#8

8 is a sweet boy. He was the first face I saw in the morning, reminding me that my leisurely breakfast time with a co-teacher had ended and I had to start being responsible and in charge. 8's grades were so-so, his handwriting stunk, and he often left out capitalization and punctuation. But he seemed happy and fit right in with the 'video game' group. Despite not taking much pride in his work, it seemed like he was going to have a pretty good year, especially compared to the emotional breakdowns paired with meddling cafeteria worker mother, which I had heard about from previous years.

That was until the crying started. I had heard about the crying but figured by fifth grade most of the kids' old baby-ish ways have died down or been stifled by the desire to fit in. Apparently there was no stifling 8 when he got upset. I don't even remember what caused it because it was something very, very small, but 8 would not come talk to me in the hall and then burst out crying. I tried to talk to him, reason with him, even console him but he would not respond, just shake his head furiously. The principal was in a meeting, "but should be out soon." So I tried to start a new lesson, figuring that desire to fit would kick in if his sobbing was framed by the quiet reading of a social studies text. But no. His "crying" continued even when the tears had obviously run out and it had turned into the sound of a toy firetruck's siren that was running out of batteries. We couldn't even read and the kids were looking somewhat disturbed so I finally prepared them for their special a little early, opened the door to a neighboring room, and emptied the room, save for the pretense of a blubbering inconsolable ten year old boy. The principal eventually talked to him and allowed his mother to speak to him, which I was concerned was all he wanted through all of this. This was the first of 4 times that this would happen throughout the year. And, of course, the blame was placed on medicine. Until the last time it happened when he was not on the medicine anymore.

The third tantrum he had was because I told him that someone cutting him in line was, "not the end of the world." We were walking right by the cafeteria and he found solace in a little hallway. He would not budge so I went around to the front and told his mother, "your son is crying in the little hallway in the back, but I would really appreciate if you would stay in here and not get involved this time." So she immediately walks out to the back and tries to talk to him. What was his response? Slapping her hand away and running behind a door.
The force of bad parenting is something that I cannot win war against. I can try to fight the battles, but 8's mom reminded me of what I am up against.