Dave (my husband of nineteen years) has, for the first time in his twenty-five year science teaching career, a period of 6th graders. He has always, up until this year, taught eighth graders, with the exception of one errant class of seventh graders many years ago. Not his favorite year.
While seventh graders can be immature and annoying a lot of the time, put 'em next to a bunch of sixers and all the sudden the sevvies look like bastions of common sense and self-disclipline. Sixth graders are an entirely different species. I'm not really sure they even belong in middle school, to be honest. They are much better suited to being king of the hill in elementary school than they are to being the babies at middle school. They're sort of deer-in-the-headlights as middle-schoolers.
But here they are, and Dave has been tasked with teaching them a class of Earth Science. He is a bit anxious about the situation, but as always is ready to make the best of it.
I don't think he has anything to worry about, and here's why:
First off, he starts his day with the sixth graders. He has them first period, which is the best way to begin the day for him. I think it'll be great because it'll make the rest of his day seem like a walk in the park. Yes, sixers need to be told things three times. They forget their materials. They cry. A lot. For seemingly no reason. But beginning your day with the most "challenging" set of kids seems much more preferable than ending your day with the most "challenging" set of kids. Doesn't it? I think that given a big enough cup of coffee each morning (or two or five), and possibly several ibuprofen (or more), this will end up being a nice change of pace for Dave. He's a "rise to the occasion" kind of guy.
Plus, the rest of Dave's day is filled with (relatively mature) eighth graders. And sixth graders will make even your most exasperating eighth graders seem like they've got their act together. So by my logic, the rest of his day will fly by!
I also theorize that beginning the morning with Dave will be to the benefit of the sixth graders. Dave is organized. He is prepared. He is smart. He has a sense of humor. He's interesting. He cares about kids learning every single day, and he tries to make sure that kids look forward to learning every single day. He has the best class control of any teacher I know, for all of the aforementioned reasons. Any kid would be lucky to have him as a teacher, but to get to start each school day off with a teacher who demonstrates by his words and actions how important your education is to him, who knocks you out with his enthusiasm, who creates lessons designed not just to teach you but to involve you and make you want to come back the next day to see what you're doing next--that's one lucky group of kids! Hell, I'd like to start my day off in his science class if I could, and I did terribly in science .
I think that both Dave and the kids are going to reap massive amounts of benefits from this new situation (massive is a comparative term, and since you don't know what I'm comparing this to in my head, you just have to nod your head and go along with me).
Frankly, the only person I wouldn't want to be in this whole scenario is one of the sixth grade teachers who gets Dave's students after he's done with them each day. These kids will be coming from a classroom where the teacher brings his "A" game to work every single day. EVERY SINGLE DAY! These kids will be coming from a room where they are being engaged, challenged, stretched and inspired. EVERY SINGLE DAY! And these kids will be hoping for a second, third, fourth, fifth and sixth period filled with more of the same--EVERY SINGLE DAY! It's a tall order.
Dave will have these kids excited about science for sure, but he is not a miracle worker. Sixth graders are sixth graders.
They will still need to be told things three times. They will probably still forget their materials. They will most likely cry. A lot. For completely inexplicable reasons.
But they will look forward to first period. EVERY SINGLE DAY!
Friday, August 26, 2011
Sunday, August 7, 2011
Suck It 45!
Dear 45,
I am writing this out of concern for you. It appears that you think you are 50, and you, my friend, are no 50.
You are, to be sure, way past 40. I will give you that much. 40, although scary to think about, really was not such a big deal. Sure, people warned me about 40. But in the end, 40 was just a number. It brought no giant change as prophesied by so many. Some little changes--an ache here, a slower mile time there--but nothing dramatic. 45, you are only five years more. And five years is not an eternity.
You, 45, seem to think you are years ahead of your time. This must stop. Now.
I do not want to be disrespectful. You have five whole years on 40. I acknowledge that, and I salute you. Experience is important. But I see the road you are headed down, and while it's ultimately a good one, you need to slow down a bit. Take your time. Don't rush into things. I like where you are going, but you're getting a little pushy about it.
For example: you have politely insisted that I exercise more. And I do, because you threaten me with actual weight gain if I do not comply (40 was a bit kinder in that respect--it actually let me lose weight when I exercised).
You have also kindly, persistently nudged me to become better acquainted with an old friend, ibuprofen. I've never had anything against ibuprofen, by the way. We always got along. We just didn't need to be in constant contact. We were fine getting together every now and again. But at your insistence, now we hook up regularly. I concede that you were right. The more I get to know ibuprofen, the more I appreciate its qualities. And you probably already knew this, but it turns out that exercise and ibuprofen have been hanging out together for years; I almost feel like a third wheel in the relationship.
And another thing, 45. Get off my back. Last week I threw it out. Know what I was doing when it went out? Not sailing. Not swimming. Not running or gardening or lifting heavy grocery bags. Nothing even remotely athletic or even purposeful. I was sunbathing. Really. I kid you not. Layed down on the lounge chair for twenty minutes, and then couldn't get up. What's up with that, 45? You're going to take me out of the picture with sunbathing? That's just lame, even for you, 45. I understand you're excited about my renewed friendship with ibuprofen, but I see what you're doing. You're pushing me towards flexeril. And I know flexeril hangs with vicodin. I'm not wild about either of them. Not yet. You shouldn't be either. And you better watch out, 45. I'm pretty sure 50 has already called shotgun with both of them.
Another thing I need to mention, 45, for your own good: I know you are excited about the prospect of being 50, but take a cue from 40, please, and realize that the day is not over at 7pm. There's still plenty of exciting stuff to do after the sun goes down. I know you may not love dancing into the wee hours the way 30 and even 40 did, but you are underestimating yourself. I'm not trying to unfairly compare you to your younger self; I know we need more rest as we get older. But for the love of god, you're 45, not 80. Stop whispering in my ear that it's okay to be in my jammies at dinner time. It's not. I know you've worked your magic and gotten me to hit the sack before 9pm plenty of times, but I'm going to start fighting you on this one. Fair warning.
In closing, I just want to remind you, 45, that I'm trying really, really hard to act my age. My parents taught me that long ago; did anyone ever take the time to teach YOU that? It's important. Don't rush it. I need you, 45. I need you to stick to your guns and keep me feeling 45, not try to make me feel older. 50 is five long years away still. I don't think either one of us is quite mature enough to make that leap just yet.
Thank you for your understanding, and I hope we can still be friends.
Sincerely,
Kim
I am writing this out of concern for you. It appears that you think you are 50, and you, my friend, are no 50.
You are, to be sure, way past 40. I will give you that much. 40, although scary to think about, really was not such a big deal. Sure, people warned me about 40. But in the end, 40 was just a number. It brought no giant change as prophesied by so many. Some little changes--an ache here, a slower mile time there--but nothing dramatic. 45, you are only five years more. And five years is not an eternity.
You, 45, seem to think you are years ahead of your time. This must stop. Now.
I do not want to be disrespectful. You have five whole years on 40. I acknowledge that, and I salute you. Experience is important. But I see the road you are headed down, and while it's ultimately a good one, you need to slow down a bit. Take your time. Don't rush into things. I like where you are going, but you're getting a little pushy about it.
For example: you have politely insisted that I exercise more. And I do, because you threaten me with actual weight gain if I do not comply (40 was a bit kinder in that respect--it actually let me lose weight when I exercised).
You have also kindly, persistently nudged me to become better acquainted with an old friend, ibuprofen. I've never had anything against ibuprofen, by the way. We always got along. We just didn't need to be in constant contact. We were fine getting together every now and again. But at your insistence, now we hook up regularly. I concede that you were right. The more I get to know ibuprofen, the more I appreciate its qualities. And you probably already knew this, but it turns out that exercise and ibuprofen have been hanging out together for years; I almost feel like a third wheel in the relationship.
And another thing, 45. Get off my back. Last week I threw it out. Know what I was doing when it went out? Not sailing. Not swimming. Not running or gardening or lifting heavy grocery bags. Nothing even remotely athletic or even purposeful. I was sunbathing. Really. I kid you not. Layed down on the lounge chair for twenty minutes, and then couldn't get up. What's up with that, 45? You're going to take me out of the picture with sunbathing? That's just lame, even for you, 45. I understand you're excited about my renewed friendship with ibuprofen, but I see what you're doing. You're pushing me towards flexeril. And I know flexeril hangs with vicodin. I'm not wild about either of them. Not yet. You shouldn't be either. And you better watch out, 45. I'm pretty sure 50 has already called shotgun with both of them.
Another thing I need to mention, 45, for your own good: I know you are excited about the prospect of being 50, but take a cue from 40, please, and realize that the day is not over at 7pm. There's still plenty of exciting stuff to do after the sun goes down. I know you may not love dancing into the wee hours the way 30 and even 40 did, but you are underestimating yourself. I'm not trying to unfairly compare you to your younger self; I know we need more rest as we get older. But for the love of god, you're 45, not 80. Stop whispering in my ear that it's okay to be in my jammies at dinner time. It's not. I know you've worked your magic and gotten me to hit the sack before 9pm plenty of times, but I'm going to start fighting you on this one. Fair warning.
In closing, I just want to remind you, 45, that I'm trying really, really hard to act my age. My parents taught me that long ago; did anyone ever take the time to teach YOU that? It's important. Don't rush it. I need you, 45. I need you to stick to your guns and keep me feeling 45, not try to make me feel older. 50 is five long years away still. I don't think either one of us is quite mature enough to make that leap just yet.
Thank you for your understanding, and I hope we can still be friends.
Sincerely,
Kim
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