hugging May 7, 2009

Today right before I was going to start explaining the options for centers time, Princess interrupted me.

“Can I have a hug?”

“Not right now, sweetie.”  She pouted.

I said, “You can have a hug when I give you your clothespin for centers time.”

Someone else said, “Can I have one, too?”

“Of course.  When I call your name to get your clothespin, I’ll ask if you want a hug, and then I will give you one.  If you say no, though, you don’t have to have a hug.”

So every single child — except for Harold, who never wants hugs from me — got the clothespin with their name on it, and a hug from the teacher, before going off to put their clothespins on the centers time pocket chart.  It was disgustingly cute.

yes David, I love you September 10, 2008

David is struggling.  He came off the bus angry today — I found out later that someone at home had yelled at him.  I was trying to line up my class to go to gym and he got off the bus late and started laughing and running through the halls.  I let Nan go after him (walking, of course; we don’t chase children), and I went down to gym, and he eventually showed up, and was calm. 

Nan is a miracle worker.

But when I picked them up, Nan whispered to me that gym was hard for everybody, and that David was hitting a lot and had to take a time out.

He was fine in meeting — he loves morning meeting.  He interrupts me eagerly with all kinds of answers.  He understands everything I’m doing with the calendar and the morning message, and some days, it seems like he’s the only one.  We wrote down what we know about bugs on a chart and he loved that.

Then he suddenly punched the kid next to him.  So I said he had to take a time out and he wouldn’t go, and then he ran out of the room.  Nan, again with the miracles, got him to come back and sit in the chair, and when I said, “are you ready to come back?” he smiled and nodded yes, quite seriously.

He hit again on the way to recess, punched a classmate in the face on the playground, and had to sit on the bench the rest of the time.  He wailed with grief when recess was over.  It was really short today because we had such a hard time getting lined up and outside.

Then when Nan was helping him get his coat, he said, “Teacher!” and when I looked back at him, he blew me a kiss.

Yes, David, I love you.

to my new class September 7, 2008

Hi.  So, uh, I guess I’m your new teacher.  You’re all looking at me so expectantly, and I’m looking at you and thinking, wow, you guys are young. 

I hate to say it, but I miss my old class.  Those guys were awesome.  We had a great thing going.  Now they are all gone — except for you, Ferdinand, and I’m glad to have you back, but I notice you forgot how to speak English over the summer — and here I am with you guys.  Most of you can’t write your own names, or even draw a picture of a person.  A few of you were three years old just a few weeks ago.  Some of you boys don’t know how to lift up the seat instead of just peeing on it.

My old boys knew how to pee in the toilet.

My old class knew how to discuss books.  They knew what a Caldecott Medal was, and they had read the collected works of Jan Brett and Mo Willems, and they had more or less memorized Knuffle Bunny and Stellaluna and Strega Nona.  They could count and they knew their colors.  They knew how to solve problems without hitting.

I guess that’s because I taught them.  I’ll teach you, too, only right now it looks like a big job.  I feel like I’m one side of a huge mountain, and all I’ve got with me is a bunch of kids who were recently three years old, and they don’t really look like they know how to climb.

And then there’s the love thing.  I loved my old class.

A few years ago, on the first day of school, a little girl we’ll call Caterpillar raised her hand and said, “I love you, Mrs. X.”  (Actually, she said, “I yuv you, Mrs. X.”)  I said, “Wow, Caterpillar, what a wonderful thing to say.  I love you, too.”  Then someone else raised his hand to tell me he loved me, and someone else, and pretty soon it was just a love fest at morning meeting.  That first day set the tone for the whole year and that was when I got in the habit of telling my students I love them.  (I still love Caterpillar, and she still loves me.  I bump into her regularly around the neighborhood and she always throws her arms around me to hug me, even though I think she’s going into 2nd or 3rd grade.)

None of you told me you loved me on the first day of school.  So I told you guys I loved you, even though I wasn’t quite sure if I meant it yet. 

I know I will, though.  I will love you wholeheartedly, all year long.  Every day at the end of our time together we’ll hold hands and sing the “School Family” song, and my heart will melt a little.  On the second day of school, at calendar time, I told you that tomorrow would be Saturday and we wouldn’t see each other, and my heart melted when you all went, “awww,” with disappointment.

I said, “I know, it’s sad we won’t be together.  Tomorrow I’ll wake up in the morning and I will feel sad that I won’t be seeing you.  And I won’t see you on Sunday, either, but then on Monday it will be great because we’ll all be together again.”

Okay, I admit I kind of meant that.

Tomorrow is Monday and we will all be together again.  You’ll start learning how to write your names, and I’ll start learning to love you.

Because I’m your teacher, and that’s my job.

 

(Image from http://www.theposterlist.com/, an awesome resource for posters and art.)

My school family August 11, 2008

Every day, at the end of our morning together, my class stands up and holds hands in a circle, and sings the “School Family Song,” to the tune of “You are my Sunshine.”

You are my family, my school family,

I feel happy when you are here,

I hope you know, friends,

How much I love you,

When we’re apart,

I’ll keep you here.

(We put our hands on our hearts for the last line.)  This song is from the book I Love You Rituals, by Becky Bailey, which is well worth getting for anyone who spends time with young children.  I only use a few of the songs but with tremendous effect.

Last year, sometime early in the year, we drew pictures of our family members.  K., who is an only child, had one more person in her picture than I expected.  I sat down and asked her to tell me about the people in the picture.

“This is me, this is my mom, this is my dad, this is my grandpa, this is my teacher.”

“I’m in your family?” I asked, confused.

“Yes,” she said.  And then it dawned on me.

“Is this because of our song?  I’m in your school family?”

She beamed.  And I felt so honored.  (Also aware of my power, and how careful I need to be.  When I sing a song about a school family with my students, they believe me.  They believe everything I say.  I need to be very, very careful about what I say.)

Anyway, we are a family.  Each year, I have about twenty new children, and I’m sort of their teacher, sort of another mom.  I love them, and I tell them so, and often, they love me back.