Fifth Grade RULES

There is nothing better than being in 5^th grade. Nothing. Nada. Nichts.

First of all, unlike MY fifth grade when I was a kid, Sierra’s fifth grade is top of the elementary food chain. Fifth graders are the final class at the school, literally rising above all others.

Fifth graders get to roam the halls every hour because they change classrooms throughout the day. They have a home room, which is incredibly high school like and therefore really cool.

(Of course last year when we discussed this whole switching teacher thing, Sierra was mortified. More than one teacher? No! Too scary! Now she’s loving it. Turns out only little kids have one teacher. Who knew?)

Fifth graders get JOBS. Really cool jobs like the news team or being on the marshals, which entails working in the office and running school errands. Being a marshal is huge, like getting on the Supreme Court. Which makes me think the principal is channeling Tom Sawyer.

Then there are the Stars. Kids earn stars for three things: grades, behavior, and perfect attendance. Ah, the ever elusive “perfect attendance.”

It’s why Sierra never, ever wants to miss school. This is a marked change from last year’s weekly feigning-illness, clinging-to-door frame approach to school attendance. I thought it was just genetic in our family. Being a sickly child I never had perfect attendance, and Dad… well, let’s just say he considered a great deal of school to be optional.

Sure, I’m glad she’s shooting for the goal, but we have to be realistic around here. First of all there’s the swine flu.

The swine flu protocols at schools these days are such that if your child shows up at the nurses’ office with one of the four symptoms, like “a headache,” they hose them down with disinfectant, wrap them in plastic, sterilize their desks, and call you from a secure line to pick them up in a vacuum chamber.

Okay, it’s not that bad. Probably they skip the sterilization and just wipe down the desk.

And given that my daughters merely have to hear someone sneeze over the phone to become feverish, Sierra’s chances for perfect attendance are nil.

Add to that we foolishly planned a family trip during the school year for various complex reasons.

Little did I know, no one needs a break from fifth grade.

Nobody. Nadien. Niemand.

The Cranky Voice of Experience

The bad thing about experience is that most of your illusions are gone.

For example, right now we are very organized for the first week of school. So organized that a little tiny voice in my head began to suggest that somehow we have been transformed into a well-oiled, school-on-time, backpacks-set-out-the-night-before, paperwork-completed machine.

But the cranky voice of experience knows better. In fact by the time you read this, the cranky voice will be shouting “I told you so” as I run back to the house four times for lunch boxes, paperwork, books, and probably, shoes.

I have tried all kinds of things to get us to stay on the organized track.

Lists. I have so many lists that I have a box around here somewhere with ones I’m not sure I can throw away.

Organizers. There’s one on my phone, one on my computer, one on my desk (somewhere), and one in my purse. Unfortunately none of them talk to one another, nor are they remotely organized in the same way. My phone is still reminding me of appointments I no longer have to go to and my computer has refused to let me enter anything until I tell it I’ve gotten at least one of the other 47 things done.

Teamwork. After all, being organized shouldn’t be one person’s job, particularly the least capable person, right? I mean, why should I be in charge? Surely in the wide range of personalities around here there is somebody better suited to the Herculean task of the school year. Unfortunately, being unorganized is apparently either genetic or contagious.

Training. I’ve had an offer to go to another time management class. But when? Who has time?

Prayer. While this has been effective in nearly every other area of my life, asking for divine intervention has yet to have much of an impact on finding socks at 7:15 am.

So, I’m left with the cranky voice in my head telling me that what we’ve started tonight – clean children, clothes picked out, 20 pages of paperwork completed (no kidding) - that none of it will last. Within a matter of days, we’ll be running around the house in a mad scramble, pencils unsharpened, shoes missing, and lunch consisting of crackers and cheese in a plastic grocery bag.

In the end, according to experience, the key is to laugh about it.

Teacher, How Do I LOVE Thee?

In honor of the first day of school, a reprint of a favorite of mine...

School has started!

On behalf of every mother who has spent all Summer covering her children with sun screen, washed every single towels in the house practically every day and wept every night after observing what happens to the house when children are home all day, I just want to say to every teacher out there:

I love you.

No, seriously. I love you. It's not like. "Like" is for baby sitters and substitutes. This is all out get-the-heart-shaped-boxes-of-chocolates LOVE.

Why do I love thee? With apologies to Ms. Elizabeth Barrett Browning, let me count the ways:

I love you for teaching my children how to add when I can't get them to put two socks in the laundry basket. Which is why their socks won't match in a week. Just a heads up.

I love you for teaching my children how to write their names when I spend the last few months believing they didn't even know their names – unless I used all three of them. (You know: "Sierra Paloma Prosapio! Come over here and put this shirt in that laundry basket." "Mireya Brisa Prosapio! Is this your toy embedded in my foot?")

I love you for showing me that my children are capable of sitting AND eating at the same time. Would you take a photo for me? I'd just like to see what it looks like.

I love you for somehow keeping my children relatively clean without having to resort to a garden hose.

I love you for taking my children for HOURS so when they come home I have had time to miss them and cherish them. And get to yoga class.

I love you for helping them when they are confused, smiling at them when they do well, and fighting the desire to banish them when they begin to drive you crazy.

I love you for teaching my children that lines are part of life, so the next time we are at the movies my child won't cut in front of 30 other people yelling "me first!"

I love you for facing crazy parents (of which I will be one) because when our children come home upset and we immediately ask for a teacher conference to find out how to keep our child from crying—ever.

And most of all, I love you for choosing to teach children, even though we don't pay you enough – not nearly enough and when I am Queen, teachers will be paid their weight in gold. Weekly.

So, to Mrs. Jarica, Mrs. Buxkemper, and all the teachers out there, when Friday rolls around on this first hectic week of school, I want you to feel it.

Feel the love.

Ready, Aim, SCHOOL!

School starts next week and we’re ready.

Well, no, we’re not, but it feels nice to pretend that we are.

We do have all our school supplies. Everyone has clothes that fit them THIS week. We even have shoes.

There’s a set of lunch boxes, backpacks, and pencil cases packed and ready for action.

We had the last party of the year, complete with sleepover (at which there was very little sleep).

We are even on tap to get the final hair cut out of the way next week.

It’s almost like I’m getting the hang of things after 11 years. What’s next – matching socks?

Whoa. Let’s not get crazy.

Still, I’m not ready.

I’m not ready to wake everyone up early. Or get them to bed early.

I’m not ready to give up all my summer lines like “let’s grab a movie” or “why is the dog blue?” or “did someone spill soda? Again?” or “where are all the towels?”

I’m not ready to serve breakfast before 10 am and dinner before 9 pm.

I’m not ready for the paperwork, homework, and calendar work of the school year.

Even though it’s been a brutal summer, and there’s not a single blade of grass that has survived in our yard, and the smell of sunscreen in completely and utterly embedded in the furniture, I still want summer to linger. The fact is that everyone in the house is ready for school to start, everyone but me.

I want two more weeks of late night movies on a Tuesday and running around in Pjs all day for fun. More painting the dogs unnatural colors. More wet cats. More…summer.

But school waits for no mom. Open house is tomorrow, Friday we’ll think of five things we still need to do, Saturday we’ll get at least three of those done and Sunday the kids will be so excited that it’ll be a wonder that anyone gets to sleep on time.

Monday morning we’ll be lined up, rushing out of the house to get there on time, the smell of sharpened pencils, shampoo, and grilled cheese in the air.

And finally, at home, there will be towels.

When Cats Meow…

You don’t have to be a parent for long to realize that prolonged silence is always a bad sign.

The problem is that it’s often so welcome that you don’t snap that you should immediately put down that book you actually read two pages of, get up and run over to the area where your children are and be prepared to: hose them down with soap and water; rescue them from the top of something that not even the lizard would climb; or phone the insurance company nurse.

Again.

This was one of those times.

We were upstairs and I was experiencing some pride in my children. I had told them to “entertain themselves.”

What was I thinking?

The problem is that we are at that point in the summer where the first words in the morning are “I’m bored” followed quickly by “I don’t know what to do” and the ever popular “Mommy, what are you doing?”

Remarkably, they are reluctant to take on any of the 500 chores available to alleviate boredom.

Apparently no one is THAT bored.

It was the day I had banned television after a marathon of cartoons had my daughter quoting Sponge Bob with reverence usually reserved for Thomas Jefferson. Sure, it had been a struggle, but they seemed to be managing. Then I realized that it had gotten quiet. I tried to ignore my mounting sense of doom.

Then I heard a door downstairs close. Next came the sound of running water. This was pretty remarkable since washing hands is right up there with any one of the 500 chores. But miracles happen, right?

Have I mentioned that it’s very dangerous to be an optimist in our family?

A few minutes passed, then I heard a forlorn meow. Very forlorn. As in “abandon hope all ye cats who enter here.”

I closed my eyes and thought about how resilient our cat is, a requirement of every Prosapio pet. Surely they wouldn’t be…

Then there was a shout.

“No! Don’t open the door!”

“But it’s scarwee!”

The knob rattled and there was another shout. I could hear the door open.

“Why did you open the door!?”

“I was scarwed!”

A few seconds later, the cat was up the stairs, shaking copious amounts of water off her legs and glaring at me. After a few more half-hearted shakes she gave me that look that begged the question:

“How many more days until school starts?”

Queen of School Supplies

When I am queen of the universe (I’m sure my paperwork will arrive any day now), one of the first things I’m going to do is fix the school supply thing.

When I am queen, shopping for school supplies will no longer be the all day march through aisle after aisle, store after store, like a deranged scavenger hunt. There will be no more looking for two days for map pencils. Or blue, green, yellow, red AND purple folders. But not just plain folders in these specific colors – folders with brads AND pockets in these specific colors.

I have to tell you, in my day, school supplies were limited to the basics: writing implements of either ink or lead and a tablet. That’s it.

Now school supply lists are like some kids’ Christmas lists. Red pens? 150 Sanitary Wipes? Sharpies with fine points? We don’t even allow our kids play with Sharpies at home ever since they started to paint the dogs, fine point or not!

So, it goes without saying that I have a few ideas on how to improve the entire school supply system.

Yes, when I’m queen the following rules will be in place:

1. Map pencils will be called by their proper names – colored pencils (thanks to the teacher in aisle 12 who helped me avoid a total meltdown looking for map pencils, which I assumed were attached to some sort of road maps).

2. If all the store has with brads and pockets is yellow folders, then the class will just deal with having yellow folders. That’s what the half dozen sharpies are for, right? Just write RED at the top. Problem solved.

3. School supplies are limited to the school supply aisle only. Tissue paper and cleaning supplies are to be moved into the school supply aisle for four weeks leading up to school.

4. More items will be available in pink. With glitter where possible.

5. All major stores are to get their school supply list early and stock what’s ON THE LIST ONLY. If anyone needs 64 crayons, drop me a line.

6. Better yet, stores will be required to prepackage all the basics materials in a ready made box you can just pick up at the back of the store. Then all parents’ have to contend with is a pencil box and insulated lunch sack, in pink, covered in glitter.

Ah, it will be so good to be queen.

Please wipe your carbon footprint at the door...

How big is our carbon footprint? Do they have one of those little metal measuring things around for it? Is it a 9 1/2 D? Or more of a 6 EE?

Whatever, I suspect it's a big honkin' clod hopper boot, not a little strappy stiletto heel number.

Ever since the global warming monster came out of the closet and started breathing heavy on ice caps and polar bears, I’ve looked around in amazement at what a big impact we have on our little patch of the environment.

Whether or not you believe that the ice caps are melting, polar bears are headed for serious makeovers and penguin dads are going to be a little warmer during their “hold jr. on your toes” part of parenting, it’s really scary to realize just how much trash comes in a modern childhood.

First of all there’s the whole toy thing. Just buying a toy means committing to disposing of three times the toy’s weight in wrapping. I presume these 40 different zip ties and half dozen layers of plastic are designed to thwart theft. I hope they are using these techniques on important things at the Pentagon, because trust me, no one would be able to sneak out those top secret plans if they had them wrapped up like Barbie’s doggie grooming shop.

In fact, at home we have a toolbox designated for unwrapping newly bought toys which contains pliers, a flat head screwdriver, a Phillips screwdriver, scissors and two knives – serrated and smooth. Pretty soon we’ll be adding a flamethrower.

And don’t even get me started on the toys themselves - which have a useful life of about a week.

The other area where we are having a severe environmental impact is in schoolwork. I swear I never did this much work when I was at school. Was there a paste shortage when I was growing up? Was paper really expensive? Were teachers focused on doing everything on blackboards?

Whatever the reason we never brought home this much schoolwork.

Then there’s the permission slips. I get several permission slips per child every week. When I was a kid I think I brought home one a year. Like seat belts, permission slips were only used for big trips – like across international waters.

I’d like to think we could reduce our carbon footprint. We’ve changed light bulbs, reduced our use of juice boxes, and tried to be less wasteful in general. We’ve tried to recycle and have created many interesting sculptures out of discarded plastic toys and bottles. But we’ve got a long way to go.

In the meantime, I’m hoping for a paste shortage.

Optimist Rules

There is nothing more perfect than the first few days of school. Every pencil is sharp. Every item is neatly in place. Notebooks are blank, ready to be filled with brilliance, or at least some pretty cool doodling.

We arrived at school early and already everyone was vowing to get to school early every day.

This is what happens when you’re a family of optimists. A family of realists probably accepts that early arrival is strictly a first week thing. They blast right through the first week completely delusion free, mentally prepared for a year peppered with tardy slips, lost homework, and mismatched socks.

But with optimists it’s all possible. We can get there at 7:05 am! We can ignore the fact that it’s completely dark outside. True, my theory has always been that if God wanted us up that early, he’d have the lights on. But who cares! It’s a new age! We’ve got alarms, enthusiasm, a passion for learning, and plenty of sugary cereal. We can do it!

The first week of school there’s no homework, but already there are promises to get it done the minute we arrive home, thrilled with the very idea of spelling, math, and science. It’ll be a breeze, we’ll get through all of it so fast it won’t even feel like homework. It’ll be a joy, pure joy!
The first week of school backpacks are neatly hung up, lunch is made in plenty of time and in the refrigerator, outfits are selected and set aside.

It’s like some sort of Disney movie complete with soundtrack and happy meal tie in. I can just imagine it. Kid run into the fast food place to see what the toy is and oh look! It’s the Organized Prosapios! Let’s get the whole set! Look this one comes with a clean car! And the little one – look she’s got the cutest matching shoes! And the big girl, her hair is brushed beautifully!”

Of course in a month we’ll be back in reality TV land with last minute scrambles for hairbrushes, signed permission slips, and homework finished off on the car ride. If there was a fast food tie in to that reality, it would probably feature duct tape, some crushed crackers, an inside out t-shirt, and four dozen socks that don’t match.

But that’s October. For now, everything is still possible.

Teacher, How Do I LOVE Thee?


School has started!

On behalf of every mother who has spent all Summer covering her children with sun screen, washed every single towels in the house practically every day and wept every night after observing what happens to the house when children are home all day, I just want to say to every teacher out there:

I love you.

No, seriously. I love you. It's not like. "Like" is for baby sitters and substitutes. This is all out get-the-heart-shaped-boxes-of-chocolates LOVE.

Why do I love thee? With apologies to Ms. Elizabeth Barrett Browning, let me count the ways:
I love you for teaching my children how to add when I can't get them to put two socks in the laundry basket. Which is why their socks won't match in a week. Just a heads up.

I love you for teaching my children how to write their names when I spend the last few months believing they didn't even know their names – unless I used all three of them. (You know: "Sierra Paloma Prosapio! Come over here and put this shirt in that laundry basket." "Mireya Brisa Prosapio! Is this your toy embedded in my foot?")

I love you for showing me that my children are capable of sitting AND eating at the same time. Would you take a photo for me? I'd just like to see what it looks like.

I love you for somehow keeping my children relatively clean without having to resort to a garden hose.

I love you for taking my children for HOURS so when they come home I have had time to miss them and cherish them. And get to yoga class.

I love you for helping them when they are confused, smiling at them when they do well, and fighting the desire to banish them when they begin to drive you crazy.

I love you for teaching my children that lines are part of life, so the next time we are at the movies my child won't cut in front of 30 other people yelling "me first!"

I love you for facing crazy parents (of which I will be one) because when our children come home upset and we immediately ask for a teacher conference to find out how to keep our child from crying—ever.

And most of all, I love you for choosing to teach children, even though we don't pay you enough – not nearly enough and when I am Queen, teachers will be paid their weight in gold. Weekly.

So, to Mr. Herzog, Mrs. Buxkemper, Mrs. Grice, Mrs. Martin, and all the teachers out there, when Friday rolls around on this first hectic week of school, I want you to feel it.

Feel the love.

Confessions of a loafing mom

School starts Monday. Last year I was relieved. This year I feel like I owe my daughters’ teachers’ an explanation. Or an apology.

Last year we did Summer reading.

This Summer we did Summer loafing (do you get a T-shirt for that? How about just a pillow?).
Last year we worked on our math skills during the break.

This Summer the closest we got to math was checking the SPF on the sunscreen and the depth markers on the pool.

Last year we did at least one science project that involved research on the internet, a notebook and a formal presentation.

This Summer we had a surprise biology lesson when we found out that the mouse we bought to replace Patches (who was lost in a recent cat vs mouse drama) was pregnant. Next we’ll have a marketing lesson as we try to find the mouselettes (or what ever you call baby mice) a new home without a reptile. I am not raising food here.

Oh well. One out of three isn’t bad, is it?

But I still feel terrible. I’ve been a terrible substitute teacher this Summer. All my lesson plans went out the window early. Every big idea has remained unchecked on the “keep ‘em ready for learning” checklist.

This is why any time I entertain the idea of exploring teaching as a possible career change, I feel lightheaded. I can’t stick to a grocery list, let alone a lesson plan. Sure we’re doing some late Summer cramming, but it’s likely to have the same result as any crash course. Lots of jumbled information swimming around in a sea of stuffed animals, bubble gum, and slightly damp towels.

So an extra shout out to our teachers who make up for those of us who have embraced summer vacation a little too fully. We promise to pick up the slack, help with homework, and try to encourage our kids to learn about something more than how to tell when a mouse is pregnant and not just fat.

By the way – anyone need a pet for his or her classroom? We’ve got a few to spare.