When I Grow Up

My friend Lindsay, another American who worked in an elementary school in Sevilla a few years back, once told me the story of a teacher who used to berate kids for getting things wrong, getting behind in work and getting in trouble. When they learned professions, the children piped up with chants of, “I’m going to be a doctor!” or, “I’m going to be a politician!”, and were immediately told that they weren’t bright enough to do anything worthwhile.

From an American perspective, this seems to be the 180º of what our parents told us when we dreamed of being astronauts or the US President. I wanted to be a ballet teacher in kindergarten (without ever having taken a class), then a vet (have bad allergies) and finally settled on wanting to be a journalist. I spent half of my life training to write and speak well, only to teach little enanos colors and numbers in English. But being a kid and having a world of possibilities is quite a beautiful thing.

In the school I work in, bad work is erased until it gets done correctly. The kids who color out of the lines or write a number backwards are made to miss recess to do extra work, rather than running or playing as children ought to. In Miss Cat’s class, I’m happy to say, “Great job, Alba!” or, “What a cool monster, Tano!” to every kid, no matter how poor their work may be, simply because being proud of your work is a great confidence booster for a kid. They all want my attention around the clock, so the smiley face drawn on the hand or a sticker goes a long way.

I’ve tried constantly, especailly in my high school years, to teach values to my students. The high schoolers I taught for three years always gave me the, “Yeah, you’re a teacher, you don’t count” attitude, and that’s the greatest part about teaching the babies. Today, the four year olds went on a little field trip around the neighborhood to review what they’re learning in conocimiento del mundo, a subject about the world around them. The teacher put the kids into pairs and we passed shops and pharmacies and people on the street. The kids eagerly repeated everything I said in English, but more importantly, any storefront we passed, they each said, “I’m going to work here when I grow up, Miss Cat!” From hospitals to carpentry work, it seems that my students will in twenty years be carrying on as workers.

Since I had the back half of the group, I could say quietly in Spanish, you can do anything you want in life. Except eat candy all day long.

Little White Lies

Remember when Rosie O’Donnell wrote that book about how kids say really funny shit? I should be writing a book these days about the lies I tell my kids.

For instance, I have this little kitty puppet named Cookie. Really, she’s pretty awesome and the kids LOVE her. They behave if Cookie goes back into Miss Cat’s schoolbag or if I tell them Cookie is sad because the niose is hurting her little kitty ears. One girl asked why she couldn’t go out and play at recess, and I said it was because she liked to practice yoga during that time. The girl just said, “Oh, ok then,” and continued splashing around in the puddles.

Or when little Alejandra, one of my three-year-olds asked who had caused me a “pupa” or booboo on my face. It’s a zit, but I told her a mosquito bit me in the middle of class and I hadn’t put afterbite on yet. Again, “oh, ok,” and flitting away.

As I walked back to my office, I passed by a class of three-year-olds. Two were crying because the other had bit them. The teacher, Seño Carmen, said, “Little girls and boys who bite others will lose all their teeth! They just fall out of your mouth! And they never grow back!” I wanted to add my two cents, so the little lie turned into a big story that probably sent kids home telling their mamás and abus that their English teacher said that her grandpa never ate his snack at school and began to get so hungry, he would start biting other children. Pretty soon, he had no teeth and can only eat flan, pudding and mashed potatoes.

These kids will believe anything. It’s actually quite amusing.

The Rollercoaster that is Infantíl

My job could be a lot worse. I mean, I spent hours each day singing, playing with puppets and categorizing flashcards. When it’s all said and done, I’ve had fun and got pummeled with hugs, snotty kisses, and usually end up with plasticine somewhere on my clothes. The best piece of advice when starting all this was from Almudena: Throw out your high heels.

Yesterday, after a moderately successful day teaching “Where is Enadina? There she is!” and singing with Ralphie Rabbit, I was finally invited to have lunch with the other infantil teachers. Most are 32 and under, the youngest being Ana and then me. I took it as a big compliment that half the department asked if I’d be coming. We had día de los Papis immediately after, when all the parents come with their crying children to hear us speak about the cirriculum and, really, lay down the law. When María, the school’s director, presented me, saying that our enchantment with one another has been mutual. Phew. Still employed.
I have to say, it is not easy being new in a job. This is worsened when you have kinda no idea what you’re doing and it shows. Add that to the fact the girl who had your job before was amazing at what she did. Everyone from the parents to their kids to the Oxford University Press rep has been calling me Lisa, and when corrected, asks why she is no longer at the school. Bearing, Cat. It will all be ok.
But today, my THREE year olds were the best behaved. One kid threw dirt in another’s eye in 4 years (the dirt came from his pocket), another cried because I sent him to another class after he drew all over the table, and the 5 year olds could not be tamed. Even with another teacher coming in and yelling, they couldn’t follow one direction. And they all have to pee all the time! The second one asks to go, they all do, and they all run at a time into the teeny bathroom.

Preschoolers.

The Difference Between Niños and Niñas

Yesterday, relieved that both Santiago and Nuria were sick, I took the three little ones to the kitchen for a lesson in likes and dislikes. I let little Ramoncito, who is four, color a picture of Santa and a Christmas tree while the older two, Clara and Paloma were given two magazines each to cut out and paste three things they like and three things they dislike.

The girls chose things like babies, purses and chocolate to add to the “likes” column. Ramon sat at the end of the table farting.

They learn these gender roles so early in life, don’t they?

Estar de limbo: Getting Sick in Spain

No, I’m not bending over backwards, but I’m pretty sure that would be more pleasant than the tos seco, dry cough, I’ve caught. Just like my computer crashing before finals week, my health is deteriorating just before my parents come and the marathon that will be the next month begins. I’ve got lots of things to blame – my hectic schedule, my lack of exercise, my poor health habits, all the germy kids I teach, a house with no insulation and no central heating. But the fact of the matter is, I’m sick as a dog, up all night coughing and miserable, with no end in sight. I’ve had a cold for about two weeks now, and the horrible coughing started last Thursday. My body tricked me into thinking I was all better, but I realized I was mistaken on Monday morning when I could barely speak.

My Tuesday lessons were a little shaky since I was feeling dizzy and hacking up a lung, but I struggled through work at school, then work at We Love Spain. I arrived home and said goodbye to Eva. Senna, the adorable British girl who now lives with us, installed herself (damn you, Spanish!) just an hour later, not giving me much time to think about Eva leaving. I waited and waited for Franco, my intercambio, to call so we could meet up, but he instead went to the gym. Kike came over to plan our trip, but we opted for pizza and Shrek 2. I then realized just how shitty I felt. I spent the whole night keeping my roommates up with my cough, which I’d assume is like smoker’s cough, and the next day looked absolutely dead at my lessons. My poor 3esoG…Anytime I opened my mouth, it was to cough. My wonderful director, Nieves, insisted I went to the health clinic, and she drove me there during my last class period. As it turns out, I have an inflamed throat and a bad cold, so she prescribed me some drugs. I have this weird liquid stuff that smells better than it tastes called jarabe. I have a little shot glass, and I need to put back 10mL every six hours. I also have this soluble powder stuff that tastes AWFUL, too. I can only take this when I eat. I haven’t got much of an appetite, though. I usually line up the shot glass, the soluble stuff in a little glass with as little water as possible and a bottle of water. I shoot the jarabe, gulp down the Algidol and chug my water. Then, I generally take an excedrin to help with the body ache. It’s awful.

I hardly ever get sick in the US, and when I do, I’m not going at 100 miles a minute, so I can recover. I’m not at school right now so I can get better before my parents come this weekend. On Sunday, they’ll arrive about 21:30 into Granada, then we’re traveling around Andalusia and Morocco. They day they leave, Kike and I are flying to Scotland (pretty awesome Christmas present, I’d say). We get back the 8th, then Nance comes on the 10th and Brian and Matt will be here sometime then, too. I’ve got to gather up all the strength I’ve got to make it through the next four weeks and be a good host and traveling companion. Now back to bed all bundled up!

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