Wearing my heart on my sleeve

 Christmas really brings out my inner "Lady Macbeth." I so relate to her ruthless manner this time of year (I once threatened my friend Rachel when she was playing Christmas music in her classroom the day after Halloween. Stomping into the room, I leveled her with a death stare before declaring that I would stab her with an icicle.). 

In December, despite my best Grinch-efforts to keep us to a routine, Room 24 veers completely off the rails. Typically a glitter-free zone, my classroom sparkles while I sulk. "Forget good cheer," I sneer when the children plead for a tree, decorations, and...what fresh hell is this...a "Stuffie Day." "Here," I compromise, handing each child a regulation bar room dart, "throw this at our Santa bulletin board and shut up." 

An equal opportunist when it comes to disdaining all December holidays, I broke out the dreidels and hosted a gambling den in Room 24.  As the dreidels spun, we sang happily ("...and when they're dry and ready, a dreidel we will play...HEY!") while I systematically robbed 4th graders out of their fortunes.

I put off crafting as long as humanly possible. 

4th grade has a long-established history of infuriatingly complicated and messy projects.  First up, stained glass window paper plates which require an hour of adult pre-prep work wrestling with plastic wrap and swearing only to have a 9-year-old sit down and immediately declare that he ripped it. 

Edible dreidels are next on the docket and are the most delicious of all my crafts (Pulling a small glass statue out of his stocking, one of my little elves knocked it against his desk like a hard-boiled egg and asked if it was candy...I now take the precaution of announcing, before giving my cherubs ANYTHING, whether it is consumable or not.). We use a toothpick to pre-drill a hole in a caramel square to make room for the pretzel stick square. Should I HAVE to tell them not to then wedge the toothpick in their mouths like a dog with a pork chop bone? The answer to that is "yes." Do I NEED to tell them that you have to remove the wrapping from the caramel before first eating it? (Yes.) As units of measurements, children need to be explicitly instructed regarding the terms "smidgen" and "dollop."  A smidgen of frosting glue is NOT half the container. 

"Mrs. Mosiman, I don't like caramel." 

"Then don't eat it." 

"Can I have something else instead?" 

"Oh yeah, baby...I have something else for you."

I should have stopped while I was ahead...all of them rendered non-verbal from chewing caramels...except one, of course, whose non-appreciative little rear-end was planted in the office.

The painted popsicle picture frame.

"Our goal," I declared, in a delusional state, "is to produce a timelessly treasured family heirloom without destroying our classroom." Silly me.

"First, push back your sleeves," I said, not realizing that I would be repeating that direction, in rising decibels, a thousand more times.

I set strict standards regarding my expectations; heartlessly restricting the creative potential of my proteges. No mixing paint to invent fun new colors. As we are using paintbrushes, there will be absolutely NO need to touch the paint with ANY part of your body (including your fingers, face, hair, and feet). Any small paint smears will be limited to the protective paper plate and paper towel that I so helpfully provided to my meticulous artists. When done with your masterpiece, place paintbrushes in the bin with the brushes all facing the SAME way. This is imperative so that Mrs. Mosiman does not lose her mind.

"Planning is everything," I announced. "I am going to ask you which colors you want on your paper plate palette. You should have a vision in mind of the base color and decorations. Dots. Stripes. Think of your adult's favorite shades. We have six colors to choose from. You, obviously, won't need them all."

I approached my first honey like a maitre-d' at a 5-star establishment, offering a wine list. Only my snooty customer ordered ALL the wine. "Do you have a plan?" I asked dubiously. Child nods confidently. Sniffs the lid. Swirls the paint. Declares ALL of the colors acceptable. Next customer. "Which colors would you like?" I asked patiently. "All of them," came the answer, like she was buying the house a round. 

Sleeves slipped down (along with my sanity). Paint was mixed into shades suitable for the seventh level of hell. We had paint on the floor, our faces, our shoes, stuffies, and the outside of the trash. "Almost made it," one child, who obviously enjoys living on the edge, observed optimistically. 

Completely traumatized at this point, I sent my paint-soaked students to lunch and went about the business of trying to clean up the catastrophe that was my classroom. It could have doubled as a paintball course. Numbly, I reached into the bin to wash the brushes...my hand would have been cleaner gutting a deer. My expectations ripped to shreds, sludge colored-paint dripping from my fingernails, I huddled over the sink, muttering as I scrubbed the fun new color off my hands..."Out, damn spot," I said softly as a co-worker approached me carefully. "Amy, can I help you?" "Yeah," I sighed, "can you please push back my sleeves?"