| Biographical Non-Fiction posted August 30, 2013 | Chapters: |
...18 19 -20- 21... 
|
  |
It isn't easy trying to work with young school age children
A chapter in the book Chasing the Elusive Dream
School Daze
by BethShelby
My life at the printing company was going well considering some of my past short-lived excursions into the working world. I had mastered enough skills to have some degree of job security. The best part was I was finally able to use some of the college training I'd gotten in commercial art.
I was busy working on the new brochure for the Maloney Appliance account, when Mary Lou buzzed me from the front office.
"Beth, pick up on line two. It's your son again."
What now? My kids are driving me crazy with the phone calls. I'd warned them not to call unless there is a serious problem. Personal phone calls were disruptive and frowned on by management. My next door neighbor, who had children of her own near their ages, was looking after my three after school for a couple of hours until Evan and I came home from work. She hadn't been able to stop their after school phone calls.
The school was around the corner from our house. Carol was eight and in second grade and the twins were six and in first grade. Because of their late December birthdays, they started to school at agev five. Since Carol had a February birthday, she had started school later and had a much easier time adjusting than the twins.
My son's voice on the phone sounded excited. "Mama, Mama guess what? They had rewards day in assembly, and I got one. I got called up on stage. They gave me a piece of paper and it's a reward."
"Really, Don't you mean an award?"
"Whatever. I got one on a piece of paper."
"What was the award for?"
"It's a reward for being retarded, or something like that."
"Retarded? What do you mean 'retarded'? You're not retarded. They don't give rewards for being retarded." By this time I was having trouble controlling my voice. It was becoming louder and starting to sound like something needs oiling. "Put Carol on the phone."
"Carol. Mama wants to talk to you. She wants to know about me getting the reward for being retarded."
"Carol, what is he talking about? What is this about him being retarded?"
"I don't know. The big kids always call the little kids 'Retardo'. I guess that's what he's taking about."
"No. He's says he got called up on the stage and given an award for being retarded. Do you know what that's all about? Am I going to have to call the school?"
"Oh, that? He got a certificate saying he hasn't been absent or tardy all year. I think it's supposed to be a good thing."
Okay, another mystery solved and crisis averted. I was thinking I should have held this kid back another year. He was too immature at five to start first grade, but at least, he's not being publicly labeled retarded. Of course, it wouldn't be totally surprising if someone thought he was. His schoolwork comes back from school wadded into a ball and crammed into his pocket. On the other hand, his twin sister brings in neat papers, proudly showing off the happy face stamps and A+ marks.
Whenever I tried to work with Don to help him learn his math and spelling, his attention was on everything except the task at hand. At this point, Attention Deficit Disorder wasn't recognized as a treatable condition. Hyperactive children were just considered a discipline problem.
"Don, I need you to pay attention and think," I would tell him. "What is two times four?"
"I don't know. Ten? Seven? Five? Nine?" While he was in the process of guessing every number he knew, he was either tossing some object into the air or mutilating it. I would become frustrated and wonder how his teacher could handle a classroom full of boys like this. Even worse, what if my son wasn't a typical boy? Maybe, he was her only problem. I was afraid to ask.
At least, Don was amusing. A couple of weeks before, he had come home with some news from school. "I think I've got me a girl friend."
"Really? What is she like?"
"Her name's Angela. She's nice, and she's pretty, too, but her roots show."
"Her roots? Don't tell me a first grader has her hair dyed."
"No. Not her hair. Her neck. You know. Those little blue roots on her neck."
It took me several minutes to realize the child had thin fair skin which showed little fine blue veins. We had a good laugh over that, but I wasn't laughting a couple of days when I got a call from the twins teacher.
They had mentioned causally they were going to be in a play at school, but they had managed to misplace the note the teacher sent three weeks earlier telling me their part required a costume. Their teacher called the night before the play to remind me to make sure they brought their Jack and Jill costumes to school the following day. I spend most of the night making costumes. Then I called work and make arrangements to be off a few hours. A mother needs to be there for something as important as their children's acting debut.
I was relieved there was only one more week of school. No more PTA meetings, no more parent-teacher conferences. No more art projects on the side like the two 8 ft Christmas displays I had to paint when the PTA president found out I was an artist.
I signed the kids up for a summer day camp program which I hoped would keep them occupied. Hopefully, I would only get emergency phone calls.
The phone line buzzed again. "Pick up on line three," Mary Lou told me. "I think it's your neighbor calling about one of your kids."
"Beth, Carol just ran into a tree. The kids were playing chase, and she didn't watch where she was going. I don't know if she broke her nose, but it is bleeding pretty bad, and her lip is busted. You might want to come home and see if you think she needs stitches."
Trying to work when you have children isn't easy. Asking off again fueled my boss's argument that women shouldn't get the same pay as men for the same work. His reason for this pay-gap was because it was always the women who had to leave work if there was an emergency at home. Apparently, he had a point.
My life at the printing company was going well considering some of my past short-lived excursions into the working world. I had mastered enough skills to have some degree of job security. The best part was I was finally able to use some of the college training I'd gotten in commercial art.
I was busy working on the new brochure for the Maloney Appliance account, when Mary Lou buzzed me from the front office.
"Beth, pick up on line two. It's your son again."
What now? My kids are driving me crazy with the phone calls. I'd warned them not to call unless there is a serious problem. Personal phone calls were disruptive and frowned on by management. My next door neighbor, who had children of her own near their ages, was looking after my three after school for a couple of hours until Evan and I came home from work. She hadn't been able to stop their after school phone calls.
The school was around the corner from our house. Carol was eight and in second grade and the twins were six and in first grade. Because of their late December birthdays, they started to school at agev five. Since Carol had a February birthday, she had started school later and had a much easier time adjusting than the twins.
My son's voice on the phone sounded excited. "Mama, Mama guess what? They had rewards day in assembly, and I got one. I got called up on stage. They gave me a piece of paper and it's a reward."
"Really, Don't you mean an award?"
"Whatever. I got one on a piece of paper."
"What was the award for?"
"It's a reward for being retarded, or something like that."
"Retarded? What do you mean 'retarded'? You're not retarded. They don't give rewards for being retarded." By this time I was having trouble controlling my voice. It was becoming louder and starting to sound like something needs oiling. "Put Carol on the phone."
"Carol. Mama wants to talk to you. She wants to know about me getting the reward for being retarded."
"Carol, what is he talking about? What is this about him being retarded?"
"I don't know. The big kids always call the little kids 'Retardo'. I guess that's what he's taking about."
"No. He's says he got called up on the stage and given an award for being retarded. Do you know what that's all about? Am I going to have to call the school?"
"Oh, that? He got a certificate saying he hasn't been absent or tardy all year. I think it's supposed to be a good thing."
Okay, another mystery solved and crisis averted. I was thinking I should have held this kid back another year. He was too immature at five to start first grade, but at least, he's not being publicly labeled retarded. Of course, it wouldn't be totally surprising if someone thought he was. His schoolwork comes back from school wadded into a ball and crammed into his pocket. On the other hand, his twin sister brings in neat papers, proudly showing off the happy face stamps and A+ marks.
Whenever I tried to work with Don to help him learn his math and spelling, his attention was on everything except the task at hand. At this point, Attention Deficit Disorder wasn't recognized as a treatable condition. Hyperactive children were just considered a discipline problem.
"Don, I need you to pay attention and think," I would tell him. "What is two times four?"
"I don't know. Ten? Seven? Five? Nine?" While he was in the process of guessing every number he knew, he was either tossing some object into the air or mutilating it. I would become frustrated and wonder how his teacher could handle a classroom full of boys like this. Even worse, what if my son wasn't a typical boy? Maybe, he was her only problem. I was afraid to ask.
At least, Don was amusing. A couple of weeks before, he had come home with some news from school. "I think I've got me a girl friend."
"Really? What is she like?"
"Her name's Angela. She's nice, and she's pretty, too, but her roots show."
"Her roots? Don't tell me a first grader has her hair dyed."
"No. Not her hair. Her neck. You know. Those little blue roots on her neck."
It took me several minutes to realize the child had thin fair skin which showed little fine blue veins. We had a good laugh over that, but I wasn't laughting a couple of days when I got a call from the twins teacher.
"Beth, pick up on line two. It's your son again."
What now? My kids are driving me crazy with the phone calls. I'd warned them not to call unless there is a serious problem. Personal phone calls were disruptive and frowned on by management. My next door neighbor, who had children of her own near their ages, was looking after my three after school for a couple of hours until Evan and I came home from work. She hadn't been able to stop their after school phone calls.
The school was around the corner from our house. Carol was eight and in second grade and the twins were six and in first grade. Because of their late December birthdays, they started to school at agev five. Since Carol had a February birthday, she had started school later and had a much easier time adjusting than the twins.
My son's voice on the phone sounded excited. "Mama, Mama guess what? They had rewards day in assembly, and I got one. I got called up on stage. They gave me a piece of paper and it's a reward."
"Really, Don't you mean an award?"
"Whatever. I got one on a piece of paper."
"What was the award for?"
"It's a reward for being retarded, or something like that."
"Retarded? What do you mean 'retarded'? You're not retarded. They don't give rewards for being retarded." By this time I was having trouble controlling my voice. It was becoming louder and starting to sound like something needs oiling. "Put Carol on the phone."
"Carol. Mama wants to talk to you. She wants to know about me getting the reward for being retarded."
"Carol, what is he talking about? What is this about him being retarded?"
"I don't know. The big kids always call the little kids 'Retardo'. I guess that's what he's taking about."
"No. He's says he got called up on the stage and given an award for being retarded. Do you know what that's all about? Am I going to have to call the school?"
"Oh, that? He got a certificate saying he hasn't been absent or tardy all year. I think it's supposed to be a good thing."
Okay, another mystery solved and crisis averted. I was thinking I should have held this kid back another year. He was too immature at five to start first grade, but at least, he's not being publicly labeled retarded. Of course, it wouldn't be totally surprising if someone thought he was. His schoolwork comes back from school wadded into a ball and crammed into his pocket. On the other hand, his twin sister brings in neat papers, proudly showing off the happy face stamps and A+ marks.
Whenever I tried to work with Don to help him learn his math and spelling, his attention was on everything except the task at hand. At this point, Attention Deficit Disorder wasn't recognized as a treatable condition. Hyperactive children were just considered a discipline problem.
"Don, I need you to pay attention and think," I would tell him. "What is two times four?"
"I don't know. Ten? Seven? Five? Nine?" While he was in the process of guessing every number he knew, he was either tossing some object into the air or mutilating it. I would become frustrated and wonder how his teacher could handle a classroom full of boys like this. Even worse, what if my son wasn't a typical boy? Maybe, he was her only problem. I was afraid to ask.
At least, Don was amusing. A couple of weeks before, he had come home with some news from school. "I think I've got me a girl friend."
"Really? What is she like?"
"Her name's Angela. She's nice, and she's pretty, too, but her roots show."
"Her roots? Don't tell me a first grader has her hair dyed."
"No. Not her hair. Her neck. You know. Those little blue roots on her neck."
It took me several minutes to realize the child had thin fair skin which showed little fine blue veins. We had a good laugh over that, but I wasn't laughting a couple of days when I got a call from the twins teacher.
They had mentioned causally they were going to be in a play at school, but they had managed to misplace the note the teacher sent three weeks earlier telling me their part required a costume. Their teacher called the night before the play to remind me to make sure they brought their Jack and Jill costumes to school the following day. I spend most of the night making costumes. Then I called work and make arrangements to be off a few hours. A mother needs to be there for something as important as their children's acting debut.
I was relieved there was only one more week of school. No more PTA meetings, no more parent-teacher conferences. No more art projects on the side like the two 8 ft Christmas displays I had to paint when the PTA president found out I was an artist.
I was relieved there was only one more week of school. No more PTA meetings, no more parent-teacher conferences. No more art projects on the side like the two 8 ft Christmas displays I had to paint when the PTA president found out I was an artist.
I signed the kids up for a summer day camp program which I hoped would keep them occupied. Hopefully, I would only get emergency phone calls.
The phone line buzzed again. "Pick up on line three," Mary Lou told me. "I think it's your neighbor calling about one of your kids."
"Beth, Carol just ran into a tree. The kids were playing chase, and she didn't watch where she was going. I don't know if she broke her nose, but it is bleeding pretty bad, and her lip is busted. You might want to come home and see if you think she needs stitches."
Trying to work when you have children isn't easy. Asking off again fueled my boss's argument that women shouldn't get the same pay as men for the same work. His reason for this pay-gap was because it was always the women who had to leave work if there was an emergency at home. Apparently, he had a point.
 Recognized |
|
I've written this in present tense rather than past although this took place around 1969. The title is an attempt at a play on words rather than a misspelling. The picture is the twins in the Jack and Jill costumes I made for them. There were supposed to look like children from bygone days.
Pays
one point
and 2 member cents. 
You need to login or register to write reviews. It's quick! We only ask four questions to new members.
© Copyright 2024. BethShelby All rights reserved. Registered copyright with FanStory.
BethShelby has granted FanStory.com, its affiliates and its syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work.
