30 days. That’s all I have left with this unbelievable class. Thirty short days.
This year has been astounding. Only 16 kids. Ten plus six. That will never happen again. Or so I’ve been told.
One would think that since this fluke of low numbers and an additional teacher on the team helped us to finally feel like we were making a difference in each little life, instead of just jumping from one fire to the next, that someone in authority would insist on doing whatever possible to continue this small-class trend next year.
Don’t count on it. Or so I’ve been told.
Last year I had 24. That’s two small, 4-kid groups more than I had this year. That’s MANY fewer hours of time that had to be shared with MANY more kids. Longer times waiting in lines outside bathrooms. Longer times waiting in line in the cafeteria. Longer times waiting for teacher to answer every question, tie every shoe, finish every mandatory assessment. Less time for each child to have their individual needs acknowledged, much less met.
Same expectations this year. Same sorts of kids from the same neighborhoods. Same poverty. Same delays.
But remarkably, or rather NOT remarkably, the kids are learning more this year.
Quelle surprise. Who could have imagined this?
But, gosh, let’s not continue this magnificent successful trend next year. Let’s shoot ourselves in the foot and return to the days of waiting. Waiting for someone to admit that class size matters.