Cat Scratch Fever
The Good
There's been a recent epidemic of mohawks in my class lately. Vincent came in one morning looking like Sonic the Hedgehog, and made history. A few days later, his best friend Logan swaggered in with his hair gelled into a crest. By lunch time, boys were asking to go to the restroom all over the place, and it didn't take long to realize that they were coming back from their bird-baths with dripping wet mohawks. By story time, my classroom looked liked a convention of the world's youngest Dead Kennedys' fans. This was particularly cute after the heat and humidity melted them, and they flopped over and splayed out all over their heads.
Today, Logan liberated one of my index cards, and using carefully executed spooky ghost letters, inscribed the following message, which he left on Vincent's desk:
YOU SHALL DIE TONIGHT. YOUR HAIR STINKS!
The Bad
Little did I know that when you put OTC flea-drops on a kitten, they don't actually kill the fleas, so much as repel them.
Right before bed last night, I doused Noe's kitten with Flea-B-Gone drops, then retired to bed, with the kitten curled up beside me, feeling productive. Not for long. It was only a matter of minutes before the fleas started bailing out of the cat's fur like rats from a sinking ship. Bazillions of them, who naturally jumped directly onto Noe and I. It was terrible.
I tried to push her off the bed, and she inadvertently sunk her claws into my arm on her way over the edge, and slid down the length of my wrist, leaving me bleeding. I finally fell into a fitful sleep, and had a dream in which Noe had determined to try smoking crack, come hell or high water.
As for the proper time to apply flea-drops, I stand itchy, exhausted, and very much corrected.
The Ugly
Oh. God. Telling a struggling single father that you are retaining his foster child (who he is about to lose) is the Worst. Feeling. On. Earth. We both cried. There are two things I can say about this.
First, for all the people who resent teachers for having summers off: If we had to do something this emotionally intensive fifty weeks a year, there would be no teachers, and a hell of lot more mental-hospital inmates.
Secondly, I think we forget how many good, humble men there are in the world, who get up every day and do the right thing by other people's children for little or no recognition, not because they have to, but because they can. They deserve so much more than they ever get.
There's been a recent epidemic of mohawks in my class lately. Vincent came in one morning looking like Sonic the Hedgehog, and made history. A few days later, his best friend Logan swaggered in with his hair gelled into a crest. By lunch time, boys were asking to go to the restroom all over the place, and it didn't take long to realize that they were coming back from their bird-baths with dripping wet mohawks. By story time, my classroom looked liked a convention of the world's youngest Dead Kennedys' fans. This was particularly cute after the heat and humidity melted them, and they flopped over and splayed out all over their heads.
Today, Logan liberated one of my index cards, and using carefully executed spooky ghost letters, inscribed the following message, which he left on Vincent's desk:
YOU SHALL DIE TONIGHT. YOUR HAIR STINKS!
The Bad
Little did I know that when you put OTC flea-drops on a kitten, they don't actually kill the fleas, so much as repel them.
Right before bed last night, I doused Noe's kitten with Flea-B-Gone drops, then retired to bed, with the kitten curled up beside me, feeling productive. Not for long. It was only a matter of minutes before the fleas started bailing out of the cat's fur like rats from a sinking ship. Bazillions of them, who naturally jumped directly onto Noe and I. It was terrible.
I tried to push her off the bed, and she inadvertently sunk her claws into my arm on her way over the edge, and slid down the length of my wrist, leaving me bleeding. I finally fell into a fitful sleep, and had a dream in which Noe had determined to try smoking crack, come hell or high water.
As for the proper time to apply flea-drops, I stand itchy, exhausted, and very much corrected.
The Ugly
Oh. God. Telling a struggling single father that you are retaining his foster child (who he is about to lose) is the Worst. Feeling. On. Earth. We both cried. There are two things I can say about this.
First, for all the people who resent teachers for having summers off: If we had to do something this emotionally intensive fifty weeks a year, there would be no teachers, and a hell of lot more mental-hospital inmates.
Secondly, I think we forget how many good, humble men there are in the world, who get up every day and do the right thing by other people's children for little or no recognition, not because they have to, but because they can. They deserve so much more than they ever get.