Last Day at School

It's funny: both of the boys found the last day of school less emotional than I did.

And because they're both heading to a new school next year, I thought there would be some sadness, tension or tears.

Nope. School's out. "It's the summer!" And they ain't looking back.

As for me, I found myself getting choked up talking to their teachers.

I spoke to Zed's current teacher, Mrs. Chapman, who taught both of the boys (she also taught Gee three years earlier) and she told me that she was sad because she would have had Zed again next year because she was going to be teaching a different grade. But she was very kind and said that the new school was going to be getting two great students.

And I also spoke to the boys' former kindergarten teacher, Mrs. Reiart. She also taught both of the boys but she had them for both Junior *and* Senior kindergarten. She therefore had them for four years in total. I was incredibly pleased that I had the opportunity to thank her for helping make the boys into excellent students. I told her that they're both doing exceptionally well in school and a large part of that is because of her teaching. She was kind enough to say that it was very likely that my wife and I also had a hand in the matter; true as that may be, for the first two years of their schooling, she was the person who showed them how to behave, interact and learn in a classroom. They learned and grew because of her.

In many ways teachers in our province have a great gig (summer holidays, a guaranteed job assuming they don't totally mess up, solid pension, etc.) but it's an incredible responsibility and a bad teacher is a horrible, dreadful, awful thing to behold. An uninspiring teacher can poison the well, salt the earth and rain on the parade that is a child's educational future.

But a good teacher -- worth their weight in friggin' gold.

Both of my boys have been oh so incredibly fortunate because many of their teachers had been blessed with a Midas touch.

Here's hoping their new school also has great teachers. And that the boys will continue to enjoy education, even as they're thrilled when they can leave it behind.

Badges of Honour

While waiting with Zed to walk into school, I overhead one of the older boys. And it reminded me of how cool is it to get injured when you're a boy.

"Look at this scab," the boy said to one of the other kids in line. "It looks like a pepperoni pizza."

And he was right. The injury was the slightly larger than a quarter in size, and had two sharp red dots within the scab. It looked like an angry, hot out of the oven mini-pizza with two pepperoni slices on top.

"Go ahead! Touch the scab!! Touch the pizza scab!" he said to his friend. I'm not sure if his friend touched it; I would like to think he was brave enough that he did.

I don't think most girls would express the injury with such joy and enthusiasm. And I'm willing to bet that the boy wasn't quite so thrilled when he hurt himself.

Had it been one of our boys who had suffered the injury, we would have held him, consoled him and carefully patched him up.

But maybe, just maybe, if one of my boys went to school with just such an injury he would have proudly displayed his wound -- as if it was a major accomplishment and something to be proud of.

I never broke my arm as a kid or did anything that required a cast. And I sure as hell wouldn't want to break a bone now. But I remember that I always felt a tiny bit of envy whenever I saw other kids getting their cast signed. It was like we all had to acknowledge their pain and pay tribute to their bravery. As if by accidentally hurting themselves they proved to be smarter and more daring than anyone else.

It's the attainment of popularity and fame through injury. Pity can come from adults; from other kids, it's awe.