Lines from a "Low Talker"

Many who follow my {mis}adventures in education are familiar with one of this year's class personalities whom I've deemed "Low Talker". I've fallen behind on the antics of Low Talker and his classmates lately - what with getting married, freezing to death on the regular, and being an excellent puppy mom... So I've decided to dedicate a few minutes to a compilation of the "Best of Low Talker". If you need a laugh or a moment of insight, this is your opportunity. Despite the oft-exclaimed "this can't be true!" of my regular readers, I assure you - this is the absolute truth. Couldn't make it up if I tried...

{Not So} Nuts about "The Nutcracker"

Before Christmas, I collaborated with fellow teachers to take our classes to the Ohio Theater for a performance of "The Nutcracker". This was a partially selfish endeavor, as I {personally and unabashedly} LOVE this ballet. I couldn't have asked for a more gorgeous location either - painted ceilings, ridiculously elaborate chandeliers, and luxe curtains... if you tuned out the hundreds of {poorly behaved} students. Finally, the lights lowered and the entire theater {thankfully} quieted to enjoy the show. 

The field trip went off without a hitch - all of my students came back in one piece and looked pretty sharp while doing it - especially Low Talker, who'd sported both a sweater vest AND sweater to the event. I asked if he wanted to remove the top layer to show off the bottom and was met with a resounding NO. Apparently, this was the image he'd envisioned while dressing for the theater. We spend quite a bit of time explaining the story and discussing elements like setting, plot and characters. Finally, students were assigned to write about their favorite character. 

We listed some characters and some details about them to prove why they could be considered a favorite, and I didn't think anything was going to be too insightful {or comical} when Low Talker raised his hand. I was, however, VERY wrong. Low Talker cited the Mouse King as his favorite part of the story and unapologetically held his opinion despite the outcry from his peers. I was curious {aren't you?!} and asked him to explain his choice to the class. Without missing a beat, Low Talker said he thought he was cool, scary, etc. I pointed out that he was the villain of the show. Shaking his head dismissively and looking me straight in the eye, Low Talker made his final arguments. 

"Ms. Berry," he crooned in his delightful baritone, "have you ever thought that all he wanted was a little cheese?!" With that, I was put in my place and Low Talker got to work in his Writer's Journal. I was instantly chastened. Because after all, don't we all feel happier after a cube or two of Gouda?

The "Mrs." Claus{e} 

Later in the last week before break, we took a breather from our flurry of academics and activities to watch a Christmas classic - "The Year Without a Santa Claus". It was a safe bet, as most students couldn't whine that they'd "seen this one before" and it lasted longer than 30 minutes. {Until you've tamed 25 second graders in the days leading up to Christmas break with countless whiffs of snow and sugary sweet treats, don't judge me}. Dubbed an awesome look at a Santa-less world, the class loved discussing the various ways Christmas could be saved. 

Suddenly, Low Talker raised his hand - coming out of some fog or parallel plain of the universe. I could tell something was on his mind and that it was bound to be blog-worthy, so I called on him. He didn't disappoint. 

"Mrs. Claus is a 'Mrs' because she has children." he bellowed, proud of this deduction... "but they weren't in the movie." With this proclamation, he looked at me accusatorially. I snuffed out a smirk and nodded sagely. 

"Low Talker," I said calmly, "Ms. Berry is getting married and then she'll be a 'Mrs.' - but I don't have any children."

He blinked, taking in this uncontested fact and pursed his lips. Placing a hand on his forehead in thought, he muttered to himself...

"Back to the drawing board...." I'm still waiting for the rebuttal. It will come, no doubt. 

The Holy Child {Support}

Last week, we returned to school and began talking about the Holy Family. I thought I was throwing out some amazing and thought-provoking religious education, especially when I presented a small group discussion about the similarities between Joseph and our own father figures. 

"What makes a good father?" I asked the class of bright-eyed cherubs. {I can say this because it was our first day back from a two week and two day break and they were already shell shocked from being back in routine}. The answers ran the gamut from "buying us pizza" to "taking me to the doctor" and were all pretty traditional, run-of-the-mill 'Dad' activities. Once again, Low Talker raised his hand; this time, with a very pleased look on his face. This usually indicated a high level of thought on his part and a very high possibility of suppressed laughter on my part. I decided I needed the shot of endorphins {back to school was hard on me too, after all}. I repeated the question and called his name...

"Good dads pay their child support on time!" he bellowed, eyes wide and chest puffed out with pride. I clamped my mouth shut as a high pitched sigh escaped and nodded vigorously. Before I could take the situation in hand, several other children began bobbing their heads up and down and giving short assents. Apparently, Low Talker was right on this one. Later, I was reviewing the day and prepping tomorrow's Religion lesson, I meditated on Low Talker's criteria for a good dad. I looked down at St. Joseph, standing next to Mary and the baby in the stable, and thought about him from Low Talker's point of view. 

Joseph was a stepdad. A good one - the kind who didn't ignore you {or worse} and who took really good care of your mom. He disciplined Jesus, and supported him, and even participated in an early world version of "take your kid to work day". He raised someone else's son {even if that someone was God}. I smiled and shook my head. Once again, I'd been schooled on something I thought I'd known more about than my students. 

So when I get on my educational high horse, I take a line or two from Low Talker's book. And most of the time, I get schooled at school. And I LOVE it! 

XO, 

Fro-Yo{ga}

Several years ago, I had my first brush with Bikram Hot Yoga. I was visiting my best friend, Lindsey, in Alabama and gamely agreed to attend a session at her local studio. Lindsey is known for her fanatical attitude towards fitness {juicing, CrossFit-like small group sessions, long distance running, etc} and I knew that there was a chance that this may result in pain or heart palpitations on my part. However, I'm slightly maniacal when it comes to exercise myself, and felt I was up for the challenge. I grabbed her extra mat, a specialized yoga towel, and a {too small} bottle of water and bravely saddled up for an early Saturday morning workout.

I {foolishly} thought that Hot Yoga would be a comfortable way to spend a chilly February morning. Most of the images I had of yoga contained a lot of Birkenstocks, granola, and meditation. I figured I was more than prepared, calculating my uber-athleticism to be a heavy pro in this situation. In fact, I secretly thought this wasn't going to be much of a workout, but more of a nap. With a small amount of cockiness, I filled out a waiver, half-heartedly listened to the spiel from the instructor, and rolled my eyes at the plethora of Buddhas and incense holders featured throughout the studio. Bunch of hippies, I snorted, and snapped the waistband of my Lululemon {full-length... this will matter in a minute} Wunder Unders. Bring it, Bikram!

An excruciating ninety minutes later {Lindsey neglected to impart this tiny bit of information until midway through Dante's Inferno}, I emerged five to ten pounds lighter with a keen longing to plunge my simmering skin into a melting snowdrift outside the studio doors. The hour and a half that had preceded this haze of endorphins and heat stroke was a blurry montage of images, sounds, and an internal mental commentary that doubled as a thermometer.

Before my initiation into the world of yoga, I envisioned toned, tanned hard bodies of both sexes demonstrating amazing flexibility and drinking delicious juice concoctions while they basked in a state of post-yoga bliss. Instead, I spent the standing series watching King Kong's third cousin stumble through Triangle and Tree in a dangerously small piece of blue spandex. Between his back hair and the copious amount of sweat rolling down his shoulders, I was pretty sure that my prior knowledge on yogis came from E! News and other Hollywood lies. I furtively tried to catch Lindsey's eyes each time the instructor mentioned the amount of time left or passed; however, she conveniently became absorbed by her mat/towel or the mirrors that were steaming over in this wheatgrass version of Hell. And those full-length yoga pants soon felt like a 10 pound wet blanket, creating a miserable sensation of humidity from heel to hip. It was an experience I wouldn't soon forget - and that scarred me for quite some time when it came to yoga {hot or otherwise}.

Fast forward to 2013 and my first winter north of the Mason-Dixon. Surrounded by snow drifts and frigid winds, I was desperate to be warm. No matter how high the thermostat was cranked or how many layers I sported while walking Jolene, I could never shake that icy feeling in my core {not to mention my fingers and toes}. When I inadvertently passed the Bikram studio on the way to somewhere else, it hit me like a white hot bolt of lightning - my frozen fingers and toes would undoubtedly thaw out if I could just push aside my strong aversion to all things yoga. Two days later, I was locked into a new member month unlimited opportunity {to ensure that I HAD to go more than once}.

I {admittedly} wised up on the wardrobe and sported a pair of yoga shorts with a tank. With a small fish tank's volume of water and a brightly colored beach towel/yoga mat combo - I was ready to better the Bikram beast. Once again, there were no six-packed sex symbols in sight; however, there was the welcome and immediate thawing of my body that resulted in my shoulders falling away from my ears for the first time since late October! With each pose, my attitude became a little more flexible {along with my hamstrings!}. I purposefully put the focus on me and started setting up mini-mental competitions for how far I could push myself. By the end of the 90 minutes, I'd sweat out my preconceived notions {and last night's two glasses of wine} and felt warmer than I had in weeks.

Now, I'm a {semi} regular in the studio and even garnered a compliment from my favorite instructor about how much he enjoyed watching my practice improve. I still occasionally get a little irritated at the green-eating hippies who take the experience to the max, but I'm getting over it. Maybe it's my new Zen attitude or maybe it's the warm feeling I get from head to to after a sweat sesh. Regardless, I have a new frigid weather fitness passion - I call it "Fro-Yo{ga}.

XO,