HALLOWEEN FUN

Halloween is coming.

As readers know, I already set up for Christmas (mostly) when one of the grands came over to help decorate. Same grandchild is here with me this weekend, so I decided to bring home my school Halloween toys. Not only will I be retiring within the next year or two so stuff has to come home, but this kiddo loves, loves, loves scary stuff and all things Halloween. She is the perfect audience for such shenanigans.

As soon as the little missy wakes up from her nap, we are going to town with the toys. I have a two-foot tall dancing skeleton who sings Super Freak, a dancing and singing purple people eater, an animated witch,  and a full-sized (but flat) plastic skeleton with moving joints.

I might have set up Christmas first, but that was just to throw off the holidays. I am fully ready for Halloween around here, and I have the decorated cookies and cupcakes to prove it. Today we drove nearby to inspect fairy houses and mini villages. The kiddo pointed out Halloween houses the entire ride there and back, short as it was. Later, after nap time and toy time, she will be having a play-date with another young'un who just so happens to be one house away from a huge animated Halloween house.

It's great when a holiday (or two) can give children so much pleasure. It's fun to be with the little kids (and the bigger ones) at any given moment, but it sure eases the entertainment factor around the holidays.

Happy Halloween, and may the trick-or-treat gremlins be generous!

BOOOOOOOOO -- IT'S THE HOLIDAY SEASON

Booooo! It's Christmas in my house.

I know, I know. It's not even Halloween yet. But when a three-year-old comes over to decorate a tree, you decorate a damn tree. That's just the way life is. 

I have a small tree, only about four feet tall. I live in an apartment that lacks storage. For some reason, every place that I've lived in has seriously lacked closet space. Not only that, this place doesn't have attic storage, either. So, I had to decide: full-size washer and dryer, or another closet. Hmmmm... time to down-size the Christmas tree, I guess.

I will say that having a three-year-old decorator certainly made my share of the work more tolerable. The older I get, the less I like hanging ornaments on the tree. I've dumped more than half of my original ornaments, and tossed a lot of the decorations because I don't host anymore, so the whole "deck the halls" routine is ridiculously streamlined now, much to my amazement and pleasure.

I do, however, still have several fragile antique ornaments, as well as many lovely glass ones, so this whole "toddler-tree" symbiosis may not have been my brightest idea. In the end, though, no glass was broken. There were casualties, though. The Bruins chair lost its hockey stick, and Bob Ross suffered a half-severed foot. Nothing a little hot glue won't fix once I get around to it.

I did notice, after the fact, that a couple of bulbs on the tree are out, but I'm not touching those until after the season ends. I refuse to risk short-circuiting the whole tree. That would mean undoing everything, adding strings of lights, and re-hanging all of the garland and decorations.

Bah-freaking-humbug to that, Ebenezer!

I guess for Halloween I will be Santa's elf. Considering that I haven't given the holidays any thought other than that, the tree will be scary enough.

WEATHER AND DUMB-ASSERY

 New England weather is at its "dumb-ass" level -- 40 degrees in the morning and 85 degrees in the afternoon. This means that we are unable to properly dress for simple things like work, shopping, or stepping outside for a moment.

I decide to bring in the last of my porch plants. I figure that if the frost comes, which it does a few days later, I want to save the few plants that I hadn't brought back to school. This seems like a smart decision.

Until I start moving the few pieces of furniture that I have out there.

It all starts innocently enough. "Bring in the plants; sweep the porch off." There isn't a whole lot of room to move around out there. The porch is some silly measurement like 3.5 feet by 6 feet., so I am even tripping over myself. I have a couple of wire shelf units for plants, so those have to come inside, as well. Then, I have to maneuver the other furniture from side to side so that I can get the broom working.

It all goes well, for the most part. Yes, the wind might take a bit of the dirt I sweep over the balcony and deposit said dirt onto the patio below. Ooopsies. But, really, it wasn't like I dumped leaves or big branches. Just some dirt. The bulky metal table and the matching medium-weight chairs move easily enough. Pretty soon, the porch is looking all right, so I sit out there for a couple of hours (since it's 80 degrees now).

I am now minding my own business, reading on my Kindle while enjoying my plant-less porch. It seems like a win-win for me. 

Until I glance down.

Just as an FYI - I was born with long toes. It's the reason why I have a larger shoe size for someone of my limited height. This means that I'm always catching my toes on things, and I have broken no less than eight of my toes over my lifetime. This knowledge alone should prove that what I am about to type is no big mystery. And yet, the true mystery is that I have zero recollection of doing this.

I seem to have taken a substantial chunk of skin out of my foot right near my big toe. 

I figure it's just a scratch, so I let it congeal and continue reading. Later, as I prepare to shower, I realize that I should probably clean the toe off. After all, it's going to sting like Charles Dickens when I get under the water.

Except instead of a scratch or normal injury, I discover a hole. A pretty substantial hole. A hole about the size of my pinkie fingernail, and about as deep as the thickness of a quarter.

You would think that I might remember such an injury, but you'd be wrong.

Apparently, I have somehow managed to gouge a nice divot into my big toe, probably on some piece of furniture, and have now bled to softball stage. Even worse, the dang thing is starting to show signs of infection. I treat it with both anti-infection stuff (smells like tar) and triple-antibacterial cream. It hurts a bit, but not that badly. But, man, oh, man, does it look hideous. 

Let this be a lesson to all of you: If you're thinking of doing fall cleaning and bringing in random porch furniture -- DON'T. If summer isn't over, which ours clearly is not yet, don't bite Mother Nature -- she bites back (and uses outdoor furniture in her arsenal).

ADVENTURES IN PENMANSHIP

It is said that students can't write anymore, can't use punctuation, can't identify nor write a complex sentence (or worse). In many cases, this is absolutely true. But, let me break it down to an even more basic problem:

Students cannot write legibly anymore. For me, this is the crux of the problem.  

When I first started teaching in my current district, all of my students were required to write in pen and in cursive. After a few years, we relaxed that standard. Somewhere along the frameworks-pushed way, handwriting and penmanship gave way in elementary schools to things like social-emotional wellness. By the time the kiddos got to me, they had socialized victim mentality and writing that resembled chicken scratch written in a foreign alphabet system.

So, this year, I have a poster that depicts what the regular printed alphabet looks like, letter by letter, with little arrows teaching the students exactly how to stroke out the letters in pencil or pen. On day one, I announced, "If your letters don't look more like these," and I pointed to the poster, "then you will be rewriting and rewriting and rewriting your work until it does look like this."

I also announced that anyone who masters the printed alphabet is welcome to experiment with the cursive alphabet, of which I also have a poster. Every day I post an inspirational quote on the board, always written in cursive, with the challenge, "Read this, if you can!" It  has proven to be a popular activity.

Before you blast me about IEPs and 504s and PT and OT, understand that unless the child is actually physically missing a hand, or has a degenerative hand or arm condition, or a temporary issue such as a brace or cast, or is mentally unable to write, then that child can produce writing that resembles or even emulates the printed letters on the poster. Period. 

One boy boasted that he didn't have to follow my directive. My expression clearly stated otherwise. He stood up and said, "Yeah, that's not going to work because I have terrible handwriting."

I gave the child my caring face (hint: I don't have one), and replied, "Oh, pumpkin. That sounds like a you problem, not a me problem. Feel free to have a seat."

I am pleased to report that we are three weeks into the school year, and it has been a very long time since I have been able to clearly decipher (and grade) the students' work, until now, that is. They seem to understand that illegible handwriting isn't just good practice. It is also brainpower, willpower, and academic power. Being careful writers also helps them to be careful thinkers. It seems that how they write something directly corresponds with the actual initiative to write something.

For now, I don't have any scientific data beyond my own observations. I do, however, look forward to practicing cursive with them eventually. There are many studies on the interconnectedness of contiguous writing and contiguous thought. It's kind of like playing Connect the Dots with a captive audience. 

Mastering basic writing skills at ages twelve and thirteen really is too late. Unfortunately, the state only allows teachers minimal time and support to work on handwriting skills. I shouldn't have to teach them the basics all over again, but, dagnabbit, I will. If any group can pull it off, it's the group I have now. Maybe then I truly will give them a real caring face, after all.