Month: June 2016

Ever since my less-than-pleasant visit from Alisea’s father, I’ve been very careful around her, making sure I find something to compliment during the day.  Unlike her name, which I believe means “innocent” and “pretty,” she is anything but, and it’s hard not to be a little repulsed by her, especially after recent events.  Her appearance resembles a little brown pig with a round, hairy face.  When the weather was warmer, she often came in sundresses with straps that exposed her hairy upper back and shoulders.  Her parents often dress her like a little princess (including tiara), which unfortunately reminds me of Miss Piggy from the Muppets.

Today we were making a craft that required a little glitter.  The children LOVE glitter, especially the girls.  They can’t get enough of it, so we have to monitor their glitter usage, and it’s a rare treat to be allowed to use it.  As Alisea was making her craft, she was loading on the glitter, despite being given instructions to the contrary, and Crystal intervened, told her she’d had enough, and removed the glitter from the table.  Alisea responded, “but I want it.”  Crystal ignored her and went on helping another student.

The next thing I knew, Alisea said, “If you don’t give me that glitter, I’m going to tell my daddy” with a malicious little gleam in her eye.  I gasped involuntarily.  I couldn’t help it.  I was so shocked at the threat, I couldn’t control it.  I just couldn’t believe it, either.

I made my way over to Crystal and whispered, “Did she just say what I think she just said?  Did she just threaten to get us in trouble with her father if we didn’t comply with her demands?”

“Yes, I believe she did.”

There’s no doubt about it now; she really is that evil and manipulative.  You just go right ahead and tell your daddy.  It won’t change a thing.  Nobody threatens me in my own classroom, least of all a four-year-old spoiled child.

I had another interesting Pemberton parent encounter today.  We have a mom, who is never very nice.  I can tell by the way that she treats all of us that we are her servants and that she’s used to most of the world serving her every whim.  It is expected.  She demands, not requests.  She grows impatient when we don’t jump upon the moment of her arrival.  She is the only person in the world, and it should revolve around her.  Nobody else’s needs are of any consideration.  Really, there are no other needs besides her own, right?

She usually whisks in early in her Jaguar, but today she must have been late arriving, because she was far back in the car line to pick up her child.  While we know the parents want to chat about their child’s day with us when we put their child in the car, the teachers are also keenly aware that we have to keep the line moving, so we don’t chat long, just a reassuring comment or two.  Things are moving well, though, and we’re getting through the line quickly…but not quick enough for this mother.

Before she’s halfway around the circle drive approaching the door, she’s honking her horn.  It doesn’t make the line go faster; it just makes everyone stare at her and wonder what her problem is.  When that doesn’t get her anywhere, she begins gesturing out the window along with her honking.  I disrupt the flow of what I’m doing to walk around and see if there is some true emergency, because I recognize that she is one of my parents.  She has now just sabotaged her own attempts to speed up the line, because she’s pulled me away from putting children in the cars ahead of her, but she doesn’t seem to be aware of that.  She rolls down her passenger side window to talk to me.

“Is there a problem?” I ask.

“Yes!  I’m going to be late for my mani/pedi appointment!”

“I’m sorry, but we’re moving the line as quickly as we can.  I’ll have your child out to you as soon as we get these cars in front of you loaded, but it’s not safe for me to bring your child out here to you across the driveway and then, as you leave, have you driving past cars that are in the process of loading their children.  I’ll be with you as soon as I can.”  (Not to mention the fact that it would be unfair to the other parents who arrived ahead of you, and the drive is not made for two-lane traffic.)

I head back toward the door, but I can tell she’s fuming.  To make matters worse, two cars in front of her, I need to talk to the mom about her child’s bathroom accident and make sure that mom knows there are soiled clothes in the tote bag.  The conversation takes longer than usual, and my impatient mom is growing red in the face.

One of the other teachers, bless her heart, loads the car in between the impatient mom and the one I’m loading with another one of my students to try to help keep things moving when she sees me stuck.  When that car pulls away, the impatient mom pulls up her car, gets out (which she never usually does and is not supposed to do), steps up on the curb, crosses her arms, stamps her foot, and glares at me.  What is she, three years old?  She’s more immature than her child!

I finish answering the mom with the soiled clothes in her tote and turn to the front door without uttering a word.  However, Impatient Mom begins to give me the tongue-lashing of my life.  In the meantime, Janie could tell something was up and had the child ready for me at the door.  With threats of contacting my superior and further threats of my dismissal, she snatches her child from me and yanks him into the car.

“Ow, Mommy!  You’re hurting me!”

She slams the door in his face, leaving him to fend for himself with the car seat belt buckle, and stomps around the car.  After slamming her door, she revs the engine and roars away.  The whole car line is too dumbfounded to move forward for a minute.

“What was that all about?” Janie asked as I came back in for the next child.

“She was late.”

“For what?  Brain surgery?”

“No, a manicure.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

I wish I were.

Because the Halloween party took a long time to wrap up in her classroom and parents lingered despite her best efforts, one teacher at our school wasn’t able to leave her classroom until more than 15 minutes past the start of her lunch break.  She was forced to come back on time to keep her classroom in the correct teacher-to-student ratio after naptime.  Will the Kensington ownership pay her for her lost break time?  Are you kidding?

I’m beginning to learn that Pemberton parents are like no other, particularly Netherville Pemberton parents.  We get all kinds of attitude and odd requests from them.  For example, we give the children stickers at the end of the class period if they’ve behaved well that day.  It’s a hassle and personal expense for the teachers, but the kids seem to love it.  We usually put the stickers on the backs of their hands so they can look at them easily, but the students are welcome to move them anywhere on their person they’d like, except for their faces.  Not too long after school had started this fall, one mom made a special trip into the school at pick-up time to tell us, “Don’t put Savir’s sticker on his hand.  He doesn’t like it there.  It bothers him.”  Fine.  No problem.  Savir can put the sticker wherever he likes.  If I weren’t a professional and a lady, I’d have some suggestions at the end of a long, hard work day exactly where you could put the sticker!

Today I had an interesting communiqué from the mother of my sweet, but very pampered, Anikait.  Each day, the students at Pemberton bring their little canvas green totes luxuriously embroidered with the tasteful Pemberton logo, but they’re only supposed to have things in them they absolutely need for school, such as an extra set of clothes, tuition checks, or notes from the parent to the teacher.  So when a water bottle showed up in Anikait’s tote last week, and he kept disrupting the classroom routine asking to use it, I questioned why he had brought it since Pemberton is full of drinking fountains, sinks, snacks containing beverages, and opportunities to use all of them throughout the class period.

“My mother told me to,” he replied.
“Well, tell your mother she doesn’t need to send one.  We have plenty of water for you to drink.”

Today when I was checking Anikait’s tote upon his arrival, I found not only the water bottle, but a note from Anikait’s mother.

It read, “I am sending a water bottle for Anikait to use, because the water at your school is too cold for Anikait.  He doesn’t like it.”

Are you kidding me?  The tepid water out of our water fountains is too cold for Anikait?  I was half tempted to locate a thermometer and test the temperature of the water in Anikait’s water bottle and compare it to the school water, but the rational side of me took over.  I shrugged it off and turned to find Anikait intently studying my reaction to his mother’s note.  I had to respond somehow.

“That’s fine, Anikait.  You can have your water bottle, but you may not ask for it at circle time or when Miss Crystal and I are giving instructions.”

He skipped away to the table toys, and I tried to console myself that I hadn’t actually caved to parental pressure about a ridiculous request.  Instead, I had imposed reasonable restrictions to stop the interruption of instructional time while honoring the parent’s request.  Still, I couldn’t help but shake my head.  He must be treated like a king at home.

It’s Halloween!  The students were beside themselves with anticipation today.  They were allowed to come to school in their costumes, which was convenient for our little class, I thought.  They could come already dressed, and then their parents could pick them up (early, Crystal and I hoped) and take them straight to trick-or-treating.  In my neighborhood, the little ones this age usually started in the late afternoon, around 3:30 or 4:00, while it was still daylight.  In fact, Crystal and I were wondering how many of our students might be absent altogether.  It’s a Friday.  It’s a holiday.  Surely parents would pull their child from class and give us a bit of a holiday, too.  If the numbers of students in the building went down fast enough, maybe some of us would even get sent home early (especially those of us with our own children), and we could start our trick-or-treating, as well.

No such luck.  Every student was in attendance.  (The parents do not want to lose any of their free time away from their children.)  We tried to make the time pass quickly for the students by keeping them busy with pumpkin stories and special treats and decorating real pumpkins, but one poor student had an even longer wait than usual.

Allison was the only daughter in a family with two older brothers.  She was dressed as a witch today and was very excited about the prospect of trick-or-treating.  Her older brothers had told her all about it, she said, because she didn’t remember much from last year.

One-by-one, the children disappeared from the bench inside Pemberton’s front door where they’d been waiting for their parent to drive up.  At last, all that was left was Allison.

“Where’s my mommy?” she asked, a little quiver beginning to enter her voice.

“She’ll be here soon, sweetie,” I reassured her.  (“I hope” I added in my head.  I knew the festivities had started in my neighborhood more than an hour ago, and my own children were waiting for me to get home, and it would take at least 45 minutes for me to drive there.)

Ten more minutes passed and big tears began to well up in Allison’s eyes.  Her mother was overdue, and Crystal began filling out the paperwork for tardy pick-ups.  Pemberton required a form for late parents, which had to be signed by the parent and turned in to the office for the charge of an additional fee to be added to their next month’s bill.  Crystal disappeared into the office, leaving me to stay with Allison, never thinking of offering to stay behind and let me go ahead to get home to my family, despite the fact that she lived in an apartment with no children of her own and few, if any, disappointed trick-or-treaters at her door.

After five more minutes, I don’t know who was more antsy, Allison or me.  She was swinging her legs and banging them against the bench, but I didn’t correct her.  I was too busy pacing the floor and watching out through the glass doors.  Finally, a car pulled up and Allison’s mother got out.  I grabbed Allison’s hand, and we burst through the front doors of the school toward her car.  As we approached, her brothers leaned out the windows of the car waving huge, heavily-laden bags.

“LOOK WHAT WE GOT!!!” they screamed to her.  “We’ve already been trick-or-treating, and we got a ton of candy!”

Allison and I both stopped dead in our tracks.  I looked down at her as she turned her stricken face first up to me, then at her mother.  The tears that Allison had held in check so successfully until now came streaming down her face.  Rightly so, I might add.  Surely, surely, her mother was going to take them all back out now that she had Allison.

“I’m so sorry I’m late!” she gushed.  “I wanted to take the boys out trick-or-treating before I got Allison.  It’s just too hard to keep up with them with her along.  You know how it is.”

No, I don’t.  I handed her the paperwork to sign.  I was so livid; I couldn’t trust myself to speak.  I’d surely say something that would get me fired.

“Oh, stop that!” she scolded Allison to silence her loud sobbing.  “You can have some of your brothers’ candy when we get home.”  (Loud protestations emanated from inside the car.)

I turned around and headed into the school; she got Allison in the car and drove away.  My heart broke for the child.

Every once in a while as a teacher, you come across an unwanted child.  There is no tangible proof of abuse, but there is an air of neglect about them.  They are an afterthought, an inconvenience, an obligation to their parent and no more than that.  There’s nothing you can do about it, usually.  It’s not to the point that the law will protect them.   It’s not abuse, per se.  But it’s cruel.

I hurry home to my children and give them extra hugs and kisses when I see them.  Thank God they don’t know why.

I had a heart-pounding incident today as I was sitting in the front office with Crystal trying to work on invitations to our students’ parents for an upcoming program.  A swarthy, well-dressed, but ill-shaven man walked in.  He was not tall, but he had an air about him that made him imposing nevertheless.

“I want to see my daughter’s teacher,” he demanded with a thick accent.  Neither Crystal nor I recognized him as one of the parents we see regularly, so we had to ask “Who is your daughter?”

“Alisea Roula.”

Crystal stepped forward in her self-promoting way.  “I’m Alisea’s teacher.  What can I do for you?”

“I don’t like the way you have been treating my daughter.”

Crystal took a step back and gestured to me.  “Mrs. Baker is also Alisea’s teacher.”  (Thanks so much!)  Alisea’s father turned his glare on me as Crystal headed for the door.

“What exactly are you concerned about?”  My heart was beating so hard I was sure he could hear it, but I did my best to keep the fear out of my voice.

Just a few days ago, Linda had been regaling me with tales of one January registration process from the past where a parent of the same nationality as this parent got physical with her when he didn’t get what he wanted.  There had been somewhat of a history of that in this school.  I wondered if this was going to be another such moment.  I try very hard not to stereotype or have prejudices, and I love all my students, no matter the nationality.  However, one can’t help noticing certain patterns of behavior among the parents.

“You said nice things about another child’s picture, but you didn’t say anything nice about Alisea’s!”

WHAT?  I wracked my brain at 90-miles-an-hour trying to figure out what he was talking about.  What picture?  What did I say?  I flashed back through the last few days of classes and activities.  Finally, I remembered…we were painting pumpkin pictures.  We were getting ready to go home, and I was trying to check and see if the paintings were dry enough to be sent home.  They were, so in the midst of the chaos of children packing up and getting their jackets on, I was also trying to call them over to get their pictures.

As I was handing them out, one little boy asked me, “How do you like my picture?”

“Oh, it’s lovely” I replied automatically, as I often do.  Do you have any idea how many times a day a child asks me how I like something or if I know something or if I want to watch them do something?  I’m pretty sure Alisea was the next child in line to get her picture.  She must have overheard me with the little boy.  She didn’t ask me my opinion of her picture, and I wasn’t commenting on anyone else’s picture as I was handing them out.  I was just trying to get a small herd of four-year-old children organized and out the door somewhat on time.

I couldn’t be sure, but Alisea’s father seemed to be enjoying my confusion and discomfort.  His eyes had narrowed, and he almost had a smile on his face.

“Was it the pumpkin painting?” I asked.

“Yes!” he said, surprised.

I explained what had happened, that there had been no intentional slight to his daughter, that no one else (other than the questioning boy) had received a compliment from me either, it wasn’t that kind of a situation, and that I was quite surprised that Alisea had taken offense over it.  She didn’t seem to be upset at the time it happened.  I told him I was sorry for the misunderstanding and asked him to try to explain to Alisea what had happened and that I did, indeed, like her painting.  By that time, he hadn’t warmed up to me exactly, but his stance was less aggressive, and he began to back toward the office door.

“I just wanted to make sure she was not being treated badly.”

“Not in the least, we love having Alisea in our class.”  At least, we did until this happened.  (I included Crystal in my comment even though the coward was nowhere in sight.)

After he left, I sank back in the chair, shaken.  I replayed in my head the encounter and the class period when we had painted the pictures.  Earlier that day, Crystal hadn’t let Alisea play with something during center time when she wanted to, because it was time for her to work with Crystal on her handwriting.  It was the first time Alisea had actually tried to defy a teacher, but Crystal hadn’t let her get away with it.  Alisea was mad.  Could that be what this was really all about?  Could a four-year-old child already be that vengeful and manipulative?  Hmmm.

I noticed something today as I was doing the school’s billing that just amazed me.  One mother, who, granted, has multiple children enrolled in our school, nevertheless wrote not one, but TWO $5000 checks for November tuition fees last week.  Can you imagine?  I can’t.  It would take me months to earn that kind of money.  That should make Beverly happy.