One case in point, children can and will say anything to you, then swear by an oath of God that you said it to them.
Five and six year olds are the worst culprits.
Me: Hey Ashley, how are you today? "Not good, my mother's Aunt Mary died," replies Ashley. "Oh, Ashley, I'm so sorry to hear that," I reply. To which Ashley states loudly and with gusto, "My brother says she's going to be buried and then rot down to her bones, and then maybe even her bones will rot."
An alarming and far too unfamiliar silence falls over my classroom.
"Ashley, this is a conversation for home, not school, finish your pretty picture, now."
The next day, there is an email from my principal in my inbox:
Jane,
We need to meet today. Mr. and Mrs. X would like to know why you told their Ashley that her beloved great aunt is rotting in her grave. Schedule an appointment with my secretary.
Wait...wwwwhhaat????
Then, there is the all too often asked, and always dreaded question from six year old Ashley:
How old are you?
"Old enough,' I say, bracing myself. I resign myself to what comes next. "Yeah, but how old is that?" Ashley replies. "Old," I concede reluctantly. "Are you like 70? Because my Grandma is, and you could be 70!' Ashley persists. "I am not seventy, not even close, finish your work now," I grind out in the softest of tones. I wonder again how much I'd make shelving books at Barnes and Noble. "Well, I think you're seventy because your eyes are all pinched in the corners like my grandma's"
Now, I ask, to whom do I write or call, now that Ashley has pegged me as seventy, quite loudly, I might add, when I am no where near seventy, and now feel like jumping off a bridge?
Another third rail in the teaching trade; changing your hairstyle in the middle of the year.
"You look different," says Ashley. "Well," I begin, "Mrs. DeWitt needed a change." "Why?" demands Ashley. "I just felt like it," I smile as Ashley reloads and takes aim. "I don't like it--you have boys' hair now," contends Ashley. "I don't like it either," agrees Ashley's best friend. Followed by a profusion of six-year-old nods in a general consensus of their dislike of my new hairstyle. I wonder if bagging groceries at Whole Foods isn't a quiet, yet more dignified profession. I could get a discount... "Ashley," I say, silently counting to ten, "If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all."
"I'd have to be quiet a lot then, wouldn't I?" Ashley says, very slowly, hoping I will grasp her concept.
Every year, for a variable amount of time,I become: Mrs. Twit.
I have on occasion been called: Mrs. Do it, Mrs. Dwith, post heinous haircut--Mr. Dwith, hey you, Mommy, art teacher lady-- but I draw the line at Mrs. Twit. It's not the child who may have speech issues calling me Mrs. Twit. It's the other child in the classroom, undoubtedly with older siblings, who knows quite well what a twit is.
"My name, is Mrs. Deewittt," I enounciate. "It's right there on my door," steadying myself for battle.
"Mrs. Twit," challenges Ashley. Preliminary negotiations begin. "Let's not be silly, now, Ashley, my name is Mrs. DeWitt." "Missess Twit!" Ashley whispers. I am momentarily distracted by Ashley's ability to whisper, albeit loudly.
Level two is launched, distract and disable: That's enough now, let's finish our work."
Let's face it, the Mrs. Twit thing is funny. My fellow teachers and I laugh about it every year. My husband calls me that on a fairly regular basis. But one cannot be called Mrs. Twit all year and have any hope of managing a classroom.
But I must forge on. Level three: Recess is on the table. "We wouldn't want to miss recess, now would we Ashley?" I ask innocently knowing I've got the big stick.
"I like Mrs. Twit better" says Ashley.
Apparently recess is not all that any more. So much for my big stick.
"Ashley you and I need to have a little conversation in the hall." I kneel down to Ashley's level, ignoring the loud crack my knees make and the blissful silence that has overcome Ashley as a result. "What was that?" Ashley demands. "Never mind, Ashley, you know my name is not Mrs. Twit, and it's not nice to call me that." "But it's funny," says Ashley, looking at me with eyes that would rival Bambi's for innocence.
I grow battle weary. I want to tell Ashley that there are times I wish I kept my maiden name, and some days, my maiden life, for that matter, but this is not a conversation I want to have with a six-year-old, much less with my principal skulking around.
"Okay Ashley, you may call me Mrs. Twit, if I may call you Lashely," I say, realizing I am now at level four of the twit negotiations with Ashley and she is still, maddingly, at an advantage. "But I don't like Lashley," says Ashley. "Well, I don't like Mrs. Twit, either," I say.
"If you call me Lashley, I'll tell my mother," announces Ashley with a look that all but shouts 'Who's got the big stick now?'
I wonder if I am too old to join the National Guard.
An earsplitting scream bursts from my classroom and echoes into the hallway, and I realize that the twit negotiations will be tabled, as more pressing matters present.
Wrap: Ashley calls me Mrs. Twit, I ignore her, and go back to being Mrs. DeWitt after a few days.
Oh yeah, my marbles....
I find them from time to time. They often show up when Ashley hugs me and tells me she loves me for no apparent reason. She, and many other of her height challenged kind, have no problem doing this on fairly regular basis. A six-year-old has no filter, if you have a large zit on your nose, you will be called out.
But the flip side is where you find your marbles.
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