an audience of one

Excellent "Wayne's World," reference, man!

ok.

big dork.

Anyway, it was one of my New Year's resolutions to write more often, and about the everyday things that make up life as me, rather than only writing when I feel all inspired'n'stuff. Added on to that was a vague notion that I might share the fact that I'm here...in the blogosphere...with folks besides my darling seester...all tying in with a general desire to stay in better contact with the folks I love.

Speaking of whom...I am periodically struck by such vivid memories...of life in the house...of my first classroom...riding in the K-car with my hubby in our pre-wedded bliss. Sometimes, the memories make me happy...like the hubby in the K-car...and sometimes they are so bittersweetly sad, because I miss the people in them...and maybe just a bit...the me in them so much.

So...on to that everyday stuff...

I got to school at 8:20 today, early for these last few months (which, as I write it, I realize encompasses pretty much the whole school year so far). I used to get there around quarter of eight. Then eight. Then 8:15. Then 8:30. I no longer panic when I pause in my early-morning puttering to glance at a clock that reads 7:30. I know my commute down to the minute. My 'panic spots' have shifted. I find myself thinking, "As long as I'm over the bridge by 8:10, it'll be fine," which correlates with "if I'm through the line for my coffee by 8:00," and "once I'm over the bridge, I just need to be passing Staples by 8:12."

So, I did, and I was, and there I sat...10 minutes early by my newer, laxer, standards...enough time to grab a cup of coffee, hug my darlin' hubby who came by to drop off lunch money (yup, still forgetting my homework and my lunch money), and correct some papers while I waited for my horde of Friday-before-a-long-weekend hoodlums to come in at 9:00.

Oh, but I had to guilt-trip my hoodlums today...my patented, "I always want to be proud to be your teacher," guilt-trip. You see, when I picked them up from the media specialist today, she was all a-frazzled by their lack of cooperation. I hate that. There's this feeling, when a specialist complains about your class, that she's really complaining about you. You are your class.

So, I guilted 'em a bit...but I really couldn't blame them. Who can concentrate on research skills when a long weekend is coming and snow is in the forecast for the first time this winter?

And then there was reading, and math, and a spelling test ("Boys and girls, if you get only one word right this week, please let it be 'education.' It is, after all, the reason we're all here."). After the spelling test we took a moment for state-mandated recess, though, it was so cold we didn't go out...I'm not sure if 15 minutes of in-class free time fulfills the new state law that requires us to ensure that our students participate in at least 15 minutes of daily physical activity. Oh well. I got a kick out of watching two of my munchkins play Boggle for the first time. G.O. actually brushed me aside, with a "Don't tell us any more!" after I gave them two 'examples' to get them started. Oooo, but I wanted to play. I got my recess fix by accepting one little guy's challenge to play Connect-4. We tied. I'll bet you didn't know that was even possible, but it is.

The little guy in question is one of my absolute faves this year...not that I have those...but he's just so him that 'there's something irresistable-ish about 'im.' He loves John Deere tractors, trains, and his cowboy boots from Colorado. He can be counted upon to tell me each day what the special is, what the lunch options are, and who's got the job as paper-passer this week. We've developed a running joke that he can read my mind, and he loves to demonstrate this talent, rubbing his temples with both index fingers, squinting in concentration, "Hey, I think...today...we have...MUSIC!" he'll say when he meets me in the hallway in the morning. "Maybe next we should have some....READING GROUPS!" But best of all, he has this golden, boy-soprano voice...and he sings all day. Sometimes he hums under his breath while he reads. Sometimes he belts a tune as he walks through the hall on his way back to the classroom. What does he sing? Broadway musicals. Yup. My earliest memory of him is of the day when, as a third-grader, he strode past my class as we waited for the bathroom singing, "Surrey with the Fringe on Top," at the top of his lungs. For his birthday, after the trip to Colorado, he got to see Mary Poppins on Broadway. Our days are filled with snippets of "Chim-chim-eny" and "Supercalifragilisticexpialidotious."

It can be a bit distracting.

When it's just too much for the rest of us to handle, I catch his eye and put my hand on my heart.

That's our signal.

"Keep your song in your heart," I tell him, "not in your mouth." And he tries.

But today, waiting again for the bathroom, he just couldn't help it.

"I try to keep it in my heart," he tells me, "but sometimes the song just comes out."

We should all be so lucky.