GranolaBox

Two events conspired over the past couple weeks that have made me feel “pre-old.”

For the last week of my summer vacation, I had all three of my daughters. With Small and the newly 10 year old medium, it was pretty much business as usual. My 12.8 year old daughter though, is showing signs of being thirteen. She is entering seventh grade.

This is a milestone for me, because 7th grade is the grade of KIDS I COULD BE TEACHING without getting in trouble with the powers that be in the New York State certification office. I taught 7th and 8th grade for a year each and hated it. They were nice kids, but they were by definition seventh graders. They were hyperactive, growing and goofy and when springtime hit they became little hormones with feet.

In my quasi-administrative role I have to visit the Junior High a lot and I try to do it when kids are moving from class to class so I don’t disrupt teachers’ instructional time. The kids are so small compared to high school kids that I fear I may step on one of them. And they’re so involved in being active little people that they often run into me, not seeing my 6′2″ hulking mass directly in front of them in the hallway.

Up until now though these obnoxious little creatures have been OTHER PEOPLE’S CHILDREN. Now one of them is mine, and I’m finding that she’s not immune to pre-teen obnoxiousness just because she’s mine. She’s developing some attitude and showing it at some pretty embarrassing moments, most notably at restaurants and other public places that require social graces and a small modicum of decorum. Earlier I attributed this behavior to spending the summer with her mother where manners seem to a bit less important, but now I’m thinking it’s all about being 12.8.

The other cataclysmic event happened on the first day of classes. I’m going through the names of my sophomores, and I see a kid whose mother’s last name looked familiar. The conversation went something like this:

“Kylicia, are you related to Monique at all?”

“Yeah.”

“Is she your sister or cousin?”

“No” she says like I’m stupid or something, “She’s my mom.”

At this point I turned white as a ghost and started freaking out. I’m only 42, and this isn’t supposed to happen until I’m well into my fifties. When I do the math though, it adds up. It doesn’t add up comfortably, but it DOES add up.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad to have the opportunity to warp another generation, and to help steer another angry educated young black woman toward world domination, but dammit… not so soon. It’s also nice that I’ve gotten a LOT better at teaching, and Kylicia will hopefully benefit from that.

So what started the day Large was born has come full circle. I’m now officially “the previous generation.” I’m old school. I’m already complaining about their music and clothes, and soon I’ll be crabbing about the good old days.

God help me, and God help Large, Kylicia and her mother Monique.

Filed under: General Observations, Teaching on September 22nd, 2007