I Am a Teacher

I read Charlotte's Web and Charlie and the Chocolate Factory every year, and every year when Charlie finds the golden ticket and Charlotte dies, I cry.
I take silvers out of fingers and bad sports out of steal the bacon. I know when a child has gum in his mouth even when he is not chewing. I have sung "Happy Birthday" 657 rimes.
I hand over scissors with the handles up. My copies of The Velveteen Rabbit and Treasure Island are falling apart. I can listen to one child talk about his birthday party and another talk about her sleepover and another talk about getting his stomach pumped last night—all at the same rime.
I fix staplers that won't staple and zippers that won't zip, and I poke pins in the orange caps of glue bottles that will not pour. I hand out papers and pencils and stickers and envelopes for newly pulled teeth. I know the difference between Austria and Australia.
I plan lessons while shaving, showering, driving, eating, and sleeping. I plan lessons five minutes before the bell rings. I know what time it is when the big hand is on the twelve and the little hand is on the nine. I say the r in library. I do not say the w in sword.
I put on Band-Aids and winter coats and school plays. I know they will not understand the difference between your and you're. I know they will write to when it should be too. I say "Cover your mouth," after they have coughed on me.
I am a teacher.
I examine new braces and new blisters and holes in mouth:, where teeth have just fallen out. I can spell vacuum. I know the magic word.
I wear four-leaf clovers and dandelions in my shirt pocket that have just been picked with love at recess. I pray for snow days. I pray for Stephen to be absent.
I spend Thanksgiving vacation writing report cards, Christmas vacation cleaning my classroom, and summer vacation taking classes on how to relax. I know the difference between .a comma and an apostrophe. I can say "apostrophe."
I buy books about cats and dogs and sharks and volcanoes and horses and dinosaurs. I turn jump ropes and am base in tag. I am glad you can only get chicken pox once.
I correct pencil grips and spelling mistakes and bad manners, I push in chairs all the way, push swings higher, and push sleeves up while children are painting. I can touch the paper cutter.
I own one suit, two pairs of shoes, and eight boxes of graham crackers. I have every teacher mug that Hallmark ever made and every Save the Children tie too. I say, "Use two hands!" when they carry their lunch trays. I say, "Accidents happen," after they did not use two hands.
I wear green on Saint Patrick's Day, red on Valentine's Day, and my bathrobe on Pajama Day. I poke straws into juice boxes .and untwist thermos lids that are too tight. I unpeel oranges that are too tight too.
I sign library passes and yearbooks and new casts. I attend «M trr games and Little League championships and funerals for guinea pigs. I answer to both "Mom" and "Dad."
I am a teacher.
I hope April Fool's Day is on a Saturday. I blow up balloons that will not blow up. I always blow the whistle too early at recess.
I can borrow and carry very fast. I give them more time to answer six times eight than two times three. I never end a sentence with a preposition. I know what a preposition is.
I draw stars and smiley faces. I say, "Take over," in four square games when I was not looking. Once I forgot eight plus seven.
I know when to say "can" and when to say "may." I have worn green marker, red paint, yellow chalk dust, glue stick, and glitter all on the same day. I hate glitter.
I always begin a sentence with a capital and end it with a period. I always walk in line. I always lose at arm wrestling.
I leave "shuger" and "vilets" misspelled on their valentines. I know all my continents and all my oceans. I tape pages back into books. I can find the end of the new roll of Scotch tape. I call on children whose hands are not raised.
I know that colonel is a really hard word to read, and so is doubt and so Is gauge. I know that kids will read started, when it says stared. I have spelled out because and beautiful and friend six million times.
I am a teacher.
I look both ways before crossing the street. I save balls stuck in basketball hoops. I have given 842 spelling tests and have written "Have a Good Summer!" that many times too.
I collect milk boxes and coffee cans and egg cartons. I know all my times tables. I can type without looking. I know that two pretzels do not equal one Hershey kiss.
I can make a telescope out of a toilet paper roll and a totem pole out of oatmeal boxes. I can make snowflakes out of coffee fil¬ters and a space shuttle out of a Pringles can too.
I know my notes because "Every Good Boy Does Fine." I know my directions because I "Never Eat Slimy Worms." I know all my planets because "My Very Elegant Mother Just Sat Upon Nine Pickles." And I can only say my ABCs if I sing them.
I fix watchbands, repair eyeglasses, and search for lost milk money after freeze tag. I know when their fists will make a rock and when they will make scissors.
I know when a child does not understand. I know when a child is not telling the truth. I know when a child was up too late last night. I know when a child needs help finding a friend.
I am a teacher.

Class List

Ihave twenty School photos, have marched in twenty Halloween parades, and have survived twenty April Fool's Days. I have welcomed 642 third graders into my classroom, and tomorrow I will welcome more.
My principal's name is Cathy Carlson. We have worked to¬gether for five years. I like her. Cathy loves children, runs short staff meetings, and brings doughnuts for the teachers after Back to School Night.
This afternoon Cathy dropped my new class list into my mailbox. Last year when she handed out the lists, I sent mine back with a note. It said, "May I have another list, please? I don't like this one."
She sent a note back. It said, "No."
This year I met Dawn in the staff room just after Cathy put the lists into our mailboxes. Dawn teaches third grade right next tome.
"Hey, Dawn, did you get a note from Cathy with your list?" I asked.
"Yeah, why?"
"What did it say?" I asked.
"Have a good year," she answered. "Why, what did yours say?"
"Phil, no changes!"I read.
She laughed.
"How many kids did you get?" I asked.
Dawn looked at her list. "Twenty-eight."
"Twenty-eight!" I screamed. "I have thirty-two. How many boys do you have?"
She counted. "Fourteen."
"Fourteen!"! yelled. "I have twenty-one!"
"That's not bad," she said.
"Not bad? I have the entire NFL in my room," I whined. "I'll trade you."
"Phil!" she screamed.
"Come on!" I begged. 'Til wash your car every week. Til write all your report cards. I'll do your yard duty for the whole year!"
"Yeah, right. That's what you said last year. Now get out of here." She laughed.
"OK," I said, "but I'm going to go see Cathy about this right now."
I couldn't find Cathy. I didn't expect to. Cathy is never around after she puts the lists in our boxes. Actually, she stays out of sight for the next two weeks and waits until we fall in love with our students and wouldn't dream of giving any of them up. Smart principal.
I walked into my classroom, sat down, and looked more closely at my list. Out of thirty-two children, four were discipline prob¬lems, five had limited English, one spoke no English at all, three were in the learning resource program and needed special help, one was a diabetic, two had ADD and had to take Ritalin twice a day, one was severely allergic to bees, one was allergic to peanuts, and one was allergic to eggplant.
I started reading their cumulative folders. These folders con¬tain all the child's report cards, health records, and other impor¬tant information. Ronny's was three inches thick. Stephen's had five different psychological reports. And Justin's was stamped, "Do not open till 2050."
I stopped reading them.
Hopefully they've changed, I thought. Maybe Stephen went to boot camp over the summer. Maybe Justin moved.
Actually, the class didn't look that bad. I've had worse. One year I had thirty-six kids and twenty-five were boys. That year the women's group at church put cards in my box every Monday morning saying they were praying for me. And once a week they sent me a string bean casserole. If you can believe it, that year three of the girls moved.
You know how the Chinese calendar has the Year of the Rat and the Year of the Snake and the Year of the Monkey? Well, that's sort of how I remember my years too.
My first year was the Year of Samantha. Samantha was a writer. She wrote on her desk, on the bathroom walls, and on Emily. Her favorite thing to do was draw a watch on her wrist with Magic Marker and beg me to ask her what time it was. Once she got mad at me and took a Sharpie to all my art supplies. Now I have twenty boxes of "Fart Supplies."
The Year of Rebecca was special. The first time I called on her, she jumped under her desk and started barking. I told Frank, my very first principal, that I didn't think this was the best place¬ment for her, but he just shrugged. One day he came in to ask me a question, and Rebecca started chewing on his pant leg.
"What is she domg?" Frank. screamed.
"She's teething," I said.
And so ended the Year of Rebecca.
The Year of Dylan was memorable. Dylan "collected" things—pencils, calculators, car keys, mobile phones, furniture. I had to put padlocks on all the cupboards, my desk, even the rabbit cage. Once I caught him rolling the overhead projector cart out the door. He said it was his, and kept on rolling.
I won't ever forget the Year of Cody. Cody wanted to be in the movies. Literally. He loved videos. Oh, not to watch them— to wrap himself up in them. About once a month I had to untie a hundred yards of videotape from around his arms before he started turning blue.
The Year of Satan was really fun. That wasn't his name of course. That's just what I called him. Satan stepped on every snail he saw. He sizzled insects with magnifying glasses. Potato bugs curled up when they saw him coming.
I wonder who this year will be named after. Which one of the thirty-two will be the winner?