It’s no secret now that I’m a teacher. I have 20 little eight and nine year olds who keep me on my toes on a daily basis.
I could easily fill an 800 page book with the things I see and hear and have to say (you know, things like: “Please don’t use your scissors to cut your nose hairs. You have at least 20 years yet until that becomes a necessity.”). They really are funny little people who give me endless material to chuckle about constantly.
For some reason this year, it’s really cool to sit under the kidney tables (a big table, shaped like a kidney that’s usually used for reading instruction). I’m really not sure why this is such an exciting thing, but alas I am constantly saying, “Please get out from under the table, we are all leaving for lunch/music/recess/home.”
I don’t get it.
Well, one of the boards that I use for process grids and charts happens to be right behind one of the blasted kidney tables. I teach at this board a lot, so I’m also having to say, “Please get out from under the table, so you can see what’s happening up here,” A LOT. I mean, I really just ought to get a recording of this exact quote, because I’m really freaking sick of saying it.
So, the other day, as I was emphatically explaining how the Inuit tribe would use trained dogs to sniff out seal breathing holes, I see one of my more precocious darlings under the freaking table.
“Um, Sally (obviously, not her real name), the learning is happening up here!” I even helpfully waved.
She lifted her head just enough so that her eyes, wide like saucers, were the only things visible.
She went, “Oh, hi.”
She looked like she had no idea who, what, where, why, when, or how. I’m sure, like every other eight and nine year old I’ve ever known, she got distracted by her shoelaces or the texture of the carpet. Basically, ANYTHING OTHER THAN MY TEACHING.
When she slowly lifted the rest of her face above the table, I saw that she had the two ends of a bandaid (you know, the sticky end) on both sides of her upper lip.
She looked exactly like I do when I’m waxing my upper lip.
I just stood there and stared at her bandaid mustache.
I knew if I even moved a muscle, I’d lose all semblance of control and start laughing like a crazy person.
So, we just stared each other down.
She was a deer in headlights, because she knew she’d just been found out with someone’s random bandaid on her lip.
I was a deer in headlights, because every cell in my body wanted me to laugh and say, “So, it’s mustache day, I see. I feel ya.”
But a real, grownup teacher never says things like that (we only think them and write about them later).
So, after what felt like hours in a Mexican stand off between my adult self and my immature AF self, I was finally able to say, “Sally, we don’t put random bandaids we find on the floor on our face,” like a real grown up teacher.
She just said, “Oh. Gotcha!”