Good Luck. And Good Riddance.

I’m going to get sentimental here for a second and admit to you that I really do love my job.  That being said, I cannot wait to pass off my current students to the first grade teacher who’s lucky enough to inherit them. 

She should invest in a Xanax prescription immediately, preferably 5mg or stronger, as well as a decent restraint system; for herself.  For those times when drop kicking children seems like a perfectly acceptable solution to whatever classroom discord may be occurring around her.

Trust me.  That day will come.  It always does.  The most important thing is that we fasten ourselves into a 12 point harness and ride it out.  That’s what separates the employed teachers from the fired/jailed ones.

So anyway, I spend so much time with my students each day that they really do become part of my extended family.  More like my husband’s side though, which I tend to avoid like the plague, especially his uncle Charlie who considers periwinkle-hued speedos appropriate attire at the breakfast table.  *shiver* 

Also, much like my husband’s side of the family, my students have totally overstayed their welcome and now it’s almost time for them to get their dirty socks out of my hamper, stop drinking straight out of the milk carton, and pack their crap and ship out.  Or at least clean out their desks and spend some quality time whining to their moms and dads instead of me.  The last day of school is really like the piece de resistance of the entire year, because it’s the day that I get to graduate my most troublesome kiddos and hand those little monsters back to their ungrateful and pompous parents.  It’s comforting to know that, at the end of our joyful nine months together, little Frankie will continue to shin-kick and spit his way through elementary life, and that his lovely mother will be stuck raising that tiny tyrant and eventually have to fork over some serious cash for his bail bonds.

But like I said.
I love my job.

Mostly because no matter how much I adore those fantastic children of yours, come June, I get to give them back.
And hopefully, they’re in one piece and just a smidge smarter then when I got them. 

Though, I wouldn’t get my hopes up if I were you.

Toodles!

Mrs. Dinkle

Circle Time Can Be Hazardous to Your Child’s Health

I am sitting with my students a la Criss-Cross-Applesauce on the rug, trying to explain the difference between living and non-living things: “Living things need air, food and water, and non-living things do not” I tell them. “Now let’s go around the circle and take turns each giving one example of a living thing. Casey, you start.” “Um, uh, okay, uh……… trees?” “Good. Now James, it’s your turn.” “Hmm…..how about….snakes?!” “Yes! Tabitha, you’re up.”   “Well, my cat Bangles, who is grey and white and has a cute tiny little pink nose that always feels wet when she snuggles up with me except she doesn’t snuggle up with me that much anymore because she was accidentally hit by a car and her bloody guts were in the middle of the street and my daddy had to come and clean it with the hose while my mommy yelled at him and called him a Mormon for leaving the sliding door open so that Bangles could get out and then he told her to shut up and go back inside to her box of wine and Ding Dongs and so now my kitty cat is D.E.A.D. and buried in the backyard next to my goldfish Henry………….I MIIIIISSSSSSS Bangles and Henry!!!!!” *   Kindergarten. Traumatizing your child, one lesson at a time.   *Insert Tabitha’s uncontrollable sobbing and wide-eyed panic-stricken classmates here.  Also, Tommy peed his pants     Toodles! Miss Dinkle

Share Day No No’s

Share Day; a day when kindergartners around the country are given the opportunity to bring in that special toy, book, or photo and share its special meaning with their classmates. Back when I was a kid, it was standard to share things like pet rocks, jars full of roly poly’s, your prized marble collection, and the occasional made-in-China treasure you picked up from your last doctor’s visit.   Over the years I’ve come to loathe this kindergarten pastime.  What started out as a fun activity to build necessary social skills such as public speaking, taking turns, and asking questions, has become an excruciating hour filled with overpriced toys and inappropriate performances.   Below are just a few examples of why I get hives during one hour of the day each Friday:   The American Idol His mother drops him off in the morning, then comes back later with his band equipment.  I tell her to leave the stage risers in her SUV; our rug should suffice.  She hands me his concert rider, which includes fruit punch Capri-suns and Dora Gogurts.  She plugs in his microphone and he proceeds to butcher and maim some very special childhood songs.  I will never enjoy The Muffin Man again.  By the look of pride on her face, I’m guessing he’s inherited his tone deafness from her; also the recessed gum line.   The Stripper In-Training She comes to school in pleather pants, fur-lined boots, and glitter eye shadow smeared across her lids.  She puts the music on (thankfully it’s the version where the bad words are bleeped out) and shakes what the good Lord has not yet given her. Based on her dance moves, I can quickly deduce that 1. She is a fan of late night t.v 2. Has unrestricted access to YouTube. 3. Her parents are brain dead. This whole time I thought she was taking tap class after school, not lap dance lessons.  I’m thinking I’ll spend less time working on her phonics and more time making sure she is adopted out asap. The Gamer This kid is addicted to video games, which are not allowed at school.  So he brings in his DS for “share,” as well as ten different games (including “Maim and Kill:  Leave No Prisoners Behind Volume 2) which he just has to show everyone.  Usually I’m a stickler for this cheap move, but minutes later, when I notice that the kids have turned into silent, drooling, zombies as they stare at the screen, I make a silent note to petition the school for a rule change.  I like these silent, drooling zombies. The Mad Scientist Dead bugs, rodents, mold collections.  Nothing is off limits for this very hands on, very gross little girl.  If it’s dead, slimy, and needs a hazmat suit to handle it, she’ll bring it in.  She’ll either end up a coroner when she grows up, or someone who needs an intervention. I’m usually torn between evacuating the classroom after one of her “exhibits” or just setting the room on fire.   Also included in my list of Share Day Don’ts: Used Band-Aids Daddy’s Porn Magazines Grandma’s Dentures Anything flammable. I wish I could just dispose of this torturous tradition, but I think it’s part of the constitution or something. Of course, I can’t be sure. I just teach kindergarten, after all. Toodles! Mrs. Dinkle

Teacher Appreciation Week

 

Dear Mrs. Smith:

I wanted to take this time to thank you for the lovely hand picked flower that your daughter brought in to me the other day in honor of Teacher Appreciation Week.  That was so thoughtful of you.

Oh.  Wait a minute.  You didn’t bring me a flower.  My mistake.

Thank you so much for the delicious chocolate you left on my reading table.  I especially loved the one with the coconut filling inside.  Yu-mmy!

Hmm.  Now that I think about it, you didn’t get me chocolates either.

Was it the gift card to Starbucks?

Nope.

Was it the plate of homemade cookies, lovingly prepared by you and your child?

Nope.

Was it the scented lotion with the pretty label on the front?

Nope.

I understand Mrs. Smith.  You are a busy mother of two, and can’t be expected to be bothered with insignificant little things like Teacher Appreciation Week. 

Of course, I did receive that multi-paragraph email last month, filled with delightful suggestions regarding snack time protocols and newsletter font choices.  It was something I made sure to share with my co workers in the staff room.

And then there was that third conference you requested in a one week period because you had “just one more question” regarding the relevance of teaching your five year old daughter, who is “clearly more advanced than her peers,” fundamental math concepts such as addition, subtraction, and counting by 2’s.  While I appreciate your concern, I would like to point out that little Annabelle is still struggling with staying in her seat during our lessons and prefers to wander aimlessly throughout the classroom while sucking on a plastic dinosaur.  Of course, I will keep an open mind in regards to her “genius-like” tendencies, beginning with a full evaluation with our staff psychologist.

Anyhoo, I hope you know just how much I appreciate you and how one-of-a-kind you truly are.

Regards,

Mrs. Dinkle.

P.S.  You are a pain in the $%^%.

P.P.S.  Your daughter is a buck-toothed little brat who smells like stale cheese and has a significant lisp that will haunt her well into adulthood.

P.P.P.S.  Really?  Not even a lousy ding dong or a re-gifted potpourri warmer?  I’m not one for idle threats, Mrs. Smith, so take heed when I say that Annabelle may or may not find herself on class pet duty for the next 12 consecutive weekends.  Let me assure you that our Tokay Gecko is perfectly harmless as long as you don’t make direct eye contact and keep a distance of at least 20 feet.

When I Grow Up, I’m Going to Rehab

There’s this little boy at school that I taught last year who loves to play street hockey during recess each day.  He has gorgeous blond hair that tends to obscure his big brown eyes from view, and when he smiles, his toothless grin warms the heart of anyone in its path.

I’m pretty sure he’s going to be a pothead when he grows up.  

Then there’s the dark haired 5 year old beauty that talks with her hands on her hips and has trouble with reversing her numbers, especially her 5’s.

Twenty years from now she’ll be on her second husband, living in a bad part of town and smoking menthols during her ten minute break as a waitress at the local Denny’s.  Guaranteed.

You see, teachers spend a lot of time with your little ones, and their social interactions, personal hygiene habits (or lack thereof) and inability to keep their hands to themselves offer us an uncanny glimpse at what the future most likely has in store for them.

You may be able to spruce up Dick and Jane long enough to endure church and an overpriced brunch with annoying family members each Sunday, but we know the real story behind those perfect pigtails and neatly pressed button down shirts, and the truth is, some of you are screwed.

This is why I believe we need to make some fundamental changes in our parent-teacher conferences.  Instead of focusing on your child’s inability to isolate sounds in high frequency words for thirty minutes, let’s talk more about his inability to keep his hands out of his pants during circle time.  Maybe we can intervene before his bad habit sets the ball in motion (no pun intended) for some poor career choices down the road. 

Or, rather than spending the entire conference discussing what a naturally gifted student your daughter is, let’s give some attention to her not-so-precious habit of decapitating every living insect in the greater Orange County area and dragging the remains back into the classroom.  I’m not sure if anti-depressants are approved for use in children, but I’m thinking if we address the emotional disturbances now, she’ll be a shoe-in for a GED someday.

The truth is, based on my daily experiences with your kids, I’m pretty confident in my ability to predict who’s going to be a doctor, and who’s going to live in your basement “just until the door-to-door frozen meat market picks back up.”

Of course, the most important question to ask yourself is, which kid is yours?

Toodles!

Mrs. Dinkle

I Know Things

 

Kindergarten.

You’ve all (most likely) been there.
I bet, if you try really hard, you can still remember certain details of that crucial time in your life:

*The first playground friend you made after discovering your mutual love of all things Hostess.

*The excitement you felt as you opened that new box of crayons, the world at your coloring fingertips.

*The unfairness of life as the class bully tore down that block tower you worked so hard to build.

*The oddly refreshing taste of the paste you kept shoving down your throat when your teacher’s back was turned (don’t even try to deny it).

Ah.
Your teacher.
Kind. Sweet. Beautiful.
A picture perfect example of goodness and patience.

Man, that woman had eyes in the back of her head!

Now, maybe, your own precious little one is preparing to embark on this huge milestone. You are nervous but excited, knowing that this time in their lives is so important, so unforgettable.

Or maybe, your bright, energetic, toothless little hellion is already there.
Front and center.
In my classroom.

Finally.
A blog dedicated to divulging all that goes on after the backpacks are hung and the classroom door closes. Trust me; a lot goes on between drop off and pick up.
And I don’t mean the alphabet.

So stay tuned my friends. I’ll be sharing my secrets; the good, the bad, the stuff your kids overhear at home then innocently repeat for my listening pleasure.

In the meantime, remember to dot your i’s, use soap and water, and be nice to your child’s kindergarten teacher.

Because someone is confessing.

And she might be………..me.

Toodles!
Miss Dinkle

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