More on that in a minute.
I don't think I'm unique in this area, so I'm going to risk revealing the deeper depths of my kookiness. The 15 minutes it takes me to get home from school have the potential to be the most insane minutes of my day. Something about getting into the quiet of my car starts the mental replay of the day's events, accomplishments, conversations, troubles, etc. Now if things go OK during the day, it's not a problem. However, the days when things don't go so well...when there's trouble...when there's conflict...
the recording in my head starts playing the minute I get into the car. It repeats and repeats and repeats and I can't find the stop button.
There is one thing that's helped me when I'm in that mindset. I narrate my drive home. I concentrate on the drive and think only of each moment and it ends up sounding something like this:
"I'm stopping at the stop sign. I'm waiting for my turn. I'm turning left. I'm passing a Sonic. I'm staying at 35 mph because I'm driving on Boulevard. I'm slowing down for the car in front of me. I'm reading a marque."And on it goes until I pull into my garage. Some people might consider my method to fight the crazy thinking a bit crazy in itself. I'm OK with that because it's saved me from quite a few distressing drives home.
Good news, though. I think I may have found another method to fight my madness in this group of first graders I'm hanging out with every day. They just might provide me with enough material so that I won't have to narrate my drives home. These kids are fun. They're clever. They're charming my socks off.
So today I giggled all the way home.
I thought of the sweet girly-girl who greets me regularly in the morning with head to toe compliments.
"I like you hair. I like you earrings. I like your necklace. I like your shirt. I like your skirt. I like you sandals. I like your toenail polish."
"Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you, and thank you."
And I thought of the boy who insists he's growing a mustache. "I can feel it," he says as he lightly rubs his fingers across his upper lip.
Then there's the mini-me, the teacher-to-be who is compelled to keep me informed of things going with the rest of the class. "Those two girls are talking again," she whispers to me. "Shall we separate them?"
Thanks kids - thanks for the laughs.