She had so many children, she didn't know what to do!
The story of my life this week, it seems. Except for the "old" part. And the living in a shoe thing. Does living for shoes count? And while we are on the subject of shoes...Can anyone please explain this to me:
I mean, really? Really?! Some poor people out there believe that after years of blatant cheeseburger eating, combined with never stepping into a gym, that these shoes are going to miraculously make them "shape up". Shame on you, sneaker companies!
And shame on you lazy consumers. I know you've bought into the ridiculous claims these manufacturers are making because why else would you ever, ever wear these? Someone had the audacity to tell me, "Oh, they engage your core. I know it's working because my butt and calves hurt."
Of course they work, you idiot. It's called adjusting your gait.
Wow. Where did that come from? Joe would be so proud of me for taking such a stand (ha ha...get it? Stand...)
But I've digressed. I meant to talk about the children. And believe me, there are many. This week has been an embarrassing blur of kids' faces as they entered my classroom. I'm usually good at the name game, but my 6th and 7th period are HUGE. There are thirty-six kids in my largest class, which is the largest class I have ever taught.
I feel like I'll never learn their names. And with my listening issue I've mentioned before, that makes it doubly hard. This motivates me to attempt to name everyone as they walk through my door despite the fact that it highlights how inept I've been this year with this initial bit of memorization.
I look at a young man confidently. "Paul?"
He shakes his head with a smile. "Guess."
I crinkle up my nose. "No."
"It's Isaiah," Isaiah tells me. "Way off, miss." (sidenote: it took Joe and me 3 tries and a google cheat to spell this name.)
"They're both Biblical, aren't they?"
This is a typical interaction. The following is another way I've decided to deal with my issues:
I shake a student's hand, and say, "Paul."
Not-Paul looks at me, smiling, "Chris."
I shake my head decisively. "Nope. You obviously look like a Paul."
Paul-Chris walks in giving kids the look that says, Whatever, I'm a teenager. She'll never have an identity beyond the word "miss" anyway.
And when all else fails:
"Hey, Blue Shirt! Yes, you! Stop messing around with my scissors!"
Shameful. Absolutely shameful.
I am not the old woman who lived in a shoe, but apparently I have her memory. And if Joe ever tosses me out of the house (and he'd better not), I hope to reside in something a little more like this:
These'll kill your calves, too. And you won't have to look like Herman Munster, ladies.