Tales from school

I don't know if the elementary school I attended was just randomly freakish, or if most elementary school teachers develop bizarre eccentricities after years of stickers and line-forming. Whatever the case, I had some wack-jobs for teachers. Let's review:

Kindergarten: After moving in January, my new, "big-boned" teacher promptly breaks both her legs after locking herself out of the house and trying to climb in through a small window. Her replacement is mean, barks orders to us children in German and often complains that we don't know how to read yet but fails to do anything to resolve that. (Luckily, my mom did a great job at home.)

First grade: My teacher tells us to call her, "Mommy," but not to tell our parents. I feel guilty to two-time my own mommy, so I start calling her "mom" or "mother" instead.

Second grade: Somewhat normal, this teacher still boasts a 100+ Keds shoes collection and matches most of her outfits to their various colors and designs. Animal prints are a popular theme. She also chain smokes. About every five minutes.

Third grade: Pretty sure I lucked out with a normal teacher this time, though there may or may not have been a painful divorce and affair going on for her at the time. Whatever the case, she often sobbed at her desk. I should know, she moved mine right next to her because I was a bit of a chatterbox.

Fourth grade: This guy may be in prison. We rarely did schoolwork, but we watched TV all day, mostly faithfully "Good Morning America" and "Days of our Lives." He would make fun of any student mercilessly. He hung our Christmas tree from the ceiling. He seemed to have an unnatural affection for some of the female students. And he insisted on reminding me that I wasn't as cute as my sister, who was the size of a small mouse at the same age, whereas I was tallest person in my class.

Fifth grade: Not so bad, thankfully, though my teacher was a former P.E. teacher who developed skin cancer and opted to stay inside that year. Let's just say that most of our schoolwork involved jumping jacks.

Sixth grade: I actually loved both of my teachers that year - some sort of team-teaching gig - until one of them got pregnant out of wedlock and ran off to Alaska to be with her boyfriend. And then I moved to another school with totally normal teachers.



What's your best school story?

Time to Say Goodbye?

The back-to-school pic is making its rounds in the blogosphere – So-and-So’s five-year-old is off to his first day of kindergarten, That Gal’s seven-year-old is braving second grade. They’ve got their best outfits on, their brand new backpacks basically empty but ever-present (and beside them on wheels because for some reason that’s cool) and they boast smiles from here to Kudumulagumma – a city in India home to 11,200 people, none of whom I know.

They are cute. And they bring back a wave of nostalgia for me of all of my first days of school: the nerves, the dread, the sheer specialness of the day. But try as I might, I just can’t convince Mr. Dub to pose for a first day of school pic. And I dare not take one of Miss Dub because I’m sure I’d break into hysterics at the thought she’ll be leaving me in five short years. (Or is it four? How the heck do they determine the cutoff?)

There is no back to school for us here at the Dub residence, although today is the end of summer in one regard because Mr. Dub will return to normal business hours next Tuesday after a three joyous months of “summer hours.” (Translation: Working an extra hour every day so you can get off at noon on Friday.)

Summer hours have been awesome. I’ve always been one to drag out the weekend, calling Friday, “Little Saturday” and Thursday, “Little Friday.” And summer hours made this even easier because we could get in some extra Saturday every Friday. Still with me?

Because us Mormons, while happy to oblige, don’t get to use Sunday as a sequel to Saturday. We choose to treat it differently, which means there’s no shopping, no spending, no swimming, etc. So that leaves us with A LOT to do on Saturday. And balancing fun and chores can sometimes get complicated, which is why using Friday as a prequel to Saturday is so ingenuous.

So it’s very bittersweet for me to say goodbye to summer hours. On one hand, as I mentioned yesterday, there is this new strange part of me that is looking forward to fall. (I think I’m going through seasonal puberty or something.) But on the other hand, I liked having Mr. Dub a few extra daylight hours a week.

And don’t you dare tell me that summer is over just because summer hours are done or because your kids have already posed for their back-to-school pics. First, Labor Day isn’t until Monday and if people are wearing white pants it’s either still summer or still 1983. Also, I am still more than a week away from my two week summer vacation to Southern California. And while the calendar may say September, I say two week vacations are a very summery thing to do.

But what do you really think?

Is summer over? And how do you feel if it is?

Did you live it up, or are you loaded with regrets?

I wouldn’t know yet. It’s still summer here.