Field trip

Yesterday I was lucky enough to chaperone Mark's class to the local swimming hole. That's right, I escorted 100 5th graders to the indoor high school pool. Just the walk there was crazy. As we journeyed toward the pool, I made the following observations.

• Most of the 5th graders are taller than I am--even the girls! I blended nicely into the mob, thankyouverymuch.
• It's very hard to see when you walk a mile wearing diving masks or swim goggles. Especially if the lenses are blue.
• It's also hard to breathe when you wear those masks and walk a mile.
• 5th graders will wave and yell to any and every car on the road.
• The honking that ensues from this renders the children deaf to all adults. Especially when the kids near blind driveways or busy street corners.
• Walking with children is a nice euphemism. When I remarked that it was like herding cats, another mom responded, "No, it's worse--it's like herding chickens!" I watched the kids flit about, and realized she was absolutely correct.

We finally arrived at the pool, group intact. The kids parked themselves on the bench and listened to the lifeguard's very loud but garbled rules (turns out indoor pools amplify sound and convert them to vague echoes).

At some point, she blew the whistle, and the kids were off. Clothes and towels flew in the air, landing on every bit of exposed concrete bench, and on the floor surrounding it. The kids split off into gender-appropriate groups and hit the showers.

The quiet while they all showered was brief. They exploded out of the locker rooms, and within moments, the pool was filled with screaming, splashing kids. It stayed that way for the next four hours.

Mark decided to take the swim test so he could jump off the high dive. But he hasn't been swimming since last summer, and was suitably nervous about passing.



He didn't make it the first time, but he did pass the second time. He wasn't quite sure why, though.

"I did the same exact thing that I did the first time!" he exclaimed.

"Whatever," I told him. "You passed--hit the high dive!"

The kids loved loved loved the high dive. The girls specialized in running jumps and gymnastic maneuvers. The boys were even divided between flinging themselves wildly off the board, or jumping while kissing their arm muscles and flexing their arms into the air, a la The Thinker in Night at the Museum 2 ("Hey baby, check out the gun show going on over here. BOOM BOOM! Firepower!").

Nathan was a wild man off the high dive--I told him it looked like someone tossed him out of a moving car here.

Mark was more reserved, but equally brave.

The lifeguard blew her whistle to end the swim day, and there was a massive groan from the pool. But slowly, the kids left the water and moved toward the jumble of scattered clothes, towels and shoes.

One kid made it to the gate without his shirt. "I lost it!" he cried. "I lost my shirt!" The louder the kids laughed, the louder he repeated himself. Someone finally lent him another shirt so he didn't have to return to school shirt-less.

I anticipated the walk back would be more subdued after all the swimming, but I was wrong. The kids were still full of energy, engaging more drivers, even getting the entire drive-through lane at McDonald's to honk their horns.

We arrived back at school 20 minutes after school was out, but none of the kids really cared. They had wet hair and red eyes from all the chlorine, but they were thrilled at their day.

"Can you believe this actually counted as P.E.?" one boy asked me.

"Yeah, you got five hours of P.E. today," I told him. "That was better than spending the day in the classroom, huh?"

"WAY better!" he said, happily. And as I looked across the yard, I saw 100 equally happy faces that completely agreed with him.

The kindness of strangers

Mark went on an all-day field trip today, and for the first time ever, I didn't go with him. He's been managing his diabetes pretty well, and his teacher feels comfortable with Mark's diabetes, so I thought it was time to reward Mark with a little independence.

And then, the best-laid plans all went to hell.

First, Mark dropped the diabetes ball, and made a really bad choice. Luckily, his amazing school nurse saved the day. Then, late yesterday afternoon, she phoned to say the teacher wasn't actually going on the field trip, a substitute teacher was.

That put us both into a bit of a panic! I couldn't take the day off, and she wasn't working, so we did a little troubleshooting to handle the situation.

The nurse came up with the best solution ever -- she enlisted the mom of another student with diabetes to substitute for Mark's class. This is a kid we both respect and admire -- he's in 8th grade, and a shining example of how to manage your diabetes. I figured any kid like that must have a pretty awesome mom. :-)

So today, instead of reporting on Mark's usual shenanigans, I'm here to praise the diabetes and nursing communities! I'm telling you, spending an afternoon in the company of families living with diabetes will renew your faith in humanity. They are the most helpful, caring people you could meet, always willing to give a hand, some advice or a quick-acting sugar source if needed.

And the people who help care for our kids -- people like our school nurse -- are literally guardian angels. I can't heap enough praise on her, or the school nurses that Mark had before her. It's the scariest thing in the world to hand over your kid and trust that someone else will keep him safe. She keeps him safe, keeps him laughing, and has become not only his nurse, but his friend as well. (And she's a wonderful sounding board for me as well!)

So thank you, Nurse King, for going above and beyond caring for Mark. And thank you Roman's mom, for knowing exactly which questions to ask, and for agreeing to watch over my son when I could not. You'll never know how much that meant to me! (Or maybe, as a fellow mom of a child with diabetes, you will...but you still have my gratitude.)

Mr. Safety

After rummaging around in the medicine cabinet Saturday night, Mark went to bed. He forgot to put away the step stool he was standing on.

I realized this about 20 minutes later, when I walked into our very-small bathroom and collided with the step stool. Pain immediately shot through my entire body, starting at my shin, and exiting as a curse word out of my mouth.

I left the bathroom, and popped my head into Mark's room.

"I just smacked my shin into the step stool you left in the bathroom," I told him. "I hope you don't do the same when I wake you up later, because that really hurt." Then I walked away.

Mark really is a bright boy, and usually, a statement like that would send him scurrying to put the stool away. But an hour later, he was fast asleep, and the step stool was still there.

I simply moved it -- a classic case of picking your battles, and to me, this was not a big one. I just didn't want to bruise my other shin.

When Mark woke up Sunday morning, I noticed something unusual. His hand was blue -- or at least, covered in blue ink.

"What's all over your hand?" I asked, and he smiled sheepishly at me.


I looked closer. In blue ink, he'd written himself a reminder -- "There's a stool in the bathroom. Do not trip. Ouch." There was even a sad face to reinforce the "ouch" part.

I couldn't believe this kid! Instead of getting up and putting the stool away, he wrote himself a note not to trip over it! A note he had no recollection of writing, let alone reading, when I woke him up that night to use the bathroom. (He's a zombie when I wake him -- I usually have to physically point his body toward the bathroom, or else he wanders down the hall.)

"Where'd you get the pen?" I asked.

"From the office," he answered.

"You walked PAST the bathroom, PAST the step stool, and into the office to get a pen?" I asked, incredulous. "And then wrote all over your hand? Instead of just moving the stool?"

He nodded. Made perfect sense to him. And to his shins, which were bruise-free.

Maybe next time, I'll just write myself a note, too.

A learning experience

I recently accompanied Mark's class on a field trip. If you haven't been on a field trip since you were a kid, let me just say this...it's a MUCH different experience as an adult!

First of all, you are an outcast on the bus. Your friends are not on the bus with you, and the last place anyone wants to sit is by a mom.

Which is fine by me. I was quite happy to let Mark sit with his friends. That is, until said friends started smacking each other and telling jokes with bad words as the punchline. I very quickly learned his seatmates' names, and spent the next 40 fume-filled minutes of the bus ride calling out, "Nathan, sit down. Nathan, stop saying that word. Mark, stop laughing when Nathan says that word. Josh, stop smacking the kids behind you. Nathan, didn't I tell you to stop saying that word??"

Lucky for us, the morning traffic was light, and we got to the Discovery Center a full 30 minutes before the IMAX movie started. Which gave us 2 minutes to unload the kids, 2 minutes to usher them against a wall, and 26 minutes to tell them to sit still and stop hitting each other. I challenged my group to a jumping jack contest (they had to get the wiggles out somehow), but Mr. R made them sit down again.

Somebody passed out 3-D glasses, and I wondered how many pairs would break before we got in to the theatre. But they entertained the kids for a long time. The boys put them on and made silly faces, which I photographed. Then they put them on backwards, which I photographed. The boys clamored around me to view the pictures and then plot new poses. I was certainly glad I'd brought the camera.


Finally it was time for the movie. We crossed through the lobby, which smelled of freshly buttered popcorn, and I was instantly hit with 33 requests for a bag. "No popcorn allowed in the theatre," I told them, and was proven a liar when the row of girls behind us came inside, crunching popcorn.

The kids loved the movie. It was a program about the sea, and as the first 3-D dolphins jumped toward them, the kids squealed with delight and reached out to grab them.

After the movie, it was on to the Natural History Museum. There were four chaperones total, including Mr. R, me, and two class moms. Mr. R. sent the seven girls with the two moms, then split the boys between me and himself. He had eight, and gave me four, saying, "I think Ms. Dinsdale can handle the boys, right?"

"No problem!" I said, grinning.

If you really want to see the difference between boys and girls, a museum is a fine place to go. Even though the girl group was larger than mine, they walked very nicely toward the nearest staircase. My four boys bolted for the giant T. Rex, racing all around it, and then toward the staircase, running upstairs against the crowd. They shoved their way through, shouting, "The T. Rex is this way!" and I wondered how quickly they would ditch me.

We examined the T. Rex exhibit, and then the bird exhibit. We ran (literally) through the rain forest exhibit, then into the Mexican Indian exhibit. We did so much running, in fact, that I worried Mark might go low. I repeatedly asked how he felt, and he answered me with a dismissive "FINE!" each time.

Until he went low. "I feel really shaky," he told me, and so I commandeered the boys toward a priceless work of art out in the hallway. "PLEASE DON'T TOUCH," read the sign on it, but young boys are quite literal, so they climbed on it instead. ("It doesn't say 'DON'T CLIMB,'" Nathan observed.)

I fed Mark, which prompted three more cries of "I'm hungry!" I fished out some granola bars, which they split. Then it was downstairs again, to a giant room filled with stuffed animal exhibits.

The room was gigantic, empty, and before we got there, quiet. I did a quick survey, and determined there was only one way out of the room.

"You're free, boys, but no running," I told them, and they sprinted off before I finished my sentence.

I saw another small group in the corner, and realized it was the girls and the other two moms. Before I could catch them, the boys flew past them, all loud yelling and flailing arms. I smiled at the appalled moms, then hissed "NO RUNNING!" at my group of wild banshees.

They stopped momentarily in front of a display, and immediately the giggling started. "What's so funny?" I asked.

Nathan (he of the potty mouth) pointed at a giant stuffed beaver. He smiled sweetly at me, and said, "We're looking at the DAM."

The other boys erupted into giggles. "Did you hear me?" he asked. "A DAM!"

"Yes, I know, it sounds like a bad word," I said. I shuffled them along before the girls came by.

Soon enough, it was time for lunch. I herded my boys outside, where the rest of the boys were climbing on the railing. The girls weren't there yet, so Mr. R sent me and the boys ahead to get the lunches. We made our way through a giant crowd of other classes, and by some miracle, I arrived on the other side of it with all my boys accounted for.

The kids chowed down their lunches, and loaded back onto the bus. Mark weaseled his way two rows behind me, so I couldn't quite see him. The boys in the row across from me were nice kids, but by this time I was worn down.

"Let's have a sleeping contest!" I told them. "Whoever sleeps the longest, wins."

And so they did. The three of them curled up, and though they occasionally giggled and tickled each other, they "slept" the whole way home. I am proud to say that Devin, Josh and Damian were my favorite kids of the day.

Back at the school, I disembarked, and watched the stream of screaming kids run back to the classroom.

"Thanks for your help!" Mr. R, said, and I nodded.

"Thanks for letting me tag along," I said.

And as I walked home, the screams fading with each footstep forward, I gave a silent prayer of thanks to every teacher out there. I don't know the patron saint of teachers, but I'm guessing it's someone who had a LOT of patience.