Lifelong

 The first couple of weeks of school I was blasé. I admit it. All that "more than a quarter century on one location" blah blah blah. What's left for me to do?

Then, like a bolt out of the blue: How about learn?

There is a lot of talk in the education business about making our students "lifelong learners," but how could this possibly apply to me? I am a veteran teacher who has, in some cases, been teaching since a few of my colleagues were born. I built the technology infrastructure, helped purchase the software licenses, repaired soccer goals and pencil sharpeners, sat on more committees than I can name, and now you're going to ask me to try something new?

It started last spring, when my principal asked if I wouldn't mind being the "media arts teacher." This was a way to fill a void in our schedule and plan and I was assured that I would not have to leave the comfort zone of my room: The Computer Lab. I would just be teaching kids how to make arts with media. Or something like that. I am in the process of moving piles of previous years' worth of language arts and math lessons around to accommodate this new reality. I can draw. I can draw with a computer. Now if only I can engage kids in this process of creation.

Then there was the addition of a special ed class. A group of students between Kindergarten and second grade who would become my responsibility twice a week for fifty minutes each meeting. I set myself a mild goal of spending the first class getting to know them. Five of them. Maybe I could bring along some colored pencils and some paper and we could draw pictures. We wouldn't have to go to the Computer Lab. We could use the relative safety and comfort of the room they were in so as not to tip their collective apple cart.

I needn't have worried about their collective apple cart. It was my fruit stand that needed adjustment. I was ill-prepared for this experience. I tell people that I have a special place in my heart for teachers of Kindergarten, with the untied shoes and runny noses and nearly constant need for singular attention. I told myself that I would be fine for fifty minutes. 

I wasn't. I was out of my depth from nearly the first few minutes. Happily, their teacher stuck long enough to get me started, letting me know that the colored pencils wouldn't probably be necessary. Sitting down on the rug together was probably a non-starter as well. Keeping track of the five kids in the room, including their shoes and socks, was a big enough test to start. 

One of the boys came to me with an earnest look, took my hand, and led me to the door. He didn't say anything. None of them spoke. But his message was clear: "You don't belong here." But I hung with it, thanks to the support of the paraeducator who was there to help me give the feel of moderate success. Together, we all went outside for a while and played in our new preschool yard. Then we went back inside where the group's insistence was to return to their iPads. 

Then we were done. Or at least I was. I thanked the para and the teacher for their help, and I walked back to my room, wondering how I was going to learn how to teach a Special Ed class before Friday. 

Still so much to learn.