“Is this egg cooked?”

My son stood in front of the open refrigerator, holding an egg he found there that was out of the carton.

“I don’t know. Check it,” I said, confident in the fact that he knew how to check to see if an egg is boiled or raw. I knew he knew because I taught him when he was a child, just like my dad taught me.

“OK.”

And he let go.

That wasn’t what I taught him.

“Oh!” he shouted as it splattered on the kitchen floor. He must have thought it incredibly funny, for he continued to cough back laughter as he cleaned up the egg.

Somehow I just didn’t see it quite like he did.

Since that morning, I’ve thought a lot about the egg incident. What did it hurt? Not a thing. What did it cost? Between 15 and 20 cents, depending on what I paid for that carton of eggs. What did it do? It created a moment of fun that my son will remember forever.

Just a silly, impulsive act that brought laughter to the morning.

I’m so glad I didn’t make an issue out of it. I’m so glad I laughed later with him about it. And I’m so glad he knows better than to pull a stunt like that again …

Summer is almost over. Laugh with your kids while you can.

And if you want to know how to tell if an egg is boiled or raw, drop me a line.


P.S. Today is my son’s birthday. If you know him, wish him a happy one.



www.davalynnspencer.com

I will not be posting this week due to a family member's upcoming surgery. But as a thank-you for stopping by my blog, I'd like to offer you one of my favorite quotes:

"Nothing you do for the children is ever wasted. They seem not to notice us, hovering, averting our eyes, and they seldom offer thanks, but what we do for them is never wasted."

Garrison Keillor

I couldn't agree more.

One of the great things about kids is their surprise factor: You never know what they’re going to say next. Like Mrs. Potamia. You know Mrs. Potamia, that woman in Iraq who lived between the Tigris and Euphrates rivers. She was one of the ancient aunt-sisters, according to some of my sixth-grade history students, a distant relative of the famous Egyptian lady, Rosetta Stone.

Maybe it’s a language barrier that sends youngsters into rhetorical contortions, or maybe it’s just a delightful little bonus for grownups who need a splash of humor in their lives.

Or maybe I just need to be reminded that I don’t have all the answers.

“If people didn’t exist, where would chickens live?”

I didn’t see that one coming, but the look on the boy’s face said he wasn’t kidding.

“I don’t know,” I offered. “The kitchen?”

Many of the students who pass through my classroom move out of my life altogether as their families follow the ebb and flow of a harvest tide. Parents find jobs elsewhere. Texas and Mexico really aren’t so far away, and so babies are bundled and furniture stored and friendships torn apart. It happens.

“Mrs. Spencer,” I heard one morning, “we’re moving.”

The boy’s dark eyes met mine, void of the usual excitement and anticipation. They merely confirmed an unavoidable fact. And in their old-too-soon gaze I read, “I don’t want to go.”

“Did your father get a new job?” I asked, ignorantly assuming the reason behind the departure of one of my brightest students.

“No.” He glanced away, quickly noting other students nearby. “I’ll tell you later.”

Again I jumped at a possible motive. Perhaps it was an immigration issue.

Later, as promised, I learned the reason. Through the painfully pure sentence structure of one too young to cloak his feelings, I learned.

“My dad left me.”

Not many statements have caught me by greater surprise. In four simple words, this young man revealed all the pain of a broken home, the self-imposed guilt of the guiltless, the bottom line loss of one left behind.

I will never know if he confused his pronouns and really meant to say, “My dad left us,” but somehow I doubt it. I think his heart spoke the words before his mind could interfere.

Teaching is often like parenting and grand-parenting: You want to protect those who suffer from that which causes them pain. If only you could.

If only I could capture the joy of innocent, misspoken discovery and save it for later. If only I could answer the unanswerable questions and dry the eyes that watch a hometown slip past the back window of a car.

If only I could assure them, that in spite of the surprises and the questions and the pain and the struggles, they will make it, the journey is worth it, and I was blessed to have them in my life.

If only for a moment.

“Tight!” a student said when he saw the big “A” at the top of his report card.

“What?”

“Tight. You know, like good, bad, cool or hot.”

I remember when those words stood as paired opposites, not as a list of affirmatives. Guess they evolved.

Since I’m not a science teacher, I was fairly confident that I would never have to teach the theory of evolution. Though it’s been a hot topic in the public school system for several years, it only recently made an appearance in my classroom. And I must admit, I believe the problem all along has been one of placement. Evolution does not belong in science classes – it is clearly a topic for language arts.

Language has consistently evolved over the centuries, particularly the English language. Recent mutations have reformed once fossilized terms such as mouse, virus and web. When “log” attached itself to “web” a new subspecies emerged: Blog. Generational usage accelerates the process even more, morphing words like far out, rad or right-on into the bomb, sick or fat. Even tight.

Unfortunately, some words have evolved into totally unacceptable expressions and if they slip from a teacher’s unsuspecting lips, they are likely to inspire complete chaos during an otherwise orderly lesson.

Side-glances shoot across the classroom like heat-seeking missiles, exploding contorted targets with uncontrollable giggling. Children wait attentively for teachers to stumble into some sort of faux pas (though they wouldn’t know that phrase if it fell on their paper). They live to tumble out of their seats with laughter, and the more severe the teacher’s facial expression, the funnier the situation is, of course.

Three such words lie innocently in English explanations of ancient peoples who like their descendants played kick ball, gathered fruit and nuts or used hoes for digging furrows. Our culture, or at least a subculture of our society, has so perverted the language with innuendo and double meaning, that history classes can present minefield-like challenges. (I’ll bet you know exactly which three words I’m talking about.)

Whether teaching language arts or history, I try to avoid those verbal landmines.
“Shut up” is another phrase best left out of the mix. Aside from being unprofessional and discourteous, it is something I suspect most kids hear a lot at home. And it doesn’t make sense, anyway. Shouldn’t we say shut down, not up? You turn the volume down on your iPod when you want less, not up. Maybe if I said, “Shut down,” they would know I mean, “Stop talking.”

But even that is a weak form of communication. Telling kids to stop talking is like telling someone to go on a diet – it’s an inactive command, like, “stop smoking” or “stop laughing.” It’s nearly impossible to accomplish because to do so, one does nothing. It’s much easier to complete a task that involves an action.

“Put your pencil down, and look at me.” Translation: Be quiet.

“Exercise, take a walk, chew gum, crochet, knit, breathe deeply.” Translation: Don’t overeat.

However, justice is not lacking in the clamoring classroom. One of my favorite etymologically evolved terms segues quite nicely between whine and response, and students instinctively know what it means without me explaining after they say, “I forgot my homework.”

And I say, “Bummer.”

Bummer is a wonderfully rubbery word that bounces responsibility right back to the complainer, leaving room for neither sympathy nor blame.

It insinuates, “That’s too bad, but it’s not my responsibility. You will have to accept the consequences of your choice.”

In other words, the buck stops there. Just as it does when one caffeine junkie petitions another with, “Bring me a buck.” We all know that doesn’t mean a male deer, antelope or a dollar.
Language is based on experience.

So evolution has bounced through my classroom door and out again, along with the backpacks and book bags of students set on change. And as surely as language will continue to evolve with the next phonetic fad, so will the next few weeks – from test-filled, pencil packed, schedule-squeezed hours into relaxed, swimming-hole summers of sun.

So much for Homo sapiens.

On the last day of school my students walked out the door and left me with promises of dropping by next year to say hello.

Some wanted to give me a hug but hesitated because it’s just not done any more. Teachers and kids don’t touch, you know. There are lawsuits to worry about.

Some hugged me anyway.

But all of them left. That’s what they’re supposed to do.

I will see them taller next fall. They’ll come round at first and say, “Hey, Mrs. Spencer,” and then head to their new class with Mr. What’s-His-Name, the teacher who scared them to death this year.

They leave, but I do not.

I come back to the same room, open the same books, and teach the same lessons, counting on the promise of rediscovery that slips in the door with newcomers each year.

New students bring new questions, fresh perspectives. Through their eyes I will see again for the first time the little heir hidden in the word their when I don’t want to write there. I will laughingly discover with them that Rosetta Stone is not really a person.

They will make my teaching new because it will be new to them. It will be fresh and alive and inviting and so worth the light in their eyes when they finally “get it.”

But this year, on the day we all pressed toward the reward of our labors, I couldn’t help but say, Yes! Hurray! Finally! At last! Peace! Quiet!

The room was actually quiet. And neat. Empty desks sat in very straight rows because no children wiggled them out of line. They were gone.

They were gone like the bird in the gym.

It flew in through an open door one morning and flitted from backboard to backboard. It soared toward the lights in the high ceiling, round and round, searching for a way out, resting for brief moments on the nubby plaster walls.

Not until someone turned out the lights did it see the bright doorway and fly out into the freedom of day.

All year my students have flown beneath the high-ceilinged halls of learning, round and round over charts and quizzes and rules and me preaching against the tempting glow of drugs and gangs and life-draining distractions.

And finally, on the last day of school, I turned out the lights and they soared out the door and into their future.

The artist is gone.

The soldier is gone.

The boy who lived in a motel with his dad is gone. The guitar player, fashion diva and soccer goalie are gone.

Gladly they left their books and homework and me behind and rushed toward the freedom of summer.

As I look back on it, there really is nothing quite as exhilarating as the last day of school.

Unless, of course, it is the first.

Summer brain drain: it’s almost as inevitable as death and taxes. Teachers dread it, resent it and preach against it. But like the IRS and the undertaker it pops up just when you thought you had a handle on life.

Researchers today blame the drain in part on electronic technology, i.e., television and video games. Thanks to the availability of hand held and home computer-based games, kids can hook up any time, any place – often to the point of addiction.

I’ve seen withdrawal symptoms in early fall: shaky hands, glazed eyes, cold sweats. It usually happens the first day of school when I say, “Write your name in the upper left-hand corner of your paper.” And then I wait.

I wait because I know their little brains are computing the fact that I am a real live person giving directions that they must follow. Action is required. It takes them a minute to remember that the classroom is not virtual – it’s literal.

OK, it’s not quite that bad, but it’s close. You’d be amazed.

But addiction consultants would not. They – and your great grandmother – have long known that alcohol, drugs, gambling and a few other habits can become addictive. So is it any surprise that computerized gaming has joined the ranks of compulsive behavior disorders?

Social scientists are making some serious discoveries about our technologically-dependent youth. Many game users don’t know how to interact with people face to face because their social networking takes place online, through a computer. They haven’t a clue about how to meet people. Why bother, when there’s Facebook, MySpace and Twitter?

So is technology a bad thing? Absolutely not. And with a little creative thinking, technology can help redeem the summer.

By definition technology is anything invented that makes human life easier.

The Encyclopedia Britannica says technology includes materials, techniques, and sources of power that make life more pleasant and work more productive. It helps make things happen, and has been influencing mankind since people began using tools.

Hmm. Tools. Can we say, “rake, shovel, lawnmower?” How about, “paint brush, garden hose and broom?”

Do your kids have chores? Responsibilities? Activities that require walking, running, pulling, pushing or sweating? How about lifting, climbing, hiking, riding and swimming? None of these can be done from the couch, unless of course, you consider lifting the TV remote a form of exercise.

Television has been around for about 50 years; computer games even less. Families have been here a lot longer. Your children need you more than they need the latest techno gadget.

Get your kids outside this summer. Go with them if you can. Tend a garden, ride bikes, help an elderly neighbor, go for a walk. And when it’s really hot outside, read a book. Read two. Go to the library and check out an adventure series.

This summer try to do at least one thing each week with your child that kids were doing 50 years ago. That excludes television, movies, computers, iPods and video games. Impossible? Not really.

I bet you’ll feel better for it. So will your kids’ brains.