Here at camp we have a really problematic disease. It's called HS. Or, Home Sick! As one of the reining homesick experts I've learned several things.
1) Never ask a child if they will die if they can't go home right now.
2) A child left alone will find a way to call home no matter how difficult you think it is.
3) Dinner time is the worst time of the day for a homesick kid.
4) Chocolate and a hug can cure a lot.
5) But not everything.
6) There is a reason they call Benidryll "Mommy's Little Helper..."
My protocol says I can treat watery eyes and a runny nose with an antihistamine. It is amazing how well it works.
Wednesday, June 21, 2006
Monday, June 19, 2006
Consideration
Hi, my name is Sandy and I will be your camp medic for the week. That means I will not sleep, eat or bathe all week so that I can be at your beck and call for every sniffle, sneeze and tummy ache that you would not normally even mention to anyone in a five mile radius of your normal life, except that at camp it has become a huge emergency in your mind. No, of course I don't miss the dinner that you won't let me finish or the sleep that you won't let me have. I just want you to be happy, fulfilled and feeling pampered. After all this is BOY SCOUT CAMP!!! Where we train individuals to be self reliant, respectful and useful members of society. Thank-You so much for allowing me to serve you. No, there is nothing wrong with my eyes, they are always bloodshot and that tick/twitch has been there for years.
As funny as that little speech is, it is becoming incredibly tragic. I imagine the time I have stolen to write it is going to cost me dearly at some point in the near future. I still love this job, but some of these people really should be well, shot. Unfortunately I can't use my needles for that.
Still no psychological emergency yet. I'm starting to live in fear....
As funny as that little speech is, it is becoming incredibly tragic. I imagine the time I have stolen to write it is going to cost me dearly at some point in the near future. I still love this job, but some of these people really should be well, shot. Unfortunately I can't use my needles for that.
Still no psychological emergency yet. I'm starting to live in fear....
Friday, June 16, 2006
Slow week, week two memories and soup
This has been a slow week, as was last week frankly. There were the standard whiny children, over concerned/overbearing scout masters, scrapes, cuts, bloody noses, but over all it was slow. I imagine I'm gonna pay for it in the eventual. Better sleep up now.
In the meantime, all this time on my hands has given me an opportunity for reflection. For the past three years I have always had a physiological emergency on week 2 (the week I'm in right now). It hasn't happened this week (so far, but we are in the home stretch). Makes me wonder. Course I've never been superstitious, so, who really cares right?
Three summers ago a staff member (who was manic depressive) had a meltdown in the staff lodge while a camper was having a seizure and massively altered mental status. The following Thursday a huge troop got lost on the mountain during staff night off and the formerly mentally unstable staff member was allowed to help search (no I don't know what they were thinking, no one asked me...) and managed to "sprain" both ankles on the way down. I managed to fall out of the golf cart, and another staffer was also cut up, but the two of us, bleeding everywhere, tended to this young man's wounds. Then it was decided he should stay in medlodge with me over night. The idea of him in the same building with me and having access to sharps was hair-raising to say the least.
Two summers ago, a deaf troop was here (they come every year this time, actually) and one of the boys suffered what looked like to me anyway like a psychotic break. He bit, scratched spit and screamed his way up to my medlodge, carried by his father and scout master. Unfortunately an idiot was there ahead of me (see earlier post about volunteer EMT-B from Miami Suburb) and his solution was to duct tape this 11 year old child into a stretcher. Dear God in Heaven. Yes, it went down hill from there. When the paramedics showed up, they cut him out, and he decked the paramedic so they had to tie him back up.
Last summer a staffer with Ashbergers (a mild autism) got off his meds and had a little episode where we were chasing him through the woods during a staff meeting with our council executive who made the mistake of asking what the staff thought about the massive overbooking that occurred that week. Much to his surprise we answered him directly, specifically and accurately. Don't ask a question if you don't want to hear the answer. Anyway, these two massive shake downs were happening simultaneously. When I called mom and said, "come get your son, now!" she said, "But it's a two hour drive and it's eleven o'clock" so I answered, "then I guess you better start driving before it gets any later..."
We have other psychological emergencies, a staffer overdosed on Xanex, a camper threatened to light himself on fire with a bug coil and lighter fluid (that one was not nearly as bad as it sounds and actually more an issue with a stupid and insensitive scout master...) and several campers and staffers found out a loved one died. But these were not during week two.
This week on staff night off I cooked my orange soup. The name has nothing to do with the flavor, it's the color. Here's the recipe, it's the bomb!
1 Vidalia Onion chopped and sauted in
1 stick of butter then add
16 oz ginger ale then add
1 can coconut cream and
1 large box good vegetable stock stir in
1 bag carrot slices and
1 bag sweet potato fries cut into bit sized pieces and let simmer then add
2 large boxes butternut squash soup and
1 large box fire roasted carrot soup.
Simmer another 45 minutes.
Serve with sour cream and fresh bacon pieces.
(Actually I cook two rashers chopped up and add a handful to each soup bowl, but to each his own)
(Also a good sprinkling of chili powder gives the soup a nice kick)
Three weeks down, five to go!
In the meantime, all this time on my hands has given me an opportunity for reflection. For the past three years I have always had a physiological emergency on week 2 (the week I'm in right now). It hasn't happened this week (so far, but we are in the home stretch). Makes me wonder. Course I've never been superstitious, so, who really cares right?
Three summers ago a staff member (who was manic depressive) had a meltdown in the staff lodge while a camper was having a seizure and massively altered mental status. The following Thursday a huge troop got lost on the mountain during staff night off and the formerly mentally unstable staff member was allowed to help search (no I don't know what they were thinking, no one asked me...) and managed to "sprain" both ankles on the way down. I managed to fall out of the golf cart, and another staffer was also cut up, but the two of us, bleeding everywhere, tended to this young man's wounds. Then it was decided he should stay in medlodge with me over night. The idea of him in the same building with me and having access to sharps was hair-raising to say the least.
Two summers ago, a deaf troop was here (they come every year this time, actually) and one of the boys suffered what looked like to me anyway like a psychotic break. He bit, scratched spit and screamed his way up to my medlodge, carried by his father and scout master. Unfortunately an idiot was there ahead of me (see earlier post about volunteer EMT-B from Miami Suburb) and his solution was to duct tape this 11 year old child into a stretcher. Dear God in Heaven. Yes, it went down hill from there. When the paramedics showed up, they cut him out, and he decked the paramedic so they had to tie him back up.
Last summer a staffer with Ashbergers (a mild autism) got off his meds and had a little episode where we were chasing him through the woods during a staff meeting with our council executive who made the mistake of asking what the staff thought about the massive overbooking that occurred that week. Much to his surprise we answered him directly, specifically and accurately. Don't ask a question if you don't want to hear the answer. Anyway, these two massive shake downs were happening simultaneously. When I called mom and said, "come get your son, now!" she said, "But it's a two hour drive and it's eleven o'clock" so I answered, "then I guess you better start driving before it gets any later..."
We have other psychological emergencies, a staffer overdosed on Xanex, a camper threatened to light himself on fire with a bug coil and lighter fluid (that one was not nearly as bad as it sounds and actually more an issue with a stupid and insensitive scout master...) and several campers and staffers found out a loved one died. But these were not during week two.
This week on staff night off I cooked my orange soup. The name has nothing to do with the flavor, it's the color. Here's the recipe, it's the bomb!
1 Vidalia Onion chopped and sauted in
1 stick of butter then add
16 oz ginger ale then add
1 can coconut cream and
1 large box good vegetable stock stir in
1 bag carrot slices and
1 bag sweet potato fries cut into bit sized pieces and let simmer then add
2 large boxes butternut squash soup and
1 large box fire roasted carrot soup.
Simmer another 45 minutes.
Serve with sour cream and fresh bacon pieces.
(Actually I cook two rashers chopped up and add a handful to each soup bowl, but to each his own)
(Also a good sprinkling of chili powder gives the soup a nice kick)
Three weeks down, five to go!
Thursday, June 15, 2006
Ouch!
These boys amaze me. Every day I see injuries that would drop grown men to their knees, and these boys are so brave. Granted other times I see tears over a minor scrape or bug-bite, (I won't mention the child that screamed bloody murder in my clinic for three solid hours about a small bruise on his foot) but I try not to dwell on those moments.
Often these boys are so stalwart and strong. Last week a boy had a migraine so bad we had to take him to the hospital. He couldn't even walk. I called for several of the adults in camp to help me carry him out. Five 15 year old boys stepped forward and said, "He is a member of our troop, tell us how, and we will carry him." It was all I could do not to cry as they carried the boy nearly a quarter of a mile to the closest vehicle. Several of those boys are now on staff this week. We are proud to have them.
Yesterday a young man broke his clavicle. This can be a very painful injury. He comforted his mother on the phone as she was scared. He was released from the hospital this morning and is very disappointed that he cannot come back to camp and complete his merit badges.
Some boys break bones and yet they stay, as much as 20 stitches and they stay, smiling, participating proud to be scouts.
Last night a mother came to me in tears because her son had a serious case of HS (Home Sick) and she wanted to take him home. I was trying to talk her down when a 17 year old staff member (Gusty, I mentioned him before) stepped in, and explained to the mom how this was an important thing for her son to go through and that he was safe here. His words (identical to the ones I often use in these cases) reached the part of her heart that I could not. Then he walked her out to her car and got her on her way. Then he walked up to the campsite of the young man and talked him though a rough night. That little boy is smiling today because of Gusty's honor.
Sometimes as a teacher I get frustrated, depressed even from the excuses, name-calling and blame passing I see with students, parents and even administrations. Then I come here.
Often these boys are so stalwart and strong. Last week a boy had a migraine so bad we had to take him to the hospital. He couldn't even walk. I called for several of the adults in camp to help me carry him out. Five 15 year old boys stepped forward and said, "He is a member of our troop, tell us how, and we will carry him." It was all I could do not to cry as they carried the boy nearly a quarter of a mile to the closest vehicle. Several of those boys are now on staff this week. We are proud to have them.
Yesterday a young man broke his clavicle. This can be a very painful injury. He comforted his mother on the phone as she was scared. He was released from the hospital this morning and is very disappointed that he cannot come back to camp and complete his merit badges.
Some boys break bones and yet they stay, as much as 20 stitches and they stay, smiling, participating proud to be scouts.
Last night a mother came to me in tears because her son had a serious case of HS (Home Sick) and she wanted to take him home. I was trying to talk her down when a 17 year old staff member (Gusty, I mentioned him before) stepped in, and explained to the mom how this was an important thing for her son to go through and that he was safe here. His words (identical to the ones I often use in these cases) reached the part of her heart that I could not. Then he walked her out to her car and got her on her way. Then he walked up to the campsite of the young man and talked him though a rough night. That little boy is smiling today because of Gusty's honor.
Sometimes as a teacher I get frustrated, depressed even from the excuses, name-calling and blame passing I see with students, parents and even administrations. Then I come here.
Monday, June 12, 2006
(Some of ) The boys of summer (camp)
At the specific and excited request of a dear friend of mine I am going to bore you with a description/explanation of some of my boys. These are not anywhere near complete pictures and are as much based on my perceptions and observations than concrete evidence, but are accurate none the less.
Click. This dear lad is 19, 20 in less than a month. One of my favorites, I have worked with him for three of my four years. He is very old for his age, but also very joyful and very, very smart. When I met him he was starting his senior year in high school. Taking a full AP load as well as dance and drama he achieved over a 3.5. He is now studying bio-engineering at one of the best science colleges in the south (if not the nation). This is the first summer he hasn't had a girl friend, in the past he was always completely devoted to the one he was with until she showed some substantial moral flaw and then he quickly distances them. Drinking in excess seems to be his major pet peeve in women and also inability to be themselves. This summer he is a commissioner at camp. Sort of the second in command (or in this case co-second as he has a counterpart I'll introduce in a minute). There are few I trust like Click. He was the one who truly made me feel camp was home. One time during an awful storm when we were taking all the campers to the dining hall, I got in last. He met me at the door and hugged me so hard I squeaked. "What's wrong?" I asked. "Nothing now that you are here and I know you are safe." He answered then he simply walked away off to do other things. No big deal. It was a golden moment for me as I now knew I mattered at camp. He is also a real joy to watch up here. He is great with the kids, fair with the staff and a very hard worker. Sometimes to his detriment, but in the end he works it out.
Windy. The is Click's partner at camp so to speak. Wiry and dark (Click's opposite) he seems very quiet but is very observant. He has a much taller, much deeper voiced brother we call Gusty (both of them are using nicknames by the way) and he clearly adores him. I think that is really nice to see at camp. Brothers, both Eagle Scouts, I might add, who love working together. Windy can be very sharp too, often when you least expect it. I expect he will go far here at camp.
Mike and Jason. These are another set of Eagle brothers. One runs the kitchen the other the nature lodge. They are French Irish with thick curly hair and light eyes. Most of the girls their age swoon over their curls and deep rumbly voices. They are both very strong Catholics and while they have very much college boy humors are very respectful of women in a way that warms my heart and gives me hope for the future. They are some of the only staffers that have seen me cry, and I trust them with that. They also are always there when someone is needed in emergencies. Totally dependable.
Poje. Here is a work in progress, but someone I think I will be proud to have watched grow up. Only 16 he has a lot of responsibility. He runs rapids on kayaks with 10 scouts each week. Our youngest Kayak instructor to date. He is really trying to figure out what he believes and why. He often comes up later in the evening when it is quiet at medlodge, just to talk. Religion, girls, families, politics, future all of it. While many of my boys come talk to me about these things, I'm enjoying him the most this year as he is youngest and still testing his own beliefs. Last year on staff night off he forgot his parents were coming up to visit and left for the night. So they and I had a nice talk in my office for about an hour. Then next week they sent me cookies. What great people. He of course was mortified. I hear most of the childhood stories on my boys as their mothers often call to talk to me through out the summer. His mom is no different and she too sees the potential in her son and is excited to see who he will be
As a side note, that is probably the thing I enjoy most about camp. These staff boys and the relationships I have with them. I am too old to be a sexual threat/issue to them and too young to be a parent (the enemy). They often confide in me things no one else knows (or may ever know) and I am honored to have their trust. They give me hope for the future and they teach me so much about myself even and how we become the people that we are.
Danny and Eddie are best friends and there are no two more exuberant boys on staff. Often viewed as the future of camp these two bounce into my clinic each day to say good morning and bounce through it frequently to check on what's going on. If I come across them outside of camp they are always quick to come over, hug me and chatter on about their lives. This is odd. Most boys (and I understand and am okay with that) avoid me and each other outside of camp unless it is to talk about camp. Not so Danny and Eddie. They are all weather friends of the true kind.
Then of course there is Mark. The dining hall director who is old enough to be my father. He is such an amazing friend. We are close all year round. However we will never date or marry, much to Nana's disappointment.
These are just a few of those I think of when I speak of "my boys" They are among the most special people I have ever met. I look forward to watching the world meet them.
The world may not know what hit it.
Click. This dear lad is 19, 20 in less than a month. One of my favorites, I have worked with him for three of my four years. He is very old for his age, but also very joyful and very, very smart. When I met him he was starting his senior year in high school. Taking a full AP load as well as dance and drama he achieved over a 3.5. He is now studying bio-engineering at one of the best science colleges in the south (if not the nation). This is the first summer he hasn't had a girl friend, in the past he was always completely devoted to the one he was with until she showed some substantial moral flaw and then he quickly distances them. Drinking in excess seems to be his major pet peeve in women and also inability to be themselves. This summer he is a commissioner at camp. Sort of the second in command (or in this case co-second as he has a counterpart I'll introduce in a minute). There are few I trust like Click. He was the one who truly made me feel camp was home. One time during an awful storm when we were taking all the campers to the dining hall, I got in last. He met me at the door and hugged me so hard I squeaked. "What's wrong?" I asked. "Nothing now that you are here and I know you are safe." He answered then he simply walked away off to do other things. No big deal. It was a golden moment for me as I now knew I mattered at camp. He is also a real joy to watch up here. He is great with the kids, fair with the staff and a very hard worker. Sometimes to his detriment, but in the end he works it out.
Windy. The is Click's partner at camp so to speak. Wiry and dark (Click's opposite) he seems very quiet but is very observant. He has a much taller, much deeper voiced brother we call Gusty (both of them are using nicknames by the way) and he clearly adores him. I think that is really nice to see at camp. Brothers, both Eagle Scouts, I might add, who love working together. Windy can be very sharp too, often when you least expect it. I expect he will go far here at camp.
Mike and Jason. These are another set of Eagle brothers. One runs the kitchen the other the nature lodge. They are French Irish with thick curly hair and light eyes. Most of the girls their age swoon over their curls and deep rumbly voices. They are both very strong Catholics and while they have very much college boy humors are very respectful of women in a way that warms my heart and gives me hope for the future. They are some of the only staffers that have seen me cry, and I trust them with that. They also are always there when someone is needed in emergencies. Totally dependable.
Poje. Here is a work in progress, but someone I think I will be proud to have watched grow up. Only 16 he has a lot of responsibility. He runs rapids on kayaks with 10 scouts each week. Our youngest Kayak instructor to date. He is really trying to figure out what he believes and why. He often comes up later in the evening when it is quiet at medlodge, just to talk. Religion, girls, families, politics, future all of it. While many of my boys come talk to me about these things, I'm enjoying him the most this year as he is youngest and still testing his own beliefs. Last year on staff night off he forgot his parents were coming up to visit and left for the night. So they and I had a nice talk in my office for about an hour. Then next week they sent me cookies. What great people. He of course was mortified. I hear most of the childhood stories on my boys as their mothers often call to talk to me through out the summer. His mom is no different and she too sees the potential in her son and is excited to see who he will be
As a side note, that is probably the thing I enjoy most about camp. These staff boys and the relationships I have with them. I am too old to be a sexual threat/issue to them and too young to be a parent (the enemy). They often confide in me things no one else knows (or may ever know) and I am honored to have their trust. They give me hope for the future and they teach me so much about myself even and how we become the people that we are.
Danny and Eddie are best friends and there are no two more exuberant boys on staff. Often viewed as the future of camp these two bounce into my clinic each day to say good morning and bounce through it frequently to check on what's going on. If I come across them outside of camp they are always quick to come over, hug me and chatter on about their lives. This is odd. Most boys (and I understand and am okay with that) avoid me and each other outside of camp unless it is to talk about camp. Not so Danny and Eddie. They are all weather friends of the true kind.
Then of course there is Mark. The dining hall director who is old enough to be my father. He is such an amazing friend. We are close all year round. However we will never date or marry, much to Nana's disappointment.
These are just a few of those I think of when I speak of "my boys" They are among the most special people I have ever met. I look forward to watching the world meet them.
The world may not know what hit it.
Thursday, June 08, 2006
The Grind
Two weeks (nearly) down and six more to go.
Today we had our inspection for national standards. Big Deal! Mostly it's just a lot of bluffing.
Meanwhile children are doing not so bright things with knives.
Oh my!
Today. This poor boy attempted to shave the top of his finger tip off. He now has 8 stitches in that hand. The hard part however was getting him to hold still long enough for me to get it to stop bleeding. He kept moving every time I tried to apply pressure. Blood was spraying everywhere. For a 5'2 kid he was pretty strong. OK now, but rough fighting though.
Also scout masters. Dear God in heaven. Some of them are so cool. Really out to help, but some are just interested in trying to look cool to their scouts or more importantly trying to be, while at camp, the BMOC that they think of themselves as. It really is funny to watch them throw their weight around like they are Trump, Gates or Arnie. Funny, provided you aren't the one they are throwing their weight at.
As a medic, lots of scout masters want to help me, live the whole hero thing. They tend to exaggerate credentials and embellish abilities and experiences. One time a scoutmaster told me he was a paramedic in Miami. He was a actually a volunteer fireman, first responder to a suburb of Boca Raton... That was a long week.
The things people are thankful for. One poor boy on staff has a horrific boil on his, well, his butt. His mother called me and asked me if I would look at it and tell her what I thought. This was not something I wanted to do. But I did it. It looked terrible and painful and plus, looking at other peoples bottoms, especially minors, is not my first choice of a Monday night activity. It had to be worse for this kid than me... He hugged me and thanked me before he went home to see a dermatologist this morning.
It is also funny to me what becomes important up here. Getting to shower in private becomes an undiscovered joy. Knowing that if you leave something in the fridge it will still be there... Being able to find your radio with your stickers on it...
I still love this job...
Today we had our inspection for national standards. Big Deal! Mostly it's just a lot of bluffing.
Meanwhile children are doing not so bright things with knives.
Oh my!
Today. This poor boy attempted to shave the top of his finger tip off. He now has 8 stitches in that hand. The hard part however was getting him to hold still long enough for me to get it to stop bleeding. He kept moving every time I tried to apply pressure. Blood was spraying everywhere. For a 5'2 kid he was pretty strong. OK now, but rough fighting though.
Also scout masters. Dear God in heaven. Some of them are so cool. Really out to help, but some are just interested in trying to look cool to their scouts or more importantly trying to be, while at camp, the BMOC that they think of themselves as. It really is funny to watch them throw their weight around like they are Trump, Gates or Arnie. Funny, provided you aren't the one they are throwing their weight at.
As a medic, lots of scout masters want to help me, live the whole hero thing. They tend to exaggerate credentials and embellish abilities and experiences. One time a scoutmaster told me he was a paramedic in Miami. He was a actually a volunteer fireman, first responder to a suburb of Boca Raton... That was a long week.
The things people are thankful for. One poor boy on staff has a horrific boil on his, well, his butt. His mother called me and asked me if I would look at it and tell her what I thought. This was not something I wanted to do. But I did it. It looked terrible and painful and plus, looking at other peoples bottoms, especially minors, is not my first choice of a Monday night activity. It had to be worse for this kid than me... He hugged me and thanked me before he went home to see a dermatologist this morning.
It is also funny to me what becomes important up here. Getting to shower in private becomes an undiscovered joy. Knowing that if you leave something in the fridge it will still be there... Being able to find your radio with your stickers on it...
I still love this job...
Saturday, June 03, 2006
Busy, Crazy, Drama, Relief...
I'm down from camp for the afternoon. I go back in a couple hours. Such is life for the next seven weeks. This year camp was supposed to get DSL. However, as of now we got nuttin! So, I'm not sure when I can post again. I'll do my best.
This staff week (the week of training before camp starts) went well, only one very minor injury (3 stitches) that didn't effect staff at all... Well except the kid with stitches, but he really isn't all that upset about it... No big. Lots of work to do, not all of it done yet and national inspection is Thursday, but we'll get there.
Trying to get the bedding arrangements worked out has been a real chore. Some of the "boys" (they are actually over 18) are trying to figure out a loophole that would allow them to stay up in my building, but thankfully, this week we stayed one step ahead of them. If we can elude them two more days, which we will, they can't get in.
The drama is also about rooming. Girls are the biggest pain in the neck at camp. Girls in the sense that they are under 21, several under 18, and all think they rule the place. Actually, that's not true. Only two think they rule the place. The one over 18 doesn't want to work, wants all the perks and none of the responsibilities and feels she has the right to dictate how the other girls in her cabin live, behave, work. The other girl, under 18 is a bit more of a follower, so she could be salvaged if the big mouth was gone. Worse is when we confront them, oh, the water works. Girls crying is very upsetting to boys 23 and under. Even when they know the girls are trying to be manipulative, it still tears them up. The leadership has stood strong so far this week, but it wears on them and you can tell.
Already we have had some real bright spots. These boys work so hard and show such joy in simple things. We went to see a drive in movie last night as the end of staff week reward, Over the Hedge and Mission Impossible. I went home after over the hedge. What a delight! So funny.
The kitchen staff has convinced the administration that they will not under any circumstances allow any activities in the dining hall other than meals (which is not true, but I'm proud of the way these kids keep straight faces when the program director asks them) and are secretly planning a big party for the staff later this summer.
The room for the Director on Duty has been decorated in all Superman sheets, blankets and posters in honor of our Super Hero radio call signs. I am Rouge, by the way. I can suck the life right out of you with just a touch... The camp director is Professor X. There is also Storm, The Thing, Kal-El, The Tick, Underdog, The Hulk, Gambit, Wolverine, Human Torch, Mr. Fantastic, Iceman, The Punnisher and Mighty Mouse.
As of right now 50 people were certified in CPR and First Aid according to the new American Heart Association standards that were released this year. I found great satisfaction in being able to tell people that is they fell asleep I would make them leave (and that being true!). Better yet was watching the kids police each other on that kind of issue. Warms a teachers heart and all that...
So, week one starts Sunday, with campers arriving on Sunday at 1:00 PM. We are supposed to get internet on Wednesday, otherwise I'll have to wait till next Saturday.
This staff week (the week of training before camp starts) went well, only one very minor injury (3 stitches) that didn't effect staff at all... Well except the kid with stitches, but he really isn't all that upset about it... No big. Lots of work to do, not all of it done yet and national inspection is Thursday, but we'll get there.
Trying to get the bedding arrangements worked out has been a real chore. Some of the "boys" (they are actually over 18) are trying to figure out a loophole that would allow them to stay up in my building, but thankfully, this week we stayed one step ahead of them. If we can elude them two more days, which we will, they can't get in.
The drama is also about rooming. Girls are the biggest pain in the neck at camp. Girls in the sense that they are under 21, several under 18, and all think they rule the place. Actually, that's not true. Only two think they rule the place. The one over 18 doesn't want to work, wants all the perks and none of the responsibilities and feels she has the right to dictate how the other girls in her cabin live, behave, work. The other girl, under 18 is a bit more of a follower, so she could be salvaged if the big mouth was gone. Worse is when we confront them, oh, the water works. Girls crying is very upsetting to boys 23 and under. Even when they know the girls are trying to be manipulative, it still tears them up. The leadership has stood strong so far this week, but it wears on them and you can tell.
Already we have had some real bright spots. These boys work so hard and show such joy in simple things. We went to see a drive in movie last night as the end of staff week reward, Over the Hedge and Mission Impossible. I went home after over the hedge. What a delight! So funny.
The kitchen staff has convinced the administration that they will not under any circumstances allow any activities in the dining hall other than meals (which is not true, but I'm proud of the way these kids keep straight faces when the program director asks them) and are secretly planning a big party for the staff later this summer.
The room for the Director on Duty has been decorated in all Superman sheets, blankets and posters in honor of our Super Hero radio call signs. I am Rouge, by the way. I can suck the life right out of you with just a touch... The camp director is Professor X. There is also Storm, The Thing, Kal-El, The Tick, Underdog, The Hulk, Gambit, Wolverine, Human Torch, Mr. Fantastic, Iceman, The Punnisher and Mighty Mouse.
As of right now 50 people were certified in CPR and First Aid according to the new American Heart Association standards that were released this year. I found great satisfaction in being able to tell people that is they fell asleep I would make them leave (and that being true!). Better yet was watching the kids police each other on that kind of issue. Warms a teachers heart and all that...
So, week one starts Sunday, with campers arriving on Sunday at 1:00 PM. We are supposed to get internet on Wednesday, otherwise I'll have to wait till next Saturday.
Tuesday, May 30, 2006
Shattering the illusions of children
So camp has started.
A student of mine from last year, a very good student who apparently really enjoyed my class, is working at camp this summer. He works in the kitchen for my great friend Mark.
Mark and I have a kind of, okay agressively, flirty relationship. He's 50 and not at his best health and I am 30 and very active healthy, so it's all talk. It has become a staple of camp entertainment to listen to Mark and I go at it. The first one to blush looses... (No matter what you are imagining, I promise it's worse...) Yes, I usually win...
The kinds of things I say at camp in those situations are nothing a student would have ever heard me (or hopefully any other teacher) say at school. It's kind of freeing to be brazen like that at camp. It's safe, because they all know me, love me, accept me and know I am not in any way serious. See here's the thing...
I don't believe in sex outside of marriage, experiminting with drugs, being drunk, hurting people or lying. Or more correctly I believe they exisit, I simply try hard to live my life without those issues. I have always lived my life that way, always...
So, for me to be wanton and brazen and flirty like that at camp is really funny and I get to be completely outrageous.
The point is, this kid had been my student a bit over a year ago. When he got to camp, Mark told his entire staff, "what happens in camp, stays in camp." but he pulled this kid aside and especially explained to him that this was my safe place and most people wouldn't understand that and that he should keep anything he learns about me or sees to himself for the sake of my privacy as a teacher back at school. The kid seemed fine with that. He is actually still fine with that...
It's just that since then, Mark has delighted in dredging up stories of a couple of my really outrageous moments, just to watch this kid's eyes pop. It is rather funny, but I almost feel kind of bad about it. The funniest part was after Mark goes on and on a bit, another kid says (getting into the game and all)
"We know you just love Sandy for her pot." (I have a antique, cast iron, dutch oven that I have promised to give to Mark someday. He truly covets it...)
This poor kid went white as a sheet, turned his face to me in pure terror,
"YOU SMOKE POT TOO!?!?!?!?!?!"
We laughed for some time (after making sure he understood the statement for what it really meant.)
Several of the other staff have come to tell me that this kid was bragging about how he really knew me and he had been my student and I was his favorite teacher and they told him that unless he worked up here with me he didn't know me at all and poor boy, now they've convinced him.
It was terribly funny to see, though.
A student of mine from last year, a very good student who apparently really enjoyed my class, is working at camp this summer. He works in the kitchen for my great friend Mark.
Mark and I have a kind of, okay agressively, flirty relationship. He's 50 and not at his best health and I am 30 and very active healthy, so it's all talk. It has become a staple of camp entertainment to listen to Mark and I go at it. The first one to blush looses... (No matter what you are imagining, I promise it's worse...) Yes, I usually win...
The kinds of things I say at camp in those situations are nothing a student would have ever heard me (or hopefully any other teacher) say at school. It's kind of freeing to be brazen like that at camp. It's safe, because they all know me, love me, accept me and know I am not in any way serious. See here's the thing...
I don't believe in sex outside of marriage, experiminting with drugs, being drunk, hurting people or lying. Or more correctly I believe they exisit, I simply try hard to live my life without those issues. I have always lived my life that way, always...
So, for me to be wanton and brazen and flirty like that at camp is really funny and I get to be completely outrageous.
The point is, this kid had been my student a bit over a year ago. When he got to camp, Mark told his entire staff, "what happens in camp, stays in camp." but he pulled this kid aside and especially explained to him that this was my safe place and most people wouldn't understand that and that he should keep anything he learns about me or sees to himself for the sake of my privacy as a teacher back at school. The kid seemed fine with that. He is actually still fine with that...
It's just that since then, Mark has delighted in dredging up stories of a couple of my really outrageous moments, just to watch this kid's eyes pop. It is rather funny, but I almost feel kind of bad about it. The funniest part was after Mark goes on and on a bit, another kid says (getting into the game and all)
"We know you just love Sandy for her pot." (I have a antique, cast iron, dutch oven that I have promised to give to Mark someday. He truly covets it...)
This poor kid went white as a sheet, turned his face to me in pure terror,
"YOU SMOKE POT TOO!?!?!?!?!?!"
We laughed for some time (after making sure he understood the statement for what it really meant.)
Several of the other staff have come to tell me that this kid was bragging about how he really knew me and he had been my student and I was his favorite teacher and they told him that unless he worked up here with me he didn't know me at all and poor boy, now they've convinced him.
It was terribly funny to see, though.
Friday, May 26, 2006
The last of the school laments for this school year
Grades are finished. Every point counted, cataloged, organized and recorded. 75 lives, 85 if you count my team taught special education served children (and I do) all summed up with numbers and percentages. It's rather sad in a way.
My first and third periods did wonderfully well, as I imagined and hoped they would. My second period, my bane this semester, was another story. This class was my heartbreak this year. So much talent, ability and creativity. So much wasted.
Some I was able to "save" or reach or whatever you call it. Some at least did well enough that they can go to intersession... They do 30 hours of course work this summer and we bring their grade to passing. Kids that fail at that range most often do for lack of effort/work/discipline, so the tactic is useful and effective. Additionally kids who know the skills, but fail usually do worse the next time because they become even more bored and continue to fail.
The part that killed me today was one (okay there are a couple others, I'll get to them) young lady. Beautiful, talented, capable. She blew off work for the last six weeks. Even racing to catch up it was almost too little too late. Her standardized end of course test score however was so high she passed with a 72%. Didn't even have to do intersession. I spoke to her about my disappointment with her choices and my hopes for her. She was very apologetic, hugged me hard and was on her way for the summer. She didn't understand. She felt badly because I was upset with her, she doesn't see why I am upset. I fear the day she understands what she costs herself.
Another young man has had the year from hell. He was only just placed with foster parents this past month. Up until then, we had managed to keep him passing. This month however he realized that he would not pass enough of his classes to go on to 10th grade. So he gave up. Law requires that he come to school as a foster kid, but he stopped working. He was even up front about it. He plans to drop out at 16 and get GED (only four months away). He should have passed my class, but simply stopped.
Another boy spent the past year working hard to get himself out of special education. Now that he is, he stopped trying at all. So now, with no SpEd nets, (and he can't go back) he will/has failed 9th grade. Why?
These kids just absolutely wound me at moments like these. By this time next week, I'll be so busy at camp I'll not remember to remember and be bothered about it. But when school starts and I see some of the same faces again it will come back.
That question.
Was there something else I could have done to get through to them?
and
Please, God, isn't there someone who can?
My first and third periods did wonderfully well, as I imagined and hoped they would. My second period, my bane this semester, was another story. This class was my heartbreak this year. So much talent, ability and creativity. So much wasted.
Some I was able to "save" or reach or whatever you call it. Some at least did well enough that they can go to intersession... They do 30 hours of course work this summer and we bring their grade to passing. Kids that fail at that range most often do for lack of effort/work/discipline, so the tactic is useful and effective. Additionally kids who know the skills, but fail usually do worse the next time because they become even more bored and continue to fail.
The part that killed me today was one (okay there are a couple others, I'll get to them) young lady. Beautiful, talented, capable. She blew off work for the last six weeks. Even racing to catch up it was almost too little too late. Her standardized end of course test score however was so high she passed with a 72%. Didn't even have to do intersession. I spoke to her about my disappointment with her choices and my hopes for her. She was very apologetic, hugged me hard and was on her way for the summer. She didn't understand. She felt badly because I was upset with her, she doesn't see why I am upset. I fear the day she understands what she costs herself.
Another young man has had the year from hell. He was only just placed with foster parents this past month. Up until then, we had managed to keep him passing. This month however he realized that he would not pass enough of his classes to go on to 10th grade. So he gave up. Law requires that he come to school as a foster kid, but he stopped working. He was even up front about it. He plans to drop out at 16 and get GED (only four months away). He should have passed my class, but simply stopped.
Another boy spent the past year working hard to get himself out of special education. Now that he is, he stopped trying at all. So now, with no SpEd nets, (and he can't go back) he will/has failed 9th grade. Why?
These kids just absolutely wound me at moments like these. By this time next week, I'll be so busy at camp I'll not remember to remember and be bothered about it. But when school starts and I see some of the same faces again it will come back.
That question.
Was there something else I could have done to get through to them?
and
Please, God, isn't there someone who can?
Thursday, May 25, 2006
Tick Head!
So I'm standing outside, monitoring cars and I ran my hand through my short, newly chopped hair and I felt something. I squeezed with my fingers and it came out. Then I felt it move. I tried to pull it out of my hair completely, but when I got my fingers through it was gone.
I ran for the school nurse.
"Yep, there's a hole there. The good news is the head is out."
Then she checked my scalp to make sure it was the only one and/or that it hadn't replanted somewhere. We didn't find anything. Later I found the tick in my hair (because now I was compulsively running my fingers through it) and beat it to a pulp on my desk.
This morning the nurse again checked my scalp for a "bulls eye" or sign of infection. I'm clean.
I hate ticks.
I'm not even at camp yet.
What is up with that!?!
I ran for the school nurse.
"Yep, there's a hole there. The good news is the head is out."
Then she checked my scalp to make sure it was the only one and/or that it hadn't replanted somewhere. We didn't find anything. Later I found the tick in my hair (because now I was compulsively running my fingers through it) and beat it to a pulp on my desk.
This morning the nurse again checked my scalp for a "bulls eye" or sign of infection. I'm clean.
I hate ticks.
I'm not even at camp yet.
What is up with that!?!
Wednesday, May 24, 2006
This is all Bea's Fault. I'm going to bed now!
| You Should Be a Film Writer |
 You don't just create compelling stories, you see them as clearly as a movie in your mind. You have a knack for details and dialogue. You can really make a character come to life. Chances are, you enjoy creating all types of stories. The joy is in the storytelling. And nothing would please you more than millions of people seeing your story on the big screen! |
Probably the last one...
| Your Hair Should Be Red |
 |
Indigo Girl (I've gone a little test happy)
| You Are Indigo |
 Of all the shades of blue, you are the most funky, unique, and independent. Expressing yourself and taking a leap of faith has always been easy for you. |
Say what?
As is tradition, I chopped my hair before ascending to camp. It is now slightly above my chin in long (golden red and occasional blonde) layers. Think Molly Ringwald in the Breakfast club, but no short bangs in front. The children were all in a tissy about it.
I figured it must look pretty good when the adorable single coach who uses my room fourth period not only said it looked nice, he stopped, stared and said it a couple of times...
Anyway. Not the point of the story...
My earlier referenced student, the one who called me an "undiscovered jem" wandered into class. Dropped his books. Ran over to me.
"Oh, Miss X! I love your hair. It is so immaculate!"
I asked him if he meant to say that. Did he know what immaculate meant.
"Oh, yes ma'am!"
"Clean and Pure?" (Yes, I know of other synonyms, these two were safest...)
"Oh yes, ma'am! It is so immaculate. I just love it!"
OK.
(Somewhere, my physics teacher, and his theory about my "Madonna Complex" is laughing himself hoarse. To be honest, I excused myself to the restroom, so this poor boy wouldn't be hurt, and did the same thing.)
I figured it must look pretty good when the adorable single coach who uses my room fourth period not only said it looked nice, he stopped, stared and said it a couple of times...
Anyway. Not the point of the story...
My earlier referenced student, the one who called me an "undiscovered jem" wandered into class. Dropped his books. Ran over to me.
"Oh, Miss X! I love your hair. It is so immaculate!"
I asked him if he meant to say that. Did he know what immaculate meant.
"Oh, yes ma'am!"
"Clean and Pure?" (Yes, I know of other synonyms, these two were safest...)
"Oh yes, ma'am! It is so immaculate. I just love it!"
OK.
(Somewhere, my physics teacher, and his theory about my "Madonna Complex" is laughing himself hoarse. To be honest, I excused myself to the restroom, so this poor boy wouldn't be hurt, and did the same thing.)
Not impressed
It is always upsetting to me to find out that something is not what I thought it was. Specifically when it pertains to people praying on others good intentions.
I'm hoping that this situation is not the case, but I have a bad feeling that it is. I admire this young lady for doing some homework. Even if it turns out she's wrong (which doing some homework myself, I have a bad feeling she isn't) the fact that she checked is admirable. It is also a shame because what does it say about our world when children need to be that kind of cynical and be admired for their ability to uncover dishonesty?
My team teacher donated to this group. A good friend of mine is about to. I hope they are very clear on what they are doing, what their options are and who they are helping. That is neither a statement for or against an organization, simply a hope that they make the best decision based on the most accurate info.
So, if you are completely confused about what I am talking about, go here.
What has the world come to?
I'm hoping that this situation is not the case, but I have a bad feeling that it is. I admire this young lady for doing some homework. Even if it turns out she's wrong (which doing some homework myself, I have a bad feeling she isn't) the fact that she checked is admirable. It is also a shame because what does it say about our world when children need to be that kind of cynical and be admired for their ability to uncover dishonesty?
My team teacher donated to this group. A good friend of mine is about to. I hope they are very clear on what they are doing, what their options are and who they are helping. That is neither a statement for or against an organization, simply a hope that they make the best decision based on the most accurate info.
So, if you are completely confused about what I am talking about, go here.
What has the world come to?
Tuesday, May 23, 2006
This was not what I was expecting... It's kind of depressing really....
| You Are a Glazed Donut |
 Okay, you know that you're plain - and you're cool with that. You prefer not to let anything distract from your sweetness. Your appeal is understated yet universal. Everyone digs you. And in a pinch, you'll probably get eaten. |
You can pick your friends...
So today is Tuesday and I only have to look at this particular set of angels for three more days. On a couple of them that may be three days too many.
Worse, I have to look at my face in the mirror.
I am breaking out like a 13 year old the day before her period. This is not good.
Normally my skin and I have a good relationship. I clean, buff and moisturizer regularly, though not compulsively and it glows and stays soft for me. I have huge pores on my nose and cheeks, but I can't do anything about that, and with make up they aren't so bad. Really, I have few if any complaints.
When I was younger I thought I had awful skin because it was so pale and freckled. I also had the big pore thing even then. My mom's skin (also with big pores) was actually rough to the touch and I figured I was headed that way too. So I complained about my skin and did not like it. Also, while I did not have acne, I would get at least one massive pimple a month that would take weeks to heal.
My perception changed in college for two reasons. 1) My brother had acne. The real kind. The pimples on top of pimples kind. He worked as the burger flipper at Wendy's which made it worse. I would come home to visit and when he hugged me I had to concentrate on how much I missed him and try not to think about the masses of bumps on his face. He was actually a good kid about it. He never picked or squeezed, so he only has scars under his chin and on his neck where you can't really see them. 2) A friend of mine took me to task for complaining about my skin when all the girls I hung out with were jealous of it.
That was a real moment for me. Apparently I was the only one who ever saw the zits (and yes, they were there, I didn't imagine them!) Also, as I was so careful about sun damage and did use a more consistent regimen than most, my skin was very soft and smooth. As to the pores, no one seems to care that they are there and they don't show up in pictures.
I hate it when thin girls complain about their bodies when I am struggling to simply stay below the grossly obese line (chubby, soft, curvy, I can handle those, it's just words like morbidly and gross that daunt me...). Suddenly I saw myself on the other side of that equation. I have therefore never complained about my skin out loud since.
Until this weekend. This is awful! I even tried to convince myself that again, no one could see it. No such luck. My step mother asked when I saw her on Saturday if I needed to blow my nose. I said no. Why? Well there's this thing under your nose. Then she offered to help me get the food off my face. Nope, Step-Mom, those are zits too. Thanks. I feel much more secure now.
It is a bit better today, and I hope it was just a stress/PMS/exercise reaction. Otherwise, this could be a long summer.
Yes, I know that this is all way more information than most of you wanted to hear. It was all I could think to write about as I have been obsessing about it for three days. I decided not to write yesterday. I figured you wouldn't want to know. But by today, it's still all that's on my mind, so....
Worse, I have to look at my face in the mirror.
I am breaking out like a 13 year old the day before her period. This is not good.
Normally my skin and I have a good relationship. I clean, buff and moisturizer regularly, though not compulsively and it glows and stays soft for me. I have huge pores on my nose and cheeks, but I can't do anything about that, and with make up they aren't so bad. Really, I have few if any complaints.
When I was younger I thought I had awful skin because it was so pale and freckled. I also had the big pore thing even then. My mom's skin (also with big pores) was actually rough to the touch and I figured I was headed that way too. So I complained about my skin and did not like it. Also, while I did not have acne, I would get at least one massive pimple a month that would take weeks to heal.
My perception changed in college for two reasons. 1) My brother had acne. The real kind. The pimples on top of pimples kind. He worked as the burger flipper at Wendy's which made it worse. I would come home to visit and when he hugged me I had to concentrate on how much I missed him and try not to think about the masses of bumps on his face. He was actually a good kid about it. He never picked or squeezed, so he only has scars under his chin and on his neck where you can't really see them. 2) A friend of mine took me to task for complaining about my skin when all the girls I hung out with were jealous of it.
That was a real moment for me. Apparently I was the only one who ever saw the zits (and yes, they were there, I didn't imagine them!) Also, as I was so careful about sun damage and did use a more consistent regimen than most, my skin was very soft and smooth. As to the pores, no one seems to care that they are there and they don't show up in pictures.
I hate it when thin girls complain about their bodies when I am struggling to simply stay below the grossly obese line (chubby, soft, curvy, I can handle those, it's just words like morbidly and gross that daunt me...). Suddenly I saw myself on the other side of that equation. I have therefore never complained about my skin out loud since.
Until this weekend. This is awful! I even tried to convince myself that again, no one could see it. No such luck. My step mother asked when I saw her on Saturday if I needed to blow my nose. I said no. Why? Well there's this thing under your nose. Then she offered to help me get the food off my face. Nope, Step-Mom, those are zits too. Thanks. I feel much more secure now.
It is a bit better today, and I hope it was just a stress/PMS/exercise reaction. Otherwise, this could be a long summer.
Yes, I know that this is all way more information than most of you wanted to hear. It was all I could think to write about as I have been obsessing about it for three days. I decided not to write yesterday. I figured you wouldn't want to know. But by today, it's still all that's on my mind, so....
Friday, May 19, 2006
Frustration Station
50% of my second period class is failing. This is not good. They are failing because they did not do their homework. It is not my fault. I warned them, I tried to help them, they did not fix the problem. This is not my fault.
But as their teacher, it makes me look bad. There is no way around that. Most of my heart wants them to fail so that they learn the consequences of bad choices. My head tells me, however, that I need to find a way for more of them to pass.
I went to see my administrator about it (he is the best I have ever worked for and a personal favorite/friend). I told him my dilemma. He said I needed to do what I needed to do. I pointed out that if the child was passing the end of course test, while I did not want to reward bad behavior, they would be better served to be moved onto the next level as the test indicated mastery of the class skills regardless of homework. I asked him if I should do that.
He told me it was my class and I needed to do what I thought needed to be done. (He wasn't being manipulative at all, he was telling me to be the teacher and make the decisions.)
So I said, "Do you trust me to make the right decision?"
He laughed and said, "If I didn't I'd call Nana and tell her to set you straight. If I was really worried I'd call your Daddy."
It was what I needed to hear. This is my job and I can do it.
If you have no money and I give you a million dollars in cash, but you choose to walk away from it, then it is your choice to be broke. These students are choosing to fail. A few of them may get bumped up slightly if they were really close and got a passing score on the end of course test, mandated by the state, but the rest, I will let fail.
And regardless of my speech, and emotional detachment, it will keep me up for a few nights.
As soon as class is over I am driving down home to visit my adopted family and my Dad. I'm looking forward to it, but I'll be calling parents on the drive and I am not looking forward to that.
Eight Days until I am at camp.
But as their teacher, it makes me look bad. There is no way around that. Most of my heart wants them to fail so that they learn the consequences of bad choices. My head tells me, however, that I need to find a way for more of them to pass.
I went to see my administrator about it (he is the best I have ever worked for and a personal favorite/friend). I told him my dilemma. He said I needed to do what I needed to do. I pointed out that if the child was passing the end of course test, while I did not want to reward bad behavior, they would be better served to be moved onto the next level as the test indicated mastery of the class skills regardless of homework. I asked him if I should do that.
He told me it was my class and I needed to do what I thought needed to be done. (He wasn't being manipulative at all, he was telling me to be the teacher and make the decisions.)
So I said, "Do you trust me to make the right decision?"
He laughed and said, "If I didn't I'd call Nana and tell her to set you straight. If I was really worried I'd call your Daddy."
It was what I needed to hear. This is my job and I can do it.
If you have no money and I give you a million dollars in cash, but you choose to walk away from it, then it is your choice to be broke. These students are choosing to fail. A few of them may get bumped up slightly if they were really close and got a passing score on the end of course test, mandated by the state, but the rest, I will let fail.
And regardless of my speech, and emotional detachment, it will keep me up for a few nights.
As soon as class is over I am driving down home to visit my adopted family and my Dad. I'm looking forward to it, but I'll be calling parents on the drive and I am not looking forward to that.
Eight Days until I am at camp.
Thursday, May 18, 2006
May Flowers from Showers
Today I am hosting the shower at school for two of my heavily pregnant co-workers. Bless their swollen bellies.
Teachers usually tend to have their children in the summer or at X-mas time. Occasionally you have a Spring Breaker. Or lives revolve around convenient ways to step out with out causing riots in our classrooms.
Our Assistant Principal gave birth this morning. Bless her... Well her you know, I imagine it hurts right now. She has had a rough pregnancy. This is her second (and last according to her). She was in a back and belly brace for the last two months. Also, and I promise to stop here, I thought hemorrhoids were only in one place. Apparently pregnant women can get them in two places. OMG! Ouch. So bless her.... Poor dear. But I've already seen the picture and what a beautiful little girl.
Do you really forget all about the pain? Somehow I can't imagine that is true. I have a very high threshold, but a very long memory.
My Dad was a terrific single parent, and I have met other terrific single parents (some who became that way through no fault of their own, others who chose that), but I guess I've always figured that the best set up is two parents.
Mother is fond of calling me and pointing out that my eggs are aging (I'm only 30 for crying out loud!) and there isn't nearly the stigma associated with children outside of wedlock that there used to be. I told my Dad that if I truly wanted to get my mom out of the bad situation she is in all I had to do was get pregnant and she'd move here in a heartbeat. Dad said she'd get here in time for the funeral.
Also, I find pregnancy fascinating. Really. It's been neat to have a close friend that I see everyday who is pregnant so I can almost live vicariously. Luckily she is very out going and open and loves me enough that she talks to me, lets me feel and tells me stuff without me even asking (or being afraid to ask) anymore. I would love to be pregnant. But here's the thing.
I wouldn't do it with out being married and being sure I was going to be able to stay married forever. Much to Mom's horror and despair. For a couple reasons.
1) Two parents are best. Already explained that. Moving on.
2) As a teacher I cannot justify the example of pregnancy outside of marriage. How can I teach or endorse abstinence for my students? Even if I went IVF, how would they know that? Granted now a days there are teachers that do and they can't be fired for it anymore, but if I had a daughter in a teacher's class and that happened, I'd ask my daughter to be pulled from that class. Also having said that I have many friends I love, adore and support who have gone this route. This is just a me thing, I think.
3) I'd be more comfortable being a parent if my mother was dead.
I imagine three makes me sound like a jerk and I won't explain, really, at least not today, but my brother is in about the same boat, though he and his wife plan to adopt, eventually, so it's not just me.
I do think about adopting. That's another kettle of fish. These are kids who have no one, so in their case, one parent is better than nothing. In this case I am also speaking of kids that are not necessarily infants. The kids that are hard to place. I could be a good mom to those kids. I imagine as a single woman they (as in the adoptive powers that be) might prefer I therefore was given a girl. That's fine. It is funny that I have more an affinity for boys, but I mentor several girls right now, so...
I figure when I'm 35, and still single, if Nana is squared a way, and I can also purchase a house, and am financially stable, I'll look into it. (And when I get a castle and a pony... to look at, not ride mind you... and date a rock star... There is no perfect time for kids, I know, I just know I am not ready now...)
But I'd still like to be pregnant, just to know what it's like.
My co-worker friend has also begun to terrorize me lately with the stories of her first two deliveries which followed no pattern, were not expected, and her water always broke in strange, public places. As her fellow teacher, I now live in fear. She says she is going to visit me at camp in late June (less than a month beofre due date). I want her to visit. We would have such fun, but I am the medic up there and the senarios flashing through my head are both humorous and terrifying. I do hope (and think) she will visit. Maybe we could scare the snot out of all those poor boys. The possibilities are endless.
Twenty year old (single) boys find pregnant women terrifying. Partly because they are afraid the fertility might rub off on them and then onto their girlfriends, partly because they have seen too many TV shows where babies were born in elevators and partly because well they are boys... Like I said, that would be fun to watch for a couple days.
Sorry, guess there was no point or direction to this blog, just brain wandering. I'll try to remember another one of my stupid and strange injuries and post again later.
Teachers usually tend to have their children in the summer or at X-mas time. Occasionally you have a Spring Breaker. Or lives revolve around convenient ways to step out with out causing riots in our classrooms.
Our Assistant Principal gave birth this morning. Bless her... Well her you know, I imagine it hurts right now. She has had a rough pregnancy. This is her second (and last according to her). She was in a back and belly brace for the last two months. Also, and I promise to stop here, I thought hemorrhoids were only in one place. Apparently pregnant women can get them in two places. OMG! Ouch. So bless her.... Poor dear. But I've already seen the picture and what a beautiful little girl.
Do you really forget all about the pain? Somehow I can't imagine that is true. I have a very high threshold, but a very long memory.
My Dad was a terrific single parent, and I have met other terrific single parents (some who became that way through no fault of their own, others who chose that), but I guess I've always figured that the best set up is two parents.
Mother is fond of calling me and pointing out that my eggs are aging (I'm only 30 for crying out loud!) and there isn't nearly the stigma associated with children outside of wedlock that there used to be. I told my Dad that if I truly wanted to get my mom out of the bad situation she is in all I had to do was get pregnant and she'd move here in a heartbeat. Dad said she'd get here in time for the funeral.
Also, I find pregnancy fascinating. Really. It's been neat to have a close friend that I see everyday who is pregnant so I can almost live vicariously. Luckily she is very out going and open and loves me enough that she talks to me, lets me feel and tells me stuff without me even asking (or being afraid to ask) anymore. I would love to be pregnant. But here's the thing.
I wouldn't do it with out being married and being sure I was going to be able to stay married forever. Much to Mom's horror and despair. For a couple reasons.
1) Two parents are best. Already explained that. Moving on.
2) As a teacher I cannot justify the example of pregnancy outside of marriage. How can I teach or endorse abstinence for my students? Even if I went IVF, how would they know that? Granted now a days there are teachers that do and they can't be fired for it anymore, but if I had a daughter in a teacher's class and that happened, I'd ask my daughter to be pulled from that class. Also having said that I have many friends I love, adore and support who have gone this route. This is just a me thing, I think.
3) I'd be more comfortable being a parent if my mother was dead.
I imagine three makes me sound like a jerk and I won't explain, really, at least not today, but my brother is in about the same boat, though he and his wife plan to adopt, eventually, so it's not just me.
I do think about adopting. That's another kettle of fish. These are kids who have no one, so in their case, one parent is better than nothing. In this case I am also speaking of kids that are not necessarily infants. The kids that are hard to place. I could be a good mom to those kids. I imagine as a single woman they (as in the adoptive powers that be) might prefer I therefore was given a girl. That's fine. It is funny that I have more an affinity for boys, but I mentor several girls right now, so...
I figure when I'm 35, and still single, if Nana is squared a way, and I can also purchase a house, and am financially stable, I'll look into it. (And when I get a castle and a pony... to look at, not ride mind you... and date a rock star... There is no perfect time for kids, I know, I just know I am not ready now...)
But I'd still like to be pregnant, just to know what it's like.
My co-worker friend has also begun to terrorize me lately with the stories of her first two deliveries which followed no pattern, were not expected, and her water always broke in strange, public places. As her fellow teacher, I now live in fear. She says she is going to visit me at camp in late June (less than a month beofre due date). I want her to visit. We would have such fun, but I am the medic up there and the senarios flashing through my head are both humorous and terrifying. I do hope (and think) she will visit. Maybe we could scare the snot out of all those poor boys. The possibilities are endless.
Twenty year old (single) boys find pregnant women terrifying. Partly because they are afraid the fertility might rub off on them and then onto their girlfriends, partly because they have seen too many TV shows where babies were born in elevators and partly because well they are boys... Like I said, that would be fun to watch for a couple days.
Sorry, guess there was no point or direction to this blog, just brain wandering. I'll try to remember another one of my stupid and strange injuries and post again later.
Wednesday, May 17, 2006
Another Story
The other most painful incident happened at camp two years ago this memorial day weekend. It was my first official day as camp medic.
We were in the dining hall finishing up really saucy wings for lunch and talking to the staff about nature safety.
Just that morning, I had been yanked from my files with the call, "Hey Sandy, come quick. Adam's been bitten by a snake and Bobby's out back trying to figure out whether it is poisonous or not." OK.
"What did the snake that bit him look like."
"This!" and a clear plastic bag full of a huge snake was held in front of me as I sat down to examine Adam's bite.
"You brought a dead, possibly poisonous snake into my medlodge?"
"Oh, it's not dead!" YIKES!
"Where were you when it bit you, Adam?"
"On my hands and knees reaching down into it's hole after it. I wanted it for our snake tank for reptile class."
Yeah. Thank God it wasn't poisonous. Anyway (this factors in to the story in a minute.)
So now it's lunch and the nature department is going over things to avoid, etc. I look over and see my friend Charles covered head to foot in BBQ sauce.
"I need a moist towellette" he laughs.
I, being the helpful young thing that I am, jumped up and ran into the kitchen to get him something to clean up with. I see a towel lying on the counter and a huge sink full of tepid, clear water. So I take the rag, plunge it and my arm, up to my elbow into the water.
Let me tell you about industrial kitchens. Cleaning dishes is a process. First you rinse and soap, then you wash again, then you clean rinse and then you sterilize. You can sterilize one of two ways. Cold water with chemicals or boiling water that is boiled by a mechanism in the sink. The water is maintained at minimum 180 degrees at all times.
Yes, I am that stupid.
The boiler had literally just been turned off and so because the water was still, there was less steam to alert me to the problem. Besides, I was in a hurry and not really paying attention.
The second my hand hit the water my attention became focused. Yea Gods, my attention was focused!
I jerked my arm back out and shook it off. For a split second I thought I might be OK. I ran for the faucet and turned on the cold water and held my hand and arm in the cool flow. Then I noticed my silver ring on my right ring finger. I yanked it off. It was still so hot I dropped it in the sink. Then the skin where the ring was began to bubble and the skin on the back of my hand began to wrinkle. One of the kitchen boys brought me a bucket full of ice and water and I plunged my hand into it. Then I grabbed the cooling towel off the floor, and walked back into the dining area. I handed the towel to Charles and sat down with my ice bucket. Charles and another friend Stephen, sitting next to him asked quietly if I was OK. I said, um, no and showed them my hand. I pointed with my chin toward the food prep area and I think they figured it out or something.
Then I hear,
"Sandy, is there anything else you want to add to today's comments, in light of the incident this morning."
"Uh, yeah, could would please not put our hands in places when we don't know what is actually down those holes..."
I got an attack of the giggles and sat down. Thirty minutes later I was in admin still dragging my bucket and the back of my hand now a mass of blisters up to my wrist.
My Dad called and I answered the phone. Eventually he asked me what was wrong, my voice sounded funny/tight to him, and I told him.
"And you aren't in the emergency room yet because?"
"It's only mild second degree Dad. Not much they can do about it anyway."
"What if this was one of the kids?"
"Well obviously I'd take them."
"So you aren't in the emergency room because?"
"Fine."
So I called Stephen down at the trading post and he came up and drove me to the ER. I was fine until they took my bucket away from me. Then they put the Silvadine Ointment on my hand. Now I was really not okay. The weight of the ointment was excruciating. Now I was sobbing in pain.
Poor Stephen. The whole way home he kept trying to cheer me up. Nothing was working. As we got closer to the camp I started trying to pull myself together, I figured I while we were going to be a couple minutes late to the nightly director's meeting at least we wouldn't miss all of it and I didn't want to walk in all weepy. Stephen watched this transformation like I had lost my mind.
At camp I am notorious for my ability to make the boys blush, especially Stephen. I heard later that he told another friend that he would take me and my ability to do that every day of the week and twice on Sunday over having to deal with me crying ever again. And yet it was the fact that I had a meeting that got me to pull it together.
Two years later, the pattern of my Celtic ring is still branded into that finger. I've worn a ring on that finger for over a decade as a symbol of a choice I made. I often worry about the fact that God burned it into my finger.
The staff still teases me everytime I walk though the dishwashing section of the kitchen.
"Now Sandy, I know this is gonna be hard, but please don't put your hand in the sterilizing sink."
Yeah, thanks.
We were in the dining hall finishing up really saucy wings for lunch and talking to the staff about nature safety.
Just that morning, I had been yanked from my files with the call, "Hey Sandy, come quick. Adam's been bitten by a snake and Bobby's out back trying to figure out whether it is poisonous or not." OK.
"What did the snake that bit him look like."
"This!" and a clear plastic bag full of a huge snake was held in front of me as I sat down to examine Adam's bite.
"You brought a dead, possibly poisonous snake into my medlodge?"
"Oh, it's not dead!" YIKES!
"Where were you when it bit you, Adam?"
"On my hands and knees reaching down into it's hole after it. I wanted it for our snake tank for reptile class."
Yeah. Thank God it wasn't poisonous. Anyway (this factors in to the story in a minute.)
So now it's lunch and the nature department is going over things to avoid, etc. I look over and see my friend Charles covered head to foot in BBQ sauce.
"I need a moist towellette" he laughs.
I, being the helpful young thing that I am, jumped up and ran into the kitchen to get him something to clean up with. I see a towel lying on the counter and a huge sink full of tepid, clear water. So I take the rag, plunge it and my arm, up to my elbow into the water.
Let me tell you about industrial kitchens. Cleaning dishes is a process. First you rinse and soap, then you wash again, then you clean rinse and then you sterilize. You can sterilize one of two ways. Cold water with chemicals or boiling water that is boiled by a mechanism in the sink. The water is maintained at minimum 180 degrees at all times.
Yes, I am that stupid.
The boiler had literally just been turned off and so because the water was still, there was less steam to alert me to the problem. Besides, I was in a hurry and not really paying attention.
The second my hand hit the water my attention became focused. Yea Gods, my attention was focused!
I jerked my arm back out and shook it off. For a split second I thought I might be OK. I ran for the faucet and turned on the cold water and held my hand and arm in the cool flow. Then I noticed my silver ring on my right ring finger. I yanked it off. It was still so hot I dropped it in the sink. Then the skin where the ring was began to bubble and the skin on the back of my hand began to wrinkle. One of the kitchen boys brought me a bucket full of ice and water and I plunged my hand into it. Then I grabbed the cooling towel off the floor, and walked back into the dining area. I handed the towel to Charles and sat down with my ice bucket. Charles and another friend Stephen, sitting next to him asked quietly if I was OK. I said, um, no and showed them my hand. I pointed with my chin toward the food prep area and I think they figured it out or something.
Then I hear,
"Sandy, is there anything else you want to add to today's comments, in light of the incident this morning."
"Uh, yeah, could would please not put our hands in places when we don't know what is actually down those holes..."
I got an attack of the giggles and sat down. Thirty minutes later I was in admin still dragging my bucket and the back of my hand now a mass of blisters up to my wrist.
My Dad called and I answered the phone. Eventually he asked me what was wrong, my voice sounded funny/tight to him, and I told him.
"And you aren't in the emergency room yet because?"
"It's only mild second degree Dad. Not much they can do about it anyway."
"What if this was one of the kids?"
"Well obviously I'd take them."
"So you aren't in the emergency room because?"
"Fine."
So I called Stephen down at the trading post and he came up and drove me to the ER. I was fine until they took my bucket away from me. Then they put the Silvadine Ointment on my hand. Now I was really not okay. The weight of the ointment was excruciating. Now I was sobbing in pain.
Poor Stephen. The whole way home he kept trying to cheer me up. Nothing was working. As we got closer to the camp I started trying to pull myself together, I figured I while we were going to be a couple minutes late to the nightly director's meeting at least we wouldn't miss all of it and I didn't want to walk in all weepy. Stephen watched this transformation like I had lost my mind.
At camp I am notorious for my ability to make the boys blush, especially Stephen. I heard later that he told another friend that he would take me and my ability to do that every day of the week and twice on Sunday over having to deal with me crying ever again. And yet it was the fact that I had a meeting that got me to pull it together.
Two years later, the pattern of my Celtic ring is still branded into that finger. I've worn a ring on that finger for over a decade as a symbol of a choice I made. I often worry about the fact that God burned it into my finger.
The staff still teases me everytime I walk though the dishwashing section of the kitchen.
"Now Sandy, I know this is gonna be hard, but please don't put your hand in the sterilizing sink."
Yeah, thanks.
Story Time! Why Sandy doesn't like horses.
I can tell that today is going to be a story day. The kids are working on a short story publishing project (for end of the year busy-ness) and as I listen to them talk as they work I think of stories. Most of them are true. Most of them happened to me. Most of them are ridiculous, but like I said, they happened to me.
To start. The story of how I broke my humorous.
Now normally I don't know dates on stories, just general seasons, etc, but this one I know exactly what day and year it happened. In a minute you'll see why.
The whole mess started on a Friday afternoon, January 31, 2003. This was the day before we lost the space shuttle over Texas that also carried the Israeli astronaut. (That incident is not actually related to the story, but it happened that same weekend...) My father's mother, G'ma as I called her, had been a widow just over five years and had been failing herself for the past two.
Now G'ma was a wonderful lady and I loved her dearly, but she was difficult at best. More often than not she was an onrey "steam roller" as Dad and I affectionately referred to her. As her oldest grandchild and the treasured girl she had been praying for after having only sons of her own, I was therefore her special project. My father was her oldest son, and since the death of his father, the person she most leaned on... or demanded care from. The problem was she really needed to go to an assisted living facility, but she wouldn't leave her house. More than that, considering how miserable she was physically (she was on oxygen the last two years because of lung problems and she coughed so hard her brittle ribs would break themselves regularly) I even thought and said out loud to my father (after a particularly nasty conversation she and I had about how if I would cut my hair, lose some weight and get rid of my dogs, maybe someone would marry me) that what she really needed was to "go home!"
Dad just smiled, and said that while that was true, until she decided to go or God decided to drag her kicking and screaming by her hair, we still needed to try and be respectful to her even if she was a cantankerous old bat. I did mention that we really did love her right?
Anyway, she had been getting worse lately, and we were finally getting her to go to a home. The day she checked in her health began to fail completely. So, that Friday Dad called me to let me know that it looked like God was showing up for the hair pulling and to prepare myself to most likely miss some school the next week for the funeral. I asked Dad if I needed to come home now, over the weekend and say goodbye. He said no, that I had visited her less than six months ago, we had spoken on the phone just a few days ago and that she knew I loved her. He further added that I most likely and she most definitely did not want me to remember her as anything other than the vibrant person she did not resemble right now. I knew he was right, so I went on with my plans for the weekend.
I went to a mission conference in Alabama with some friends of mine. It was a six hour drive, but not too bad and we were in a PT cruiser. Comfortable car. My friends and I spent some time praying for G'ma as we drove, her peace, comfort and her sons who were both with her. It was a beautiful weekend. Clear sky, crisp air, all the cliches.
The camp that the conference was held at was in the middle of nowhere and was actually, additionally a working horse and cow farm. We bunked down, went to some lectures, had dinner and got to bed about midnight in the bunk houses. The next morning I called Dad to check on G'ma. She was pretty out of it at that point and Dad said she had told him during her few moments of lucidness that she knew this was it, but that she knew where she was going, she wanted to be with her husband and she didn't want any of us to be worried or scared. She had further told him she was glad that she had gotten to see me a while ago, and happy that I had not come down now. Dad explained that she had not been awake since then and they expected her to pass in the next 24 hours and that the doctors were simply making her final moments comfortable. Oddly enough, I was not distraught at this point. As I said, I knew she needed to go home and she was so miserable here on earth. Dad also told me, in case no one had news or radio available there at the farm about the shuttle incident.
Now, recognizing that I was not distraught, but I was a bit down, my friend, Dot, who had been to the camp before asked what I thought I might like to do with the free time we were currently enjoying before lunch and afternoon lectures. I asked if we could see the horses. She suggested we ride them instead. I pointed out to her that I was not a small person and that might not be a good idea. She "pshawed" me and pulled me along to the coral. We waited our turn and then I was brought to a large quarter horse whose shoulder was about even with mine. I looked at the horse trainer holding his bridle and said, "I'm sure I'm too big to ride. I'll just wait here for my friend to take her turn."
"Nonsense. Get on the horse."
OK. So I climbed on. She horse actually bent his knees and swayed his backside. I looked at the trainer.
"He doesn't want me up here. This is a bad idea."
"He can carry you and he works for us, we don't work for him, it's fine."
OK. So I turned his head and pointed him toward the line of other horses waiting for us to join them at the bottom of the hill. Now these horses did this little trail in a single file line four or five times a day, which means I'm not really controlling them, they are simply playing follow the leader. Well today, there was a problem with the lead horse, or more specifically the second to lead horse.
The second to lead horse had decided that he wanted to be the lead horse and so he began biting the hind end of the lead horse. The lead horse reacted by speeding up to remove his hind end from the second horses teeth range. The second horse sped up to bring his teeth back into the range of the lead horses hind end and all the other horses began to run to keep up with this mess as well. Now, my saggy kneed horse, saw all the running and didn't want to be left behind and so, still sucking in his sides in an effort shake me loose, he ran down the hill. This was a very upsetting sensation to me. To say the least.
So I grabbed a tree to steady myself.
Yes I am that stupid.
This caused my center of gravity to shift to the non-moving tree instead of the moving horse. I tried to get the horse to stop so that I could re-balance correctly. How did I do that? Well holding onto the tree I couldn't really pull on the reigns so I tightened my legs around the horses body.
Raise your hand if you know this is actually the signal to horses to go faster?
Yes, I am that stupid.
At this point I got jerked backwards out of the saddle by my arm, however my foot was stuck in the stirrup. The horse glad to be rid of me continued to speed up. Now I am hyper extended between the horse and the tree. Also, to solidify this picture, if this horse was as high as my shoulder and I was sitting up straight on top of the horse and I grabbed the tree at my new shoulder height... Yep, I was suspended from this tree about nine feet off the ground. My foot popped out of the stirrup and I fell the distance to the ground, letting go of the tree just before I swung into it and snapping my arm back against my chest.
One of the two most physically painful moments of my adult life (the other is another story to be shared another time/blog).
Now we had a problem. There was no bruising, no swelling and no indication that I had broken it. Plus I was hours from home and well, I hate emergency rooms (which is funny because between being an EMT and my own personal ability to get injured I spend a lot of time in them). So I didn't go. When I talked to my Dad that night to get a G'ma update I didn't mention it to him. He had enough on his plate and it's not like he could do anything about it. I just slinged it and struggled through eating with my left hand.
The next morning, having slept only because I popped a bunk mate's Xanex (thanks again, Cindy, but if I had been thinking clearly I would have warned against the dangers of sharing narcotics with friends...), we left for home, my arm resting in a nest of ice and pillows, driving slowly so that I wouldn't scream every time we hit a bump.
Dad called to tell me that G'ma had in fact passed peacefully and was now with Granddaddy and that the funeral would be on Thursday, but I needed to drive down on Wednesday. As he was talking it hit me. My right arm was out of commission. It would be a six hour drive to get to G'ma's house. I drove a stick shift car with little shock absorbtion.
"Um, Dad, seeing as you will have to fly Lee down from Chicago, any chance I could fly too?"
"Is something wrong with your car?"
"Uh, no, I just had this rather unfortunate incident with a horse and um, well, my arm is kind of out of commission for a while."
"The doctor thinks you broke it? How bad."
"Well I didn't see a doctor, per say, there is no bruising or swelling, it just really hurts."
"Why no doctor?"
"Dad, it's not broken and they will just make me wait forever, pay for a bunch of X-Rays and then go home with nothing accomplished. Anyway, I'll figure something out. Don't worry, I'll be there on time."
Then my Dad laid the most amazing guilt line on me I have ever heard.
"Sandy, as soon as you get home, I need you to go to the emergency room. I am not worried or upset about my mother, I know exactly where she is and how she is doing. The only thing I am concerned about at all now, is your arm. Promise me you will go to the ER as soon as you get home."
Like I'm gonna tell him "no" the day his mother died?
So I went. They referred me to a orthopedist. Dad made plane reservations for me and my brother (Lee changed planes in Atlanta so we could even ride together on his last half). I went to school on Monday, all slinged and mildly drugged up (In needed the hard stuff to attempt to be able to sleep at night), having caught a cab into work and set up my classes for the next four days (one day for doctor's appointments, two days for funerals and one day for the Thespian Conference in DownTown Atlanta that I was chaperoning for the weekend). Tuesday the doc told me I had a torn rotator cuff, needed an MRI and orthagram to be able to plan the surgery and that I had 18 months of rehab ahead of me and would probably never have the full range of motion back again anyway. Wednesday I allowed myself to take some of the now prescribed narcotic painkillers only after I was fully in my brother's custody and we were off to G'ma's house. Thursday I made it through the funeral with only two people trying to shake my hand and only close family hugging me so hard I squeaked. I also apparently, according to my stepmother, proved that while my brother was the minister, I was the better public speaker when all four of us (me and bro and our two younger cousins) had to read bible verses for the funeral as per my grandmother's instructions before she died. Then I flew home. Friday I got up, caught a ride with a colleague and rode the bus into Atlanta with 75 hyperactive teenagers to join up with 5000 hyperactive teenagers for a Thespian Conference. By Sunday I was so tired I no longer needed the drugs to sleep and slept for 24 straight hours before getting up on Monday to go to work. Through all of this, every day, three times a day, I would walk my hand up the wall, taking my arm, screaming with it, because we had to make sure that the muscle did not tighten up as it healed. They told me this would get easier over time. It did not.
It took two more weeks to get the MRI and Orthagram done. An Orthagram is when they take a needle the width of a pickle, jam it into a joint and fill said joint with 16 oz of idionized fluid all while you are lying on top of the X-Ray machine. (No I am not making this up.) then you go to another room for the MRI where even though you can feel your shoulder sloshing you cannot move for an hour while they spin huge magnets over your head.
The next morning I did not go to school I was in so much pain from the trauma of the orthagram and MRI. I still could not drive and I had begun getting cramps in my lower arm, almost as painful as the injury to my upper arm, because of having to hold it so still all the time. Therefore I was home to get the call from my doctor.
"Stop walking your arm up the wall."
"But you said that was crucial to getting as much range of motion back as possible."
"I was wrong. Good news, your rotator cuff is intact, though clearly traumatized. No rehab and you should retrieve full range of motion."
"Then what's wrong with my arm?"
"It appears that you split the bone down the middle from the top of the shoulder to about 2/3 down your arm."
"So I need a cast?"
"No, it's hairline and seems to be healing on its own. Just stay in the sling two more weeks and no heavy lifting for six."
"Just to be clear, you are telling me I didn't tear my rotator cuff, I have split my humorous?"
"Yeah, isn't that funny?"
The upside of the whole thing was I learned that I can write effectively on the board with my left hand. My words are a bit wavy, but my printing was very clear. It only took me about 25% longer to write it as well. One student, (it was her first day in my class) watched me write the homework assignment slowly, carefully on the board. Then she looked at me and said, very seriously,
"So, Ms. X, did you go into teaching because of your learning disability?"
To start. The story of how I broke my humorous.
Now normally I don't know dates on stories, just general seasons, etc, but this one I know exactly what day and year it happened. In a minute you'll see why.
The whole mess started on a Friday afternoon, January 31, 2003. This was the day before we lost the space shuttle over Texas that also carried the Israeli astronaut. (That incident is not actually related to the story, but it happened that same weekend...) My father's mother, G'ma as I called her, had been a widow just over five years and had been failing herself for the past two.
Now G'ma was a wonderful lady and I loved her dearly, but she was difficult at best. More often than not she was an onrey "steam roller" as Dad and I affectionately referred to her. As her oldest grandchild and the treasured girl she had been praying for after having only sons of her own, I was therefore her special project. My father was her oldest son, and since the death of his father, the person she most leaned on... or demanded care from. The problem was she really needed to go to an assisted living facility, but she wouldn't leave her house. More than that, considering how miserable she was physically (she was on oxygen the last two years because of lung problems and she coughed so hard her brittle ribs would break themselves regularly) I even thought and said out loud to my father (after a particularly nasty conversation she and I had about how if I would cut my hair, lose some weight and get rid of my dogs, maybe someone would marry me) that what she really needed was to "go home!"
Dad just smiled, and said that while that was true, until she decided to go or God decided to drag her kicking and screaming by her hair, we still needed to try and be respectful to her even if she was a cantankerous old bat. I did mention that we really did love her right?
Anyway, she had been getting worse lately, and we were finally getting her to go to a home. The day she checked in her health began to fail completely. So, that Friday Dad called me to let me know that it looked like God was showing up for the hair pulling and to prepare myself to most likely miss some school the next week for the funeral. I asked Dad if I needed to come home now, over the weekend and say goodbye. He said no, that I had visited her less than six months ago, we had spoken on the phone just a few days ago and that she knew I loved her. He further added that I most likely and she most definitely did not want me to remember her as anything other than the vibrant person she did not resemble right now. I knew he was right, so I went on with my plans for the weekend.
I went to a mission conference in Alabama with some friends of mine. It was a six hour drive, but not too bad and we were in a PT cruiser. Comfortable car. My friends and I spent some time praying for G'ma as we drove, her peace, comfort and her sons who were both with her. It was a beautiful weekend. Clear sky, crisp air, all the cliches.
The camp that the conference was held at was in the middle of nowhere and was actually, additionally a working horse and cow farm. We bunked down, went to some lectures, had dinner and got to bed about midnight in the bunk houses. The next morning I called Dad to check on G'ma. She was pretty out of it at that point and Dad said she had told him during her few moments of lucidness that she knew this was it, but that she knew where she was going, she wanted to be with her husband and she didn't want any of us to be worried or scared. She had further told him she was glad that she had gotten to see me a while ago, and happy that I had not come down now. Dad explained that she had not been awake since then and they expected her to pass in the next 24 hours and that the doctors were simply making her final moments comfortable. Oddly enough, I was not distraught at this point. As I said, I knew she needed to go home and she was so miserable here on earth. Dad also told me, in case no one had news or radio available there at the farm about the shuttle incident.
Now, recognizing that I was not distraught, but I was a bit down, my friend, Dot, who had been to the camp before asked what I thought I might like to do with the free time we were currently enjoying before lunch and afternoon lectures. I asked if we could see the horses. She suggested we ride them instead. I pointed out to her that I was not a small person and that might not be a good idea. She "pshawed" me and pulled me along to the coral. We waited our turn and then I was brought to a large quarter horse whose shoulder was about even with mine. I looked at the horse trainer holding his bridle and said, "I'm sure I'm too big to ride. I'll just wait here for my friend to take her turn."
"Nonsense. Get on the horse."
OK. So I climbed on. She horse actually bent his knees and swayed his backside. I looked at the trainer.
"He doesn't want me up here. This is a bad idea."
"He can carry you and he works for us, we don't work for him, it's fine."
OK. So I turned his head and pointed him toward the line of other horses waiting for us to join them at the bottom of the hill. Now these horses did this little trail in a single file line four or five times a day, which means I'm not really controlling them, they are simply playing follow the leader. Well today, there was a problem with the lead horse, or more specifically the second to lead horse.
The second to lead horse had decided that he wanted to be the lead horse and so he began biting the hind end of the lead horse. The lead horse reacted by speeding up to remove his hind end from the second horses teeth range. The second horse sped up to bring his teeth back into the range of the lead horses hind end and all the other horses began to run to keep up with this mess as well. Now, my saggy kneed horse, saw all the running and didn't want to be left behind and so, still sucking in his sides in an effort shake me loose, he ran down the hill. This was a very upsetting sensation to me. To say the least.
So I grabbed a tree to steady myself.
Yes I am that stupid.
This caused my center of gravity to shift to the non-moving tree instead of the moving horse. I tried to get the horse to stop so that I could re-balance correctly. How did I do that? Well holding onto the tree I couldn't really pull on the reigns so I tightened my legs around the horses body.
Raise your hand if you know this is actually the signal to horses to go faster?
Yes, I am that stupid.
At this point I got jerked backwards out of the saddle by my arm, however my foot was stuck in the stirrup. The horse glad to be rid of me continued to speed up. Now I am hyper extended between the horse and the tree. Also, to solidify this picture, if this horse was as high as my shoulder and I was sitting up straight on top of the horse and I grabbed the tree at my new shoulder height... Yep, I was suspended from this tree about nine feet off the ground. My foot popped out of the stirrup and I fell the distance to the ground, letting go of the tree just before I swung into it and snapping my arm back against my chest.
One of the two most physically painful moments of my adult life (the other is another story to be shared another time/blog).
Now we had a problem. There was no bruising, no swelling and no indication that I had broken it. Plus I was hours from home and well, I hate emergency rooms (which is funny because between being an EMT and my own personal ability to get injured I spend a lot of time in them). So I didn't go. When I talked to my Dad that night to get a G'ma update I didn't mention it to him. He had enough on his plate and it's not like he could do anything about it. I just slinged it and struggled through eating with my left hand.
The next morning, having slept only because I popped a bunk mate's Xanex (thanks again, Cindy, but if I had been thinking clearly I would have warned against the dangers of sharing narcotics with friends...), we left for home, my arm resting in a nest of ice and pillows, driving slowly so that I wouldn't scream every time we hit a bump.
Dad called to tell me that G'ma had in fact passed peacefully and was now with Granddaddy and that the funeral would be on Thursday, but I needed to drive down on Wednesday. As he was talking it hit me. My right arm was out of commission. It would be a six hour drive to get to G'ma's house. I drove a stick shift car with little shock absorbtion.
"Um, Dad, seeing as you will have to fly Lee down from Chicago, any chance I could fly too?"
"Is something wrong with your car?"
"Uh, no, I just had this rather unfortunate incident with a horse and um, well, my arm is kind of out of commission for a while."
"The doctor thinks you broke it? How bad."
"Well I didn't see a doctor, per say, there is no bruising or swelling, it just really hurts."
"Why no doctor?"
"Dad, it's not broken and they will just make me wait forever, pay for a bunch of X-Rays and then go home with nothing accomplished. Anyway, I'll figure something out. Don't worry, I'll be there on time."
Then my Dad laid the most amazing guilt line on me I have ever heard.
"Sandy, as soon as you get home, I need you to go to the emergency room. I am not worried or upset about my mother, I know exactly where she is and how she is doing. The only thing I am concerned about at all now, is your arm. Promise me you will go to the ER as soon as you get home."
Like I'm gonna tell him "no" the day his mother died?
So I went. They referred me to a orthopedist. Dad made plane reservations for me and my brother (Lee changed planes in Atlanta so we could even ride together on his last half). I went to school on Monday, all slinged and mildly drugged up (In needed the hard stuff to attempt to be able to sleep at night), having caught a cab into work and set up my classes for the next four days (one day for doctor's appointments, two days for funerals and one day for the Thespian Conference in DownTown Atlanta that I was chaperoning for the weekend). Tuesday the doc told me I had a torn rotator cuff, needed an MRI and orthagram to be able to plan the surgery and that I had 18 months of rehab ahead of me and would probably never have the full range of motion back again anyway. Wednesday I allowed myself to take some of the now prescribed narcotic painkillers only after I was fully in my brother's custody and we were off to G'ma's house. Thursday I made it through the funeral with only two people trying to shake my hand and only close family hugging me so hard I squeaked. I also apparently, according to my stepmother, proved that while my brother was the minister, I was the better public speaker when all four of us (me and bro and our two younger cousins) had to read bible verses for the funeral as per my grandmother's instructions before she died. Then I flew home. Friday I got up, caught a ride with a colleague and rode the bus into Atlanta with 75 hyperactive teenagers to join up with 5000 hyperactive teenagers for a Thespian Conference. By Sunday I was so tired I no longer needed the drugs to sleep and slept for 24 straight hours before getting up on Monday to go to work. Through all of this, every day, three times a day, I would walk my hand up the wall, taking my arm, screaming with it, because we had to make sure that the muscle did not tighten up as it healed. They told me this would get easier over time. It did not.
It took two more weeks to get the MRI and Orthagram done. An Orthagram is when they take a needle the width of a pickle, jam it into a joint and fill said joint with 16 oz of idionized fluid all while you are lying on top of the X-Ray machine. (No I am not making this up.) then you go to another room for the MRI where even though you can feel your shoulder sloshing you cannot move for an hour while they spin huge magnets over your head.
The next morning I did not go to school I was in so much pain from the trauma of the orthagram and MRI. I still could not drive and I had begun getting cramps in my lower arm, almost as painful as the injury to my upper arm, because of having to hold it so still all the time. Therefore I was home to get the call from my doctor.
"Stop walking your arm up the wall."
"But you said that was crucial to getting as much range of motion back as possible."
"I was wrong. Good news, your rotator cuff is intact, though clearly traumatized. No rehab and you should retrieve full range of motion."
"Then what's wrong with my arm?"
"It appears that you split the bone down the middle from the top of the shoulder to about 2/3 down your arm."
"So I need a cast?"
"No, it's hairline and seems to be healing on its own. Just stay in the sling two more weeks and no heavy lifting for six."
"Just to be clear, you are telling me I didn't tear my rotator cuff, I have split my humorous?"
"Yeah, isn't that funny?"
The upside of the whole thing was I learned that I can write effectively on the board with my left hand. My words are a bit wavy, but my printing was very clear. It only took me about 25% longer to write it as well. One student, (it was her first day in my class) watched me write the homework assignment slowly, carefully on the board. Then she looked at me and said, very seriously,
"So, Ms. X, did you go into teaching because of your learning disability?"
What's your point?
(Sheepish Grin)
Having attacked people who walk up and state the blindingly obvious, I do have a small admission to make.
When I was in high school, there was a dear young man in my class who possessed a blue eye and a brown eye. One day as we were talking before class I found myself suddenly struck by this fact.
"You know, Jason, you have one blue eye and one green eye." I said to him.
"Really," he deadpanned, "I'd never noticed that. Next mirror I see I'll have to check on that. Thanks for letting me know." Then he smiled, rather oddly I might add, and walked away.
I found myself fighting an overwhelming urge to beat myself about the head and face with a rock.
Apparently the stupidly obvious and slightly obnoxious is unavoidable. We all have these moments. However, I have worked hard to train myself to keep it to myself since then. I would also never walk across a store, hall, mall or room just to make the statement to someone.
And if you are out there, Jason, I still cringe when I think about that. I'm sorry.
Oh, and did you ever find that mirror?
Having attacked people who walk up and state the blindingly obvious, I do have a small admission to make.
When I was in high school, there was a dear young man in my class who possessed a blue eye and a brown eye. One day as we were talking before class I found myself suddenly struck by this fact.
"You know, Jason, you have one blue eye and one green eye." I said to him.
"Really," he deadpanned, "I'd never noticed that. Next mirror I see I'll have to check on that. Thanks for letting me know." Then he smiled, rather oddly I might add, and walked away.
I found myself fighting an overwhelming urge to beat myself about the head and face with a rock.
Apparently the stupidly obvious and slightly obnoxious is unavoidable. We all have these moments. However, I have worked hard to train myself to keep it to myself since then. I would also never walk across a store, hall, mall or room just to make the statement to someone.
And if you are out there, Jason, I still cringe when I think about that. I'm sorry.
Oh, and did you ever find that mirror?
Tuesday, May 16, 2006
Standing Corrected and Standing Tall
As usual I am humbled by my friend, Bea, and her insightful post. Check it out. She makes a good point about "Soul Mates." Based on her definition I do have several of those. They are truly great friends that endure beyond age, geography and anything and everything I can think of. They are the reason I make it though the day, actually. Trying to name them, explain them would be pointless, but humbled and corrected I acknowledge me error. Soul-Mates do exist, and I guess the dream would be to find one and be able to marry them. I would say though that Bea and I are talking about a type of friendship (which is love) that doesn't have to have anything to do with romantic love. So while I stand corrected, in terms of what most people refer to when they speak of soul-mates I still don't believe.
Now for something completely different.
This has happened before, and I may have mentioned it, but it is always so funny when it happens. In case anyone missed this fact, I am tall. Six feet, three and one half inches tall. I have been over six feet since I was twelve.
People seem to feel it is important to make sure that I know I am tall. They walk up and tell me all the time, just in case I had forgotten. Teenagers are notorious for this, but I have seen the best dressed and most sophisticated of adults point it out to me just as often as the most dense and inarticulate on earth with about the same amount finesse. There are several different answers I reply with, depending on their attitude, demeanor and my mood.
Then there is life now with Nana and the other statement/question that is second only to the you're tall comment.
Sometimes I answer,
Just to watch them scratch their head.
This question really ticks Nana off. She put up with it for about a year. Quietly. Now, Nana gets right in their face and says
You go Nana. Get 'em!
Now for something completely different.
This has happened before, and I may have mentioned it, but it is always so funny when it happens. In case anyone missed this fact, I am tall. Six feet, three and one half inches tall. I have been over six feet since I was twelve.
People seem to feel it is important to make sure that I know I am tall. They walk up and tell me all the time, just in case I had forgotten. Teenagers are notorious for this, but I have seen the best dressed and most sophisticated of adults point it out to me just as often as the most dense and inarticulate on earth with about the same amount finesse. There are several different answers I reply with, depending on their attitude, demeanor and my mood.
Wow, you're tall!
Shhh. It's a secret.
Oh my. You are one tall lady!
You know, no one has ever told me that before. Do you really think so?
You are really tall!
Oh my God, when did this happen? I was short when I left home this morning!
(That one is for special occasions. One time I scared a 10 year old so badly with my dramatics...You have to scream and sound horrified to carry the line off... He wet his pants. I now have an age limit on that response, only 16 and older.)
Then there is life now with Nana and the other statement/question that is second only to the you're tall comment.
How tall are you?
Sometimes I answer,
Four Eleven.
Just to watch them scratch their head.
This question really ticks Nana off. She put up with it for about a year. Quietly. Now, Nana gets right in their face and says
How much do you weigh?
You go Nana. Get 'em!
Ranting, Raving and Venting, with a bit of whining anger thrown in for good measure.
Today I am tired. Very tired. Last night was a hard night, most of it staring at the clock. I really hate those nights. Now before anyone makes any assumptions, let me tell you why. It may not be what you think.
Last night I watched the season finale of Grey’s Anatomy. Overall, as television goes, not bad. I laughed at all the right spots and cried at all the right spots. Yesterday had been a good day. I had a nice talk with my dad, my mom finally got in touch with me and my students got a lot of good work done. Best of all I reached an all time record on the elliptical trainer during my training session yesterday, 1025 calories in 50 minutes. I never stopped and I kept it above 130 strides per minute. I maxed out on all my lifting; Pull Down Lats, 80 lbs 15 reps! Greg was proud of me and another lady called me a demon! So good day. Came home made Nana dinner, checked e-mail, finished my homework for gifted certification and then watched the president’s speech (which I think is a great idea, but unlikely to occur). Then it was time for Grey’s Anatomy. Like I said, riveting, entertaining television. Then I took a shower. In the shower I started crying and I was still crying when I got in bed.
I closed all my remaining E-Harmony Matches and requested to not be sent anymore for a while. I’ve decided to take the summer off, so to speak, and I may not go back at all. Three years is a long time to still not have a second date. At first it was kind of exciting and encouraging to see that there were still lots of possibilities out there, yet with every incompatible match (all of them so far) it has started to wear on me and is now rather discouraging. Worse, when I closed everything out I saw that I had gone through exactly Six Hundred, and Sixty Six Matches. I am not superstitious. While I believe that number will be bad in a specific situation, someday, (mark of the beast and all that), I don’t think of it as a cursed or evil number in itself. However, between that specific combination of numbers and just the sheer volume of the number itslef, it is rather disquieting, frustrating and generally disappointing. Add to that the last two matches of any kind of promise and merit have been particularly harrowing. Also, each month when I try to decide if I should put myself through this again, I get an e-mail saying I just need to persevere a bit longer and that my soul mate is just around the corner.
Let me just tell you, I don’t believe in soul mates. I never have. Two people are together because they choose to be together and choose to be committed. If it were all based on the initial good feeling of being in love, people wouldn’t stay together very often… Oh, that’s right, they don’t anymore! In love is not the destination, it is a point along the way to true, commited love. The real thing, where you have to work at it, but it is worth it. Obviously, I want to be in love, I have been before, twice, but that is not enough for marriage, by itself. I’m tired of this word soul mates being thrown around like if you find the right person it is no work at all. It also perpetuates the idea that there is one perfect person for everyone. This is not even close to possible. First, there are 6% more women in the world than men. (47%male, 53% female). Also, what if someone ends up with the wrong person, (because if there is only one perfect/right way for this to work it is a sure bet lots of us will get it wrong) then there is another person out there waiting for that right person who has been taken by the wrong person. Mostly I think we all just tell people who are single, “God has the perfect one for you, just be paitient.” Because it makes us feel better about whom we are with, and makes us feel better about the fact that we are with someone and they are not. Better yet are the helpful people who say things like, “God is still working on you about something. When you learn he will send the right person for you.” Therefore, that means that everyone that is happily married is done, perfect, and the spouse is the reward. How nice. Isn’t that sweet. In addition, it means that when the sweet married lady tells you that, she is actually saying she figures you are being punished for something and she is a better person than you are. Thanks. I feel much comfort.
OK, I am officially pissy today.
A while back I read a book by McCloud about how if we all just sit back, waiting for God to bring us the right person, we are all clearly expecting to marry the Fed-Ex delivery person. He recommended getting out, trying to meet people. He specifically encouraged dating services as a tool for busy professionals. So I took his advice. Three years later, the Fed Ex guy is starting to sound like a good idea.
The truth is this is end of the year let down, end of the year stress build up, stress because of camp starting (there is always a big flap right before camp starts with lots of pontificating, posturing and such.) exhaustion because of how hard I’m working out (I’m up to at least 1500 calories a workout, total) and just general caretaker ware from Nana (one of the reasons I need camp so badly). If I was honest, there is also a decent amount of hormone in this. I’m always haywire this time of year and currently I am literally surrounded by pregnant people, which is like just drinking female hormones for breakfast every morning. Weight loss also tends to trigger mood swings and while I refuse to step on a scale, I know I’ve lost over two inches in my thighs and hips alone in the past month. To add insult to injury the weight is not however coming out of my waist, which for the record is really starting to tick me off!
This weekend I am going to Florida to: visit one of my best friends; spend time with my adopted family (two blond haired girls and their blessed mother I really can’t wait to see… One to write with, one to talk with and one to just love me for who I am… Not to mention the other wonderful six members of the family, some of the most delightful men on earth); and then go spend an afternoon, evening and morning with my Dad before driving home on Sunday. Dad and I will work out, see a movie, go to dinner, talk (and talk and talk as my step-mother laughs) and then on Sunday morning I will go to his Sunday School class. Plus the five hours down, two hours over and five hours back up in the car will be peaceful.
The only thing better than that would be sleep, preferably without tears. Here’s hoping.
This too, like a huge barbed kidney stone, will pass. My next blog (maybe even again today) will be about something tremendously funny and/or uplifting, I promise!
Last night I watched the season finale of Grey’s Anatomy. Overall, as television goes, not bad. I laughed at all the right spots and cried at all the right spots. Yesterday had been a good day. I had a nice talk with my dad, my mom finally got in touch with me and my students got a lot of good work done. Best of all I reached an all time record on the elliptical trainer during my training session yesterday, 1025 calories in 50 minutes. I never stopped and I kept it above 130 strides per minute. I maxed out on all my lifting; Pull Down Lats, 80 lbs 15 reps! Greg was proud of me and another lady called me a demon! So good day. Came home made Nana dinner, checked e-mail, finished my homework for gifted certification and then watched the president’s speech (which I think is a great idea, but unlikely to occur). Then it was time for Grey’s Anatomy. Like I said, riveting, entertaining television. Then I took a shower. In the shower I started crying and I was still crying when I got in bed.
I closed all my remaining E-Harmony Matches and requested to not be sent anymore for a while. I’ve decided to take the summer off, so to speak, and I may not go back at all. Three years is a long time to still not have a second date. At first it was kind of exciting and encouraging to see that there were still lots of possibilities out there, yet with every incompatible match (all of them so far) it has started to wear on me and is now rather discouraging. Worse, when I closed everything out I saw that I had gone through exactly Six Hundred, and Sixty Six Matches. I am not superstitious. While I believe that number will be bad in a specific situation, someday, (mark of the beast and all that), I don’t think of it as a cursed or evil number in itself. However, between that specific combination of numbers and just the sheer volume of the number itslef, it is rather disquieting, frustrating and generally disappointing. Add to that the last two matches of any kind of promise and merit have been particularly harrowing. Also, each month when I try to decide if I should put myself through this again, I get an e-mail saying I just need to persevere a bit longer and that my soul mate is just around the corner.
Let me just tell you, I don’t believe in soul mates. I never have. Two people are together because they choose to be together and choose to be committed. If it were all based on the initial good feeling of being in love, people wouldn’t stay together very often… Oh, that’s right, they don’t anymore! In love is not the destination, it is a point along the way to true, commited love. The real thing, where you have to work at it, but it is worth it. Obviously, I want to be in love, I have been before, twice, but that is not enough for marriage, by itself. I’m tired of this word soul mates being thrown around like if you find the right person it is no work at all. It also perpetuates the idea that there is one perfect person for everyone. This is not even close to possible. First, there are 6% more women in the world than men. (47%male, 53% female). Also, what if someone ends up with the wrong person, (because if there is only one perfect/right way for this to work it is a sure bet lots of us will get it wrong) then there is another person out there waiting for that right person who has been taken by the wrong person. Mostly I think we all just tell people who are single, “God has the perfect one for you, just be paitient.” Because it makes us feel better about whom we are with, and makes us feel better about the fact that we are with someone and they are not. Better yet are the helpful people who say things like, “God is still working on you about something. When you learn he will send the right person for you.” Therefore, that means that everyone that is happily married is done, perfect, and the spouse is the reward. How nice. Isn’t that sweet. In addition, it means that when the sweet married lady tells you that, she is actually saying she figures you are being punished for something and she is a better person than you are. Thanks. I feel much comfort.
OK, I am officially pissy today.
A while back I read a book by McCloud about how if we all just sit back, waiting for God to bring us the right person, we are all clearly expecting to marry the Fed-Ex delivery person. He recommended getting out, trying to meet people. He specifically encouraged dating services as a tool for busy professionals. So I took his advice. Three years later, the Fed Ex guy is starting to sound like a good idea.
The truth is this is end of the year let down, end of the year stress build up, stress because of camp starting (there is always a big flap right before camp starts with lots of pontificating, posturing and such.) exhaustion because of how hard I’m working out (I’m up to at least 1500 calories a workout, total) and just general caretaker ware from Nana (one of the reasons I need camp so badly). If I was honest, there is also a decent amount of hormone in this. I’m always haywire this time of year and currently I am literally surrounded by pregnant people, which is like just drinking female hormones for breakfast every morning. Weight loss also tends to trigger mood swings and while I refuse to step on a scale, I know I’ve lost over two inches in my thighs and hips alone in the past month. To add insult to injury the weight is not however coming out of my waist, which for the record is really starting to tick me off!
This weekend I am going to Florida to: visit one of my best friends; spend time with my adopted family (two blond haired girls and their blessed mother I really can’t wait to see… One to write with, one to talk with and one to just love me for who I am… Not to mention the other wonderful six members of the family, some of the most delightful men on earth); and then go spend an afternoon, evening and morning with my Dad before driving home on Sunday. Dad and I will work out, see a movie, go to dinner, talk (and talk and talk as my step-mother laughs) and then on Sunday morning I will go to his Sunday School class. Plus the five hours down, two hours over and five hours back up in the car will be peaceful.
The only thing better than that would be sleep, preferably without tears. Here’s hoping.
This too, like a huge barbed kidney stone, will pass. My next blog (maybe even again today) will be about something tremendously funny and/or uplifting, I promise!
Monday, May 15, 2006
What was he thinking? Teacher Rant!
Okay. I am better today. Also, God and I hashed it out and I have a much better perspective. Frankly, I now have proof, for myself, that I am not so hell-bent on marriage that anything will do. That's an important thing to know. Anyway, sorry about the novel length post.
On to end of year craziness. I may have my moments, but this teacher takes the cake. Essays, something I consider very important, yet really hate teaching, especially are of interest to me. So when I saw this article I nearly died, no pun intended.
Check it out. Personally if I didn't fire the guy I'd have had him CAT scanned for a brain mass. This went beyond your basic lapse in judgment.
This reminds me of when I was in high school and someone came up with a "Ghetto Math Test" as a joke. It was word problems involving drug deals, prostitution, gun running and gang hits. It was very funny. Then a teacher at one of the local schools used it as his actual final. Let's just say something broke loose.
Now as a teacher myself, while I can see the inherent humor in some of these kinds of documents or assignments when they float through my inbox (we teachers do pass them to each other with a certain glee, dreaming about the chaos they would cause in real life...) it would never occur to me to use them. Add to that incidents in the recent past where students write journal entries planning horrific deaths for their teachers (couldn't find that article from this past fall, but it made my blood run cold) and why would someone with any amount of intelligence, education or professionalism do something like that?
And I thought I got loopy at the end of a school year.
On to end of year craziness. I may have my moments, but this teacher takes the cake. Essays, something I consider very important, yet really hate teaching, especially are of interest to me. So when I saw this article I nearly died, no pun intended.
Check it out. Personally if I didn't fire the guy I'd have had him CAT scanned for a brain mass. This went beyond your basic lapse in judgment.
This reminds me of when I was in high school and someone came up with a "Ghetto Math Test" as a joke. It was word problems involving drug deals, prostitution, gun running and gang hits. It was very funny. Then a teacher at one of the local schools used it as his actual final. Let's just say something broke loose.
Now as a teacher myself, while I can see the inherent humor in some of these kinds of documents or assignments when they float through my inbox (we teachers do pass them to each other with a certain glee, dreaming about the chaos they would cause in real life...) it would never occur to me to use them. Add to that incidents in the recent past where students write journal entries planning horrific deaths for their teachers (couldn't find that article from this past fall, but it made my blood run cold) and why would someone with any amount of intelligence, education or professionalism do something like that?
And I thought I got loopy at the end of a school year.
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