They Love You, They Hate You, They Steal Your Laptop...

Today was just one of those days. I even said that to Dave this morning when Amelia, who is cutting her 1-year molars, woke up screaming at 4am. I said, "Today's going to be one of those days." I didn't know how right I was.

I could make a laundry list of all the little things that went wrong from the moment I woke up, but I have now forgotten what they are. It doesn't even matter anymore. I don't think those little things ever mattered, really. They were minor inconveniences; annoyances that continually distract me from the meat and potatoes of daily life. And they pale in comparison to what happened later.

3rd period, a group of boistrous and lively 9th graders, is a class I look forward to. I would venture to say that they are my favorite class. Besides the typical issues of excessive talking, trying to listen to their i-pod on the sly and general homework apathy, they are a fun group of kids who ask great questions and make me look good when I have principal observations. But today as they were filing out of the classroom, one of them lifted my school-issued laptop from off my desk and walked away with it.

I didn't see it; I was collecting classwork outside the door, waving good-bye and reminding them to finish A Samurai's Tale before Friday. Within minutes of returning inside, I realized it wasn't there. I searched high and low; in cupboards and under stacks of papers; I even looked in the ten-gallon trash can right outside my classroom. It was gone. On the way down to the office to report my loss, I thought of the three hours of grading that I had done on Sunday afternoon and the final exam on All Quiet on the Western Front that I had prepared for Friday. I could feel a lump pushing its way up my throat when I thought of the semester's worth of documents that I had not yet copied to my flash drive. At that moment, who took it and why didn't cross my mind. I just wanted it back.

By the end of the day, it was in my hands again. School security had printed off my class roster and interrogated one kid at a time until finally, they found my laptop in Frankie's backpack. Walking up to the office after school to find out what had happened, I began to feel sick to my stomach. My hands started to shake. Now that my laptop had been recovered, I began to think about what this meant for Frankie. I knew he had been arrested. According to the Sheriff, he will most likely be charged be with grand theft. He will definitely be expelled. He might even spend some time in Juvenile Hall. Frankie just turned fifteen.

Tomorrow I am going to talk to my 3rd period class about what things cost. My laptop cost $500; Frankie's decision cost him considerably more. The truth is, he probably didn't realize the full consequences of his actions, or maybe he did and he just didn't care. Either way, it rips my heart out. Most likely, I will never see Frankie again. For the rest of the semester, his empty desk will serve as a reminder that most of the time, we create our own obstacles; our poor choices lead to our own challenges and all of these things boil down to the overused, but indisputable truth that what we make of life is up to us.

Show Me Your Belly!

This morning Dave and I took Amelia to her baby gym class. Before I had a child of my own, I probably would have thought that the idea of taking a 13 month old to a gymnastics class was a bit silly. And I have to concede that maybe it is. Though there are obvious benefits such as gross motor skill development and socialization, I think a part of me is in this thing for selfish reasons. There aren't many things in this life that have brought me as much joy as watching half a dozen toddlers lifting up their shirts (the instructor incorporates the teaching of body parts into the lesson), all clamoring for the reward of having bubbles blown on their tummies. Amelia doesn't quite get the whole Pavlov-cause-and-effect-thing yet, but she was in bubble heaven nevertheless...and so was I.

Lunchtime Epiphanies

A few days before the semester ended last year, I was talking with one of my students about my impending departure from Orange County High School of the Arts to a job closer to home. I expressed a bit of my trepidation at leaving the kooky familiarity that defined my present position for a job at a large, public high school. Austin, in many ways, was the quintessential OCHSA student. He was intelligent, creative, eager to learn, cynical of the status quo, though equally empathetic and compassionate. And, most importantly, he laughed at my lame jokes. What would teaching be like without kids like Austin? Upon hearing my concern, Austin, wise beyond his fifteen years, shrugged and said, "Ah, Mrs. Burgess, don't worry about it. Kids are just kids wherever you are."

The new school year began at the large, public high school and as the first class began to file in, I thought of Austin's pearl of wisdom that I had carried with me all summer long. But as the kid with the mohawk strolled past, dropping the f-bomb and ignoring me entirely, it fell to the floor and began to roll under my desk. These were not the kids I had left behind. I spent most of the first semester either bemoaning my current predicament or waiting for "Austin" to show up. He never did.

Enter Tom. Tom's distinction in my own personal teaching hall of fame was that he was the first student I had ever had who managed to slug through the entire first semester without turning in a single homework assignment. Seriously, not one. Though he was bright, he didn't seem to care if he passed or failed. Everyday I would ask, "Tom, do you have your homework?" and everyday he would answer, "Nah, Mrs. Burgess, you know I don't do homework. Later on, I learned that Tom was in the foster care system, had a brother in prison for manslaughter and was, himself, on probation for burglary. I thought of Austin, who happened to be in the same grade as Tom, and the chasm between the two seemed so vast, I began to despair. How could I possibly reach this kid and others like him? I wasn't sure.

Winter break came and went and another semester descended with a few new faces and a fading memory of what had been. One day last week, Tom stopped by my classroom during lunch. The unexpectedness of his visit caught me off guard and I immediately abandoned my Ham n' Cheese Hot Pocket to see what was up. "Mrs. Burgess, I didn't do my homework," he announced with a smirk on his face. The day before I had assigned his class a 100 point project on World War I propaganda. In my mind, I thought, "News at Eleven: Tom did not do his homework... I gave up my Hot Pocket for this?" But Tom continued to stand there, now with an enormous grin on his face, so I kept my sarcasm in check. Finally, opening his backpack, he gloated, "Psych! I did it, Mrs. Burgess! Oh, snap, I got you good!" I was so proud of him that I almost cried. I think I probably jumped up and down. Embarassed by my outburst, Tom attempted to maintain his too-cool-for-school facade and replied, "It's not like I won the Nobel Peace award or nothing." No, Tom, not yet. But it is a small step in the right direction.

It was a small step for me, too. The lesson learned? Austin, the perfect student, was right when he said that" kids are just kids" in any school, in any city, in any state, or even in any country. They love you, they hate you, they push your buttons and make you want to crawl under the desk into the fetal position at the end of the day. But in the end, kids everywhere need approval and acceptance; they need to know that someone believes in them. They need to know that what they do or don't do matters to someone. Hopefully, one of those someones can be me. I still don't have a classroom full of Austins, but maybe that's not what I want anymore. Maybe I want a classroom full of Toms. Because the payoff, when there is one, if there is one, is exponentially greater.

Cheerio Mayhem

If you've ever had a one year old in your house then you know what I'm talking about. Two months ago, when Dave and I discovered their invaluable utility, I could have been a Cheerio spokeswoman. Suddenly, we could take her out to dinner and for an hour she would be utterly transfixed by the oat-flavored spheres. Cheerios brought tranquility to meal time. But the jig is up. She is on to us. Cheerios no longer appease her appetite or her curiosity. When Amelia sees me coming with the yellow box in my hand, she shakes her head from side to side as if to say, "you don't get it, do you? I'm over those things." Still, I get desperate. So, occasionally, I'll toss a few on her tray, just until I can get dinner ready. From across the room, I can see the look in her eye, the look that says, "oh yeah? I'll show you," as she daintily picks up one Cheerio at a time and drops them onto the floor. Tonight, as I write, Amelia is sleeping soundly in the next room and the dinner dishes are done; all is right with the world. Except for the sea of forsaken Cheerios that lay in waste on my kitchen floor.

Backgammon and Frozen Pizza

I am a teacher and a mom and a wife. My life is not particularly interesting; my students would likely classify it as "boring," if only they knew that a saucy Saturday night in my house often involves a frozen pizza, a few games of backgammon and 48 Hours Mystery. Nevertheless, at present, my life is fuller than I can handle. I love my vocation ( but not necessarily my job) and adore my family, but have forgotten who I am apart from those two things. Before I met my husband, I could fill volume upon volume of journals. Then, instead of pouring out my heart to the pages, I poured my heart out to him and slowly lost the desire to write altogether. I want to find that again. If anyone reads this or not is immaterial to me; I just think I needed a potential audience in order to reclaim my voice.