Secret Santa

This last week of school is our annual Secret Santa festivities. It can be a mixed bag because one year I received great gifts (Starbucks every day for a month) but the next year really sucked (a peach candle anyone?). Now I realize I can’t control who my Secret Santa is, but I can conspire to pick out who I want to buy gifts for. So two weeks ago when we had to draw out names I picked over and over until I got someone I was excited about. I made up a variety of excuses for the first seven names I drew out:

• “Oops, I picked out myself.”


• “Oh, I had her name last year.”


• “She wrote down that her favorite snacks are Werther’s and peanut brittle. She’s so old she might not even make it until Christmas.”


• “It says that she collects Precious Moments. I’m against that on multiple levels.”


• “Um, I don’t know what to get for someone who already owns every sequined snowman sweater from HSN.”


• “Her classroom smells like cantaloupe. I’m allergic to cantaloupe.”


• “She’s so miserable that it would be like buying Christmas gifts for Hitler.”

Finally, I drew out the name of one of my third grade colleagues. It only took eight tries. Over the last week I’ve been picking up gifts for her. It’s just small gifts for the first four days like candy bars, potato chips, ornaments, peach candles. On Friday is when we reveal ourselves and present our large gift. (Wow, that last sentence could come across as highly inappropriate. Imagine that Christmas party.) Last night I snuck into school long enough to leave my first gift on her desk. I’ve gotta tell you that the school at night really freaks me out. It’s so dark and of course I had to walk all the way down to the end of the seemingly never-ending hallway to put down my first day gift of Cherry Coke and Dove chocolate, which I’m pretty sure is what one of the wise men brought for the baby Jesus. Before leaving, I coded out on the security system and waited to hear the signal to exit the building. While I was standing there waiting in the darkness, I heard the automatic toilet flush in the restroom right next to me. It frightened me so badly that I almost had to run home to change my pants. I don’t know why or how it happened, but I burst through the front doors and ran like a steroid-raging Marion Jones out to the car where Rachel was waiting. Perhaps it was God’s way of telling me a) not to interfere with the integrity of the Secret Santa drawing or b) not to link someone with Hitler.

Lost in translation

This week we read a story about a gorilla named Koko who is able to understand more than 1,000 sign language signs. Naturally this led into a discussion of sign language and we took a look at the sign language alphabet. Each of the students first spelled out their names using sign language. Then I passed out note cards with the names of different animals on them for each of them to sign for the class. The rest of the students, in turn, would try to figure out what animal it was. The students got zebra, alligator, and giraffe right off the bat. However, the fourth one seemed to baffle them and with good reason. I noticed his mistake and asked him to try it again because he had misspelled his word. Unfortunately once again, instead of “duck” he spelled “dick.” Common mistake. The funniest part about it was another boy raised his hand and said, "Um, Mr. Ritchason, I don't think that's an animal."

Diarrhea of the mouth

I just got back from taking Ella and Liam to the library to pick out some Christmas books. They love it there with the birds, the fish tank, and all of the toys and puzzles. It’s always quite the scene when it’s time to leave because Liam screams and cries all the way out of the door. Ella especially loves the puppet theater and every time she goes behind there and puts on a puppet show for us. Liam likes to go back there for one of two reasons. He either quietly knocks over all 38 puppets to the floor or sits in the corner and craps his pants. Today it was number two. Literally. When he emerged from behind the curtain it smelled like he had just finished an 18-hour shift with the sanitation department. I rounded both of them up along with the books and movies and headed for the counter with our library card. Of course, Liam started throwing a fit and I think deliberately arched his body so his butt came two inches away from my nose. Ella asked me why we couldn’t just take him to the restroom and change him. I hate trying to maneuver him on one of those fold-out contraptions on which you don’t know whose dirty butt cheeks were on there right before your child’s. As the librarian was scanning our items, Ella reminded me that “Daddy you went poop in there last time.” I couldn’t bear to make eye contact with the woman behind the counter, so I told her thank you with my head hung down in embarrassment as we headed home to change my son and beat my daughter. Just kidding.

The emasculation of Michael

Tonight while Rachel was at work and the kids were at my mom's house, I did some errands in Peoria. Before I left Rach called to ask if I would run past Michael's, the arts and crafts store, to pick up some beads she needed to make some bracelets. I hemmed and hawed for several moments but reluctantly agreed. Before hanging up, I made sure she gave me step-by-step directions of exactly how to maneuver through the store, capture the prized items, and get out without being spotted. Tonight as I got closer to the store I could feel my masculinity slowly being stripped away. By the time I parked and walked through the front door, I'm pretty sure that I was now the proud owner of a vagina. The sign on the door that advertised "Part time floral designer needed" didn't really help the situation. I retrieved the map that I had drawn from my pocket and made my way through the maze, like a soldier trying to avoid the land mines of detached Asian doll heads and styrofoam balls the size of a small African village. I've gotta admit that Rachel's directions were spot-on and I made it to the aisle of choice without any incidents. Unfortunately, there was a woman there looking in the exact same section that I needed to be. From a distance I saw the beads that Rach described, but I didn't want to reach in front of her like a fat girl trying to grab the last ladel-full of moo goo gai pan at the Chinese buffet. So I waited my turn and acted like I was looking at other things in the aisle. Wow, what impressive do-it-yourself gingerbread houses! This just made me look even more awkward and out of place. Finally, I leaned over and said one of the gayest things to ever come out of my mouth. "Excuse me ma'am. Could I just grab two bags of those sterling silver alphabet beads please?" I'm pretty sure at that moment my menstrual cycle kicked into gear. I hightailed it to the front of the store to discover seven people in line at the only register open. I towered over everyone else in line, kind of like that video they showed during the Olympics when Kobe Bryant was swarmed with Chinese fans that were as tall as his belt buckle. I began praying that the Apostolic Christian in front of me wouldn't strike up some conversation about crocheting or the Gaithers or riding around in horse-drawn buggies. (Oh wait, I think that last one is the Amish. My apologies.) The line was moving slower than the plot of The Love Guru so I found myself drumming on the boxes of beads with my fingers while singing along in my head to Celine Dion's version of "Felize Navidad" that was playing throughout the store. (Darn you, Michael's!) The next thing I knew one of the boxes had broke open and pieces of silver were dancing on the floor like a slot machine for tiny Hobbits. Of course everyone turned to look at me and I immediately knelt down on the floor to try to pick up all 100 pieces up. My cover was blown. I was so flustered in the moment that I blurted out that lame "I guess I didn't even know my own strength" line. The lady in line behind me was trying to be helpful and pick some of the beads up but all I felt like doing at that moment was knocking her over to make myself feel better. I then heard the cashier come over the intercom and it began to turn into one of those SNL skits where the person asks for a price check on some tampons. Come to think of it I was pretty close to needing one myself. In an instant a high school aged girl was there with a broom and a dust pan to clean up my mess. Someone else brought up another box of beads and thankfully it was my turn to check out. The smiling lady behind the register joked "I'll double-bag these for you so you don't lose any more" as she handed me a 40% off coupon for my next visit. I dropped it in the parking lot.

Humpty Dumpty

Word has spread throughout the hallways at school that if you need someone to help you in the restroom look no further than Mr. Ritchason. It should be noted that just because I cleaned up one student’s fecal matter doesn’t mean that I’m a rubber glove-clad Superman swooping in at a moment’s notice to remove a still-warm turd from the floor. Yesterday I was walking back to my classroom when an assistant from one of the special ed rooms stopped me to ask for help with one of her boys in the restroom. He had peed his pants a few minutes earlier and was trying unsuccessfully to get on some clean underwear. When I walked into the restroom I discovered that he had gotten them almost all the way up but couldn’t get them past his little privates. It looked like two little Humpty Dumptys sitting atop the elastic waistband with his little wiener poking out the top. Um, how exactly was I supposed to help him with this? Keeping a considerable distance between the two of us, I used my go go Gadget arms to hold on to the sides of the underpants and pull them up. I immediately realized what the problem was. He hadn’t thought to clean himself up so his nether regions were still wet. It’s like trying to shove cucumbers into those cheap plastic bags in the produce section after those misty sprayers have just washed them. They just keep sticking to the sides of it and your fingers end up wet. I reached out and tugged them up even harder trying to get them past the Berlin Wall of genitals. As I pulled them up the elastic snapped against him and he screamed out “You hurt my nuts!” Satisfied that my part of the task was complete, I passed him back off to the assistant. All the king’s horses and all the king’s men, couldn’t put Humpty’s nuts together again.

Conferencing

My last set of parents have just walked out the door, officially bringing an end to two days of parent/teacher conferences. I’m not sure which group of people dread these meetings the most, the parents or the teachers. Here are some highlights of the past couple of days:

During one of my first conferences I was talking about a student’s graphs and showing the progress he had made when his dad’s cell phone started ringing. Now this wasn’t some standard ringtone that played silly polka music or a Kenny Chesney song. Instead it was a guy singing/screaming lyrics that went something like “I want to devour your soul!” I have a suspicion that I heard the voice of Lucifer himself. Instead of silencing the phone, he chose to answer it and carry on a conversation that included the words “slutty,” “douchebag,” and most offensive of all “It’s all good.” When he concluded his conversation, I began talking to him about how his son needs to add more descriptive words in his writing. On second thought, maybe the douchebag dad is the last one I need to be talking to about that.

One of the girls in our class transferred to our school about a month into the school year from Arkansas. She’s a really sweet girl, but she’s so far behind where she should be at this point. When her dad came in today I went over all of the objectives and showed him the areas that his daughter desperately needed to work on. His response was an instant classic. He said “I really try to help her with everything, but I wasn’t too good in school either. I was in fifth grade for three years in a row.”

A girl in my class has an older brother with special needs who I met at the beginning of the year. He always comes with them to every school function, including conferences today. Every time I see him he’s carrying a purple Easter basket full of Matchbox cars and today was no exception. I said hello to everyone and made a point to check out his collection of cars. I asked him where he had gotten all of the cars. No response. I asked him which one was his favorite. No response. I reached into his basket and picked out a shiny red car and told him that it was my favorite. Immediately he grabbed it out of my hand and screamed at me “The battle has begun!” (Is that a line from a movie? I’m thinking either Gladiator or one of the Lord of the Rings movies.) It was apparent that his parents had heard this before because his mom jumped in between us like an agent on Obama’s Secret Service detail. In hindsight, I think I was about 1.2 seconds from getting murdered by a plastic bumper and four incredibly tiny wheels. When all of the commotion subsided we sat down at the table and began the girl’s conference. I noticed the boy sit down at my desk, but I didn’t really mind. After all, I had learned my lesson. I plunged through the conference with one eye on the parents and another on Maximus the gladiator at my desk. I soon saw his hand gracefully going back and forth over the desktop like a conductor leading the San Francisco Symphony Orchestra. His parents had their backs to him so they were unaware of anything going on. Sensing that my desk could be toppled over or set on fire at any moment I quickly wrapped up their conference and set them on their way. As I walked to my desk I quickly discovered that he had used my desk as a canvas to color on with an orange crayon. The top of my desk now looks like a graffiti-splattered underpass.

gaum-less adj. lacking in intelligence; stupid

Today was our annual third grade reading day. For me it's always one of the highlights of the school year as students wear their pajamas and bring along their pillows and sleeping bags to read in a relaxing environment. I like it because it allows me to roll out of bed, put on some slippers, eat coffee and donuts all day, and catch up on some reading that doesn't feature Elmo or page after page of rhyming lines ("I see a nose on every face. I see noses every place."). In my class this year I have one of my all-time favorite students. He's a phenomenal little guy that could possibly be the smartest person I know. His reading level is on par with a high school sophomore and he can vividly share events surrounding the 1939 blitzkrieg in Poland. Um, I had to Google the word "blitzkrieg" to even figure out what it meant. The best thing about him is that he's always smiling. In fact, I'm beginning to wonder if it's even possible for his mouth to change shape. Today students were scattered throughout the room reading Harry Potter books or some of my Thanksgiving books, but not this particular young man. Instead he brought along his personal copy of Merriam-Webster's Collegiate Dictionary from home. I watched as he flipped to the start of the "G" section. "I've already read all of the words from the first six letters," he informed me. Throughout the day, he'd pop up at my desk to quiz me on some words he came across.

• "Mr. Ritchason, what color is garganey?" (a blend of teal)


• "Mr. Ritchason, do you know what a gendarme is?" (a French policeman or soldier)


• "Mr. Ritchason, what does it mean if someone is glabrous?" (smooth or hairless)

Finally, as we were getting ready to pack up for the day he asked me one final question. "Mr. Ritchason, do you know what gombroon is?" I admitted that yet again I wasn't familiar with that word. "It's a type of Middle Eastern pottery," he reminded me. Without a hint of arrogance or disrespect, he added "You know Mr. Ritchason, you're not really as smart as I once thought you were." I just laughed because it's hard to take things personally from a 9-year old that still wears one-piece Scooby Doo footsie pajamas.

A crappy afternoon

I’ve eaten enough school lunches to know the difference between the good (french toast sticks, soft shell taco; pepperoni pizza) and the don’t-even-consider-it (chicken salad pita; salisbury steak; ravioli). Yesterday one of the choices was a burrito, which definitely falls into the latter category. There’s nothing like a dried out tortilla filled with cheese made out of Silly Putty and hamburger that is so tough that you literally think you’re biting through a cow’s artery. If you can get past the taste, you’re only halfway there because if your gag reflex isn’t working overtime, soon your butt hole will be. Imagine sitting in a circle on the floor reading a book about the rain forest to your students when three minutes into it you have to excuse yourself before you give them an even more fascinating story to share with their parents that night about how their teacher defecated on the floor right next to Billy.

Whenever there’s a truly disgusting item on the menu I always joke with the students who ordered it that I know who will be raising their hand asking to use the restroom that afternoon. Some of the boys take it as a challenge and brag to me at the end of the day that they’ve survived the dreaded “enchilada eruption” or a visit from the goulash fairy. (It’s kind of like the tooth fairy but instead you’re the one leaving a gift behind. Can you see why third graders and I get along so well?) Yesterday only one boy was brave enough to order the burrito, which it should be noted, also comes with Spanish rice and fruit cocktail. I mean who can resist topping off a fine Mexican meal with some syrupy peaches? As I picked my class up from the lunchroom, I leaned over to the boy and asked him how he was feeling. He smiled back and said that he felt great. “Give it time, my friend,” I uttered back. I kept an eye on him as we read through a poem we had been practicing and finished reading a book about a Native American girl. He looked like a rock and I thought maybe he would defy my expectations. Later on the students were working on finishing the Native American stories they were writing when he came up to my desk. Eyes wide, he asked “Mr. Ritchason, can I go to the restroom?” A-ha! It had arrived! (Yes, I took delight in the misery of an 8-year old.) I knew it was bad because he kept moving up and down on his legs as though he was riding an imaginary teeter-totter. Trying hard not to smile, I sent him on his way and he scurried out the door like a raccoon that had a pinecone stuck in his butt.

Ten minutes had passed and he still hadn’t returned. This wasn’t good. Usually a bad school lunch returns to earth quicker than the snap of your fingers. Something had gone wrong. I sent another boy to go check on him and he returned a few seconds later to report “He says that he needs you, Mr. Ritchason.” Yes, something had gone wrong. Terribly wrong. I walked down to the restroom and called out his name. He told that he hadn’t made it to the toilet in time and got a little bit of poop on his pants and on the floor. I told him not to go anywhere, as though he was going to venture down the hall with no pants on and crap smeared on his butt. Luckily the nurse had an old pair of pants that fit him, so when I got back to the restroom I handed them to him under the stall door and waited for him to get dressed.

When he came out I sent him back to the room to finish writing his story and, rubber gloves in hand, told him I’d clean up the mess. Let’s just say that I was deceived when he told me it was just a little accident. It looked like a herd of elephants had been eating pork and beans for every meal in that stall for the last six years. Not to be gross, but I feel it’s my duty to paint a picture (with brown paint) of what it was like in there. If I hadn’t known what was going on in there I would have sworn that he was eating hot fudge sundaes off the toilet seat because that’s how brown it was. It was smeared on the floor so much that it looked like a murderer had dragged his victim through on it on the way to the trunk of his car to dispose of the body. Even the door latch was unsafe to touch. I turned my head, grabbed his soiled clothes, and threw them in a garbage bag. I tried to clean up as much as I could but I was gagging so much I was afraid that I was just going to add to the mess. I found the janitor in the hall and said “There’s a present waiting for you in the boys’ restroom.” In her lady-like manner of speaking she replied “Don’t tell me another toilet is plugged up with someone’s shit.” I paused, smiled, and said honestly that a plugged up toilet wasn’t the problem today before hightailing it back to my room. I found the boy slumped down in his chair, trying his best to finish up his story, yet looking as though he had just completed a marathon (which in some ways had). I whispered to ask him how he was feeling and, shaking his head, he replied “You were right about the burrito.”

The natives are restless

Today was our annual field trip to Dickson Mounds, a Native American museum in Lewistown. Personally this is my eighth time there in seven years. (My first year I had to go twice within the same week. Brutal.) I'll be honest that it's not always the most exciting place to go but I've gotta give them props because they teach the students quite a bit about Native American culture. My one complaint each year is that as soon as you step through the museum door you are face to face with replicas of life size Indian women without any tops on. Since I've been there so often I now know to warn my class about what they will see before we even get there. So on Friday afternoon I prepared them for it and we discussed how their culture was somewhat different than ours in that way. When we arrived today there were a few giggles, but I was really impressed that it didn't become an issue. Every year we go we get stuck with the same crabby, unenthusiastic woman who I had a run-in with two years ago (http://mritchason.blogspot.com/2006/11/politically-incorrect.html). She was telling the students about various types of pottery when she asked "What do you think Native Americans used this gourd for?" One of my boys instantly raised his hand. When she called on him, rather than answering the question, he asked "Why can you see those ladies' titties downstairs?" At that moment I would have paid an angry Native American to come in, scalp me straight Apocalypto style, and put me out of my misery. As I hopped up to take the boy out into the hallway for a not-so-nice conversation, the lady responded "I don't think this is an appropriate place to say the word 'titties'." At that moment I just wanted to yell out "CAN EVERYONE PLEASE QUIT SAYING TITTIES!" By the time we got outside the door I was bathed in sweat as I bent down eye level to him and let him know how completely inappropriate he was being. I soon remembered that he had been absent on Friday, not that this excused him from saying what he had. As I finished, I stood back up only to discover that his head was right next to yet another breast. He looked over at the voluptuous statue and then back at me. I gave him a raised eyebrow and not another word was spoken.

A household divided

Well here it is, the day before what's being billed as one of the most important elections in U.S. history. For Rachel, it's her first election to vote in since becoming a citizen so naturally she's excited. However, the two of us will go to the polls tomorrow focused on two different candidates. We're like the poor man's Arnold Schwarzenegger and Maria Shriver. I guess the photo below from our front yard says it all.