Teacher! Teacher! I have a joke

 Yesterday at recess, a boy in Miriam's class came up to me and told me a knock knock joke.  I'm pretty sure I have heard every knock knock joke third graders know.

Maybe being a third grade teacher is hearing the same jokes over and over and saying something like, "Ha!  That's a good one!" until you die.

Since it was recess duty and I had time on my hands, I considered the other third grade teacher things.

If they have markers, they will snap them together with the top of one attached to the bottom of another.  They will wave them and be disruptive and you finally have to take away the markers.

If it is "Read with a Cop," half of them won't be able to see the pictures because while the cop has lots of cop skills, he doesn't know how to hold a book so kids can see the pictures.  The other half will just openly talk and not listen and you will have to give meaningful looks to just get them to act a little bit civilized.

Also, they will ask the cop every time how old he is (48--seriously, every time) and if he's ever shot anyone (no).

Sometimes they will laugh and gasp at points during my read aloud which is endlessly gratifying and other times they will do things like sharpen a pencil or come up to ask me some random question during read aloud which is endlessly maddening.

They are the biggest tattle-tales in the world, which makes my job so much easier.  I know they will rat each other out.  Even their best friends.

They criticize my handwriting when I write on the board.  If my letters aren't perfectly formed, they act like it is unreadable.  Listen.  I can read your writing.  Apply yourself and I bet you can figure it out.

I try to care about someone cutting in line when they are lining up to come inside at the beginning of the day, but really?  I don't care.  It is the difference of 10 seconds if you're the end of the line or first of the line.  They lay their backpacks out to save their spots and then run and play and inevitably someone takes their spot even though their backpack was there.

And I don't care.

They also are so sweet.  At least once a week someone plunks a bottle of hand sanitizer or a container of wipes on my desk.  They smile shyly when I thank them and they say, "It's from my mom."

(For the record, I didn't ask anyone to bring hand sanitizer or wipes, but they keep coming.)

I know some of them pray for me every day.

I love when they say, "I don't get it," or "This doesn't make sense."  Because then I can help them.

I love when they remind each other, "Mistakes are proof that you are trying."

I love when they remind me of that.

I love that they want to tell me their jokes.