Happy Birthday to me... mostly, it really has been. Lots of virtual good wishes, lots of good will--even the students saw my "Happy Birthday Amy Lane" post on the board and said nice things. (I even actually wrote 'Amy Lane'--and they all knew who that was:-) I've been a little tired and a little, '41. Meh.' And a LOT busy, but mostly it's okay. Even though my horoscope basically said "Don't get out of bed, and really don't even fucking bother," (And I"m not kidding about that first part--seriously-- you can only take "Don't move far from the bedroom" a couple of ways) I'm still happy I got out of bed, and I'm REALLY happy I bothered. It's my birthday: I'm older, fatter, grayer and more wrinkled--and hopefully a little wiser. We'll see about that.
I did have an 'Older but wiser' moment last week--I was so proud.
Until this year, our procedure for entering tardies included an entry in a tardy book, a phone call home, an e-mail, and a triplicate document for detention. Yes, that's right. In a simple four step procedure, you too could initiate a consequence that students didn't give a rat's ass about--so mostly I didn't. This year, it's easy. When I'm taking them roll, I mark them tardy. You heard me. One click. Instant consequences. Be still my heart.
Anyway, I'm still catching grief for number of tardies in my room. I don't know why. I mark the kids tardy. I notice they're tardy. I tell them they're tardy. I stand at the door most times and say "One-click tardy." Maybe it's because I don't scream at them. Maybe it's because even though I am following procedure, I could still give a rat's oozing ass. They're tardy--it's usually not personal. I honestly don't give a shit--I'm doing my job.
But there I was, standing outside my room saying "One click tardy. One click tardy." When my dept. head looks over and says, "Hey, Shannon, don't forget to mark those kids tardy!"
I screamed "NO SH..." And then something happened. At that very moment a big steel partition dropped between what my brain was thinking and what my mouth was saying. The hamster that powers my brain had finally gotten off it's fluffy ass and pulled the cord, pushed the button--whatever the hell he had to do, he schwacked that puppy down, and he even took the time to grafitti a message on the front of it in green paint. It read: You are a TEACHER, dumbass."
So that's where it stood. "NO SH..." They say well behaved women seldom make history and it's true--I will never go down in history as the bitch who shouted "No shit, SHERLOCK!!!" across the quad. But then, I do get to keep my job.
So that's it--I'm 41, and I'm bought. But there's an upside.
I dropped Arwyn off at the babysitters, and she ran for her box of toys. "Sweetie," I called, "C'mere, Ladybug--don't you want to give mama a kiss?"
My kid shot me a smile of such radiance, it took my breath away, and then came over and turned that beaming face to me for a kiss.
"Oh, Ms. Lane," said Brenda, the babysitter, "That was a bought smile. A smile like that, and you're bought for life."
Being bought for my birthday--not bad. Not bad at all.