32 Third Graders and One Class Bunny

by Phillip Done

  “Will you take five cents?”

  Sharing

  Do you think Joshua’s mother knows that we all heard how grouchy she is now that she is on Weight Watchers? Does Sean’s dad know that we all heard exactly what he said to his mother-in-law about her Jell-O salad? Maybe Ryan’s dad doesn’t want us to know that he slept on the couch last night. And perhaps Emily’s mom would rather we didn’t all hear that she cries every time she watches Baywatch.

  Whenever I hear something I probably shouldn’t, I cringe and wonder just what they go home and say about me. But I’m prepared. If the parents ask, I just say, “You believe half of what your child says about me, and I’ll believe half of what I hear about you.”

  My sister-in-law was thrilled when her daughter told her whole class that Mommy cried all night because her Miss Clairol was too red. And my brother, Carl, was very happy when his youngest son announced to his classmates that Daddy drives ninety miles per hour on the freeway. He was also so glad to hear that the whole class learned that Daddy just got his second speeding ticket this month and tried to sweet-talk his way out of it.

  Parents be warned. Kids share everything.

  My students live for three things: recess, lunch, and sharing. It is true. What’s worse is they think the days of the week are Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, and Shareday.

  I have spent most of the Sharedays of my life clapping for Lego inventions, holding hamsters, admiring swimming medals, playing Try to Find Me in team soccer photos, and getting excited about old stuffed animals, Pinewood Derby cars, and turtles that don’t move.

  But it’s not all stuffed animals and hamsters and turtles. Sometimes it’s pretty darn entertaining.

  Once I had a student named Andrea who walked up to the front of the class and announced, “My mom went off the pill, and now I am going to have a baby brother.”

  Once Greg told the class that the police came to his house last night and took away all his parents’ potted plants.

  And one year Heidi held up her mom’s ultrasound photo of her soon-to-arrive baby brother and explained in great detail why it’s a boy.

  Every year I select winners for the best sharing of the year. Oh, I don’t tell the kids. But I do tell my friends. This year Jenny took third place.

  “What are you going to share today, Jenny?” I asked one Shareday.

  “Well,” she said, “my mother was having a dinner party on Saturday night and she had a lot of people over, and my little brother was walking around during the party, and my mom noticed that he was bumping into the furniture and falling on the floor, so she asked one of the guests, who is a doctor, to look at my brother and see what is wrong with him, and the doctor said that my brother was drunk!”

  “Now, Jenny,” I said skeptically, “come on. Your brother is two years old.”

  “It’s true!” she said. “You can ask my mom.”

  And she continued, “You see, before dinner everyone was standing around having cocktails and they were all giving my little brother the cherries from their drinks, and my mom figured out that he had eaten about ten cherries in one hour, and they were full of alcohol, so my little brother got drunk.”

  Joey yelled out, “My uncle got drunk at my aunt’s wedding and—”

  “Thank you, Joey,” I said. I turned back to Jennifer. “Thank you too, Jenny. You may sit down now.”

  This year’s second place winner was Emily. She brought in her dog.

  “What’s your dog’s name?” I asked.

  “Meatloaf,” she answered.

  Emily told us how old Meatloaf was, where they got him, and what he eats. She showed us all how Meatloaf sits and how he lies down. Then she turned him around.

  “These aren’t his real testicles,” she announced.

  I froze.

  “They’re plastic,” Emily said.

  All the kids leaned in to see Meatloaf ’s implants.

  “He doesn’t know he’s missing anything though,” she continued. “He thinks they’re real.”

  I looked down.

  “They’re called Neuticles,” she explained.

  I shook my head.

  “When Meatloaf was fixed, my dad wanted them put in. My dad says Meatloaf is a boy and he should look like one.”

  “They look real,” said Joshua.

  I thanked both Emily and Meatloaf. Unfortunately their time was up.

  This year’s blue ribbon went to Ryan.

  One Shareday Ryan walked up to the front of the classroom carrying a burlap bag.

  “What did you bring to share today, Ryan?” I asked.

  He held up the bag. “Guess!” he said, smiling.

  We all guessed.

  “OK, Ryan,” I said, “we’ve all tried to guess. Now tell us what it is.”

  He smiled. “Ladybugs,” he said proudly.

  “Ryan, come on,” I said.

  “No really,” he said. “It’s ladybugs. My uncle is a farmer. He orders ladybugs every year and puts them out in the crops.”

  “Ryan,” I said slowly. “You cannot just order ladybugs.”

  “Yeah, you can,” he said. “Look!”

  And he untied the rope.

  Immediately swarms of ladybugs flew out of the bag. Everyone started screaming and jumped out of their seats trying to catch them.

  “Ryan, close that bag!” I screamed.

  “I told you so,” he said.

  “Close that bag!”

  Out for a Day

  I hate writing sub plans. By the time I’ve written everything down for the substitute, I might as well have stayed at school and taught myself. It takes me hours just to write down where everything is, who is on medication, who is allergic to what, who should not sit next to whom, where everyone needs to go for ESL and learning resource and speech and detention, and “If Stephen says he has to go to the bathroom, let him!”

  I always get nervous when I’ve been out for a day and read the note from the sub. Last time I was out, Anthony and Carlos switched their name tags, Justin went out to wipe mud off of his shoes and never returned, Peter pretended that he only spoke Polish, Anthony (playing Carlos) said he broke his glasses and couldn’t see the math problems on the board (Anthony doesn’t wear glasses), and Emily said she was allergic to binder paper.

  Once a friend of mine who teaches middle school went on maternity leave. The students in her homeroom class were so bad that the substitute just up and left one day without telling anyone. Now, this particular group of students was a clever bunch. They knew that if they tore the room apart, someone would find out immediately. So each day they copied math problems out of their math books, wrote in their journals, and read their silent reading books. When the principal stopped by, the kids said that the teacher had just run to the bathroom. They pulled it off for three days, until the principal finally checked.

  I have become very good at deciphering substitutes’ notes.

  “They are quite an enthusiastic group.” They were wild.

  “They are very social.” They would not shut up.

  “They are an opinionated bunch.” They whined all day.

  “They sure seemed hungry.” They fooled her into opening the snack drawer.

  “Is Stephen on medication?” Sub will not be returning.

  It’s not easy being out of the classroom. When I have a sub, I sit at home and stare at the clock all day long. “It’s eight thirty,” I say to myself, “They’re walking in right now.” “It’s eight forty-five. They’re handing in their homework.” “It’s ten now. Justin is staying in at recess doing his homework.”

  Nowadays, if I know I’m going to be away, I bribe them.

  “Boys and girls,” I say, “if you are all really, really good while I’m away tomorrow, I will take you out for extra PE.”

  I also leave detailed plans for the sub.

  “Welcome to our class! Recess begins at 10:00 a.m., not 9:00. Recess is 20 minutes long, not 60. They may not eat sunflower seeds duri
ng math time. We do not practice our spelling words on the jungle gym. They may not play with their Game Boys during silent reading even if they promise to be quiet. There is homework tonight! We are not in the middle of a Star Wars film festival. And Brian may not order take-out pizza on his cell phone.”

  Sometimes it is not the students who worry me. It is the substitute. I get scared when I come back after being out for a day, and the kids say they had the best day of their lives.

  The last time I came back after being gone, I asked everyone, “How’d it go yesterday?”

  “Super!” Peter answered.

  “How did you like having Mrs. Black as a sub?” I asked.

  “She’s great!” said Melanie.

  “Yeah, she was so nice,” said Emily.

  “Why was she so nice?” I asked nervously.

  “She let us play dodgeball,” said Justin.

  “Dodgeball!” I screamed. “I didn’t write that you could play dodgeball. When did you play dodgeball?”

  “After recess,” answered Carlos.

  “That’s math time!” I yelled. “Didn’t you do fractions yesterday?”

  “No,” answered Patrick.

  “How long did you play dodgeball?” I asked.

  “Till lunch,” said Amanda.

  “That’s two hours!” I shouted. “Didn’t Mrs. Black review nouns, verbs, and adjectives with you yesterday?”

  “What’s a noun?” asked Natalie.

  “What did you do after lunch?” I asked.

  “She played her ukulele,” said Jenny.

  “She what?” I screamed.

  “And she showed us her slides of Mount Kilauea,” Melissa said.

  “Can we have our extra PE now?” asked Peter.

  “Are you kidding? You had your extra PE with Mrs. Black!” I shouted.

  “But you promised!” said Aaron.

  “No way,” I said, “Besides, how do you know you got a good report?”

  “She said she would give us one,” said Carlos.

  “Yeah, I’d get a good report too if I went on a hukilau all day long!” I shouted.

  Peter raised his hand.

  “Yes, Peter?” I asked.

  “Mr. Done, are you OK?”

  “Why, what’s wrong?”

  “You don’t look so good,” said Peter. “Maybe you should take another day off.”

  “Yeah,” Melanie joined in. “You look sick. You should take tomorrow off and rest.”

  “You know,” I nodded, “that’s not a bad idea. Maybe you’re right. I am not feeling my best.”

  I coughed really loud.

  “In fact,” I continued, “I think I will take tomorrow off.” I coughed again. “And I think I will get Mr. Thompson to sub.”

  “No!” they all screamed.

  “We want Mrs. Black,” said Peter.

  “Oh, didn’t I tell you? I’m sorry. I must have forgotten. Mrs. Black is busy for the rest of the year. She’s giving ukulele concerts in her muumuu at Mount Kilauea. You’re absolutely right. A day off would be good for me. I’ll get Mr. Thompson.”

  “No, please not Mr. Thompson!” screamed Peter.

  “Not Mr. Thompson!” Justin pleaded. “He makes us do math.”

  Melanie spoke up. “You know what, Mr. Done? You’re looking a lot better all of a sudden.”

  “Yeah,” said Emily.

  “You look great, Mr. Done!” said Peter. “Right everybody?”

  Everyone shouted, “Right!”

  Peter continued, “Mr. Done, you’re our favorite teacher. In fact, you’re the best teacher in the whole wide world.”

  He paused.

  “Now can we have PE?” he asked.

  I smiled and looked around the room. I waited, and then, “OK,” I said.

  Everyone shouted.

  So, I’m a sucker. I admit it.

  But hey, they did get a good report.

  Parent-Teacher Conferences

  Yesterday was Parent-Teacher Conference Day. Cathy put survival kits in all of our mailboxes. They contained lozenges for sore throats, Excedrin for headaches, chocolate for energy—and for courage, purple hearts cut out of construction paper.

  The dads won again. You see, every year I take a little survey to see who the kids resemble more—their moms or their dads. Dads have won for three straight years. Jenny has her dad’s ears. Anthony has his dad’s belly. And now I know exactly what Peter will look like without any hair. Nicole’s mom says it just isn’t fair. The moms do all the work, and the kids end up looking like their fathers.

  The little apples in my class do not fall far from their trees. Kevin’s mom said that math is not her strong subject either. Sarah’s dad struggled in reading too. And Matthew’s mom said he inherited his bad spelling from her.

  I tried to explain that Joshua has some attention difficulties, but I don’t think his dad heard me. He kept looking around the room. And I told Ji Soo’s mom that Ji Soo seems stressed out. She can’t sleep at night worrying about him.

  I wanted to tell Peter’s mom that Peter is talking too much in class, but I couldn’t get a word in. And I was all prepared to speak with Carlos’s parents about his attendance problems, but they never showed up.

  When I was a child, I always got nervous before conference day. I remember the little note that came home saying, “Your child has a conference on such and such a date.” It was always on a half sheet of goldenrod paper, and we had to get it signed and returned the very next day or the teacher would get upset, and you didn’t want that to happen because then she might not say nice things about you at the conference.

  I remember that I always wrote extra neatly during conference week just in case my teacher showed my papers to my mom. And I remember trying to listen through the little window next to the classroom door to hear what my teachers were saying.

  When my mom walked out of her conference, I always begged her to tell me what the teachers said. But my mom would never say much. She wasn’t one to talk about such things. She didn’t put report cards on the refrigerator either.

  Most of my own students are just like I was. Sometimes they look panicked as their parents walk into the conference and they wait out in the hall.

  “Amanda, relax!” I say.

  “Brian, smile! It’s not the end of the world.”

  “Katie, don’t look so frightened. Why don’t you go clean out your cubby.”

  Like I was, they are dying to know what happens after their parents walk into the classroom.

  And so—I will tell.

  I see your mom sit down nervously, then hear her sigh when I explain that you are so well behaved in class.

  I catch the corners of your dad’s mouth go up when I tell him how much your English has improved, and see his chest swell when I show him the 100 percent on your addition test.

  I watch your mom smile when I describe how you sat by the new student at lunch without being asked, and notice her put her hand on your father’s knee when I tell them how hard you work in class.

  I move my chair as your parents lean in to read your story, and hear them both laugh when they get to the part about your teacher’s being attacked by coffee cups.

  I see them shake their heads when they look inside your desk, and am glad they didn’t look in mine.

  I watch them beam as they get up to leave—proud of your good work, and proud to be your parents.

  Report Cards

  Most teachers’ least favorite time of year is report card time. Personally, I would rather zip up all the kindergarteners’ snowsuits for a month than write reports.

  Oh, some are easy. It’s the delicate ones that are difficult to write. And sometimes I just don’t know what to say.

  Take Brian’s report, for example. How am I going to tell his parents that Brian will not sit still?

  “Dear Mr. Walters, please send glue gun.”

  And what do I write about Peter?

  “May I please use masking tape on your son�
�s mouth?”

  Probably not a good idea.

  Several years ago, after I handed in my report cards for review, Cathy brought them all back.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “You have to change these,” she said.

  “Why?”

  “They’re too direct.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “Well,” Cathy continued, “look at this one, for example.” She pulled out Cindy’s report.

  “Yeah,” I asked. “What’s wrong with it?”

  “You can’t write, ‘Cindy has a big mouth,’” she said.

  “But she does.”

  “I know she does, but you can’t write that,” Cathy explained.

  “Why not?”

  “You have to be gentler,” she said. “And look here.” She showed me Lauren’s report.

  “What’s wrong with hers?” I asked.

  “You can’t say, ‘Lauren is a big baby.’”

  “But she is.”

  Cathy handed me the stack. “Change them.”

  “OK,” I said grudgingly.

  Soon Cindy “needed to develop quieter habits of communication,” and Lauren “exhibited a lack of maturity in her relationships.”

  Since then I haven’t had any problems with my reports. Well, till this year, that is. Yesterday Cathy came by my room before school. She held up one of my report cards.

  “Uh-oh,” I said. “I know what this means.”

  She smiled. “It’s only one,” she said meekly.

  “Good,” I said. “Which one?”

  “Justin’s.”

  “Justin’s? Why?”

  “Well,” she said, “you wrote that Justin eats with his mouth open all the time. Can you say something a bit … nicer?”

  “That is nice,” I said. “Have you ever seen him eat?”

  “There’s got to be a nicer way to say this,” she said.

  “What do you want me to say?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe something like ‘Justin needs to develop his social graces,’” she suggested.

  I shook my head. “That’s too vague.”