Four Days Left - Running on Fumes

We're plowing through to the goal line, dragging would-be teenage tacklers and stiff-arming administrators who wave data monitoring forms, final exams, retention lists, standardized test scores, and professional development plans in our faces. The summer is the ONE reason for teaching. Don't give me any of that high-minded bullcrap about changing the life of just one child. I love my students. I've changed lives. I've righted wrongs and injustices. I've filled the vessels that had previously been impenetrable. (Holy hell, that sounded awful.) The only reason any sensible person would do what I do is for the reward of summer vacation.

And I pledge to make it a good one.

For one thing, it's my daughter's last summer before preschool. This is it. No more freedom for the tiny dancer. We're looking at pool days, spring days, rainy day video game/movie marathons, camping, beach trips, a visit from the greatest cousins on the planet, a visit to the in-laws in Nashville, and gratuitous amounts of popsicles. I think she'll be happy. The littlest ninja is completing the grind of kindergarten, so he'll be happy with anything that doesn't involve the Letter People, I'm sure.

My better half will certainly be happy. Why? Because I'll be home, that's why. I am the sweet nectar of our wedded bliss. (Remind me not to send her a blog update.)

It'll be a good one for me for all of the above reasons, plus this:


motorcyclemotorcyclemotorcycleWEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

The Final Countdown

15 days.

Aaaaaaah, the glow of summer vacation is brightening on the horizon. This, my friends, is the beginning of the ultimate perk of working in education. After dealing with other people's teenaged problems for 36 weeks, we get a time to sit back, relax, and grow our beards out. Well, some of us will grow our beards out - I'm sure many of the ladies will continue to shave regularly.

Summer is a time for family - trips to the aformentioned pristine springs (avoiding la basura blanca peak hours, of course), backyard barbecues, and showing off manliness by building shit. Like this:



No, I didn't cut the lumber myself. Yes, it came in a box from *gasp* Wal-Mart (a mom and pop business bursts into blue flame and the owners get ass cancer every time that word is uttered, so be careful). But I spent the last part of my spring break putting it together in the blinding-hot Florida sun just to see the excitement on the faces of my children. And to prevent the look of utter contempt and disapproval on the face of my wife. My son calls it Star Command because he is Buzz Lightyear. I'm The Evil Emperor Zurg and he shoots me with his arm laser, kicks me in the junk while I'm not looking, and then flies to another galaxy while I garble curses and flop around in the sand. My daughter calls it "bwaaagraaaphilagina" because she's 16 months old and talks like a crazy person.

Did I mention that I'm off Monday? The wife has an appointment and I'm staying home with the kids.

So make it 14.