Posted by Kimberly on November 1st, 2007 — Posted in The Ladies, Kipple, Blah Blah Blog, No Pudding Until You Finish Your Meat, NaBloPoMo
I’m still coming off of last night’s sugar rush–both mine and The Ladies–so today’s entry is going to be more of a bunch of unrelated snippets than a cohesive narrative.
Trick or treating was a little strange for us this year. Because I only take The Ladies to houses I know and our route is designed so that we end up at Grandma’s house, we ending up cruising the “old neighbourhood” surrounding Diva Girl’s former school. I used to do this trip four times a day, minimum, but I have to confess, the walk to her old school just about kicked my ass. Other than that it was mostly a treat, seeing the familiar faces we’ve been missing since we stopped hanging out on this side of the street. More often than not The Ladies were greeted with hugs to go along with their Hershey’s Kisses and more than one mom slipped them an extra helping of candy before we headed off to the next house.
Negotiating the Old Babysitter’s house was a bit tricky, though. I thought it would be weird to make The Ladies skip it altogether, especially since we don’t really go to all that many houses, and in past years she’s just left a bowl full of candy on the porch while she and Buddy went out, so I figured it wouldn’t be too much of a drama. I was wrong. When we turned on to their street we could see the bowl sitting there, waiting for the pirates and princesses roaming the neighbourhood to help themselves. Unfortunately, we could also see Buddy and the Babysitter in the window. Which wasn’t the most awkward part. That came when The Zen Baby admonished, loud enough for all the assorted trick or treaters and their chaperones to hear, “You stay back here, Mummy. We don’t want you to get into another big fight with Buddy’s Mom!” before running up to collect her candy. I have never in my life wished so hard that I was wearing a costume that included a full facemask. She made up for it when she offered to share her candy with me though. Poor, naive child. She has no idea that I’m totally going to steal it while she’s sleeping.
On the school front, Diva Girl’s teacher apologized to her yesterday. I hadn’t yet stormed the office filled with righteous maternal indignation (the principal was away at a conference), and with this new development I have to rethink that approach. If she hadn’t acknowledged that she’d been wrong in preventing Diva Girl from calling home I would have been all over demanding a meeting (and possibly her head on a platter), but she did and that changes things.
At this point I think I’m comfortable sending an email (cc’d to the principal) that at least on the surface seeks to inform and not blame in this situation. Although I’m pretty sure they’ll get the threat implied in the statement, “should this situation occur again, Sabrina will most likely have to wait until I can make the 2 bus trip up to the school to get her.” As to the custody stuff, I’m still undecided. One of the sucky things about changing schools is having to run through all the solo mom stuff again–mail addressed to “Mr. & Mrs. Rastin,” fielding the “where’s your dad?” questions, and explaining de facto custody. I may just save that one for the Parent-Teacher interview.
I’m sorry that this isn’t the best start ever to NaBloPoMo, but I promise I’ll try and do better from now on. Oh, and speaking of NaBloPoMo, did you see the snazzy badge over there in the sidebar? I put it there all by myself and I didn’t even break the blog. It doesn’t link to the actual site, but you know, baby steps. I’m not convinced that NaBloPoMo itself is a baby step, or even a good idea for me–I’ve never been very good with either deadlines or self discipline–but I’m trying to break out of the box a little this year and try some personal growth. Sure, it’s nearly a decade too late to help me with that procrastination problem I had in University, but I like to believe that every prof who ever granted me an extension (which would, um, be every prof I ever had) is cheering me on.
I wonder if moving the old Sanity and the Solo Mom archives over here counts as posting? No? I didn’t think so. Still, I’ll be doing that this month, so if your feed reader starts going crazy, just relax. I’m not going to bring everything over–the work to rule memes and the Daily Mom content can languish in whatever sort of internet purgatory iVillage deems appropriate–but there are many posts that I’m proud of and would hate to lose. They’re not letting me bring the comments though, so if you happen to see something in the old stuff that catches your fancy, feel free.
I’m off to raid the peanut butter cups.
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Posted by Kimberly on October 30th, 2007 — Posted in Diva Girl, No Pudding Until You Finish Your Meat
There are few things that will make a mother’s heart start pounding as quickly as the realization that her child is not where she is supposed to be. Especially when where that child is supposed to be is in an environment where there should be no room for doubt, like oh, say, a school bus. Add to that scenario the fact that said child is currently the centre of some rather delicate court proceedings, and her mother only has de facto custody, and you’re taking the terror alert level up to puce.
As a compromise between Diva Girl’s desire to walk home on her own and my lack of comfort with that scenario, I’ve been holding off on meeting her bus lately. I still go to pick her up from her stop but I time it so that rather than standing there waiting for her when the bus pulls up, I run into her on the path. It gives her a greater sense of independence and I don’t have to wonder if she crossed the parking lot safely. It’s win-win, really.
Except that today, I didn’t run into her along the path. And she wasn’t taking advantage of the beautiful Fall weather, dwadling along or playing tag with her friends. She quite simply wasn’t there. The other kids were there, slowly trickling home, just not my daughter.
Standing there, straining to see her, hoping that she was playing a prank, hiding behind a fence the better to pop out and scare me, my heart started pounding and my palms started sweating. I knew, you see, that she wasn’t playing hide and seek, that she wasn’t there. Which begged the unthinkable question: Where. Was. My. Baby? One of her bus friends must have seen the look of panic and despair on my face because she came over and told me that Sabrina hadn’t been on the bus at all.
With that information my personal terror alert level was downgraded from rising hysteria to mild annoyance. It was certainly irritating that Sabrina had missed the bus, leaving me to scramble to make alternative arrangements for her, but it wasn’t a terrifying situation by any stretch of the imagination. I headed home, fully expecting to find a message on the machine detailing the comedy of errors that lead to this situation and already planning to call in the cavalry (my dad) to help fix it.
There was no message. Nor was there a missed call on my cell phone. Twenty minutes after dismissal, at least fifteen since someone should have realized that my daughter was not where she was supposed to be, and no one had called to tell me where she actually was. The easy confidence I’d felt walking home from the bus stop was rapidly being replaced by icy terror as I frantically began trying to contact the school.
It’s hard to dial in a blind panic, particularly when you are dialing an unfamiliar number you’ve thankfully never had occasion to use before. Finally, after five long minutes that included being hung up on by the information operator unable to find the number and a quick tour through the board website, I reached the school and, in what I felt was an admirably calm voice, inquired as to the whereabouts of my daughter.
They put me on hold.
Let me repeat that: Instead of immediately telling me where my child was and what had happened to cause her not to be where she was supposed to be, they put me on hold. To give themselves time to find out. Indicating that they didn’t know what had happened or where she was, either. Then, after two minutes that felt a lot closer to eternity, they came back on the line with a cheery, “Oh, she missed the bus. Can you come get her?”
Every parent knows that there is a thin line between fear and fury and that once the crisis has passed all that adrenaline pumping through the system has to be channeled somewhere. Mine latched on to the fact that for the past twenty minutes or so my child had, for all intents and purposes, been missing and the adults who should have informed me otherwise didn’t bother to do so. I wanted to know why. (And frankly, I wanted an apology).
“Sabrina doesn’t know her phone number.” Her classroom teacher informed me when she finally came to the phone.
blink. blink blink.
I didn’t even bother pointing out that multiple contacts for Diva Girl should be available with only a couple of clicks of the mouse. We’re new to the school and sometimes things happen with computers and information doesn’t show up where it’s supposed to. In fact, that very situation occurred at our old school back when she was in Kindergarten, resulting in her cooling her heels (or, you know, sobbing hysterically) in the office for half an hour one day because no one bothered to ask her if she knew her phone number. Which she did. And does.
“Did you ask her?” Clearly, they couldn’t have. I couldn’t think of any other way that they’d be under the impression that she didn’t. My tone must have indicated my gobsmacked disbelief because the teacher got a bit huffy at this point, informing me that of course she had asked her, but Diva Girl had just spouted off a random list of numbers that didn’t even start with a proper area code. In a tone that implied that Sabrina must not be nearly as bright as they’d thought and that I must clearly be a defective parent for not ensuring my 8 year old had her phone number memorized.
Now, this is where you need to know that a year ago (!) our city got a second area code–there was a whole ad campaign and everything about it at the time–and that my cell phone number, which Sabrina can rattle off from memory, is one of the ones assigned the new code. Based on what the teacher was telling me, it was clear that Diva Girl, assuming I’d be at the bus stop and not at home, had tried to reach me on my cell and had been prevented from doing so by the teacher.
To confirm my suspicions I rattled off the number, asking if this was the number Sabrina had provided. The teacher then made a vindicated sound and reiterated, “When I saw that she wasn’t even dialing a real number I told her to hang up and that she’d have to wait to phone home until I had the time to look up her number.”
I’m actually not sure which part of that pisses me off more, that the teacher arbitrarily (and incorrectly) decided that she knew everything and dismissed Sabrina’s knowledge out of hand, or that she apparently decided to punish her by not bothering to inform me of my child’s safety and whereabouts in a timely manner. I just know that I’m livid about the whole thing. And the fact that she didn’t offer up so much as an apology when informed that Sabrina had had the right of it all along, instead choosing to defend her actions based on her ignorance of the area code change and her belief that the child could not possibly have been correct isn’t really helping me to get over it.
Neither is the reason why Diva Girl missed the bus in the first place. Or should I say, reasons.
You see, in talking with the teacher, I was informed that a drama over a lost webkinz caused Diva Girl and four other little girls to miss their bus. Based on this description of events I was left with the distinct impression that the entire incident was all Sabrina’s fault. Needless to say, I was deeply embarrassed and apologetic that my daughter had been the cause of such a massive inconvenience and was even starting to wonder if perhaps I was being unreasonable about the delayed notification. But then Sabrina came home with a tale that varied from her teacher’s in some key information. Like the fact that the entire class had been “contained” after dismissal because the boys were swordfighting when they were supposed to be getting ready to go. And when they finally were allowed to leave, they were dismissed one by one with no consideration as to who was a bus person and who was a walker.
So, I suspect the truth of the matter lies somewhere between the two stories: That the misplaced webkinz did indeed cause Sabrina to miss the bus, but that it wouldn’t have been an issue if not for the fact that she hadn’t actually been dismissed on time. And you know what? Stuff happens. That’s not what I have a problem with here. What I have a problem with is that while my 8 year old daughter has acknowledged her responsibility in this fiasco (and agrees that webkinz are best left at home form now on), the teacher has, through a sin of omission, completely avoided hers.
In all honestly, as frustrated and angry as I am, I’m not quite sure what to do in this situation. My initial reaction is to write a note to the teacher indicating I feel we need to discuss the situation further, and possibly even involve the principal. If she were still at her old school, that is exactly what I would do. But she’s in my school board now, and that adds another level of complication to the dynamics.
Not only do I have to worry about Diva Girl being singled out if I get on the wrong side of her teacher, as a supply teacher I’m trapped between the conflicting roles of mother and colleague. My desire to advocate for my daughter at odds with my need to pay the rent and I have to weigh the possible ramifications to my job prospects if I choose to make waves over this. This is why she was in the other school board to begin with, and while I don’t miss the Heathers or the crazy babysitters chasing me through the playground or any number of other things, I do miss feeling that I have the freedom to be Sabrina’s mother in every situation.
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Posted by Kimberly on February 16th, 2007 — Posted in Diva Girl, No Pudding Until You Finish Your Meat, iVillage
I got a real treat at work today: I got to go back to the school where I taught 5/6 for a year and reconnect with the people I’d known there. One very special person in particular: My daughter.
In addition to being the school where I had my very first full time classroom, it’s the school where Diva Girl did her Junior Kindergarten year. At the same time. It was quite the year, both of us figuring out the school thing together–me how to juggle being a teacher and a mom, and her how to negotiate all of the social and academic expectations that come from dipping your toe into the big wide world. And it certainly set us apart, us attending school together; it made us stand out a bit. She would hang out in the staff room with me before school–even came to a couple staff meetings–and every teacher in the school knew who she was.
I was asked about her repeatedly today. Nearly every teacher I talked to was interested in what she was doing now, and astonished that wee little Sabrina has grown into a third grader. They shared memories of my Diva Girl–her boundless energy, her joie de vivre, her excitement and enthusiasm and just all around sparkle.
It was really nice, hearing all of these people speak so warmly about my Diva Girl. Not just because it’s always nice to hear people say complimentary things about your kid, but because, listening to them, I got to see her through fresh eyes. Instead of a tween who has spent more than her fair share of time whining and complaining about homework and money and the general unfairness of the world lately, I was able to see that other Sabrina again–the positive side of the Diva Girl. The girl who lights up the room with her smile, whose laugh is literally irresistible. The girl who is brimming with ideas, and questions, and optimism, and just plain life. I got to see her sparkle again. It had been dulled recently by battles over homework, or chores, or just the beginning skirmishes in the the process of growing up, but today, in speaking with these people who remember her from a different time, it was blindingly bright.
Today reminded me of a lot of things; mostly that I’m very blessed: To have a job I love. Colleagues I like and respect. And Diva Girl to come home to at the end of the day.
(Thank Kate for the title. I was going to be lazy and not bother with one.)
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Posted by Kimberly on January 10th, 2007 — Posted in Kipple, No Pudding Until You Finish Your Meat, iVillage
Thanks for all the birthday wishes.
It was actually a kind of inauspicious beginning to my 36th year: I chose to work, rather than follow the tradition of declaring my birthday to be a personal holiday. But, after two weeks of unpaid vacation, the paycheque was enough of a present. So I took a grade 7/8 assignment at a school on the other side of the city.
It was only a one bus commute, but it meant literally riding the bus from one terminal point to the other to get there. In order to get to work on time, I had to be on the 7:53 bus. Before that, I had to get myself and The Ladies up and out the door, drop them at the sitter’s, then walk the 15 minutes to the bus stop. And, since we’ve been pretty much housebound for the past week or so, I also had to pick up bus tickets at some point along the way (actually, at the variety store down the street from my house, since it’s the only place along this circuitous route that sells them).
I set the alarm for 6:30, and double checked to make sure it was AM before I went to bed. 6:30 would possibly be cutting it a bit close, given our detour, but it was still my birthday, and no way was I getting out of bed before then.
At 7:19 I shot out of bed, hauled The Ladies out after me, and began a mad scramble to make the bus.
At 7:44 I kissed The Ladies goodbye–thank goodness for babysitters who provide breakfast–and took off for the bus stop. I didn’t think I had a hope in hell of making it, but I was determined to try (that way I wouldn’t feel guilty about wussing out and spending the $20 for a cab).
I did catch the bus, after a hail mary sprint, but at 7:54 I remembered that I didn’t stop for bus tickets. Sweaty and dishevelled, with a hat hiding my uncombed hair, my makeup tucked into my bag for application in the staffroom washroom, and my skirt hiked up over my snowpants, I poured out my sad tale of woe to the bus driver. Who not only let me ride for free, he made sure to drop me at the best stop and give me easy to follow directions to get to the school since my map was conveniently sitting on my desk, and not tucked into my bag where it would actually be helpful.
Have I ever told you about grade 7/8? 7/8 is the ninth circle of hell. They are hormonal timebombs, either on the cusp of, or in the throes of puberty. They are cocky; exuberant in their entitlement and adorably infuriating in their misplaced sense of maturity. They are hardwired to challenge authority; their very identities depend, in large part, on separating themselves from authority of any kind, and showing their superiority over it. When it comes to supply jobs, there are few things more challenging than spending the day with a 7/8 class.
So, take the normal 7/8 vibe, and add in the just returned from Christmas vacation energy. Then, just to keep it interesting, imagine that this particular group’s regular teacher went off on maternity leave over the break. And that their new teacher had only been there one day before calling in a sub. Yeah.
And I had to teach art. I hate art. At least I actually understood the math.
So, that was pretty much my birthday in a nutshell. That and adjusting to this whole 35 thing. It still doesn’t feel right. Like a pair of pants that don’t quite fit. They’re the right size and the right cut, but something is just a bit off and they chafe. I guess I just have to break it in a bit.
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Posted by Kimberly on December 19th, 2006 — Posted in Diva Girl, Kipple, No Pudding Until You Finish Your Meat, iVillage
It may not show up in the pictures I post, but Diva Girl is a small kid. Tiny even. Half of the Grade Ones are bigger than she is, and even some of the Kindergarteners. Because she’s so little, it’s pretty much a given that in any grouping, she’ll be placed in the bottom row. But not this time. This time, she got to stand on the top riser. It wasn’t quite as good as getting to sing a solo, but it was still a pretty big deal to a kid resigned to life in Shrimp Row.
I ended up deciding not to be “That” parent. I didn’t talk to the the music teacher afterall. It was a difficult choice; nobody likes to see their child disappointed, and I really do think the teacher is wrong. But in the end, I didn’t see how Mommy rushing in to fix things would help Diva Girl learn to deal with the many injustices life will throw her way or to stand up for herself when it inevitably happens. So, instead of talking to the teacher myself, I encouraged Sabrina to speak for herself.
We spent a couple of days brainstorming what she should say, and then after she’d worked up her courage, Diva Gril went to the music taecher and asked her why some kids always get the good parts, no matter what. She didn’t really get a satisfactory answer, and she didn’t get a solo, but she did get the sense of accomplishment that comes from standing up for herself. And honestly, that makes me more proud than any solo in a Christmas concert ever could have.
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Posted by Kimberly on December 7th, 2006 — Posted in Diva Girl, No Pudding Until You Finish Your Meat, iVillage, Heathers
Things have been going really well for Diva Girl at school lately. Her grades are good, she’s been happy, and she even got the Friendship Award last month. Not too shabby, considering how we started this year.
There was a small bobble a couple of weeks ago when she announced that Heather was “losing friends.” At first I thought that Heather was finally getting her comeuppance, and I’ll confess that I didn’t feel too badly for the Queen B. Turns out that Heather herself had decided it was time to lose some friends–seems she felt she just had too many, and needed to cull the herd. That part of the story made me roll my eyes. The part where Sabrina told her that it was ok if she didn’t want to be her friend anymore, that she understood and would be sad but not mad, brought tears to them. The fact that Sabrina made the cut didn’t really do much to change my opinion about the whole affair, but other than that incident, things have been so quiet that I stopped waiting for the other shoe to drop.
And then came the Christmas concert.
Guess who has a solo. For the third time in a row. And guess who isn’t very happy about it.
It’s a tricky situation. On the one hand, this isn’t Heather’s fault. For once, I don’t believe her manipulations have much to do with the situation. Unfortunately, that doesn’t change the fact that the music teacher has a habit of playing favourites, arbitrarily assigning the plum roles to the same students, year after year. It wouldn’t be fair under any circumstances, but in a primary choir it seems to be a particularly odious practice. If ever there was a time to allow every student who wanted the opportunity a chance to shine, this would be it. After all, it’s awfully hard to get across the message that you have to do the best with the gifts you have, even if sometimes that means shining in the chorus, when the kids see same people singled out every. single. time. As a teacher, I’d be very disturbed by what is going on here, even if my child wasn’t the one singing the “it’s not fair!” blues.
As a mom, I’m not sure what to do here. I do not want to be That Parent. You know, That Parent who is always complaining. The squeaky wheel parent who is convinced that without her vigourous defense, her child is destined to get the short end of the stick. That Parent who goes into to school and makes the teacher take the part away from Heather and give it to her child. That is exactly the parent Diva Girl wants me to be, though.
She wants me to “fix” this. And while I know that in her view, fixing it means telling the music teacher to give her a solo, I’m not sure that would really fix anything. Even if the teacher did bow to my will, it would simply be trading one injustice for another. And that’s not fair to anyone.
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Posted by Kimberly on December 5th, 2006 — Posted in Kipple, No Pudding Until You Finish Your Meat, iVillage
One good thing about the temperature dropping into the negatives: Between the snowpants, the scarf, and the toque, nobody can tell that you’ve just rolled out of bed and haven’t bothered to get dressed yet when you drop the kid off at school.
Unless, of course, said kid decides to anounce to the assembled mommies and daddies that Mama isn’t wearing any pants.
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Posted by Kimberly on November 30th, 2006 — Posted in Diva Girl, No Pudding Until You Finish Your Meat, iVillage, My Addiction
What is it about the word “lice” that its mere mention causes the skin to start crawling?
Sabrina brought The Note home from school today. The note no parent wants to pull out of the backpack. The Prelude to the Apocalypse note.
I suppose it coud have been slightly worse. It wasn’t the “You Might As Well Shave Your Head Now” note. It was the slightly less terrifying, but still scratch inducing The “We Regret to Inform You That Your Child’s Playmates Are Infested WIth Nasty Itchy Bugs That Will Never Go Away” Note.
The Note wasn’t the only thing in the backbpack today. The Scholastic flyer was in there as well (yippee! Too bad The Lousy Week wasn’t one of the featured selections.)
The other piece of paper that came home today almost made up for The Note, and at least briefly distracted me from my psychosomatic itching. Diva Girl got a Proud Pick* this month. For Friendship. After the rocky start to this year, I am thrilled that of all the awards she could have won, she got this one. So is she, which is really the important thing. It’s a nice recoginition of how far she’s come this year, and the lessons she’s learned about compassion and kindness in the process.
Now please excuse me; it’s hard to type and obsessively scratch at the same time.
*Proud Picks are monthly awards given out by Diva Girl’s school. Each month the school focusses on a different area: Respect, Organization, Homework Completion, etc. At the end of the month they have an assembly and hand out awards to the students who best exemplify that month’s focus.
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Posted by Kimberly on November 10th, 2006 — Posted in The Ladies, No Pudding Until You Finish Your Meat, iVillage
Thursday was a big day at our house. In addition to the arrival of the still nameless furball, Susan came back to town for a visit, and she brought the whole familiy with her. One of the things I love about being a substititue teacher is that I was able to take the afternoon off to hang out with them.
That flexibility of schedule, and the freedom it gives me to keep my priorities straight while still doing a job I love is the reason that I am in no hurry to return to a regular classroom. I’ve done the classroom thing, with the name on the door and the report cards and the pizza lunches and the bulletin boards and the coaching, and it’s just not where I am in my life right now. I love teaching, but I don’t love all the extras that go with it–the parents, the administrivia, the stress. Teaching is an incredibly stressful job, and it’s one that doesn’t end with the 3:30 bell. The students don’t really leave after the classroom empties; they’re still there in the lesson planning, the marking, and the emotional investment a teacher makes in her class.
When I decided to become a teacher, it was a very naieve, spur of the moment decsion. It was based not on a lifelong dream to be a teacher (I wanted to be many things when I grew up–a magazine editor, a writer, a paleontologist–but I don’t recall any deep burning passion to become a teacher), but on what career I thought would be most accomodating to my imminent status as a solo mom. On my own and pregnant with Sabrina, I sat down and really thought about my options for the first time since calling off my wedding the year before. Teaching seemed like a logical choice: Pretty good pay, awesome pension, hours that would certainly suit–especially once the kid was in school–and no worries about what to do about school vacations. It wasn’t until later that I realized that I love teaching.
It also wasn’t until later that I realized how utterly naieve I’d been. Much though I love teaching, it’s not conducive to the whole solo mom lifestyle. It seems like it should be, what with the easy hours and all, but that doesn’t take into account all the behind the scenes stuff–the endless marking and reportcard writing, all of which are done during those huge chunks of free time I thought I’d be spending with my kid. I aslo hadn’t considered the fact that having the same schedule as my child would mean, well, having the same schedule as my child. My parents brough Diva Girl to her very first day of school ever, and that’s a piece of mommy guilt I’ll be carrying around for the long haul.
Last year was an epiphany of sorts for me. I took Brina to school and picked her up. I attended numerous school assemblies and saw her read a poem for Remembrance Day, watched her deliver her lollipop speech in the gym, taped her class play, and was there when she got her “Proud Pick.” I supervised fieldtrips and went to playgroups. I was really present in my girls’ lives, and while I sometimes longed for the stimulation of work, I also savoured the relaxed rhythm of our family life. When it was time to look at going back to work this year, I realized that I wasn’t willing to give that up.
Nobody goes to school to become a substitute teacher. In a profession that is defintely lacking in glamour lately, it’s often seen as the least attractive option–the dumping ground for teachers who couldn’t hack it in a “real” classroom. The reality is oftentimes a little different. Supply teachers have the same training as regular classroom teachers, and a far greater range of experience. Classroom teachers deal with the issues and personalities in one room; supply teachers take on those same issues and personalities in many classrooms. And where the regular teacher has weeks to build rapport with her students, a substitute has minutes. Plus, she’s also often teaching outside her specialty area, taking on everything from kindergarten to calculus over the course of the week. These are all truths that I discovered when I became a substitute, and they’re what I hold on to now that I’ve returned to that and have to see the looks on collegeaues faces when they ask what I’m doing now.
Last time I found myself on the supply list, it was because there were no fulltime jobs to be had. This time, I’m there because it’s where I want to be. Really, it’s the best of both worlds: I get to do something I love, but I also get to fully present in my kids’ lives. I go into schools and teach my classes, but when the bell rings at the end of the day, I leave it all there behind me on the teacher’s desk. And, when something truly important comes up (like a playdate with Susan), I have the flexibiity to make the choice to put my family life first and not go into work at all.
It’s not the career path I envisioned when the stick turned blue and I decided to be come a teacher, but it turns out that it was what I was looking for all along.
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Posted by Kimberly on October 27th, 2006 — Posted in Oncology Odyssey, No Pudding Until You Finish Your Meat, iVillage
I’d forgotten about weekends during the last two and a half years. I’d forgotten that bone tired feeling at the end of a busy work week; it’s a different bone tired than the exhaustion that comes with the constant care of a tiny human being or a full playdate schedule. Tonight, though, it’s all coming back to me, the meaning of TGIF.
Lately, weekends just meant that I’ll have 2 kids home all day, not picking up their toys and demanding snacks. And that the Shaolin Toddler will probably forgo her nap, choosing instead to chase her sister around and get in her business until they are both whining uncontrollably. Weekends in the land of this accidental SAHM were certainly a break in routine, but when you’ve got a high strung Diva and a Toddler Formerly Known As Zen in a small apartment, changes in routine aren’t always…restful. Tonight, however, I’m sitting here, utterly exhausted and grateful that it’s Friday. Two whole glorious days to sleep in, laze around, and do absolutely nothing……Or, you know, spend quality time with The Ladies, do the laundry (normally I wouldn’t bother, but the underwear situation is nearing critical levels), and get the errands done I didn’t have time for during the week.
Still, I’m thrilled that it’s the weekend. Even more than that, I’m thrilled that I’m thrilled that it’s the weekend.
I’ve been a mom for going on 8 years now, and for the first five, I was a working mom. For the first year and a half of Diva Girl’s life I was in school, getting my teaching credentials. And by the first year and a half, I mean all of it. For a completely….unexpected baby, Sabrina had the good grace to be born over Christmas Break. I attended my last class of the year, went home, had a baby, and showed back up at school three weeks later without missing a single class. After I got my teaching certificate I went to work pretty much fulltime, first as a supply teacher, and then, the year she was in Jr. Kindergarten, as a teacher at Diva Girl’s school.
Then I had the Zen Baby. I took the full year maternity leave and really enjoyed it. Well, I did teach summer school when the baby was four months old, but other than that, I was home fulltime. It was a unique experience for me, this life of a stay-at-home-mom. I hung out on the playground and made friends with other mommies. I attended school assemblies, went on fieldtrips and to playgroup, and napped when the baby napped. But I’ll confess, when I was offered my dream job just a few days after Regan’s first birthday, I was ready to go back to work. Especially since it was only one 70 minute high school English class, meaning I would still be able to drop Brina off at school in the mornings and pick her up in the afternoons, and would only be leaving Regan with my mom for about 2 hours a day. It was perfect, and I was thrilled.
Three days after I started work, Regan’s tumour was discovered. My immediate instinct was to quit. In fact, I walked into the Vice-Principal’s office later that day and tendered my resignation. He didn’t accept it, telling me that a decision shouldn’t be made in such an emotional moment. Part of me was very relieved, because terrified though I was for my baby, I really, really wanted that job. And I kept it. The day after her surgeon removed a tumour the size of a grapefruit from the Zen Baby’s belly, I returned to my class, commuting from the hospital until she was released a week later. After that contract ended, I again worked summer school , basking in the fact that my baby was healthy.
But, the entire drama had taken more than a physical toll on my family. By August, Regan had stopped talking. At. All. No words–not even Mama, or NO. No baby babble. Really, no sounds at all. And she was painfully shy. People terrified her. Not just random strangers, pretty much everyone who wasn’t me. I never had to look around for her, I simply needed to look down to see my little shadow standing silently, no more than an arm’s length (hers, not mine) from my leg. This was not a child who was going to be able to cope with daycare, not even the fantastic home daycare where I’d secured her a spot.
So, I took the year off and instead of lesson plans, report cards, and parent teacher interviews I immersed myself in a busy schedule of playdates and circle time as I tried to socialize my traumatized little girl. It worked beautifully. With the help of some great friends, including the aforementioned daycare provider, Regan is a different child from a year ago. She’s happy. She’s social. Last week, she walked up to me holding another little girl’s hand and said, “This is Emma. She’s my friend.” It was time to go back to work.
So, this week I walked back into a classroom for the first time in 14 months. And started to remember what it’s like to look forward to the weekend.
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