Random Thursday Thoughts

1. Weather wonder.

Sunny. Rainy. Dippin' dots snow. Sunny. I can't take it anymore! Getting dressed in the morning has become such a chore, because one never knows what this blasted weather is going to do! Ugh. I chose to live here. I will eventually learn to deal with this in a non-dramatic manner. I say eventually, because as of this moment in time, I am NOT liking it. One. Bit.

2. Cute Cooties

The cherubs are dancing in P.E. AGH! Another junior-high flashback! Nothing juicy. NOTHING like the humiliating saga about two purple carnations. I simply remember marching around in a circle wondering, "When am I EVER going to need to know how to dance the Virginia Reel? I don't even LIVE in Virginia. Wouldn't it be more beneficial to learn a Native American rain dance? I mean, we DO live in Sioux County, after all?" Just some thoughts that I had. And 15 years later, I've still never had to dance the Virginia Reel. Or needed the knowledge of the intricate steps of a Native American rain dance, so I guess that was a unit wasted. But I digress. The cherubs are learning a Jewish dance. And ALL I've heard for the last week is cooooooooonstant complaining. "We have to hold hands with BOYS!" or, "We have to hold the girls' hands! So gross!" Gasp! What?! That's an injustice! How dare Mr. B make you do such a horrible thing! Except that's not what I say. Not even close. They get no sympathy from me. Nada. I simply look into their sweaty, horrified faces and say, "Sweetie, in ten years you're going to love that. Now go play." Conversation over. Deep thoughts by Teacher. I should write an advice column.

3. Speaking of the cherubs and their lack of affection for their friends of another gender, we had a very interesting conversation in math class yesterday. What began as in innocent lesson in telling time, turned into an incredibly educational lesson about one the MANY differences between boys and girls. While exploring the concept of 1 minute, the cherubs and I decided to make a list of things that took less than a minute versus things that take more than one minute. And all was right with the world until somebody said, "Getting dressed." Oh boy. After a VERY lengthy discussion, the cherubs and I decided that the best place for "getting dressed" (aside from the bedroom, of course. Sorry. Lame humor) was here:

Awesome. Education at it's finest in room 12. Next week, we'll be making a pie chart to display the amounts of shoes that girls have in comparison to boys.

4. Pro-Cert Schmo-Cert

I've had some people asking me about all of this testing, class taking, hullabaloo I have going on, so allow me to explain:

I was born in Iowa.
I was educated in Iowa.
I attended college in Iowa.
I attended a nationally accredited college in Iowa.
I received an education degree from a nationally accredited education program at a nationally accredited college in Iowa.
I moved here.
My Iowa teaching license from a nationally accredited program at a nationally accredited college is not recognized in the beloved state of Washington.

THEREFORE....

In order to be certified in the state of Washington, I need to stand on my head, bark like a dog, and jump through other ridiculous hoops that will then report to the state that I'm a worthy candidate of such a prized certificate. One of those hoops that I need to jump through is the hoop of standardized testing. Yes. Because a 250 question multiple choice standardized test is able to determine whether or not I'm a competent teacher. Ugh. Kill me now.

Now, Pro-Cert Schmo-Cert.

Pro-Cert Schmo-Cert is an academic year-long process of jumping through hoops consisting of stress, chaos, and suicidal thoughts. It's consuming. It's exhausting. It's making me a better teacher. And that makes it all worth while.

So, here's the problem.

In order to be professionally certified in the state of Washington, I need to first be certified. It's a tiny word. Certified. A tiny word with potential to have catastrophic results. If I do not have a Washington teaching license in my hand by May, all of the blood, sweat, and tears that I've poured into the hades that is Pro-Cert Schmo-Cert will be void. Nill. A waste of time. So it's kind of a big deal. And by "kind of", I mean, "THIS IS THE MOST IMPORTANT PROFESSIONAL THING I'VE EVER DONE AND IF I DON'T PASS, I'M GOING TO BE LIVING IN VAN DOWN BY THE RIVER WITH A HIPPY HAIR BRAIDER NAMED JARVIS!"

So, when my test results are revealed on the 14th, I will know whether I need to drown myself in the Sea of Galilee or if I can return to the states and complete the requirements deemed necessary by the powers that be in Olympia. Or wherever the Pro-Cert Schmo-Cert head honchos reside.

Now I'm depressed.

I'm going to go drown my sorrows with a carton of Dreyer's Slow Churned Thin Mint ice-cream.

Goodbye forever.