SHUT UP NAPKIN YOU ARE DRUNK.
Noah graduated from kindergarten yesterday. My god.
At last year's preschool graduation "ceremony," he threw a fit about the hats and tossed his certificate on the floor in protest just seconds after receiving it.
This year, I left with video footage of him holding hands with his classmates while singing a song ("First Grade, First Grade" sung to the tune of "New York, New York"), complete with choreography and a dramatic bow at the end.
There are still issues, yes. We are still struggling with some things and will be taking steps this summer to deal with those things (anxiety, attention, self-esteem, etc.), lest anyone reading these last couple entries think I'm like, "ANNNNNNNDDDD CURED! All done, that's that." Noah remains a bit of a tough nut in some respects, but then in others....
Well, he's just another kid in the big ol' general education kindergarten room. And I can't begin to express how happy that makes me.
And now that the school year is over and this topic has been thoroughly (and hilariously) discussed over on Instagram, I suppose I can finally address the former professional soccer player in the room. Yeah. Noah's kindergarten teacher. He's...uh-huh. I know.
Both Noah and Ezra had male teachers this year. It's a shame that men in early education are such a novelty, but they are, and I was admittedly pretty surprised that we ended up with two in the same year.
On Back to School Night, waaaay back in September, there was like, a laughably palpable wave of ZOMG amongst the room mothers when we all realized that oh, him? That's the new teacher? Wait. He's. Kind of. Ridiculously good-looking? Okay! No afternoon pick-up in pajamas THIS YEAR THEN.
The classroom volunteer sign-up sheet has been solidly full ever since.
I should also go ahead and zoom in on the classroom aide, as well:
WHAT THE HELL, RIGHT? ON WHAT PLANET DOES THIS HAPPEN?
Now, even if these men are not your particular type, try to imagine watching them do stuff like...pouring tiny cups of apple juice. Straightening hair bows. Tying shoes. Giving gentle, reassuring head pats and pep talks to scared, vulnerable little humans. Magically bringing the din of close to 30 children down to silence with nothing but a couple hand claps and a soft-spoken "okay boys and girls..." Teaching your child how to read.
Right? You see it now. YOU SEE THE PROBLEM I HAVE BEEN DEALING WITH ALL YEAR.
I like to think of myself as a sensible, non-giggly sort when it comes to omgboyssss! I'm happily married, I don't flirt or get crushes, and I've even gotten much better about not falling apart into complete doofusdom when confronted with minor celebrities.
And yet I am sure Noah's teacher thinks I have some kind of brain damage, because whenever I'm around him I just talk and talk and talk and flap my hands around and try SO HARD TO BE FUNNY AND COOL that eventually he's like, "Uh...I gotta go like, teach and stuff now. Young minds of America and all that."
Then he backs away slowly while I stand there grinning and nodding like a crazy person, probably failing to notice that Ike has once again managed to yank my shirt down and my nursing bra is showing.
Ezra, at graduation yesterday: You bitches be crazy. Talk to me when there's cake.
For the record, he's married and his wife had a baby a few months ago. Noah came home super excited because he decided that he also wants to be a daddy AND a teacher when he grows up. You can be both, Mom! Isn't that cool?
Yes, dude. It's very cool.
Anyway, thanks for being such a cool teacher, Mr. D. Sorry for being such a spaz, but my kid loved you. Turns out that's a slightly contagious emotion.