Good Readers...

Report Cards

Already.

Reading is...

...a way of life in room 210. I hope it's infectious.

Dear Fourth Graders,

June 21, 2012

This has been the most amazing first year any teacher could ask for. These past few weeks, I’ve been so impressed with what you are capable of. Math has been a breeze. Writing the Social Studies CBA was a piece of cake. Reading has become like second nature to you. It’s like watching a whole new class because you’ve grown and learned so much. I’m so proud of all of you and all that you have accomplished.

I will especially never forget the suitcase you gave me at the time I needed it most. I promise I will keep it for the rest of my life, just like all of my memories of you.

I will miss you all very much, especially those that will not be at Lakeridge next year. Never be a stranger. My door is open to you all day every day, you are always welcome. I have to let you go now. I wish I could keep you, but I can’t. You’re ready for fifth grade now.

Take care and good luck next year. You will fly high, I know it.

Sincerely,

Mrs. Moffatt

---

August 28, 2012

Tomorrow 2/3 of my students are returning for their final year at Lakeridge Elementary. 

I don't know what to expect. 

Will they be tall? Will I be able to recognize them? Will they still love me? Will I be able to portray just how much I missed them? Will they understand how excited I am to see them? Or will they be embarrassed?

A list of questions with no answers as of yet.

The bottom line: I'm so excited I can hardly wait.

The School Year in Pictures

Looking for photos from Room 210? You can find them here.

Don't forget that you need the top-secret password. This can be found on the letter I wrote to all of my wonderful fourth graders on the last day of school.

Enjoy!

Mischief Managed

Last day of school. My students are gone.

Did I cry? Yes.

Will I miss them? Yes.

Was it the best first year ever? Absolutely.

The Last Day

This Was A Super Touching Moment...

...until some joker thought it would be funny to wipe a gigantic booger on someone's hand.

Moment ruined.

The end.

"Don't worry, I'll let him know..."

My mom died on April 28th.

I was out of my classroom for a week. The day I returned I sat down in front of my students, all waiting on the carpet for me, faces carefully neutral so as not to offend with their excitement at my return.

A smile slowly crept onto my face as I looked around at twenty-one glowing, happy children. All I could manage was a, "Hi guys," before my throat constricted.

My students knew. And that was it. No further conversation was necessary.



Today, just like every other day since the beginning of the year, a student asked me how old I am.

The student in question sits at a desk that is within touching distance to my projector cart, which I sit at more than my own desk. We often chat during work time because he is so conveniently close.

Today, just like every other day since the beginning of the year, I told him I wasn't telling. This is my normal response. That, or stating that I am 65-90 years old. They interchange, depending on my mood.

The student continued, "Okay, well you should have your mom come to class so I can ask her." He put a triumphant emphasis on the final word.

It felt like a water balloon burst inside my chest, raining ice cold water down and down, into my stomach, down to my very toes. My pencil paused mid-word. I looked up. He was smiling a big, toothy grin.

The student that sits next to him, the resident nonfiction know-it-all, looked up just as I did. Our eyes locked. His face was serious, a face much older than that of a 10-year-old.

Without missing a beat, his hand outstretched as if to ward off my response, he said "Don't worry, I'll let him know."

He leaned forward and whispered something to the Triumphant One.

I stood up and walked away, feigning a purpose, needing to move away, searching for composure on my cluttered desk.

Later on, Triumphant One sheepishly asked me if he could ask my dad instead.

A Little Encouragement

It Feels Right

Charades has become a popular activity during vocabulary instruction. Essentially, I give them a new word, they infer the meaning and then they must act out that word.

My students love any opportunity to act...well, ridiculous.

Today, each table group (of which there are five) was assigned the word "atmosphere" to act out. The actors were also given the power to award table points to the students in the audience that correctly guessed what atmosphere they were acting out.

Atmosphere: excited.
Student example: dancing around, arms flailing wildly as if they were in a mosh pit (which I doubt they have ever heard of)

Every table group but one guessed correctly. The incorrect group decided to contest their obvious wrongness. A loud fight ensued. I struggled to regain calm.

Finally I shouted, "If you guys don't stop fighting I will take away your ability to give out table points!"

Silence.

I continued, "I mean, come on, when do I ever give you guys a chance like this? You have the power to give out points," and then, on a whim I added, "How does it feel?"

My students pondered my proclamation in relative silence.

Then, from one of my quietest students, came a firm and very serious response. "It feels right."

"What did you say?" I asked, in awe of his profound and yet hilarious statement.

He repeated, quieter, less sure, "It feels right."

All I could do was laugh.

Teacher of the Month: March

The Exaggerator

Student: "Hermione G." keeps bothering me. She keeps tapping her pencil just to annoy me.

Mrs. Moffatt: But, I moved her away from you so this wouldn't happen anymore. How can you possibly hear her from across the room?

Student: She got a bigger pencil!

And then I laughed at him. The look on his face told me he wasn't joking about the pencil being spontaneously bigger.