(Continuation of Ebola Mom Part 5, and part of the Ebola Mom series: Ebola Mom Part 1, Ebola Mom Part 2, Ebola Mom Part 3 , Ebola Mom Part 4 , and Ebola Dad )
Good idea, Nanc. Probably the one you should have come up with 10 texts ago, before things got weird.
(For background on this character, please see Ebola Mom Part 1 , Ebola Mom Part 2 , Ebola Mom Part 3 , Ebola Mom Part 4 and Ebola Dad)
This woman never disappoints. Right before I show up to her apartment to tutor her daughter at 3:15, she texts me:
She then asked if I could take her daughter with me to my next client. (I’m not posting that text because in it she uses her daughter’s name, and I try to protect the innocent children). Again, in case you missed how ABSURD this is– SHE ASKED ME TO BRING HER CHILD TO MY NEXT CLIENT’S APARTMENT. No, she does not know my next client.
Um, not mistake your tutor for a babysitter? Plan ahead? Not be THE WORST? So many options, lady.
Me (to kid): “Ohhhh, you got braces!”
Kid: (embarassed and unamused) “I don’t want to talk about it.”
Me: “Oh. Ok. They hurt?”
Kid: “Yes. And it’s hard to talk.”
Me: “I totally understand. If it makes you feel better–”
Kid: “Yeah, I know. You had braces in high school.”
Me: “Ok. Guess I’ve told that story before.”
Kid: “Yeah. A lot.”
Me: “Ok, well, I’m just saying, I can relate.”
Kid: “It would make me feel better if you had braces NOW….but it doesn’t make me feel better that you had them in high school. That was like…” (stops himself)
Me: “That was like what? A REALLY LONG TIME AGO? Is that what you were going to say?”
Kid: “Yeah. But then I realized.”
Me: “Realized what?”
Kid: “How sad that would make you.”
Good. They’re learning.
At the end of the day, I asked two kids in the class to help me clean up:
Me: “Guys, do me a favor– one of you help put up the chairs, and the other please help pick up the atrocious amount of pencils that have been left on the floor.”
(kids burst out laughing)
Me: “Ok, I don’t know why that’s so humorous, but go ahead and get started, please.”
Kid 1: “Can WE use that word you used?”
Me: “Umm…sure.”
Kid 1 (to Kid 2): “Ok, YOU pick up the chairs, and I’LL pick up the asshole-ish amount of pencils on the floor.”
Me: “Woah woah woah WOAH. No! I said ATROCIOUS amount of pencils!”
Kid 1: “Oh. That changes everything.”
Me: “So what did you guys do for the Martin Luther King holiday?”
Kid 1: “I went to the zoo.”
Kid 2: “We went ice skating.”
Kid 3: “I went to Pizzeria Uno!”
Me: “Ok, great, but I meant did anyone do anything to honor the Martin Luther King holiday?”
(dead silence)
Me: “Really? NO ONE did anything MLK related?”
(deader silence)
Me: “That’s really a shame, guys.”
Kid 1: “Well what did YOU do, Miss Emily?”
Oh. Nothing.
Tutoring a kid in fractions, the word “sixths,” keeps coming up, which is a difficult word for me to say, given that I have a slight lisp…
Me: “Sorry, I know I keep mispronouncing it, but it’s hard for me to say with my lisp.”
Kid: “What’s a lisp?”
Me: “It’s a speech impediment. It makes it hard to say certain sounds, like ‘th’ and ‘s.'”
Kid: “Is that why you sometimes spit when you talk?”
Me: “Oh….um. Yes. I actually had convinced myself that no one noticed that.”
Kid: “Oh, I noticed.”
Me: “Yes, clearly.”
Kid: “And, like, I never notice ANYTHING.”
Me: “Great.”
Kid: “Seriously, my mom’s always like ‘Katie, how do you NOT notice that? It’s right in front of you!'”
Me: “I see.”
Kid: “But yeah. Anyway. I noticed the spitting.”
Of course I’m happy to take on this extra work, responsibility, and time commitment that has just been given to me at my job! Because, as with all jobs, this means I will get a salary increase, better benefits, and more respect.
Oh, what’s that? No pay raise you say? Darn.
How bout the benefits? No? Same shitty insurance? Cool.
And the respect part? Oh, ok– that one you’re not even going to answer, you’re just going to lean back, kick up your feet and laugh maniacally.
At least I have an adult bathroom to pee in.
Oh wait.
No.
I’m actually really glad that we’re being forced to give the kids this last-minute, 2 hour practice state test because I was just thinking about how our students don’t cry enough.
Plus it’s giving our classroom paraprofessional plenty of time to catch up on her sex-and-murder novel.
So really, everyone wins.
While reading a book about the slave trade in Colonial America, a student raised her hand to share a thought:
Kid: “Miss Emily, I have an inference about the slave trade. I bet they paid more money for the younger slaves, because they’d live longer. Of course, slavery is wrong and horrible, but I’m just putting myself in that time period, before they understood how horrible it was, and I’m picturing how the slave owners would think. They’d probably want to get the most for their money. And if they knew they could have the slave for more time, I bet they would pay more money.”
I looked at her, impressed by her thoughtful and analytical inference.
“So, like, you know,” she added, “It’s the same idea as when you buy a guinea pig.”
Right. There it is. You’re 9.
Dear Kids,
Sorry for the numerous assaults on your innocence today. The very challenging math test in the morning should have been enough for one day. Instead, we then did a half-hour vocabulary lesson with the words “mourn,” “mourning,” and “mourners.” I think you get it now– everyone dies. And it’s fucking sad.
Oh– but then, just for good measure, we read you the next chapter in our book– a very descriptive passage about the conditions of the African salve ships en route to Colonial America. We probably could have stopped at the part about the white men tossing children’s bodies overboard to the sharks, but we thought it would be better to then drive home the point by focusing, in great detail, on the foul odors, blood, vomit, and feces that permeated the ships.
Knowing this was coming, I wanted to hand each of you a Prozac when you walked in the door this morning, but my co-teacher said that was inappropriate. So I swallowed them all instead.
Enjoy your weekend visit to the ice cream store and petting zoo, and sorry again for crushing your innocence!
xoxo,
Miss Emily
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