So, in honor of my new job (um, that I’ve had for three months) here is a post about that. I wrote it in Italian because a.) I’m bored and b.) that way no one can read my snarky and mean thoughts about my coworkers (whom I mostly love, but… you’ll see). Whoever has better Italian than me (so, most people, except hopefully anyone who might actually know my esteemed colleagues), do feel free to get all snarky in return and tell me how much my grammar/spelling/Italian-in-general sucks. I probably won’t get offended.
Oh, and also, I changed everyone’s names because it would be creepy if your daycare provider was all talking about your kid on the internet, right? I figure the names are different and it’s in a whole other language, so I’m good. So…
“Quindi, per oggi ti mettiamo con i bimbi da un anno a diciotto mesi. E’ una giornata piuttosto calma qua – sono solo in sette oggi.”
Entro con un gran sorriso e li guardo. Ce ne sono tre che urlano. Mamma mia.
Mezz’ora più tardi, li abbiamo dato da mangiare, sono coperta in tracce di purée di verdura e qualcosa che mi sembra banana (ma non ne sono completamente sicura), e ho già dimentacato i nomi di almeno due dei bimbi.
“Mi passi il biberon di Luca?” mi domanda l’altra ragazza.
Cavoli, ma qual’è, Luca? Doveva proprio sciegliere uno di quelli il cui nome ho dimenticato. Esito e la ragazza ci getta lo sguardo.
“Quello lì con la camicia azzurra che si sta arrampicando per salire sul tavolo. A proposito, me lo rimetti giù sulla sedia, per favore?” mi dice con calma assoluta. Vedendo il bimbo in piedi sulla sedia, il mio cuore si ferma un attimo prima di ripartire. Lo prendo, lo rimetto giù, e pesco il biberon da dov’è caduto sotto il tavolo in un lago di latte. (Spill-proof, my a**.)
“Fammi vedere quanto ne ha bevuto?” mi chiede la terza ragazza, piccola con i capelli sciolti e di un biondo sicuramente finto. Ha passato l’intero pasto descrivendo i problemi che ha con la sua manicure e comincio a sentirmi un pochino suicida. Le passo il biberon, vedendo che ci sono ancora una decina di millilitri. Non ne avrà bevuto molto. (Ogni giorno si deve scrivere quanto ha mangiato ogni bimbo per poi dirlo ai genitori.)
“Nove,” fa la ragazza. Alzo le sopraciglie.
“Davvero?” chiedo.
“Si, guarda – il latte sta lì, al nove,” e mi mostra la linea dove arriva il latte. Se potessi, alzarei ancora più alto le sopraciglie.
Ci metto dieci minuti a spiegarle che il latte che arriva al nove è ancora nel biberon, e quindi non nel stomaco del bimbo. Poi altri cinque minuti per aiutarla a fare la sostrazione (quindici meno nove). E dovrò stare otto ore al giorno con lei? Ecco, è deciso: mi voglio tagliare le vene col coltello di plastica che abbiamo usato per preparare i pezzi di carota (che sono finiti sulle ginocchie dei miei pantaloni).
Un’ora più tardi, abbiamo pulito tutto (e ce n’era da pulire, credetemi), incluso i bimbi (che guerra per pulirgli la faccia!), e sono tutti sdraiati sui materassini per dormire. Sono carinissimi, tutti addormentati, stringendo i loro animaletti di peluche, ricoperti da copertine con disegni di conigli e nuvole e chissà che altra roba. Tranne uno, un bimbo bellissimo con gli occhi scuri e le ciglia lunghissime a cui non interessa dormire per niente.
“Senti, io vado a pranzare – fallo dormire, il piccolo, e poi quando torno, ci vai tu, d’accordo?” mi fa l’altra ragazza (la bionda è sparita dopo pranzo e non mi dispiace).
“Si, certo,” dico con un tono poco certo.
“Ti aiuto, guarda,” mi dice, e solleva il bimbo per farlo sdraiare sul suo materassino, dove c’è già un cagnolino di peluche con le orecchie blu.
“Si, si, grazie,” dico. La guardo partire e poi guardo il bimbo. Lui mi sta già guardando, con gli occhi grandi apperti. Gli sorrido gentilmente.
“E adesso dormiamo un po’, no? Andiamo a nanna!”
Cinque minuti più tardi...
“Dai, forza, chiudi gli occhi...” gli passo la mano sulle spalle ancora una volta, ma non mi ricordo neanche del suo nome per supplicarlo di chiudere gli occhi. Ma come ***** si fa a fargli addormentarsi, ‘sti bimbi? L’unica cosa che mi viene in mente è di tenergli chiusi gli occhi con le dita ma secondo me non è proprio consiglatio... Gli passo la mano ancora una volta sulle spalle, accelerando il ritmo disperatamente. Comincio a sudare un po’.
“Si chiama Alessandro.” Di colpo, sento una voce che mi parla dall’altra parte del muro basso che divide questa classe da quella dei bimbi ancora più piccoli. È la loro maestra; l’ho conosciuta in fretta stamattina. “E si addormenta se gli carezzi il viso.” Ah. Già.
La ringrazio con entusiasmo e comincio ad accarezzargli la fronte. Il piccolo comincia a respirare più lentamente e due minuti più tardi dorme. In fondo in fondo, è anche carino...
“E quindi prima di venire qua vivevi in Italia?” mi domanda una delle altre maestre qualche ora più tardi, quando ci incontriamo con le altri classi nel parco. Annuisco.
“E dove in Italia?” Sto pensando se spiegargli in quale regione o se dire direttamente “il nord” per accorciare un po’ la discussione quando la ragazza parla di nuove e interrompe il mio pensiero.
“L’Italia è quel paese dove gli uomini portano le gonne, giusto?”
Ci metto un attimino a seguire il filo dei suoi pensieri per arrivarne lì. Intanto, gli risponde qualcun’altro.
“No, quello è l’Irlanda.” Non alzare le sopraciglie. Non alzare le sopraciglie! mi ripetto silenziosamente qualche volta. Devi fare amicizia con queste ragazze!
“No, secondo me, è la Scozia, no? Dove gli uomini portano le kilts?” suggerisco finalmente. Le ragazze ci pensano un attimo.
“Ah, si, può darsi...”
“È vero!” esclama una terza, “No, ragazze, l’Italia è il paese con la pizza, no? Tipo Domino’s!”* Mi guardano tutte, aspettando conferma.
“Eh... si. Più o meno.”
“Avrai mangiato della pizza buonissima lì, no?” Mi chiede la prima mentre aggiusta il capello di uno dei bimbi. Annuisco di nuovo.
“Non potresti neanche immaginare...” dico quasi sottovoce, ripensandoci. Quella pizzeria all’angolo dietro quella strada con i portici... la rucola (a proposito, perchè non si trova per niente in America, la rucola?)... sigh. Ma che ***** faccio qua, con purée dappertutto e bimbi che urlano? Due mesi fa mi mettevo i tacchi e le gonne per insegnare nelle ditte!
Intanto è già ora di tornare nell’aula per la merenda (così diversa dalla merenda dei bimbi Italiani – niente gnocco qua!). Comincio a raccogliere i nostri piccolini e dirigerli verso la porta. Sto sudando di nuovo. Cavoli, ma chi lo sapeva che ci si voleva tanto sforzo per lavorare coi bimbi?
Di colpo, si sente il rumore del tagliaerba e uno dei bimbi della mia classe si attacca alle mie gambe, urlando. Lo prendo in braccio; “ma non e’ niente, guarda,” gli dico, mostrandogli il tagliaerba col dito. Lui si afferra al mio collo e si pianta la faccia nella mia spalla. Mi scappa un piccolo sorriso e lo stringo un po’ anch’io. La sua dipendenza totale su di noi è anche un po’ commovente, alla fine, e decido che forse si può essere contenti in qualsiasi posto... anche senza rucola.
*Una catena di pizzerie decisamente mediocre nel stilo Americano.
Sunday, November 29
Saturday, November 28
I can't think of a title
I'm back! (From nowhere in particular.) Interestingly (or not so) I have almost nothing interesting to report, despite a month-long absence. High points of excitement in my life the past month include:
1. The school Halloween parade. This consisted of my esteemed colleagues and I manhandling twelve toddlers into awkward costumes, cooing over them, taking pictures of them screaming and/or merely pouting miserably (the costumes, you see), and then hauling them outside for a few circuits around the parking lot. Mine were all too young and disturbed by the proceedings to walk, so we carried them, and it turns out they're heavier than you'd think. Except one brave soul, aptly dressed as superman, who did want to walk. Specifically, he wanted to walk into oncoming traffic. Fun. (For the record, I did not let him. Yes. I am a good daycare employee.)
2. Dealing with various ills that befall children between the ages of 12 and 18 months: rashes, innumerable bumps on heads, bee stings, choking (not fun for anyone), and fevers that soar up above 104 degrees. The effect of said fevers is, oddly enough, different on everyone. My heart kind of ceases to beat while the thermometer beeps its way up past 103 and 104, and the children merely wiggle a little and glare at me reproachfully. Strange. I have a feeling being a parent is a worrisome sort of job.
3. The school's Thanksgiving Feast. Hilarity all around. You know why? Do you have acces to a toddler? If so, give him/her a pile of stuffing, some shredded corn bread (to prevent choking, see), a clump of mashed potatoes, and no utensils (because they don't know how to use them) and see what happens. Yes. I'll leave it to your imagination. But it was just as unfortunate as you'd think, and then some.
4. One solitary medical school interview. It transpired my interviewer went to the same undergrad institution as I did, and knew some of the same people in the linguistics department. We chatted amiably about linguistics. She probably ended up thinking I'd be better suited to a career in linguistics than medicine. She may have a point. In other news... public service announcement: medical schools, here's the deal: either interview me or reject me. I'm not even especially picky about which at this point. But I'm getting bored with sitting here waiting for you to make a decision. The end.
5. The leaves all fell off the trees. That was kind of depressing. Today it is sunny though windy, so that's kind of okay, but I strongly dislike the gray parts of the winter. Sigh.
6. I attended a yoga class. This was funny because at the end the instructor must have felt that she should flatter the new girl to make her come back, because she was all "well, you must exercise a lot, right? Take really good care of your body? Because it shows." And I was all, "um... well, I generally shower standing up... and that's about it." I didn't say that, though. Probably no need to discuss showering habits with random strangers, Slavic-accented yoga people or otherwise.
7. I watched a movie in Italian ("Il Giardino dei Finzi-Contini") and felt cultured as a result. Also I understood it all. Which is actually not very impressive because I've already read the book. But whatever. Culturedness. It is good.
Yeah, I think that might be about it. How pedestrian. But sometimes that's okay. In a relaxing, brain half-asleep kind of way. A good weekend to all.
1. The school Halloween parade. This consisted of my esteemed colleagues and I manhandling twelve toddlers into awkward costumes, cooing over them, taking pictures of them screaming and/or merely pouting miserably (the costumes, you see), and then hauling them outside for a few circuits around the parking lot. Mine were all too young and disturbed by the proceedings to walk, so we carried them, and it turns out they're heavier than you'd think. Except one brave soul, aptly dressed as superman, who did want to walk. Specifically, he wanted to walk into oncoming traffic. Fun. (For the record, I did not let him. Yes. I am a good daycare employee.)
2. Dealing with various ills that befall children between the ages of 12 and 18 months: rashes, innumerable bumps on heads, bee stings, choking (not fun for anyone), and fevers that soar up above 104 degrees. The effect of said fevers is, oddly enough, different on everyone. My heart kind of ceases to beat while the thermometer beeps its way up past 103 and 104, and the children merely wiggle a little and glare at me reproachfully. Strange. I have a feeling being a parent is a worrisome sort of job.
3. The school's Thanksgiving Feast. Hilarity all around. You know why? Do you have acces to a toddler? If so, give him/her a pile of stuffing, some shredded corn bread (to prevent choking, see), a clump of mashed potatoes, and no utensils (because they don't know how to use them) and see what happens. Yes. I'll leave it to your imagination. But it was just as unfortunate as you'd think, and then some.
4. One solitary medical school interview. It transpired my interviewer went to the same undergrad institution as I did, and knew some of the same people in the linguistics department. We chatted amiably about linguistics. She probably ended up thinking I'd be better suited to a career in linguistics than medicine. She may have a point. In other news... public service announcement: medical schools, here's the deal: either interview me or reject me. I'm not even especially picky about which at this point. But I'm getting bored with sitting here waiting for you to make a decision. The end.
5. The leaves all fell off the trees. That was kind of depressing. Today it is sunny though windy, so that's kind of okay, but I strongly dislike the gray parts of the winter. Sigh.
6. I attended a yoga class. This was funny because at the end the instructor must have felt that she should flatter the new girl to make her come back, because she was all "well, you must exercise a lot, right? Take really good care of your body? Because it shows." And I was all, "um... well, I generally shower standing up... and that's about it." I didn't say that, though. Probably no need to discuss showering habits with random strangers, Slavic-accented yoga people or otherwise.
7. I watched a movie in Italian ("Il Giardino dei Finzi-Contini") and felt cultured as a result. Also I understood it all. Which is actually not very impressive because I've already read the book. But whatever. Culturedness. It is good.
Yeah, I think that might be about it. How pedestrian. But sometimes that's okay. In a relaxing, brain half-asleep kind of way. A good weekend to all.
Monday, October 26
Remembering
So... I suck at blogging when I'm busy. So instead of an entry (post? whatever.) I'm going to mash up a bunch of things together so that it makes even less sense than usual. Good plan? Yes? No? Well, no one's being forced to read it, so whatever. I am grouchy because it is Sunday night and I have to get up not at but *before* the crack of dawn tomorrow and also because the world of medical education is irritating and I've just about had it with that.
Anyway. Watching the dates go by on the calendar brings back memories of this time last year (actually, more like a month ago last year, but let's not be picky). I was lazy and didn't record them at the time, so I figure I might as well write down the few bits and pieces that come back.
Walking up the Via Emilia for the first time, in the company of the other young new teacher, and the surge of feeling: eeeeeeee, I'm really in Italy. To live.
That first little supermarket on via Melato, where there were mostly fruits and vegetables and they were all so beautiful and fresh-looking. Not to mention ridiculously cheap, compared to, say, Paris. We bought tomatoes and mozzarella and bread and made sandwiches in the temporary apartment we were sharing. Buying San Benedetto water in packs of 6 and learning that the pink caps are naturale and the dark blue ones are frizzante. (Also true of the fior di spesa water that they sell in Standa. Or now it's Billa or something. The one under Oviesse, anyway.)
Drinks in piazza Fontanesi with the boss and the supervisor and the aforementioned other young new teacher, and me being all omg omg I'm socializing with people from work! Like a grown-up! In a piazza! In Italy! (Excitable much, younger Self?)
Looking for an apartment. That very first one where I stood all jet-lagged on the stairs and listened to my boss and the landlady blathering on about 'spese condominiali', wondering through the haze what that meant and why they had taught us all about Dante's effects on the vulgarization of Italian but not what 'le spese' are or what a SIM card is. The second one, where the other new teacher and I took turns calling the landlady for directions because she was a fiery Napoletana and neither of us could understand her.
The Apartment of No Hot Water and... yeah, never mind. That whole experience is best left in the past.
Signing up for library cards for la Panizzi, and having to explain that we weren't residents of Reggio; yes, we spoke English but no, we weren't both English because one of us is American; yes, we had an address, but both of us would be moving soon; no, not to the same address... and so on. The girl there was very nice and it was a whole adventure and we emerged with library cards, proud of our ability to conduct daily life business in Italian and reassured that there was a small stock of English-language books should we ever feel irrepressibly homesick.
That very first student, a woman who was moving to America to do a Master's degree and needed to use up her last two hours of lessons. "Just talk to her," they told me, "it'll be good for her to hear an American accent." Yes, well, you'd think, but actually it's not so easy. Particularly because she didn't seem to remember the name of the city she was meant to go to, or even what the university was called. This did not seem to unnerve her - in fact, I think I was more worried than she was. Actually, it's been a year now. I kind of wonder how things went...
The second student, a gregarious business guy who promptly treated me to a lecture on why Audis are the best cars. I only understood about 10% of what he was saying, and I never really was sure whether this was due to my lack of knowledge about cars or to the quality of his spoken English. In any case, he was very personable and at the end he informed me: "you are good teacher. I learn 12 new words today." Me: "oh, um, good..."
Walking all the way to Petali from the center in search of sheets (actually, I think I already wrote an entry about this) and getting sidetracked by clothes in Zara. (We will be fashionable! Classy! Italian-looking! cried the young English teachers*).
Meeting the gaggle of cousins + their friends + acquaintances of this one teacher who had family in Reggio. Enjoying the heady swirl of Reggiana dialect and Italian and aperol spritz and animated discussion about where to go for aperitivo.
Going to a movie in Italian (Vicky Cristina Barcelona) and being so happy that I could understand most of it. Being disoriented by the fact that they sometimes switched to Spanish and the difference didn't always register in my head. Also, we had just taught some slang to one of my colleagues who showed up in Reggio not knowing a word of Italian. At the end of the movie: "che c****...?" said he. We laughed a lot.
The Palio dei formaggi. You have heard of the Palio in Siena, yes? It involves horses running around in a big piazza or some such? Yeah, that's pretty much all I remembered about it at the time, too, so I was all 'wait, how could you possibly incorporate cheese into that?' Oh, but they managed. There were men jogging around the piazza del duomo with 5kg wheels of cheese on their backs. I felt like I'd been dropped into a scene from that "Tuscan sun" movie with Diane Lane. Yes, yes, I thought. Moving to Italy was indeed a good plan. Where else would I get to see a palio of cheese?
*You know what's interesting about that sentence? When you (or I, rather) write "English teachers" you can't really tell whether they are generic teachers who hail from England, or teachers of English of undefined nationality. And I can't figure out a way to make the distinction clear. Grammar, you have failed me.
Aaaand with that, back to life in America. I found a place that sells gelato. It wasn't half bad, except that even if you ask for a small they give you a tub, like the size that would cost about 4euro in Italy. I miss the little coppetta da 1,50.
Anyway. Watching the dates go by on the calendar brings back memories of this time last year (actually, more like a month ago last year, but let's not be picky). I was lazy and didn't record them at the time, so I figure I might as well write down the few bits and pieces that come back.
Walking up the Via Emilia for the first time, in the company of the other young new teacher, and the surge of feeling: eeeeeeee, I'm really in Italy. To live.
That first little supermarket on via Melato, where there were mostly fruits and vegetables and they were all so beautiful and fresh-looking. Not to mention ridiculously cheap, compared to, say, Paris. We bought tomatoes and mozzarella and bread and made sandwiches in the temporary apartment we were sharing. Buying San Benedetto water in packs of 6 and learning that the pink caps are naturale and the dark blue ones are frizzante. (Also true of the fior di spesa water that they sell in Standa. Or now it's Billa or something. The one under Oviesse, anyway.)
Drinks in piazza Fontanesi with the boss and the supervisor and the aforementioned other young new teacher, and me being all omg omg I'm socializing with people from work! Like a grown-up! In a piazza! In Italy! (Excitable much, younger Self?)
Looking for an apartment. That very first one where I stood all jet-lagged on the stairs and listened to my boss and the landlady blathering on about 'spese condominiali', wondering through the haze what that meant and why they had taught us all about Dante's effects on the vulgarization of Italian but not what 'le spese' are or what a SIM card is. The second one, where the other new teacher and I took turns calling the landlady for directions because she was a fiery Napoletana and neither of us could understand her.
The Apartment of No Hot Water and... yeah, never mind. That whole experience is best left in the past.
Signing up for library cards for la Panizzi, and having to explain that we weren't residents of Reggio; yes, we spoke English but no, we weren't both English because one of us is American; yes, we had an address, but both of us would be moving soon; no, not to the same address... and so on. The girl there was very nice and it was a whole adventure and we emerged with library cards, proud of our ability to conduct daily life business in Italian and reassured that there was a small stock of English-language books should we ever feel irrepressibly homesick.
That very first student, a woman who was moving to America to do a Master's degree and needed to use up her last two hours of lessons. "Just talk to her," they told me, "it'll be good for her to hear an American accent." Yes, well, you'd think, but actually it's not so easy. Particularly because she didn't seem to remember the name of the city she was meant to go to, or even what the university was called. This did not seem to unnerve her - in fact, I think I was more worried than she was. Actually, it's been a year now. I kind of wonder how things went...
The second student, a gregarious business guy who promptly treated me to a lecture on why Audis are the best cars. I only understood about 10% of what he was saying, and I never really was sure whether this was due to my lack of knowledge about cars or to the quality of his spoken English. In any case, he was very personable and at the end he informed me: "you are good teacher. I learn 12 new words today." Me: "oh, um, good..."
Walking all the way to Petali from the center in search of sheets (actually, I think I already wrote an entry about this) and getting sidetracked by clothes in Zara. (We will be fashionable! Classy! Italian-looking! cried the young English teachers*).
Meeting the gaggle of cousins + their friends + acquaintances of this one teacher who had family in Reggio. Enjoying the heady swirl of Reggiana dialect and Italian and aperol spritz and animated discussion about where to go for aperitivo.
Going to a movie in Italian (Vicky Cristina Barcelona) and being so happy that I could understand most of it. Being disoriented by the fact that they sometimes switched to Spanish and the difference didn't always register in my head. Also, we had just taught some slang to one of my colleagues who showed up in Reggio not knowing a word of Italian. At the end of the movie: "che c****...?" said he. We laughed a lot.
The Palio dei formaggi. You have heard of the Palio in Siena, yes? It involves horses running around in a big piazza or some such? Yeah, that's pretty much all I remembered about it at the time, too, so I was all 'wait, how could you possibly incorporate cheese into that?' Oh, but they managed. There were men jogging around the piazza del duomo with 5kg wheels of cheese on their backs. I felt like I'd been dropped into a scene from that "Tuscan sun" movie with Diane Lane. Yes, yes, I thought. Moving to Italy was indeed a good plan. Where else would I get to see a palio of cheese?
*You know what's interesting about that sentence? When you (or I, rather) write "English teachers" you can't really tell whether they are generic teachers who hail from England, or teachers of English of undefined nationality. And I can't figure out a way to make the distinction clear. Grammar, you have failed me.
Aaaand with that, back to life in America. I found a place that sells gelato. It wasn't half bad, except that even if you ask for a small they give you a tub, like the size that would cost about 4euro in Italy. I miss the little coppetta da 1,50.
Monday, October 12
Nothing much
Very productive today. Answered all of the emails that had been hanging out in my inbox, some of them since... um... mid-September. (Oops. I am a godawful email correspondent. I should just slap that onto the bottom of all my emails as a sort of disclaimer/pre-emptive apology. Anyway. Apologies all around.)
Now I am off to do my laundry and create Strategic Food Reserves for the week. This involves a lot of tupperware and significant quantities of my horrible cooking all at once, so steer clear of the kitchen, people.
Then I will be ready to start another week. Oh, my life. It is just so fascinating. Most of last week was taken up combatting the Diaper Rash of Death on one of my wee ones; who knows what this week could hold? Here's hoping something less labor-intensive because the whole diaper rash thing involved a lot of time spent wrestling this kid every time I wanted to change his diaper, and somehow... I frequently came close to losing? To a 12-month-old? Hm. Awkward, that. (For those who don't know what diaper rash is and, for whatever reason, can't figure it out for yourselves... um... inform yourselves before you procreate.)
On a tangentially related note, did you know there's such a thing as a product called "Butt Paste"? I kid you not. It is for the purpose of preventing diaper rash. Aptly named, I suppose. Can't get much more direct than that.
In other news, I am still learning German, by way of mildly irritating CDs that I play during my highly irritating commute (I'm very easily irritated), and can now introduce myself, say I'm from Dresden, count to eleven, and say I'm a lawyer. Not particularly useful, since I don't anticipate ever having to say I'm a lawyer, in any context, but whatever.
Yesterday I went to the library to get books for my bimbi and asked the children's librarian how to go about finding books on a specific topic, because it has been a long time since I looked for anything in the picture book section. In fact, I don't think this library had even been built yet, the last time I needed a picture book. "Well, what grade are you in?" she asked me, looking at me slightly askance. I am not sure how to take this. Well, because it means I look younger? Or not well because maybe I look my age but just sort of illiterate? I reigned in my narcissism, though, and did not run around the library screaming that I had a Bachelor's degree and was only teaching preschool temporarily, thank you very much.
That would be rude, unnecessary, and also innappropriate, because, having taught preschool for a full month now, I have come to realize that it is an extremely important profession and that we should somehow recruit smarter people to do it, asap. I will also now know what to look for when I have my own kids. Actually, you know where the best preschools I have ever seen are? In Reggio. Perhaps I shall just lend my kids to someone there for the duration of their pre-primary education. Or maybe we can import the Reggio approach to wherever I am living then. Or maybe I will move back to Reggio with my brats, and we'll all eat a lot of gnocco and get fat. Yes. We will bring obesity to Italy. Excellent.
Aaaanyway, I am making very little sense, per usual. And, you may have noticed, I actually have very little of import to say. This is because I now live in suburbia and spend my weeks applying goo and baby powder to small behinds and my weekends planted in a chair, reading trash from the library. (Actually, this week I'm reading a book called... hang on... "Quicksilver". By some guy. Either Neal Stephenson or Stephen Nealson. Anyway, though, if it's trash, it's quite pleasantly-written trash. And maybe it's not even trash. Who knows?) Anyway. The point is that I have pretty much nothing to say, but felt that updating ye olde blog was the last thing to do on my keeping-up-with-correspondence list, and so... now I can go do something else, guilt-free.
A good week to all.
Good lord, I'm boring even myself to death.
Now I am off to do my laundry and create Strategic Food Reserves for the week. This involves a lot of tupperware and significant quantities of my horrible cooking all at once, so steer clear of the kitchen, people.
Then I will be ready to start another week. Oh, my life. It is just so fascinating. Most of last week was taken up combatting the Diaper Rash of Death on one of my wee ones; who knows what this week could hold? Here's hoping something less labor-intensive because the whole diaper rash thing involved a lot of time spent wrestling this kid every time I wanted to change his diaper, and somehow... I frequently came close to losing? To a 12-month-old? Hm. Awkward, that. (For those who don't know what diaper rash is and, for whatever reason, can't figure it out for yourselves... um... inform yourselves before you procreate.)
On a tangentially related note, did you know there's such a thing as a product called "Butt Paste"? I kid you not. It is for the purpose of preventing diaper rash. Aptly named, I suppose. Can't get much more direct than that.
In other news, I am still learning German, by way of mildly irritating CDs that I play during my highly irritating commute (I'm very easily irritated), and can now introduce myself, say I'm from Dresden, count to eleven, and say I'm a lawyer. Not particularly useful, since I don't anticipate ever having to say I'm a lawyer, in any context, but whatever.
Yesterday I went to the library to get books for my bimbi and asked the children's librarian how to go about finding books on a specific topic, because it has been a long time since I looked for anything in the picture book section. In fact, I don't think this library had even been built yet, the last time I needed a picture book. "Well, what grade are you in?" she asked me, looking at me slightly askance. I am not sure how to take this. Well, because it means I look younger? Or not well because maybe I look my age but just sort of illiterate? I reigned in my narcissism, though, and did not run around the library screaming that I had a Bachelor's degree and was only teaching preschool temporarily, thank you very much.
That would be rude, unnecessary, and also innappropriate, because, having taught preschool for a full month now, I have come to realize that it is an extremely important profession and that we should somehow recruit smarter people to do it, asap. I will also now know what to look for when I have my own kids. Actually, you know where the best preschools I have ever seen are? In Reggio. Perhaps I shall just lend my kids to someone there for the duration of their pre-primary education. Or maybe we can import the Reggio approach to wherever I am living then. Or maybe I will move back to Reggio with my brats, and we'll all eat a lot of gnocco and get fat. Yes. We will bring obesity to Italy. Excellent.
Aaaanyway, I am making very little sense, per usual. And, you may have noticed, I actually have very little of import to say. This is because I now live in suburbia and spend my weeks applying goo and baby powder to small behinds and my weekends planted in a chair, reading trash from the library. (Actually, this week I'm reading a book called... hang on... "Quicksilver". By some guy. Either Neal Stephenson or Stephen Nealson. Anyway, though, if it's trash, it's quite pleasantly-written trash. And maybe it's not even trash. Who knows?) Anyway. The point is that I have pretty much nothing to say, but felt that updating ye olde blog was the last thing to do on my keeping-up-with-correspondence list, and so... now I can go do something else, guilt-free.
A good week to all.
Good lord, I'm boring even myself to death.
Tuesday, September 29
Mundane...
Work. Well, I have a song about a friendly pirate ship rocking on the sea (rocking on the sea, rocking on the sea) stuck in my head. I have now taught peek-a-boo to five or six kids in my class, who all seem to find it just riveting. In fact, one gets so worked up that she routinely pokes herself in the eye. Cute, though. Also there is a kid who bites. I'm kind of afraid of him, which is odd, given that he is barely 12 months old and more or less comes up to my knee. Still - bloodthirsty babies. It is creepy.
But, yeah, all things considered, work is good.
Meanwhile, I have decided to teach myself German from a book that professes to allow you to teach yourself German. So far, it is a silly book and I do not appreciate its patronizing tone. I mean, think about it: what sorts of people are likely to want to teach themselves a language? Travel-y sorts of businesspeople, maybe, and nerds. In any case, of at least reasonable intelligence. I can't really think of a situation where the sort of person who doesn't know what a verb is would also be the sort of person who would elect to teach him- or herself a language.
Ergo, teach-yourself-German book, you are silly. Stop explaining to me what verbs are, because I already know. And enough with your little language learning tips. Obviously I should group vocabulary into theme-related lists. You know what else could work? You could just present them that way and then the little side box with the cartoon exclamation point would be unnecessary. The other issue I have is with the pronunciation. Would it have killed them to learn the phonetic alphabet prior to writing the book? I'm pretty sure that in the end, it would have required a lot less effort than thinking up descriptions like "purse your lips like you just ate a lemon, and then say a long 'eeee' sound but with your lips still pursed, kind of as if you actually wanted to say 'ooo', as in 'boo!'". Um, yeah. Whatever.
Nonetheless, I shall persevere because I think my brain is slipping slowly into a coma. Although... I'm pretty sure I remember saying the same thing about teaching English after having been in college. And now my job makes teaching English look positively fascinating. Sighhh. In some ways, it is nice to have free time and be able to spend long stretches of whole hours in a row just not thinking. In other ways, sometimes I think: if I have to dig some kid's half-eaten macaroni out of the sink drain while listening to people discuss nail salons for one more minute, I will break the "Wiggles" CD over someone's head (probably my own). Could be worse, though. Next thing you know I'll be working at a gas station, inhaling gas fumes, and then my brain will *really* be in a coma.
Fun fact: when we were in grade school, they used to threaten us with "you'll end up pumping gas when you grow up!" as in, "do your homework or...". But it transpires that in almost all of the other states that are not NJ, people pump their own gas anyway. I always kind of wondered... in other states, what do grade school teachers threaten kids with? My bet is McDonald's.
Anyway, on that note... bedtime.
But, yeah, all things considered, work is good.
Meanwhile, I have decided to teach myself German from a book that professes to allow you to teach yourself German. So far, it is a silly book and I do not appreciate its patronizing tone. I mean, think about it: what sorts of people are likely to want to teach themselves a language? Travel-y sorts of businesspeople, maybe, and nerds. In any case, of at least reasonable intelligence. I can't really think of a situation where the sort of person who doesn't know what a verb is would also be the sort of person who would elect to teach him- or herself a language.
Ergo, teach-yourself-German book, you are silly. Stop explaining to me what verbs are, because I already know. And enough with your little language learning tips. Obviously I should group vocabulary into theme-related lists. You know what else could work? You could just present them that way and then the little side box with the cartoon exclamation point would be unnecessary. The other issue I have is with the pronunciation. Would it have killed them to learn the phonetic alphabet prior to writing the book? I'm pretty sure that in the end, it would have required a lot less effort than thinking up descriptions like "purse your lips like you just ate a lemon, and then say a long 'eeee' sound but with your lips still pursed, kind of as if you actually wanted to say 'ooo', as in 'boo!'". Um, yeah. Whatever.
Nonetheless, I shall persevere because I think my brain is slipping slowly into a coma. Although... I'm pretty sure I remember saying the same thing about teaching English after having been in college. And now my job makes teaching English look positively fascinating. Sighhh. In some ways, it is nice to have free time and be able to spend long stretches of whole hours in a row just not thinking. In other ways, sometimes I think: if I have to dig some kid's half-eaten macaroni out of the sink drain while listening to people discuss nail salons for one more minute, I will break the "Wiggles" CD over someone's head (probably my own). Could be worse, though. Next thing you know I'll be working at a gas station, inhaling gas fumes, and then my brain will *really* be in a coma.
Fun fact: when we were in grade school, they used to threaten us with "you'll end up pumping gas when you grow up!" as in, "do your homework or...". But it transpires that in almost all of the other states that are not NJ, people pump their own gas anyway. I always kind of wondered... in other states, what do grade school teachers threaten kids with? My bet is McDonald's.
Anyway, on that note... bedtime.
Tuesday, September 15
The working world
I have recently taken a job at Kaplan as an MCAT teacher. Because working full time wasn't enough and I was bored? Because I so missed physics and orgo and all that nonsense that I could not keep myself away for another moment? Because I want to foster the development of other evil young pre-meds? Hm... boh. 'Tis a mystery.
(Okay, fine, actually, it's not. It's so that I can put "teaching MCAT prep" on the 'activities since graduation' part of med school applications. Yeah, we pre-meds are very utilitarian. And evil. Watch out. For one, we may be teaching your Kaplan course, and it's probably not because we care.)
In any case, now I'm in their training program which is six kinds of boring and involves marking up your Teacher's Book with four different colors of highlighter. I kid you not. Each color means something different but I probably can't tell you what because it is a Top Secret Kaplan Strategy and I signed my freedom of speech away on a pdf file. Anyway. The point is that I'm preparing for my next training session and I am bored, so instead of exchanging the pink highlighter for the orange one and soldiering on, I will resurrect the time-honored tradition of procrastination and share with you my impressions on the working world. (If anyone is reading beyond this point, that is kind of sad. Did you know they publish books to occupy your time? Books by people who write well and actually have something to say. I recommend looking some of those up. Unless you're procrastinating, too. In that case, by all means...)
Firstly, on commuting. I have a random piece of advice for you. If it ever comes up as a choice, like when you are buying a house or something, I would suggest living in a place that is east of where you will work - that way you will not have the sun in your eyes when you drive. My parents did not think of this and as I am back at home living with them, mammone-style, I enjoy the sun in my eyes both ways. Probably this will contribute to blindness and wrinkling. Yay.
In the same vein, route 78 east is interesting in the mornings. It is like bumper-to-bumper traffic, but moving at 70 miles per hour. When I was learning to drive (a process that spanned from age 16 to roughly age 22), this used to freak me out and I never went on it. Post-Italy, I'm all ho-hum, eating my toast while merging from the ramp (or whatever that bit of road is called). (Side note: why is it that I never manage to eat meals sitting down at a table like normal people?) Also, I really should record the story of driving in Italy at some point - it involved a whole new level of ineptitude on my part. Perhaps this weekend...
Speaking of which: on weekends... after four years of round-the-clock, every-day-of-the-week studying/work in college and one year of you-must-be-available-14-hours-a-day indentured servitude as a teacher, I think I have acquired a job that allows me to glimpse at what the lives of "normal" people must be like. Essentially, you go to work during the week and come back and are kind of tired so you don't accomplish much at home, and then on the weekends you can do other stuff. It is interesting. I have not yet decided if I like it. In any case, it doesn't matter, because now I have acquired a second job and effectively done away with the free time. It's all like Erin Brokovich, single-mother-supporting-her-family over here, except I have no children and also I don't look like Julia Roberts. (Pity.)
On the work itself. Well, today a little guy crawled up my leg so I picked him up and he clapped and smiled and smelled like baby powder and was generally adorable. I wandered over to the other side of the room to grab a tissue to wipe his nose and caught sight of some pictures with a caption/sign reading something along the lines of "to utilize our creativity expression, we used musical instruments to express ourselves creatively", which made me cry inside. That's pretty much how my work day goes. Also, lots of children often cry and it is sad. Perhaps I will start singing that "raindrops on roses" song like in the movie with the von Trapps. This seemed to work even in the most dire of situations (e.g. thunderstorms, wicked stepmothers, Nazi invasions, etc.). Or maybe the "spoonful of sugar" one. It will be like Julie Andrews but with a crappy singing voice and minus the classy British accent and seventy billion octaves' worth of range. Or whatever it is that musician types call that sort of thing with the octaves and people's voices.
Yeah, now I'm making even less sense than I was when I started. Back to Kaplan's Oh-So-Secret test-prep strategies. (Gag me. Oh, med school. The things I do for you. Really.)
(Okay, fine, actually, it's not. It's so that I can put "teaching MCAT prep" on the 'activities since graduation' part of med school applications. Yeah, we pre-meds are very utilitarian. And evil. Watch out. For one, we may be teaching your Kaplan course, and it's probably not because we care.)
In any case, now I'm in their training program which is six kinds of boring and involves marking up your Teacher's Book with four different colors of highlighter. I kid you not. Each color means something different but I probably can't tell you what because it is a Top Secret Kaplan Strategy and I signed my freedom of speech away on a pdf file. Anyway. The point is that I'm preparing for my next training session and I am bored, so instead of exchanging the pink highlighter for the orange one and soldiering on, I will resurrect the time-honored tradition of procrastination and share with you my impressions on the working world. (If anyone is reading beyond this point, that is kind of sad. Did you know they publish books to occupy your time? Books by people who write well and actually have something to say. I recommend looking some of those up. Unless you're procrastinating, too. In that case, by all means...)
Firstly, on commuting. I have a random piece of advice for you. If it ever comes up as a choice, like when you are buying a house or something, I would suggest living in a place that is east of where you will work - that way you will not have the sun in your eyes when you drive. My parents did not think of this and as I am back at home living with them, mammone-style, I enjoy the sun in my eyes both ways. Probably this will contribute to blindness and wrinkling. Yay.
In the same vein, route 78 east is interesting in the mornings. It is like bumper-to-bumper traffic, but moving at 70 miles per hour. When I was learning to drive (a process that spanned from age 16 to roughly age 22), this used to freak me out and I never went on it. Post-Italy, I'm all ho-hum, eating my toast while merging from the ramp (or whatever that bit of road is called). (Side note: why is it that I never manage to eat meals sitting down at a table like normal people?) Also, I really should record the story of driving in Italy at some point - it involved a whole new level of ineptitude on my part. Perhaps this weekend...
Speaking of which: on weekends... after four years of round-the-clock, every-day-of-the-week studying/work in college and one year of you-must-be-available-14-hours-a-day indentured servitude as a teacher, I think I have acquired a job that allows me to glimpse at what the lives of "normal" people must be like. Essentially, you go to work during the week and come back and are kind of tired so you don't accomplish much at home, and then on the weekends you can do other stuff. It is interesting. I have not yet decided if I like it. In any case, it doesn't matter, because now I have acquired a second job and effectively done away with the free time. It's all like Erin Brokovich, single-mother-supporting-her-family over here, except I have no children and also I don't look like Julia Roberts. (Pity.)
On the work itself. Well, today a little guy crawled up my leg so I picked him up and he clapped and smiled and smelled like baby powder and was generally adorable. I wandered over to the other side of the room to grab a tissue to wipe his nose and caught sight of some pictures with a caption/sign reading something along the lines of "to utilize our creativity expression, we used musical instruments to express ourselves creatively", which made me cry inside. That's pretty much how my work day goes. Also, lots of children often cry and it is sad. Perhaps I will start singing that "raindrops on roses" song like in the movie with the von Trapps. This seemed to work even in the most dire of situations (e.g. thunderstorms, wicked stepmothers, Nazi invasions, etc.). Or maybe the "spoonful of sugar" one. It will be like Julie Andrews but with a crappy singing voice and minus the classy British accent and seventy billion octaves' worth of range. Or whatever it is that musician types call that sort of thing with the octaves and people's voices.
Yeah, now I'm making even less sense than I was when I started. Back to Kaplan's Oh-So-Secret test-prep strategies. (Gag me. Oh, med school. The things I do for you. Really.)
Saturday, September 12
Job
So, now I work in a daycare (as a result of that interview from the last post, in case anyone's keeping count). This is also why I have been all MIA since then. Anyway, having worked there for two weeks, I have: learned the names of approximately 60 children in five different age groups, identified all of the convenient sources of caffeine in the school's vicinity, absorbed about three quarts of baby saliva into my clothes, and contracted what will probably be the first of many sore throats from the wee ones.
Actually, this could be a good public service announcement: this is what a bachelor's degree from a reasonably good college will do for you these days, kids - hourly wages for a job that involves absorbing a lot of baby saliva into your clothes. So, really, you could go ahead and skip the bachelor's degree. The girl in the room across from mine has some kind of associate's degree and I'm pretty sure the one who was helping out in my room yesterday probably had trouble finishing high school.
That's mean. I'm sorry.
And I'm not even really bitter about the whole thing, to tell you (who?) the truth. I actually like this job a lot more than I thought I would. There is a lot of diaper-changing and nose-wiping and spoon-feeding and hand-washing and rocking to sleep and sometimes it is tedious and sometimes it is chaotic but when a crying kid reaches up his arms at you and puts his head down on your shoulder the moment you've picked him up... well, let's just say evolution has done quite a number on us girls and it must fulfil some kind of very gooey, mommy-type instinct.
All in all, I would say it evens out. For example, today I was with the pre-schoolers almost all day. Their usual routine seems to involve a lot of running around and chasing each other and hitting each other over the head with blocks and then whining about it. On the plus side, they can feed themselves, but they were an irritating experience overall. For the last hour, though, I got sent to the infant room and rocked a six-month-old to sleep and she wiggled around there and smelled like baby powder and was delightful in general. Also the palmar-grasp reflex is a lot of fun. (There - that's that bachelor's degree coming through for you. If your education did not encompass reflexes in early infant development, google it. There should be some funny videos out there, because in theory babies can support their entire bodyweight just hanging onto something.)
The only trouble is that on occasion, I feel slightly over-educated and non-fitting-in. Most of the time I don't mind it. It's fine. We're changing diapers and feeding kids; knowing what the palmar grasp reflex is and why it develops is not really necessary. Every once in a while, though, when I am tired and cranky and a lot of kids are crying, I get annoyed. For example, the other day I received the following memo in my "cubby" (what am I, five?): "all teacher's must submit self-bios so that we can proofread them before parent's night". Now. Is that not even the slightest bit poetic in its irony? If you have no idea what I am talking about, read the next paragraph. If the part of you that understands English is already hurting a little bit, skip to the one after (or, alternatively, go do something productive with your time).
The memo made me a little annoyed at first: they dare to suggest that they're going to proofread what *I* write when *that* is how *they* write? But then I just laughed. I could have forgiven the misplaced apostrophe in "parent's". Okay, so it sounds like there is only one parent coming and to me it's a little grating, but... I get that the apostrophe at the very end of the word can be disconcerting to some (should be "parents'"). What really kills me is the "teacher's" as plural. Especially when "self-bios" doesn't seem to give them any trouble. Proofread, mon oeuil. Yes, I am often a snob. But you have to admit that here they were really asking for it.
Anyway. I have fallen in love with my regular kids and look forward to seeing them every day and will probably be happy working here if I manage not to smack any of my colleagues and/or superiors over the head with a container of wet-wipes for their egregious abuse of the English language and/or child development theory. Speaking of that last... I will leave you with a conversation that I witnessed yesterday with the toddlers.
How NOT to teach a foreign language:
Teacher: So, did you like that book about the dinosaur at bedtime?
Kids: Yeah!
Teacher: Hey, does anyone know how to say "bed" in Spanish?
Kids: *blank stares*
Teacher: It's "cama"! Can you say "cama"?
Kids (dutifully): Cama.
Teacher: Good job! Now you know how to say bed in Spanish!
Child: What's Spanish?
Actually, this could be a good public service announcement: this is what a bachelor's degree from a reasonably good college will do for you these days, kids - hourly wages for a job that involves absorbing a lot of baby saliva into your clothes. So, really, you could go ahead and skip the bachelor's degree. The girl in the room across from mine has some kind of associate's degree and I'm pretty sure the one who was helping out in my room yesterday probably had trouble finishing high school.
That's mean. I'm sorry.
And I'm not even really bitter about the whole thing, to tell you (who?) the truth. I actually like this job a lot more than I thought I would. There is a lot of diaper-changing and nose-wiping and spoon-feeding and hand-washing and rocking to sleep and sometimes it is tedious and sometimes it is chaotic but when a crying kid reaches up his arms at you and puts his head down on your shoulder the moment you've picked him up... well, let's just say evolution has done quite a number on us girls and it must fulfil some kind of very gooey, mommy-type instinct.
All in all, I would say it evens out. For example, today I was with the pre-schoolers almost all day. Their usual routine seems to involve a lot of running around and chasing each other and hitting each other over the head with blocks and then whining about it. On the plus side, they can feed themselves, but they were an irritating experience overall. For the last hour, though, I got sent to the infant room and rocked a six-month-old to sleep and she wiggled around there and smelled like baby powder and was delightful in general. Also the palmar-grasp reflex is a lot of fun. (There - that's that bachelor's degree coming through for you. If your education did not encompass reflexes in early infant development, google it. There should be some funny videos out there, because in theory babies can support their entire bodyweight just hanging onto something.)
The only trouble is that on occasion, I feel slightly over-educated and non-fitting-in. Most of the time I don't mind it. It's fine. We're changing diapers and feeding kids; knowing what the palmar grasp reflex is and why it develops is not really necessary. Every once in a while, though, when I am tired and cranky and a lot of kids are crying, I get annoyed. For example, the other day I received the following memo in my "cubby" (what am I, five?): "all teacher's must submit self-bios so that we can proofread them before parent's night". Now. Is that not even the slightest bit poetic in its irony? If you have no idea what I am talking about, read the next paragraph. If the part of you that understands English is already hurting a little bit, skip to the one after (or, alternatively, go do something productive with your time).
The memo made me a little annoyed at first: they dare to suggest that they're going to proofread what *I* write when *that* is how *they* write? But then I just laughed. I could have forgiven the misplaced apostrophe in "parent's". Okay, so it sounds like there is only one parent coming and to me it's a little grating, but... I get that the apostrophe at the very end of the word can be disconcerting to some (should be "parents'"). What really kills me is the "teacher's" as plural. Especially when "self-bios" doesn't seem to give them any trouble. Proofread, mon oeuil. Yes, I am often a snob. But you have to admit that here they were really asking for it.
Anyway. I have fallen in love with my regular kids and look forward to seeing them every day and will probably be happy working here if I manage not to smack any of my colleagues and/or superiors over the head with a container of wet-wipes for their egregious abuse of the English language and/or child development theory. Speaking of that last... I will leave you with a conversation that I witnessed yesterday with the toddlers.
How NOT to teach a foreign language:
Teacher: So, did you like that book about the dinosaur at bedtime?
Kids: Yeah!
Teacher: Hey, does anyone know how to say "bed" in Spanish?
Kids: *blank stares*
Teacher: It's "cama"! Can you say "cama"?
Kids (dutifully): Cama.
Teacher: Good job! Now you know how to say bed in Spanish!
Child: What's Spanish?
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