Crap! School’s Out

Well, it’s that time once again — time to wrap up yet another year of school.  I swear I don’t know where the hell the time has gone, but I feel like I was just bawling my eyes out at kindergarten graduation.  And now?  My babies are about to officially become big ol’ second graders.  And if I start to get too sappy about this little milestone, well then all I need to do is spend more than five minutes with the little hellions to be snapped right out of my sentimental haze.  Cause good God almighty, these kids have summer fever coming right outta their miniature a-holes.

Just what do I mean by “summer fever” you ask?  Well, say you poured ten cups of sugar into a giant bowl, topped it off with some sprinkles of crack-cocaine, fed it to two seven-year-olds, and then had them chase it with a case of Red Bull.  Yeah, that is what I’m talkin’ about!  They are literally bouncing off the walls with excitement 24/7.  Honestly, I had no idea that human beings were capable of talking this freaking much.  And would it have killed God to equip these flippin’ kids with a damn volume button?  Sheesh, a person can pop only so much Advil before it becomes treacherous to her health, ya know.

And as if the hyper activity weren’t enough in and of itself, I’m also being bombarded with every paper and notebook under the damn sun that’s being sent home each and every day.  I really wish I could talk the teachers into using my round filing cabinet system more often.  Call me a bad mom, but I don’t need to save every frickin’ handwriting paper their pencils came into contact with.  To be fair to the teachers, though, I totally get that they’re just trying to get the crap out of their classrooms so that they, too, can get the hell out of dodge for the summer.  I just wish it wouldn’t end up scattered all over the floor of my living and dining rooms.

There WAS something positive, however, about the clearing out of the desks that occurred.  My son finally came across the Mother’s Day present that he made for me in art class and apparently forgot to bring home.  Nothin’ like a little appreciation for mama, even if it IS a month AFTER the fact.  But hey, I’ve learned through experience to just take what I can get.

So when that final bell rings today, I’m left with just one question:  How in the name of my last shred of sanity am I gonna survive the next two months??!!  We’re either gonna have an amazing summer together, or they’re gonna eat me alive on a silver platter.  Regardless of what happens, though, I’m gonna be sure to wear clean underwear and stock up on wine so I’m prepared for either scenario.

Parental Fail

 

I’m having one of THOSE days — you know, the ones where you feel like the worst parent on the planet?  Yes, I’ve snipped, I’ve snapped, and I’ve dared anyone to try and cross my path.  I’ve got a major NyQuil hangover, not to mention a dog who is psychotically obsessed with my ass.  I’ve nursed everyone else but myself back to health for three freaking weeks, and quite frankly, I’m sick and tired of it.  My last bit of patience has hit the road Jack. So, when my son tried to play me this morning into thinking he should stay home from school once again, I wasn’t having it.  I made him suck it up and strap on his backpack.  I listened to him grumble all the way to school, but I marched his little ass right through the front doors, all the while feeling a tiny pit of guilt in my stomach about whether or not I was doing the right thing.  Even though I just took him to the doctor for the bazillionth effing time last night for an ear check, maybe he really was coming down with something….  

And as I was fighting this internal battle within myself,  I was punched right in the face with yet another parental failure on my part.  I completely forgot to help my kids make a damn leprechaun trap for their first grade classrooms.  

 

SON. OF. A. BITCH.  

I watched all these happy, smiling mothers carrying these ornately decorated boxes into their kids’ classrooms, and I wanted to just slam my head into one of the itty bitty lockers in the hall.  Shit!  Could I seriously suck any more?  The teachers reassured me that my kids could bring their boxes in tomorrow, and that maybe some leprechauns could sneak into the classrooms during lunch to leave some “gold” behind.  But, damn, how could I forget that?  I’m a stay at home mom — isn’t it my job to know these friggin’ things?  

So, yes, I’m beating myself up today, and yes I’m in a bitchy mood.  I cannot keep everything straight, and I’m clearly far from perfect.  If I see one of those “know it all moms” today, I swear I may just run her over with my car.  I am human, and I screw up sometimes, so you can either sue me or join me in my pity party.

Hot For Teacher

     

     I’m not sure how many of you know this, but pre-kids, I used to be a teacher.  More specifically, I used to be a junior high teacher. So, if you think back for a couple of minutes to how much of a little punk ass you probably were at that age, you can probably understand how I got REALLY burnt out on this career REALLY fast.  Nevertheless, though, I held my own for a solid six years with those hormonal little bastards, and truth be told, I actually have a lot of fond memories from my time with them.  Sure, it’s a super tough age to teach, but it’s also a very important stage to try to make a connection and hopefully steer them on the right path towards something good.  I was WAY younger than a lot of the other teachers at the school, and I think that the kids really felt like they could relate to me a little more. Sometimes, however, I think they felt a little too comfortable and close to me.    

     Most eighth grade boys are all about seeing how big of an idiot they can make of themselves in order to draw any little bit of attention that they possibly can.  They all think they’re the next freaking Jim Carrey and try their very damnedest to put on a one-man show, never mind if it just so happens to be right in the middle of a lesson on prepositions. And let me just tell you, this type of behavior just completely fueled my fire. I may be petite, but I was known as being a hard ass and not putting up with a whole lot of shit in my classroom.

     Throughout my teaching years, I certainly had my fair share of show-boaters who tried to pull their crap while under my wing.  I recall this one boy, in particular, who drove the absolute bat crazies out of me.  This kid was interested in anything and everything that didn’t relate in any way, shape or form to a single thing that was EVER going on in my class.  I swear you would’ve thought there were talent scouts for Funny Bones sitting in the back of my classroom with the way this kid would perform on a daily basis.  I slapped this kid with about a zillion detentions, but none of them seemed to ever deter him from coming back and pulling the same old stunts day after day.

     I was so excited by the time eighth grade graduation rolled around so that I could finally be rid of this little troublemaker.  I had absolutely no doubt that he would have considered me his very least favorite part of the whole eighth grade experience.  So, you can see then why I about fell over in shock when this very same unruly kid approached me in peace at the big eighth grade dance.  My husband and I had agreed to be chaperones and were standing around chatting when young junior came up and asked me to dance.  I practically choked on my punch and just stood there completely stunned at the very thought of it.  After a couple of seconds of very awkward silence, my husband leaned over and whispered that I HAD to dance with this poor kid if he had the guts to ask me in front of ALL his friends who were standing there gawking.  Trust me, the last thing on earth I wanted to do was to dance with this little thug, but I swallowed my pride and let him guide me out onto the gym floor.  It was by far the most uncomfortable slow dance I’ve ever had in my entire life, but my husband later tried to explain to me that it was probably the highlight of this kid’s whole year.  He said that boys at that age have no idea how to show their feelings for girls, and they often end up being complete a-holes to them instead.  So, I suppose then, that under this theory, I was the object of this moron’s affection or something.

     Actually, if you think about it, the whole eighth grade boy mentality is not really all that different from most grown men.  Don’t they typically all have trouble expressing their feelings and act like complete jackasses when they see something that they want?  And the hormones?  The hormones NEVER EVER stop raging!  Ok, so, maybe the old boners don’t happen all twenty-four hours of the day, but I’d bet my left eyeball that they’re saluting at least a good fifteen to twenty hours a day.  So, it’s no wonder then that my husband practically pushed me into the arms of this little classroom terror.  I think he was secretly fulfilling some “hot for teacher” fantasy that he never quite fulfilled as a fourteen year old boy.  Whatever, though — no harm, no foul.  As long as I didn’t have to take anything to the drycleaners over someone else’s “overly excited reaction”, it’s all good, right?

The Meet and Greet

     Today was the Meet & Greet with all the teachers at school, and my kids were totally psyched about meeting their mysterious new first grade teachers. I wondered if they’d even go to sleep last night from all the built-up excitement.  We’ve been hearing little things here and there about their teachers from kids who were formerly in their classrooms, so we were all anxious to finally set off to see the wizard (so to speak).  

     My daughter was ready and impatiently waiting by the front door of our house WAY before I was even close to walking out the door with them this morning.  The fact that it was raining did nothing to hinder anyone’s spirits, but when we finally headed out, my daughter was suddenly in a tizzy about her dress getting dirty on the walk to school. Apparently, she wanted to make a good first impression or something.  I had to remind myself that this was the same child who was playing with grasshoppers and dead cicadas just the day before, and now she wanted to get all prissy on me?!  Of course, my son was more interested in stomping in every single rain puddle he could find to see just how dirty he could get his shorts — yep, he’s all boy.

     When we finally reached the school, I wished I would’ve grabbed some Tylenol to stash in my purse (and perhaps even a flask).  It was about two hundred degrees inside the school, and the noise level was almost deafening.  Kids were running from room to room and parents were having to practically shout to be able to hear each other.  It was pure pandemonium. The few moms that I tried to talk to seemed just as frazzled as me.  I wanted to find our new classrooms quickly and escape some of the madness taking place in the halls.

     I was then faced with my usual mother of multiples dilemma — which teacher do we meet first?  My daughter was insistent that we go to her classroom first, while my son was adamant that we go to his. My daughter’s was the first room we passed, so we ended up in hers. Any time my kids meet teachers for the first time, they immediately snap into shy mode.  I can’t get them to shut up at home to save my life, but we meet someone new, and I suddenly become a pole behind which they want to hide.  We checked out the room and found my daughter’s desk and then moved onto my son’s classroom to meet his teacher.

     We then had to work our way through the hallway hysteria once again to locate their much-dreamed-about lockers.  I’m quite certain that my kids think the single most appealing thing about first grade is the fact that they get to store all their crap in their own personal locker.  Consequently, we had to stand there and open and close their new lockers no less than five hundred times each before they were satisfied and ready to call it a day.

     I was so relieved to finally exit the building and breathe in some fresh (and quiet) air.  Don’t get me wrong, I totally get it — everyone is excited and eager to start a new year, and so am I.  However, I just wish it wasn’t so much like walking into Mardi Gras — at least you get beads in New Orleans….