I'm a mother.
I'm the mother of eightysomething 13-14 year old black boys that bear no resemblance to me whatsoever. After I passed out a Starburst to each kid today, I actually heard myself say:
"Can you believe I gave out 31 Starbursts and only got 3 'thank you's?"
To which they replied a sing-songy:
"THAAAAANK YOU MS. M!"
"That's right! When someone gives us something, we say 'thank you!'"
Yeahhh. That happened. They honestly have not been taught to say 'thank you.' That's when the thought entered my head--the thought that, at 24, I am mothering 14-year-olds. Creepy.
You literally have to teach them. Everything. You can't say "Take out a piece of paper and fold it into fourths." You have to say "On three, everyone is going to fold their paper in half like this. One, two, three! Good. Okay now we're going to do the same thing again--not lengthwise...there you go!" I forget sometimes I teach teenagers, not kindergarteners. For kids who are incredibly self-reliant as far as raising themselves and their younger siblings, they are also incredibly dependent.
Back it up. If you noticed above that I gave out thirty-one starbursts and were wondering why I would do that when my biggest class was 22, let me clear the air. Thirty-one boys are now in my third block class. THIRTY-ONE!!! Special. Maybe you can't picture it, but that is a LOT of 14-year-old boys in one space. Did I mention I have 28 seats? And that in that class there's a kid in a wheelchair AND a kid with autism that wanders around talking to himself the whole 75 minutes? I'm only one person, folks. And a person who can handle a very little amount of multi-tasking at that.
So much for small class sizes this year!
Other than that challenge and a couple of kids who I've already flagged as "difficult," things are fine. Good, even. But I don't want to lull myself into a false sense of security because it's still the first week.
I'm trying to remember what last year's first week looked like. It was a blur. And in the moment I would have punched my future self in the face for wishing it to be any worse than it already was, but I find myself wishing that now. Did that make sense? I'm saying that I hope last year's first week was not as good as this one, because that would mean it wasn't just that the kids were at their best, but that I've improved as a teacher.
In the same way I'm sort of wishing last year was worse without wishing that on my poor last-year self, I'm looking for the first-year teachers to have it worse than me. Gosh that sounds terrible, and I guess it is. Certainly I wouldn't wish my last year's experience on anyone, but I would selfishly feel a little validated if they were struggling. All I want is to listen to some poor newcomer's plight and nod my head knowingly. "It is difficult. You just have to..."
What?
I never figured it out last year. But maybe, just maybe that's what this year is for. And maybe by the time I get through mothering this year's boys, I'll have practiced enough so that I won't mess my own kids up too much!
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