My husband is superior because he knows the correct Ninja Turtle colors…

…and I don’t.

Happy now, nerdypants?

Dodgeball!

There is an old cliche about working with kids that says they teach you more than you teach them. It’s a cheesy saying and should be embriodered on a pillow somewhere, but it’s there is also some truth in it.

J was about eight and possessed a sort of strange dichotomy – he had real trouble with reading, but had a vocabularly that rivals most adults. If ever there was an eight-year-old who could understand the nuances of sarcasm, it was him. J got picked on a bunch in school but was one of those kids that you knew would be fine once he got out into the real world. If there is a way to explain that to a second grader, I haven’t found it yet. His home life was rought, but he had relatives who had taken him in and tried to get him on the right path with his education. He was also obsessed with Legos.

He came in to his sessions on day looking sort of bummed, so I asked him what was wrong. He said he had a rough day in school – he failed his spelling test and got in trouble for talking back to his teacher. I asked if anything good happened.

“Um,” J said, “we had gym class and played dodgeball, and no one hit me with the ball, so that was pretty good, I guess. Usually, I get hit a lot.”

As my heart was breaking for him, I said, “Well, that’s a good thing. I used to hate dodgeball. I always used to get whacked while I wasn’t paying attention.”

And J’s response to that was something I will never forget, as it has come something of a motto for me.

With a big grin on his face and his hands on his hips, he said to me, “Kristin, the key word is DODGE!” I couldn’t tell if he was being saracastic or serious, but he had a point.

Next time you feel like a million things are flying at you, remember the advice of my wise little student. Hopefully, nothing will whack you in the head while you are not paying attention.

Get the hell out of my way during a fire drill!

The other day, I was talking to someone about fire drills and I made a confession that horrified this person.

Curious? Here it is:

I used to tell my students that they were on their own if there was an actual fire or school shooting or something bad, because I didn’t like any of them nearly enough to die for them.

If flames or bullets came down the hallway, no way in hell was I assuring their safety before my own as was apparently required of me. No way was I staying behind to take the freaking attendance and close the windows while subsequently burning to death for my trouble. There was no such “save the asses of your ungrateful students above all else” clause in my contract, so I didn’t see how they could enforce it. If the school was shot up or burned down, it’s not as if I would have a job anyway.

I didn’t get paid enough to be heroic.

However, I did get paid enough to buy some sweet running shoes in case I needed to haul ass. I guarantee that my fire drill policy was what a majority of teachers feel deep down in places they don’t talk about at parties.

Later in the year, I taught a lesson on all the raunchy parts of Julius Caesar. I think that helped them be at peace with their imminent deaths.

It’s probably best I am not in the classroom any more.

In other news, thanks to my husband for the best birthday present ever. We are NCAA tournament-bound, baby! Goin’ to the big dance!!!!!!!!!
And we also have Duke/Georgetown tickets for this weekend. It’s frickin’ awesome to be me right now. Just get out of my way if the fire alarm goes off.

If you love David Hasselhoff like I love David Hasselhoff, and you like peeing in your pants from laughing…

Go here immediately.

Love and Basketball

If ever I doubted that I married the right man, things were cleared up for me during this exchange at our local, ACC-themed sportsbar, which is actually compiled from several visits.

Me(M): I am not sitting at the table by the Maryland flag.

Husband(H): Oh, hell no. Fucking terrapins.

M: If I sit there, I will have to riot and set my dinner on fire.

H: Yes, and sweat through your shirt and swear at the waitstaff for not calling a bullshit foul on your sandwich.

M: Ha!

As we are leaving:
M: What is in there?

H: It looks like a room with a giant plasma tv.

M: Ooh, it is showing the 1992 Duke/UK game.

H: We are so going in there.

A few minutes of the game go by. Rick Pitino’s giant gelled-up head comes on screen.

Husband and I in perfect, eerie unison: HAA-haaa! (Nelson-style, thank you very much.)

Tomorrow, we get a new fish. And I have promised my sister that we will not give him a name that has any sort of variation on Cal Ripken. Callie the dog and the late Cal Ripfin are enough. We are naming him Joe Gibbs instead.