I think my daughter is enjoying first grade. She has been spending a lot of time at home today playing school. Well, not actually playing school…preparing to play school. She has taught very little. Her entire afternoon has been filled with making math workbooks, rearranging furniture, creating alphabet lessons, and making a list of rules which apparently does not include a dress code, since her only pupil Michael is attending class in his underwear. She has informed him that the most important rule is “no burping, along with no fighting and no stealing.” I’m finding her to be a very perceptive teacher. Already, she knows her student well.
She does, however, have her work cut out for her. Michael is not always such a willing participant in her games. Even after starting the school day with recess, she still had to bribe him with money to get him to stay and be her student for a bit longer. To be honest, I’m not sure where she is getting said money, or what the heck my three-year-old would do with it once he had it. And I’m not convinced it is going to buy her much of his attention span. All that prep work for very little payout. Welcome to the real world of teaching, Grace.
As I sit here at the computer, playing the role of principal that was assigned to me, I overhear what is possibly a shining moment of genius on my daughter’s part. The conversation is as follows:
Grace: “Why do we have A?”
Michael: “Because it’s a cupcake.” (laughs at what was apparently a joke)
Grace: “Okaaaaaayyyy. Why do we have B?”
Michael: “Because it’s like F.”
Grace: “It is kind of like F. (drawing on the chalkboard) If you get rid of these two big bellies and put two lines at the top, you get F. That’s why I like B,…because it’s like F and F is my third favorite letter.”
Well, I’ll be. Maybe this little girl will follow in her mama’s footsteps one day after all. But she still has a lot to learn about classroom control. Michael keeps running away to find something new to play as Grace yells after him, “You have to have my permission! Do you know what permission means? It means you have to ask me if you can leave!”
I guess that’s my cue to bring him into the principal’s office and call his mom. I hope she’s not one of those parents who blames everything on the teacher. I hate those people.