You may be married to a teacher if . . .
5. The most helpful thing you can do for your spouse is help grade papers.
4. You know the names of 26 kids you've never met.
3. You've ever had to reassure your spouse that the failed math tests does not mean s/he is a bad teacher.
2. You find yourself being roped into coming to school on Saturday to help pack up a classroom. (The Powers That Be, WHY did you think it was a good idea to do construction on the school over the summer, necessitating everything be packed in boxes before the school year is even over?!)
1. While talking to your spouse at church, s/he tells you to "turn your voice off."
Monday, June 2, 2014
Sunday, June 1, 2014
There's a snake in my boot!
Right now, I'm running a pioneer simulation with my class. Think Oregon Trail, minus the hunting and Aunt Carol screaming during the rafting (and the computer altogether), and adding in diary entries, coin tosses, and checker tossing to determine the fates of the pioneers.
I divided the class into wagon trains and each student picked an identity from a list which informed them of their family members, occupations, and animals. Then each student had to decide which supplies they were going to take with them in their wagon.
At the start of the simulation, one boy asked me how much time the simulation covered. He was very concerned because his wife was five months pregnant, and he wanted to know if he needed to bring a baby cradle, should his wife give birth on the trail.
Then on Wednesday, one of my students failed to throw a checker into a trash can over his shoulder from ten feet away, so he was shot in the arm with an arrow during a fight with Native Americans. The fate dictated that he had to wear his arm in a sling for the next two days. I could've brought one of the gender neutral baby blankets we have for him to use as a sling, but you better believe I made him wear the one with the pink fairies on it. (If only I had thought to take a picture!)
On two separate occasions, pioneers on a certain trail lost livestock if, from 20 feet away, they failed to throw a checker less than 12 inches from the wall. Friday a boy asked me, "Mrs. Erickson? How am I pulling my wagon? I don't have any more animals!" For some reason I thought this was hilarious and couldn't stop laughing. I told him that perhaps someone else on his wagon train let him borrow a cow. Bahaha.
They don't know it yet, but at the end of the simulation, very few of them will actually make it to their destination alive. I can hardly wait! Mostly because by the time we get there, school will be almost out for the summer! Woohoo! (Those of you who have already finished the school year, bite your tongue. I don't want to hear it.)
I divided the class into wagon trains and each student picked an identity from a list which informed them of their family members, occupations, and animals. Then each student had to decide which supplies they were going to take with them in their wagon.
At the start of the simulation, one boy asked me how much time the simulation covered. He was very concerned because his wife was five months pregnant, and he wanted to know if he needed to bring a baby cradle, should his wife give birth on the trail.
Then on Wednesday, one of my students failed to throw a checker into a trash can over his shoulder from ten feet away, so he was shot in the arm with an arrow during a fight with Native Americans. The fate dictated that he had to wear his arm in a sling for the next two days. I could've brought one of the gender neutral baby blankets we have for him to use as a sling, but you better believe I made him wear the one with the pink fairies on it. (If only I had thought to take a picture!)
On two separate occasions, pioneers on a certain trail lost livestock if, from 20 feet away, they failed to throw a checker less than 12 inches from the wall. Friday a boy asked me, "Mrs. Erickson? How am I pulling my wagon? I don't have any more animals!" For some reason I thought this was hilarious and couldn't stop laughing. I told him that perhaps someone else on his wagon train let him borrow a cow. Bahaha.
They don't know it yet, but at the end of the simulation, very few of them will actually make it to their destination alive. I can hardly wait! Mostly because by the time we get there, school will be almost out for the summer! Woohoo! (Those of you who have already finished the school year, bite your tongue. I don't want to hear it.)
Friday, May 23, 2014
Privacy, shmivacy
If the mention of breastfeeding makes you squirm, you may want to skip this post. Just as a heads up.
I just finished up my second week back to work. And really, it hasn't been as terrible as I was previously anticipating. The thing I was most worried about, however, was the logistics of pumping at work. And for good reason, apparently.
Scene 1: Monday, May 12th. First day back to work. At 11:45, I shoo the kids out the door to recess. I power walk to the teacher's lounge to pick up the insulated carrying case and breast milk storage containers from the fridge. Once back at my room, I lock the door and close it, then proceed to set up my pumping equipment at my desk. At the last moment, I decide to whip out my nursing cover and put it on.
Good thing I did! Not one minute after putting it in place, one of my male students enters my room, returning a telephone pass he used before I excused the rest of my class to recess. Surreptitiously I turned the pump off (it is not a quiet machine) and awkwardly told him to put the pass on the nearest desk as he was making his way ever closer to my desk. After he left I inspected the door. Yes, I had locked it, but I hadn't pulled it shut tightly enough, hence the intrusion. Well, then. I wouldn't make that mistake again.
Scene 2: Wednesday, May 15th -- two days after the first incident. I'm finishing up my pumping session when I hear knocking at my door. Sorry, kid. I'm not answering the door. The knocking gets more persistent. Too bad. Next thing I know, the teacher next door unlocks my door and pops her head in, asking if it's okay if my (different male) student gets his lunch. At that point, I've all but cleaned up, so I hold the bottles of milk under my desk while he retrieves his lunch.
Scene 3: Wednesday, May 21st. We're on an all-day field trip to Camp Floyd, a location that's basically a large grassy area with a few small buildings used for various activities for the childrens. After the students start their first rotation of activities, I approach a stern-looking woman dressed in a pioneer outfit and awkwardly ask her if there's a private place I could use to pump later in the day. Her first suggestion? "Well, there's the bathroom . . . " Immediately I inwardly veto that idea. A) Sitting on a toilet to pump hardly seems sanitary. B) Students would be walking in and out of the bathroom throughout the day, and I didn't want them asking questions. C) I later found out that there were only two stalls in the bathroom, and they didn't even lock! Jibs!
She then suggested the office, and I pounced on that idea. About an hour later, I asked her if it would be okay that I use the office now, and she agreed. The office was in the same building as one of the activities for the students, but one of the parent volunteers assured me that none of the students had even attempted to open the door to that room, so I should be good to go.
I enter the office and notice a LARGE window to the outside, sans any covering. Well, good thing I came prepared with my nursing cover again, I suppose. Too bad the neck strap keeps coming out of its buckle, causing the top to flop down and expose myself at various intervals. As I pump, I'm painfully aware that I can hear the students on the other side of the wall talking to each other and praying I don't hear anyone ask "What's that noise?" (Again, the pump is NOT a quiet machine!) About 15 tense minutes later, my fear came true -- the door opened! And guess who tried to come in? Not a male student this time, but the pioneer lady I had specifically told that I would be using her office to pump. Let's just say that once I said "Excuse me," and she left, I immediately cleaned up, returned to the other teachers, and avoided eye contact with the pioneer lady for the rest of the day.
Scene 4: Friday, May 23rd. Back to my classroom. Again, I locked the door, making sure to pull it shut tightly and wear my nursing cover again. By this point, I'm sure you can predict what will happen. Yet another male student of mine somehow gets into my classroom because the lunch box crate was left inside. (Whether he somehow picked the lock or someone else let him in is unclear.)
Have you been keeping tally? That's right, out of the ten days I've been back to work, I've been walked in on while pumping four of those days. That's 40%! It's getting absurd.
Nine days of school left. Any guesses as to how many more times my privacy will be invaded?
I just finished up my second week back to work. And really, it hasn't been as terrible as I was previously anticipating. The thing I was most worried about, however, was the logistics of pumping at work. And for good reason, apparently.
Scene 1: Monday, May 12th. First day back to work. At 11:45, I shoo the kids out the door to recess. I power walk to the teacher's lounge to pick up the insulated carrying case and breast milk storage containers from the fridge. Once back at my room, I lock the door and close it, then proceed to set up my pumping equipment at my desk. At the last moment, I decide to whip out my nursing cover and put it on.
Good thing I did! Not one minute after putting it in place, one of my male students enters my room, returning a telephone pass he used before I excused the rest of my class to recess. Surreptitiously I turned the pump off (it is not a quiet machine) and awkwardly told him to put the pass on the nearest desk as he was making his way ever closer to my desk. After he left I inspected the door. Yes, I had locked it, but I hadn't pulled it shut tightly enough, hence the intrusion. Well, then. I wouldn't make that mistake again.
Scene 2: Wednesday, May 15th -- two days after the first incident. I'm finishing up my pumping session when I hear knocking at my door. Sorry, kid. I'm not answering the door. The knocking gets more persistent. Too bad. Next thing I know, the teacher next door unlocks my door and pops her head in, asking if it's okay if my (different male) student gets his lunch. At that point, I've all but cleaned up, so I hold the bottles of milk under my desk while he retrieves his lunch.
Scene 3: Wednesday, May 21st. We're on an all-day field trip to Camp Floyd, a location that's basically a large grassy area with a few small buildings used for various activities for the childrens. After the students start their first rotation of activities, I approach a stern-looking woman dressed in a pioneer outfit and awkwardly ask her if there's a private place I could use to pump later in the day. Her first suggestion? "Well, there's the bathroom . . . " Immediately I inwardly veto that idea. A) Sitting on a toilet to pump hardly seems sanitary. B) Students would be walking in and out of the bathroom throughout the day, and I didn't want them asking questions. C) I later found out that there were only two stalls in the bathroom, and they didn't even lock! Jibs!
She then suggested the office, and I pounced on that idea. About an hour later, I asked her if it would be okay that I use the office now, and she agreed. The office was in the same building as one of the activities for the students, but one of the parent volunteers assured me that none of the students had even attempted to open the door to that room, so I should be good to go.
I enter the office and notice a LARGE window to the outside, sans any covering. Well, good thing I came prepared with my nursing cover again, I suppose. Too bad the neck strap keeps coming out of its buckle, causing the top to flop down and expose myself at various intervals. As I pump, I'm painfully aware that I can hear the students on the other side of the wall talking to each other and praying I don't hear anyone ask "What's that noise?" (Again, the pump is NOT a quiet machine!) About 15 tense minutes later, my fear came true -- the door opened! And guess who tried to come in? Not a male student this time, but the pioneer lady I had specifically told that I would be using her office to pump. Let's just say that once I said "Excuse me," and she left, I immediately cleaned up, returned to the other teachers, and avoided eye contact with the pioneer lady for the rest of the day.
Scene 4: Friday, May 23rd. Back to my classroom. Again, I locked the door, making sure to pull it shut tightly and wear my nursing cover again. By this point, I'm sure you can predict what will happen. Yet another male student of mine somehow gets into my classroom because the lunch box crate was left inside. (Whether he somehow picked the lock or someone else let him in is unclear.)
Have you been keeping tally? That's right, out of the ten days I've been back to work, I've been walked in on while pumping four of those days. That's 40%! It's getting absurd.
Nine days of school left. Any guesses as to how many more times my privacy will be invaded?
Saturday, May 10, 2014
"Did you just use a tortilla as a napkin?"
In today's issue of Marie Claire Elizabeth, we have an exclusive interview with fashion icon Marie herself. Read on for a sneak peek of the transcript:
Q: Marie, how do you keep your luscious locks so luxuriously soft?
A: I undertake a strict regimen to keep my hair feeling baby soft. At least three times a week, but preferably more, I apply a mask of only the finest regurgitated milk to my hair. Next, someone rubs my hair with a soft, dry cloth to really work the nutrients from the milk into my scalp. At this point, the mask begins to set and get a bit crusty, so my assistant finger combs my hair for that carefree tousled look. Finally, twice a week a handsome man pampers me by washing my hair with Johnson & Johnson Baby Shampoo.
Q: Which fashion trend do you think will really take off this year?
A: For some unforeseen reason, my mother insists on placing a bib around my neck at all hours every day. A bib! The shame of it all. I try to put a positive spin on it, so to speak, by manipulating the bib around my neck to turn it into a superhero cape. I don't care what Edna Mode says; capes are going to be all the rage this spring.
Q: Every celebrity commits a fashion faux pas every once in a while. Tell us: what's yours?
A: Two words: highwater pants. My mom also tried squeezing me into a pair of pseudo-jeggings, but thankfully she couldn't pull them over my scrumptious thighs, so I escaped that catastrophe.
For a copy of the full interview, subscribe to MarieClaire Elizabeth by sending in your mail order with $19.99 enclosed.
Q: Marie, how do you keep your luscious locks so luxuriously soft?
A: I undertake a strict regimen to keep my hair feeling baby soft. At least three times a week, but preferably more, I apply a mask of only the finest regurgitated milk to my hair. Next, someone rubs my hair with a soft, dry cloth to really work the nutrients from the milk into my scalp. At this point, the mask begins to set and get a bit crusty, so my assistant finger combs my hair for that carefree tousled look. Finally, twice a week a handsome man pampers me by washing my hair with Johnson & Johnson Baby Shampoo.
Q: Which fashion trend do you think will really take off this year?
A: For some unforeseen reason, my mother insists on placing a bib around my neck at all hours every day. A bib! The shame of it all. I try to put a positive spin on it, so to speak, by manipulating the bib around my neck to turn it into a superhero cape. I don't care what Edna Mode says; capes are going to be all the rage this spring.
Q: Every celebrity commits a fashion faux pas every once in a while. Tell us: what's yours?
A: Two words: highwater pants. My mom also tried squeezing me into a pair of pseudo-jeggings, but thankfully she couldn't pull them over my scrumptious thighs, so I escaped that catastrophe.
For a copy of the full interview, subscribe to Marie
Friday, April 4, 2014
So, we had a baby.
Sunday morning at 5 a.m. I woke up to what I thought might've been a contraction. I felt a lot of pressure, like a bad menstrual cramp, and then it went away. I had about 3 of those episodes in the space of 45 minutes, at which point I snagged the iPad and opened the app I downloaded previously to help time contractions. It was tricky deciding when they started and ended, but the general pattern of being about 15 minutes apart and lasting about a minute and a half continued.
At 6:45 I got up to use the loo and noticed some bright red bleeding. I was pretty sure that was a symptom my doctor told me to call about, so I turned on the ol' lappy, verified the instructions to call OB Emergency Services in that circumstance, and proceeded to make the call. The midwife wasn't terribly concerned, but said I should probably come in and get checked out "just in case." I woke up Jacob at that point by shaking him and saying "We need to go to the hospital." He was a little out of it at first, but quickly snapped to action.
I wanted to eat breakfast since I knew I wouldn't be allowed to eat once we got checked in, so I had some cereal while Jacob hopped in the shower. We packed the hospital bag (if by "packed" you mean "threw in a bunch of random clothes and the camera and some other odds and ends") and got ready to leave. By this point, contractions were coming about 6 minutes apart and I was more convinced this was the real deal. This did not, however, stop me from apologizing to Jacob in advance if this was a false alarm and made the trip for no reason.
During the car ride, contractions were coming three to four minutes apart and I really had to focus on breathing through them. Fortunately, since it was Sunday morning, there wasn't any traffic on the ride to the hospital. Unfortunately, the valet service was closed, so we had to find a spot in the parking garage. Jacob tracked down a wheelchair and proceeded to take me for a whirl as we attempted to find the entrance to the hospital from the garage. (It was trickier than anticipated.)
We made our way up to the labor and delivery unit and then wandered the halls for a bit, unsure of where to go since nobody was around. Jacob ended up calling the Labor and Delivery unit again, effectively saying, "Uh, my wife is in labor and we're at the hospital . . . where do we go?" When we finally checked in, I told the woman in charge that I'd been having contractions about four minutes apart and had experienced some bleeding. When they checked me, we were told that I was 7 cm dilated. I ventured to ask, "Does this mean we're not getting sent home?" No, no, we were not. Later, one of the nurses said prior to getting checked they didn't think I was in actual labor because I was so calm about describing the frequency of contractions.
We were taken to our labor and delivery room and I requested an epidural. Jacob went back to the car to get our things, so he missed out on the whole process. At this point I was kind of out of it. I could hear the anesthesiologist speaking, but I wasn't really processing his words. Getting the epidural wasn't too bad, but I think it may have been too late to be super effective. I think he was finished by 9:20 and said it should start taking effect by 9:30. My legs and bum got tingly, but I still felt incredible amounts of pressure. I kept grabbing onto the side of the bed and trying to switch positions to cope with the pressure better, but nothing really seemed to help. The contractions were piling on top of one another, and I didn't get much of a break in between. I remember kind of whimpering and saying, "It hurts," to Jacob at least twice. I did a lot of heavy breathing and kept asking for water. Around 9:55 I asked Jacob what time it was, and when I asked again at 10:10, I said, "It's only been 15 minutes?!" More power to the women who have to endure long labors.
A short time later, I was checked again and was found fully dilated with the baby's head super low. They called for some doctors, and by the time they got there, one held up his fingers maybe an inch and a half apart and said that was the distance between her head and the opening. They got me into position, with Jacob holding one leg and a nurse holding another, and told me to push when I felt pressure. I wasn't really sure how to control my breathing at first, and someone put an oxygen mask on me. After maybe three contractions and a total of 14 minutes of pushing, our daughter made her entrance into the world.
Marie Elizabeth, welcome to our family. We couldn't be more thrilled that you're here!
At 6:45 I got up to use the loo and noticed some bright red bleeding. I was pretty sure that was a symptom my doctor told me to call about, so I turned on the ol' lappy, verified the instructions to call OB Emergency Services in that circumstance, and proceeded to make the call. The midwife wasn't terribly concerned, but said I should probably come in and get checked out "just in case." I woke up Jacob at that point by shaking him and saying "We need to go to the hospital." He was a little out of it at first, but quickly snapped to action.
I wanted to eat breakfast since I knew I wouldn't be allowed to eat once we got checked in, so I had some cereal while Jacob hopped in the shower. We packed the hospital bag (if by "packed" you mean "threw in a bunch of random clothes and the camera and some other odds and ends") and got ready to leave. By this point, contractions were coming about 6 minutes apart and I was more convinced this was the real deal. This did not, however, stop me from apologizing to Jacob in advance if this was a false alarm and made the trip for no reason.
During the car ride, contractions were coming three to four minutes apart and I really had to focus on breathing through them. Fortunately, since it was Sunday morning, there wasn't any traffic on the ride to the hospital. Unfortunately, the valet service was closed, so we had to find a spot in the parking garage. Jacob tracked down a wheelchair and proceeded to take me for a whirl as we attempted to find the entrance to the hospital from the garage. (It was trickier than anticipated.)
We made our way up to the labor and delivery unit and then wandered the halls for a bit, unsure of where to go since nobody was around. Jacob ended up calling the Labor and Delivery unit again, effectively saying, "Uh, my wife is in labor and we're at the hospital . . . where do we go?" When we finally checked in, I told the woman in charge that I'd been having contractions about four minutes apart and had experienced some bleeding. When they checked me, we were told that I was 7 cm dilated. I ventured to ask, "Does this mean we're not getting sent home?" No, no, we were not. Later, one of the nurses said prior to getting checked they didn't think I was in actual labor because I was so calm about describing the frequency of contractions.
We were taken to our labor and delivery room and I requested an epidural. Jacob went back to the car to get our things, so he missed out on the whole process. At this point I was kind of out of it. I could hear the anesthesiologist speaking, but I wasn't really processing his words. Getting the epidural wasn't too bad, but I think it may have been too late to be super effective. I think he was finished by 9:20 and said it should start taking effect by 9:30. My legs and bum got tingly, but I still felt incredible amounts of pressure. I kept grabbing onto the side of the bed and trying to switch positions to cope with the pressure better, but nothing really seemed to help. The contractions were piling on top of one another, and I didn't get much of a break in between. I remember kind of whimpering and saying, "It hurts," to Jacob at least twice. I did a lot of heavy breathing and kept asking for water. Around 9:55 I asked Jacob what time it was, and when I asked again at 10:10, I said, "It's only been 15 minutes?!" More power to the women who have to endure long labors.
A short time later, I was checked again and was found fully dilated with the baby's head super low. They called for some doctors, and by the time they got there, one held up his fingers maybe an inch and a half apart and said that was the distance between her head and the opening. They got me into position, with Jacob holding one leg and a nurse holding another, and told me to push when I felt pressure. I wasn't really sure how to control my breathing at first, and someone put an oxygen mask on me. After maybe three contractions and a total of 14 minutes of pushing, our daughter made her entrance into the world.
Marie Elizabeth, welcome to our family. We couldn't be more thrilled that you're here!
Monday, March 3, 2014
Adventures in fourth grade, part 8.
Last Friday, I was puttering around the front of the classroom doing something very important and teacher-y when a student came up to me.
"I have a problem," he said.
"Yes?" I responded.
He gestured to his shoe. The laces were untied. "I don't know how to tie my shoes."
Uh . . . come again?
Turns out he's always worn shoes with Velcro straps because he never learned to tie his shoes. I attempted to talk him through the steps to tie his own shoe the first two times his laces were untied. The third time, I gave up and tied them myself.
Pretty sure one of the reasons I decided to teach fourth grade is precisely so I wouldn't have to tie shoes. Alas.
During spelling today, we were focusing on blends at the beginning of words. I instructed each table to think of words that started with a specific blend and then write clues so the other students could guess which words they wrote. One of the tables was assigned the "pr" blend.
One particularly resourceful student went straight to the dictionary and started looking up words. Good for him, right?
Until the first two words he read aloud were "prostate" and "prostitute."
I couldn't turn the page fast enough. "How about protractor?" I suggested. "We have those in our classroom!" Not to mention they're a little less likely to bring about phone calls from angry parents.
"I have a problem," he said.
"Yes?" I responded.
He gestured to his shoe. The laces were untied. "I don't know how to tie my shoes."
Uh . . . come again?
Turns out he's always worn shoes with Velcro straps because he never learned to tie his shoes. I attempted to talk him through the steps to tie his own shoe the first two times his laces were untied. The third time, I gave up and tied them myself.
Pretty sure one of the reasons I decided to teach fourth grade is precisely so I wouldn't have to tie shoes. Alas.
* * *
One particularly resourceful student went straight to the dictionary and started looking up words. Good for him, right?
Until the first two words he read aloud were "prostate" and "prostitute."
I couldn't turn the page fast enough. "How about protractor?" I suggested. "We have those in our classroom!" Not to mention they're a little less likely to bring about phone calls from angry parents.
Thursday, February 13, 2014
"All I eat are carbs and the occasional piece of fruit." ". . . Which are also carbs."
The Olympics are upon us, and you know what that means: I have watched approximately 2,374 times more television in the last week than I have in the last year.
A few days ago, Jacob and I were watching the pairs figure skaters. As we witnessed the lifts, jumps, and spins, I was struck with a brilliant idea:
Me: Jacob. Let's take up figure skating and become the world's next pairs' figure skating champions.
Jacob: . . .
Me: It'll be an inspiring story! The teacher and the corrections officer quitting their jobs to become Olympic champions in 2016! They'll make TV specials about us!
Jacob: 2018.
Me: Eh?
Jacob: The next winter Olympics are in 2018.
Me: Oh . . . it isn't 2012. HOW IS IT TWO THOUSAND FOURTEEN ALREADY? Anyway, it could be so fun!
Jacob: I think you're on crack.
Harrumph. There go all my hopes and dreams of Olympic gold. But Jacob redeemed himself last night when he relayed to me, in detail, the happenings of the pairs' free skate, as I was unable to watch it. He even correctly used the term "triple axel," so, you know, bonus points.
A few days ago, Jacob and I were watching the pairs figure skaters. As we witnessed the lifts, jumps, and spins, I was struck with a brilliant idea:
Me: Jacob. Let's take up figure skating and become the world's next pairs' figure skating champions.
Jacob: . . .
Me: It'll be an inspiring story! The teacher and the corrections officer quitting their jobs to become Olympic champions in 2016! They'll make TV specials about us!
Jacob: 2018.
Me: Eh?
Jacob: The next winter Olympics are in 2018.
Me: Oh . . . it isn't 2012. HOW IS IT TWO THOUSAND FOURTEEN ALREADY? Anyway, it could be so fun!
Jacob: I think you're on crack.
Harrumph. There go all my hopes and dreams of Olympic gold. But Jacob redeemed himself last night when he relayed to me, in detail, the happenings of the pairs' free skate, as I was unable to watch it. He even correctly used the term "triple axel," so, you know, bonus points.
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