I love that phrase so much.
I’ve got work.
Such a rolling, side-ways glancing bunch of words.
But hey, it feels special at some point, especially when the ratio of high school students who don’t have a job is greater than the ones that have one.
Teaching piano and theory is pretty good. No physical labor and the money rolls in like a muddy puppy.
Oh! But the kids!
They make me cry and laugh and mad all at the same time. I thought it was supposed to be teaching piano, but it ended up more being teaching how to wash hands, how to keep fists out of mouths, stay still, be responsible, concentrate, fine motor skills, and patience. They ask me so many piano/music -unrelated questions that I end up teaching them about how dogs are bred and how submarines work. I ended up counseling a student after the death of her dog, reassuring and reasoning with a kid who brought his nightmares into the day, and listening to boy troubles and friendship explosions.
One of them sings songs like a prima dona when his little kindergarten-er self goes to the washroom, and the vibrato echos across the hallway back into the classroom. Two boys play hockey with pencils and erasers and use books as a rink during theory class. (Commentary included – score: 25- 27…something like that…) Another describes farts and other bodily functions with Italian music terminology. (decrescendo – gradually getting softer; Largo – broad, slow and stately; tenuto – held, sustained)
I love all of them so much. Working on Friday evenings isn’t so appealing. No one else wants the slot -so student teachers get them. I just want to go home and sleep the troubles of the week away. I can’t bring my rage from home and school to work, so I’m cranky and tired on the way there, but those nine kids make it worthwhile. They are all pretty weird sometimes, in their own ways -just like me, I guess.
When they finally get something I want to a bit of a British Gigue. It’s to gratifying to know you’ve immortalized yourself in their life.
Oh, how smug I feel.
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