Why was the teacher annoyed with the duck?

He wouldn't stop quacking jokes!

The first week back to school. Exhausting? Yes. Chaotic? Occasionally. Boring? NEVER!

It's not like I'm not actively TRYING. But when you have sixteen 9-year-olds collectively labeling and creating 3D models of the globe while simultaneously taping together paper longhouse replicas (Channel your inner longhouse feelings, I encouraged them, taking pictures, What emotion are you experiencing having just put together a Native American dwelling? Tired? Understandable. Project it. Proud? Justifiably so...show it to the camera. Snap, snap) while memorizing the names of the Great Lakes as well as learning and applying new figurative language terms (Onomatopoeia, I shouted. Wouldn't wanna be ya! they chanted back dutifully.).

Intelligent questions were bandied about:

• "Is this math skills inventory really necessary?"

ANSWER:  Yes. Where else in the day would I fit in my nap?

• "What's a Twinkie?" (In response to my astute observation of what their paper longhouse replicas resembled. Usage: "Staple your brown Twinkie to the bulletin board.")

ANSWER: Gasp. Clutch heart dramatically. Scream out to the heavens, "I'm coming, Elizabeth!"

• "Can you describe the different applications for the terms persons and people?"

ANSWER: Persons for when you can count the plural number. People for when it is an indefinite amount as in We the people... (Stand back and bask in the glow of admiration radiating from sixteen 4th graders who are now convinced that you know EVERYTHING...not realizing the you just recently learned that more than one potato grows from a planted potato.)

• "Mrs. Mosiman, I checked with the principal and he approved the visit of my duck to your classroom."

ANSWER:  Wait? What? Was that even a question?

So this Friday, after looking up and writing the definition of twelve math vocabulary terms and having been engaged in a riveting lesson re-introducing subjects and predicates, we greeted Fred. "How old is Fred," I asked, wincing as the room squealed as Fred let one loose on the floor. "I'm not sure how old she is," my Duck Whisperer admitted. "She?" I clarified, suddenly realizing that my inference in the year 2017 could be political divisive. "Fredrica." Oh. "Except now she'd nicknamed "Nip" for obvious reasons." I kept my mouth shut this time, for obvious reasons. 

Despite our filth-ridden floor, we were delighted with our visitor, except Herb who didn't realize that he had an irrational fear of pooping poultry until it almost crawled in his lap. We all learned a LOT about ourselves this week.

Sure...one of us got a black eye. And one of us ALMOST sliced off his finger. One pair of pants was flecked with feces (but at least it wasn't human!). Mrs. Mosiman turned beet red and almost asphyxiated trying to contain her cough during a drill. But we're survivors. That which does not kill us, only makes us stronger. We roll with it. Well, some of us waddle with it. I just quacked myself up!