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This weekend was Brandon and Brittany’s b’nai mitzvah. In my six years of teaching fourth grade, I had four sets of boy-girl twins. I was always struck by both the bond between them, and their attempts to hide it because, after all, ew, it’s a girl, and ew, it’s a boy. Brandon and Brittany were always particularly bad at pretending they didn’t like each other all that much.

I hadn’t seen them in about a year. They are tall and pretty, and tall and handsome, and still the same cheerful, happy children they were three years ago. They did a magnificent job. Services today were like old home week for me—there were ten of my students from two different years there, as well as their parents. The kiddush lunch was a great time to catch up with everyone, and solidified my decision to have a daled class reunion Chanukah party this year.

I miss teaching. I really miss the kids. It was nice to find out that they still think of me, as well. The twins’ father told me today that they told him I was their favorite Hebrew school teacher. And that’s three years after they were my students.

Those six years were sometimes extremely difficult, sometimes a lot of fun, but overall, I think the six years I taught Hebrew school were a gift. To me, not to them. Jamie told me last night that she and Zack, one of the twins’ classmates, were bored and trying to figure out what game to play. “Let’s play Daled ball!” Zack said. That’s a game I made up three years ago to try to keep bored fourth graders learning while also giving them recess. We’d stand in a big circle and toss the ball. You had to say something that had something to do with Judaism or you couldn’t pass the ball. It could be a Hebrew word, a letter, the name of a holiday, the name of a prayer, almost anything. And the fact that three years later, Zack still wanted to play it—well, like I said. It’s a gift.

I saw Zack today. He had a big grin and a wave. And he talked me into getting him some chocolate cake from the grownup’s dessert table. (I’ve always had a soft touch, and they all know it.)

The children have, over the years, taught me at least as much as I taught them. And now they’re growing up into amazing young men and women. My first class is in their junior year in high school. They’ll be off to college soon.

I think it’s time to go back to teaching, at least as a substitute. I can’t take Tuesdays off from work any more, but I don’t think I’d mind being around children on a Sunday morning, teaching them to read and write Hebrew. Especially now that my little ones are growing up.

Okay, I don’t watch the TV news very often, and I didn’t last night. I don’t listen to the news on the radio much, either. And, well, I completely missed out on a very important fact. Like, moving the clocks forward an hour.

So this morning, I am up before the alarm goes off (mostly due to going to bed at a reasonable hour and, well, being tired enough to sleep). While I’m deciding whether or not to get up, the phone rings. It’s a familiar voice asking if I’m someone else. “Nooo,” I tell him, and try to continue as he apologizes. “Michael… Michael, it’s Meryl!” (It’s another member of my congregation, who had my number written on a piece of paper and thought it was the other one.) We chat a bit, he apologizes for calling so early, I tell him I’m already up, he says his daughter has an 8 a.m. basketball game, and I’m wondering why he’s talking to me at 7:45 when he should be driving to the game. We hang up, I do my morning routine, get downstairs, can’t figure out how my computer got to 9 a.m., change the clock, start writing a post as I have a ton of time. 8:30 rolls around, and I get a phone call. It’s my madrich.

“Um, Ms. Yourish, did you forget to set your clocks back last night?”
“What?”
“Did you forget it’s Daylight Savings Time?”
“Holy crap! It’s 9:30?”
“Yes. But it’s okay, we have a Purim lesson we can do until you get here….”
“No, wait. We have music at 9:30. Take the kids to music class and I’ll get there as soon as I can. And tell someone.”
“Okay.”

I no longer have a leisurely breakfast (but I have breakfast), get to school at about five to ten, sign in, and discover that no, the kids don’t have music class, because the music assistant is not in today. I hurry to class and find the principal monitoring my madrichim, who are teaching the children abour Purim. I thank her, we finish the lesson, and go on with the day. Of course all the kids had to ask me why I was late.

Well, that was embarrassing. But at least I know my assistants have really moved forward in giant steps. They were scheduled to have a Purim lesson later in the day (crafts and games plus the story of Purim), and they just pushed the story part into the first half hour of class. They did a great job, the principal told me.

I feel guilty. But I feel well-rested. It evens out.

I was talking to one of my students’ parents today before class, telling her that her son is already proving to be one of the most knowledgeable in my class. She told me he came home last Sunday loving the class. He told her “Mom, you don’t even notice that you’re learning in Ms. Yourish’s class!”

Teachers don’t get compliments much better than that. It’s like pitching a perfect game. In fact, it makes me very happy, because that’s what I’ve been trying to do for five years, and hearing that tells me that I’ve succeeded.

Today, for the third straight class day, the students asked me how long they’d been in class. “An hour,” I told them. They said it felt more like ten minutes. Yep. Things are going well so far.

Every year, I get more and more on my teaching stride. I was a bit worried about this year’s class. They’re a bit, ah, rowdy. Last year, they used to stampede down the hall at the end of every day (except when I was in the hallway to stop them). They’re a little tough to manage sometimes, as they love to talk, well, all the time—but they’re mostly fine.

It’s only been a week, and I’m already falling for my new students, and not really missing my old ones. They’ve moved on. I’ve got a new group of kids to teach, and to learn about, and learn from. Every year, my students surprise me. Every class has its own dynamics and its own unpredictable quirks. The fun, and the challenge, is in figuring them out and working with (or around) them.

Today was the first day of religious school. It featured a new class, a new principal, new books, and an extra 30 minutes of class time.

I am exhausted. It didn’t help that I was up an hour before the alarm, either.

I always miss my last class for the first week or so of the school year, even though I inevitably fall in love with my new class. My old class always seems to miss me about the same way. We all get over it rather quickly. Although throughout the year, my old students will constantly ask me if my new students are getting negative points. They each like to think they’re the best-behaved (or in one case, worst-behaved) class I will ever have.

This year will definitely be a bit more challenging than last year. I always keep my eye on the third-graders. I knew most of my current students’ names before they even got to my class. But that’s purely self-interest. Their class was large and noisy and, shall we say, behaviorally-challenged last year. For instance, I informed them that there will not be what I referred to as the third grade stampede moved into fourth grade. Minus five points for running in the hall, I told them. They were suitably chagrined and did not run screaming out of the room when I dismissed them.

The class is very boy-heavy. Two girls, seven boys. I expect to be exhausted after every class.

And for the fifth time in six years, I have a pair of boy-girl twins. Our congregation seems to be heavy on the boy-girl twins, especially considering how tiny we are. I think these two are it, though. Which is too bad. Boy-girl twins add a special dynamic to the class that I’ve enjoyed very much. I’ve found that it really lessens the boy-girl competition so prevalent in fourth graders.

Exhausted. I may just go take a nap to recover.

The last of my second-year students has his bar mitzvah this weekend. I know you’re not supposed to have favorites, but I confess that J. was always one of mine, even as he was one of my most challenging students. He has ADHD—for real, not the conservative “oh, he’s just a boy” thing—and he moves through life on a constant fast-forward. But he’s also one of the sweetest boys I have ever known. He’s the only b’nai mitzvah child that I noticed said “Thank you” to the rep from the religion committee when she presented him with his kiddush cup. I’m sure some of the others must have said it, but none as loudly and clearly as J.

He and his mother gave me a Hulk pinata towards the end of his year as my student. I have a collection of Hulk memorabilia from various students, parents, friends, and relatives. The pinata has not been smashed. It has been put away. J. likes to identify me to new people by telling them, “She likes the Hulk.” His class was during the year the movie came out, which explains their fascination with my fascination with the Hulk. B.’s mother gave me the Hulk Slim Jim canisters she’d bought from Costco (minus the Slim Jims). Now B. and I discuss comic books, to his mother’s great amusement.

I think one of the main reasons I get such a kick out of J. is because he’s so enthusiastic, about almost everything. His grandfather was telling him about a kiddush cup made from a twelfth-century souvenir from Israel that has been in their family for some time, and J. ran out of synonyms for “Cool!” before long. I told him the oldest things I own are nineteenth-century coins inherited from my father, and he thought that was cool, too.

Well. I think J. is way cool. I look forward to watching him grow up. I’m getting a real kick out of seeing all of them turn into young adults. And in four more years, my first class goes to college. Now that’s going to be cool.

I have just finished the last of my students’ progress reports. That’s what they call report cards for Hebrew School these days.

I am done with my paperwork obligations. Finished. Completed.

All I have to do is get through two hours of class tomorrow, one hour of awards assembly, give each of the students an hour of rock climbing at the rock climbing gym, give H. her Jeep ride, and my obligations for the 2006-2007 Religious School year are done.

I’m actually much happier that the progress reports are finished than anything else. The rest of the stuff is a snap. I’ll snag half the parents tomorrow and arrange a rock climbing day, then get the rest of them. Two groups of four kids each. As for Hannah and the Jeep ride, I already let her father know he messed me up by having the nerve to have a family obligation tomorrow instead of going to the picnic, where I would have given his daughter the Jeep ride. So he feels guilty and will meet me somewhere on the next free, sunny day.

Yup. School year is almost finished. As soon as b’nai mitzvah season is over (third week in June), I’ll also have my weekends back. But at least I can start sleeping in again on Sundays. Aaah. I can feel the relaxation setting in already. Free until next September. Then it starts all over again, with the class that is currently terrorizing the school. (It’s the largest and the most, shall we say, enthusiastic.) ((Okay, when they leave, I say, “Third grade stampede!” and my students wait until it subsides before they exit our classroom. And may I say, NFW will that be happening next year.)) (((And when I say “NFW,” I mean, “N.F.W.” I have already made my presence known to the third graders on the subject of their behavior.)))

Well, I have all summer to recharge for that challenge. When all is said and done, they’re still only nine years old. And I have Authority Voice down pat. Last week, I spent the afternoon with Sarah and Larry and the kids watching Max’s T-Ball game. Game’s over, we’re getting ready to leave, and Nate wants me to watch him do this neat thing, which turns out to be swinging around a pole on the edge of a hill and leaping downward. “Ah, Nate—that’s a really dangerous thing to do and you can’t be doing that again,” I said. Sarah backed me up on that, and Nate was chagrined. Max had seen all this, but had not heard Sarah and me tell Nate what a dumb idea that was, and because he idolizes Nate and wants to do everything Nate does, Max grabbed the pole and started to swing. “Max, NO!” I said loudly, basically in unison with Sarah. Then I turned to her and said, “Sorry. Instinct.” She was fine with it.

Mommy Voice. You don’t have to be a mom to have one.

This is the time of year that drives me the craziest. The kids all have spring fever, and Tuesdays are the worst. They’ve been in school all day, and now they have to come straight ot religious school with barely a break between. That’s why I try to have my curriculum finished by mid-April if possible, or as early as I can get the kids past their mastery skills.

Today, I wanted to test them on the alefbet. You would think that they wouldn’t have any trouble with the letters at all, but I know there are still a couple of letters that each of them blank on. It’s either a blind spot thing or just a fourth grade thing. They read spectacularly for me on Sunday, so well that I went home thinking that yes, I really did manage to teach them to read Hebrew on a higher level by the end of the year.

So the alefbet test: I held up a flash card, and A. said, “Underarm sweat!”

Sigh.

Fourth graders.

They drive you crazy, and they keep you humble.

Long-time readers will doubtless remember that this is the time of year that I am driven absolutely crazy by my Daled class students. Spring hits Richmond very early each year, but we have class through the end of May. By this time of year, I have gotten nearly through our curriculum, my students have finished or nearly finished their mastery skills, and the sun is bright and warm and there are bugs and birds and trees and flowers to distract my nine- and ten-year-olds.

In short, this time of year is really tough if you’re a Hebrew school teacher trying to impart knowledge into young, impressionable minds. It’s an uphill battle when it isn’t gorgeous out. Add springtime to the mix, and if my students get out of class having learned only one piece of new information, I consider it a victory.

Which is why I try to do things outside the curriculum in late spring. This is the time of year that I scour the internet for something that I can bring in that will keep my students’ interest and yet still teach them about being Jews. Today, I brought in my laptop to take advantage of the synagogue office WiFi. I showed my class the Miri Ben-Ari video that’s been making the rounds. I asked them to tell me if they recognized the music—it’s the Uzi Chitman version of Adon Olam that the rabbi taught them this year (my favorite!). I also asked them to watch the video and tell me what it was about. They caught on to both immediately. Of course, then I had to explain interpretetive dance to them. (“Weird” and “silly” were the words most used most frequently to describe the dance.) And then I had to tell them no, the dancers were not naked, those were flesh-colored bodysuits.

Some of the students were watching more Miri Ben-Ari videos while I worked on a mastery skill with the others. One told me that a box had popped up and was saying something. Turns out that Rahel was IM’ing me. I told her I was in class and asked her to connect her microphone, and then “called” her with Google Talk. I asked her to please tell my students where she was calling from. When they heard “Jerusalem, Israel,” they were awestruck. So, since we had Rahel on Google Talk, and we had just finished listening to my class’ favorite version of Adon Olam, we proceeded to have a sing-along with Rahel. My students sang the first verse, then I asked Rahel if she would sing a verse. The kids got even more awestruck, because if you haven’t heard Rahel sing, you are missing out on something wonderful.

We finished the song, and thanked Rahel, said goobye and went on with our lessons.

It was a wonderful, wonderful lesson. My students all loved it, and even the madrich was impressed. Best of all, I had my camera today. So Rahel, here they are, singing along with you, 6,000 miles away.

Oh, and the kids all think you have a shot as a professional singer and should pursue that. (Yes, after they said that, I reminded them that I’d already brought in your CD for them.)

I really have to figure out a way to get Rahel to my Bat Mitzvah in November. I do believe there will be a fundraiser for her airfare before long.

Today is my baby brother’s birthday. That would be the brother with the teenaged son. We are not getting any younger, but Alex is getting older. He’s about ready to start driving. Yikes.

Dave’s birthday coincides with my Hebrew school class leading services tonight. This will be my fifth time watching my students stand in front of the bimah and chant prayers and psalms. They’re a little nervous about Mizmor L’David and Mi Chamocha—I wound up asking the Rabbi to record it with us on Tuesday and emailed the mp3 to whichever student requested it—but they’ll be fine. And, I told them, Ms. Yourish would be bringing a special snack to the Oneg (reception afterwards). It’s brownies. I thought briefly about making them myself, but Costco has kosher brownies available in a 3-lb. container, so off to Costco I went this afternoon. Turns out the children are going to have even more of a surprise: There’s hamentaschen tonight. Usually, they have to wait until Purim, but apparently we had extras, or the adminstrator wanted to make sure that the Friday night crowd got some, too.

I have noticed many changes in my students over the last five years. My first class wasn’t nearly as confident leading services as my more recent classes have been, and I ascribe that entirely to the rabbi and director of education, both of whom are moving on this year. They instituted a program of twice-a-week t’filah (prayers) practice, during which we learn the Friday and Saturday prayers. That, in my opinion, is what makes them so great leading services—not my making them practice a few weeks before the date.

Tonight’s my students’ turn to shine. They’ll do well. I’ve been practicing with them in class, and they always turn out better than they think they will. This year, I have a student that is very vocal about his opinions, and he kept saying “We stink!” during practice. It took a little convincing, because of course that kind of sentiment catches on. We’ll see how they feel tonight. I’m guessing they’ll decide they did well. Especially after a couple of brownies and hamentaschen.

Update: Perfect attendance, and they were superb. I was so proud of them.

Today’s class was, well, horrible. For whatever reason, the students were at their worst behavior of the entire year. They were unruly and talkative and simply would not listen. In fact, I gave every single student a negative point at the end of the class for their abominable behavior.

All that being said, there was something extremely amusing today, too.

I have never had a poker face, or at least, not when it comes to being angry. The entire world knows when I’m angry. I am simply unable to hide what has become known as “The Look.” I flash people a look even when they’re only mildly annoying, apparently. Today, after one of my students was being particularly annoying, he and the other students commented on the look I was giving him. They particularly noted that they had never seen that specific expression before. “That’s because you’ve never been this bad,” I said.

“Can you do it again?” they asked.

The lesson was not learned.

For the rest of the class, every time the students misbehaved and I shot them a reproving look, there was a chorus of, “She’s doing it again!” and “There it is!” and (sigh) “Can you do it again?”

This look, I explained to my madrich (assistant), is but a pale shadow of the look that has been known to cause grown men to flatten against the wall as I walk past, hoping against hope that it isn’t directed at them. It is the look that used to get my father, one of the only men in the world who was not afraid of it, to say, “Stop looking at me like that.” It is the look I used to call the “Eff-you” look.

Sigh. The Look has been relegated to an entertaining expression for fourth graders when they are misbehaving.

I guess I’m not nearly as angry as I used to be.

Then again, they were just misbehaving children. I’m perfectly sure The Look is still there for when it’s truly needed. Disciplining unruly children in religious school is not one of those times.

Earlier this year, the first of my first class of fourth grade students began having their Bar and Bat Mitzvahs. There’s a post sitting in the spike file of my thoughts from the first Bar Mitzvah, because I couldn’t get it to work. In the meantime, next Saturday two of the last three (they’re twins) are having their Bar and Bat Mitzvah (they’re boy-girl twins). I’ve been helping them a bit with some of the Shabbat service prayers, mostly because they felt unsure and partly because they needed to attend more Shabbat services. But they’re kids, and kids absorb knowledge like a sponge absorbs water. I have no doubt they’ll do extremely well next Shabbat.

The last Bat Mitzvah will be sometime this spring, and then all of my first class—whom my ex-student M. calls my “lab rats”—will have achieved this milestone. They will have led the congregation in prayer, which is actually something that I have never done. I’m doing that in November of 2007. I’ve let a few people know to save the date, like Judith Weiss, and I also know that she can chant Torah, so I asked if she’d be interested in doing one of my Torah portions. I don’t think I”m up to doing seven. She said yes so quickly, I began to wonder who else I could get to help me. So at the latest Bat Mitzvah (last week, in fact), I asked M. if he’d be interested in learning one of my portions. I told him I wouldn’t be at all offended if he refused. He said yes. Then the kids started volunteering. A. asked if he could do a portion. A new boy, S., said he’d be interested. Another one just volunteered today, asking if any portions were left.

I cannot think of a better way to celebrate my adult Bat Mitzvah than to have my former students taking part in it, but I didn’t expect this degree of participation. If this keeps up, I’m going to have to rescind Judith’s invitation and give her portion to another student. Somehow, I don’t think she’ll mind.

Four years ago, when I said yes to the question, “Do you think you could teach Daled class in our religious school?”, I had no idea that I would fall in love with teaching as much as I have. And when my students do something like this, four years after graduating from my class, it makes me love teaching even more.

Like I told my A. last week: That first class taught me how to teach. Every class teaches me something new and different. But one thing they all have in common: They make me love teaching, and children, all over again.

They can be so funny, too. Last Tuesday, I was explaining the difference between patrilineal and matrilineal, trying to explain the laws about passing your Judaism on to your children. The students found much of it profoundly unfair, and at the end of the discussion, younger A. said, “Boys. Can’t live with ‘em, can’t live without ‘em.”

She’s not quite nine yet.

I didn’t laugh then, but boy, did I laugh when I relayed that anecdote to a friend.

Kids are great. Teaching is a blast, most of the time. I’m so glad I was dragged into this.

Okay, I no longer have the student whom I shall call Bad Boy Number One (he’s not really bad, just rather difficult to discipline). I sat in the row in front of him during t’filah (prayers) today, moving back and forth behind my students, who sat in the row in front of me. I’ve learned that sitting behind my students is the best way of keeping them on task and in line.

So I’m moving back and forth, and I feel a squishy object beneath my shoe. I lift my right foot, and there on the carpet in the Sanctuary is what looks like gum. Extremely annoyed, I reach down and pull it up. It turns out to be a putty-like substance, so I wonder if perhaps a workman dropped it. In any case, I leave the sanctuary, go downstairs, and throw it away.

When I come back, I see Bad Boy Number One and Bad Boy Number Two pulling something out of One’s turned-out pocket. “He left some Silly Putty in there and it got all over,” Two said. Now I’m even more annoyed, and I very frostily tell Number One that I found his Silly Putty, stepped on it, thought it was gum, and threw it out. “That’s okay,” One said, “I don’t really want it anymore.” That’s what he said last year every time I took something away from him. And yet, after class, I saw that he had a large lump of what was left of the Silly Putty. Perhaps he wasn’t quite done with it after all.

“You know,” I told him, “you’re not even my student anymore and you’re still giving me trouble.”

He did apologize, though. He said he dropped the Silly Putty and then forgot he had dropped it. Yeah, that’s what he used to say last year, too.

Not missing my old students nearly as much today as I was on Sunday.