Big Four

What I remember most about the day you were born is how much you did not want to come out. I was thinking about that yesterday, when we were at a friend's birthday party, and you were stuck to the back of me like a half-sized siamese twin. You love to burrow into blankets, squeeze yourself into the small space between the couch and the wall, and hide in your play tent. Sometimes I think you are trying to make a womb-like space where you are safe and protected, the way you used to be. But what a strange thought it is now, that you were once little enough to fit inside me. At four, your head reaches my waist, and you're so heavy I can't carry you for a block.

I've been thinking about how although I loved you from Day 1, I didn't really know you then, and now I do. You are the kid who hates bounce houses, but loves to make sand cakes and tell long pointless stories. When we play hide-and-seek, you always giggle loudly so I will know where you are. You can entertain yourself for hours with random household objects and the contents of your head. You insist on wearing the hood of your jacket up, and you want to me to read Ramona to you again, even though you didn't pay much attention the first time. Your funny words are quickly disappearing, so I want to hang on to the few you still mispronounce, like visat.

Today is Mother's Day, and I loved what you and your dad gave me, but the real gift is you. Happy birthday.

Apparently this is how I look to her.

I think I need to go easy on the blush.

Timing

I'm a little obsessed with time when I'm teaching. I don't wear a watch, but I always have one eye on the big institutional clock on my classroom wall. There's nothing worse than going into class with what you think is more than three hours of material, but turns out to take only two. Not that this has ever happened to me.

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In my first job, I had a co-worker who was generous about sharing things she had done in her class. She would always add at the end, "It takes an hour."

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Last night, I had the agenda for class in my head:

1. total physical response
2. a reading lesson
3. listening practice
4. a two-part quiz
5. a group activity involving sales circulars from Rite-Aid
6. discussion of Mother's Day, followed by a Mother's Day Card project

I watched the clock, and around 7:30 they were taking the first part of the quiz. I hurried through it so they would be done in time for break. 7:30 came, but the bell didn't ring. I shrugged. "The bell must be broken," I said, and sent them out on break. They walked outside, but as they opened the door, I saw that the courtyard was empty.

One of my students came back inside. "Nobody is there," he said. Another student pulled out her cell phone.

"It's 7:15," she said.

My clock was broken.

I called them back. They were laughing as they sat down again. We finished both parts of the quiz before the bell rang for break.

In the back of my mind, I reviewed my agenda, worried that I wouldn't have enough to get us through the next hour-and-a-half.

All through the second part of class, my clock went haywire. At one point the hands moved through a whole hour in a few seconds. I kept looking up at it out of habit, and it made me a little insane. It was like the clock knew, and it was out to get me.

I plotted ways to stretch out the group activity and discussion. I wrote dialogues and questions on the board.

With five minutes to go, they were finishing up their cards, and I finally exhaled.

Serendipity

Over spring break I found a preschool for Bella. It's on the other end of town, and I signed her up for three mornings a week. The program is play-based, and one of Bella's playmates goes there. On the other hand we were going to have to give up her babysitter in the afternoon to afford it, and I had some concerns about waking up early in the morning to drive her across town to school after coming home from work late at night. But I needed to get her in somewhere, and the schools were filling up fast. By mid-March, all the nearby ones already had dozens of kids on their waiting lists.

Then, a few weeks after I'd enrolled her and paid the deposit, I found out through a friend that a new preschool is opening on our end of town. Even better, they were offering afternoons. I went to visit, and I really liked the school's philosophy and the warm environment. The school is in a little house, filled with child-sized wooden furniture and toys. In the backyard, there is a massive climber, perfect for my little monkey. Bella immediately ran off to play with the toys, which I took as a good sign.

The only thing is this school is Brand. New. Meaning I am one of the first paying customers. So far there are about four kids signed up for the afternoon in the summer, with some more likely to enroll in the fall. We are the guinea pigs. For Bella, the small class is actually a plus, because she freaks out when there are too many people around. I am a little worried that the school might not get enough business to stay afloat, but mostly I'm just excited about having a little free time again, and knowing Bella is in good hands.

A Goodbye

Around Christmas a Vietnamese couple, Thuy and Minh, started attending my class. They had been in the U.S. only one week, and they were zero-level beginners. They were the first to arrive each day, and I could tell they spent a lot of time reviewing lessons and studying at home.

I remember when they first came, I asked another Vietnamese student whose English was better to translate for them. Although Thuy and Minh aren't fluent now, their English is good enough now that they are the ones translating for new students. In the short time they were here, their scores on our standardized test improved by twenty points. (The average is five.)

Today they told me they are moving to North Carolina to join Thuy's brother. They have jobs lined up.

My students come and go, often disappearing without saying goodbye, so I was glad they told me. But I will miss them.

I am proud of them, for coming so far in the short time they've been here, and for making another great leap by moving across the country to a place they've never seen. But I worry too. Will they find a Vietnamese market there? Will they be so consumed with surviving that they don't have time to study? Will they feel lonely and isolated, away from the supportive Vietnamese community in Southern California?

"Thank you teacher," they said as they left. "Thank you. Goodbye."

Tomorrow I will see their empty seats and think about them, sitting on a plane, flying into the unknown.

This pretty much sums up our relationship.

Local Girlfriend Always Wants To Do Stuff

My husband emailed me this article today. I wonder if he was trying to tell me something.

An Unpost

I'm giving up on NaBloPoMo.

I tried. But I'm getting tired of myself. And tired in general.

The end.