have me popping pills for stress before the age of 40 but with a hundred pairs of socks all neatly arranged in my dresser drawers.

I’ve also had to get used to the whole no seatbelt thing again.  I honestly don’t know which is worse – sitting in the front seat of a remis, seatbelt securely fastened but with a bird’s eye view of the insanity of Argentine drivers… or sitting in the backseat where no seatbelts can be found at all, but a little further away from the disaster of a cab driver.  Either way, your life typically flashes before your eyes while you hold on for dear life.

I have almost had a heart attack more than once as our remis barrels through an intersection at top speed (apparently the government of Argentina has decided that stop signs and stop lights are unnecessary expenses and instead chooses to rely on the fast reflexes of its insane citizens).  Indeed, there are very few stop lights to be found anywhere and I have yet to see a stop sign at all.  Most intersections are considered a free-for-all, so as cars approach the intersection, an interesting sort of dance occurs.  Whoever reaches the intersection first gets the dubious pleasure of barreling on through.  Whoever arrives in second place taps the brakes enough to skate through the intersection at a slightly slower speed than that of a rocket, narrowly missing the bumper of the first vehicle.  Individuals riding bikes and motorcycles tend to hurtle through these intersections as well, showing little regard for their own safety.  I have been disturbed on numerous occasions by the sight of a child sandwiched between its parents on the back of a motorcycle (I wouldn’t take a child for a ride on a motorcycle in the middle of the country with only cows around to get in my way, let alone in the middle of an Argentine city populated by kindness and crazy driving).

And let’s just say that pedestrians are taking their lives into their own hands when choosing to cross a street.  In Argentina it might be better to choose a particular turn to make and stick to it (i.e., when leaving the house, take a right and continue taking rights at every intersection, thus negating the necessity to ever cross a street.  Sure you’ll probably end up walking in circles, but it beats getting hit by a car!)

I am certain there is much more to share about my first week in Argentina – like being interviewed by a local newspaper and quite innocently stating that we were here to have fun, and to learn about the culture and history of Argentina.  This seemed an honest statement to me, but divertirnos (to have fun) in Spanish apparently gave the impression that we were party chicas and only here for the quilmes (local beer).

In any case, it is time to wrap this up as I have a 7:30 a.m. bus to catch headed for Córdoba, and I need to get some sleep before then.  So… let me just end by saying that…

Argentina es de lindo!

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.