Being a writing snob, I never, not once, thought I would ever teach the dreaded "Three Paragraph Essay" (which is the intermediate version to the equally dreaded "Five Paragraph Essay"). I always prided myself on teaching writing "outside the box". And, yes, that included not teaching the Thesis Statement. I'm more of a narrative-type a guy where the pointless thesis statement was usually implied with humor, cunning, and wit.

But, there I was today, whipping out the manila folders (their writing portfolios) and taking my 48 kids per through the "writing process" at Warp Snail Pace. It all started with a topic, proficiency approved of course. We class-banged the brainstorming process, cluster style, baby. (I always cluster before I blog it out!). Then we moved into the rough draft. Because, like I told them, the cluster map was the buffet - the rough draft was our lunch, we could go to the buffet and take whatever we wanted to eat from the Cluster Table to put on our Rough Draft Plate!

It all got pretty intense at this point. Because when we shifted to the Final Draft, at the end of the period, I threw in a monkey wrench - or, like my AP cleverly dubbed, "Surprise Editorialization". This safe-proof is to prevent them from copying the rough draft verbatim and claiming it as a final draft. Anyway, they had to include not one, but two hardcore facts (guaranteed to persuade the masses, and this was a persuasive piece) in the final.

Well, this was three days worth of work wrapped up in one day to get the familiar with them routine - I will typically take them through the pre-writing, rough, and final drafts on separate days (as a warm-up activity before moving into the nit and grit of my glorious English II curriculum: pronouns!).

It's a shame I am teaching something I, myself, would never use. To pigeonhole my students into a formulaic essay in despicable, and I threw up twice this afternoon between lessons.

That's okay, though, I still have my combined Journalism I and II class to tinker with. Sadly, my Creative Writing Class - where I could really flex composition ingenuity - was destroyed in an effort to fit as many students as possible in regular English courses.

Positive Side Note: Only three new enrollments today. I am eagerly awaiting the end of October where, as promised, classes will be leveled.

Alright, I'm done being an ass. I just thought I'd brag that my students are doing things students in high school do: stupid stuff.

Common Question: Why are you teaching? Get out if you hate it, sucka!

Answer: Mommy is still laid off, and I have three half-blackies to love and raise. I don't plan on slingling computers at Best Buy ever again, so this is it.

I just put in a graphic arts request: 500 stapled (pre-writing, rough rafting, final drafting) proficiency practice packets! (Which is good for a measly two essays - the price one pays for classes of girth.)

I am a man on a mission. I am determined. Willing. And able to do what it takes to be a teacher amongst teachers! All hail the three-paragraph-teaching Billings!

(Yeah, my students know those are exclamatory sentences. And they use them cautiously, because it's never good to yell!)

Teaching is tough. A lot of times, it becomes one big negotiation. My motto has become, "You treat me good, I'll treat you good."

And it's the truth.

Example: My first and second periods act like seniors. Meaning they are quiet, laid back, want to get in and out and be done with it all. They have the same mentality that I do.

Another nice thing about this is that - despite having class sizes hovering in the mid to upper 40s - I have 8-12 kids absent every day in these periods. (This could be why they are my the most well-behaved bunch. What a concept, drop a class size below 40 and the classroom becomes tolerable). My more difficult periods, where everyone shows up and I am sitting at 47 students, those are the trickiest.

My good classes, the classes I enjoy, had 17 assignments last Quarter with three massive extra credit opportunities. My less desirable classes punched in at 22-23 assignments with one little extra credit assignment. I like you, we do less. I don't, we do more.

(A note: on the classes I like "more" we turn the busy work, paper-based assignments, into engaging classroom discussions. Because, for the most part, I enjoy talking to them - and they enjoy listening to what I have to say.)

This week my classes have taken a practice Reading Proficiency pre-test to help familiarize them to the standardized test they're all going to encounter come March. With four of my five classes I embedded a nice little incentive: For each question they got correct they would "win" .5 points in extra credit. The test came in at 50 questions total, so they could potentially bank 25 points extra credit.

Not a bad deal, considering this was the first "assignment" for the new quarter - an extra credit opportunity, of all things.

Shit, I wish I had me as a teacher. I think about, and say that, often.

Well, one class (surprisingly only one) couldn't be quiet while taking the test. I congratulated them for signing an "F" for their second quarter grade - and proceeded to turn it into a 250 point assignment, a whopping 5 points per question.

So, instead of having a little cushion to start the quarter like the rest of my classes, this particular class was buried with a massive test amounting to a point total that almost equaled all of first quarter.

I told them they'd be getting an Honors load worth of work these next 9 weeks. One kid asked, "Does that mean we're honors now?"

...

Any teacher that tells you they treat all classes, and all students as equals are full of crap. And I tell my students this. I'm human. I'm subjective. I play favorites. I take care of students who bust their butts, shut their mouths when I'm talking, don't line up at the door before the bell rings - I take care of kids who show interest in themselves, their grades, sports, and my overall amazing teaching and storytelling ability.

(That's why Honors was so fun, they all kissed my butt and laughed at everything I said - my humor and dry wit seems now to evade most students I have. Ah, Honors, one day I will have you again - especially since I started teaching Thesis Statements and things AP teachers want me to teach. You know, stupid stuff discussed over cosmopolitans on those late alcohol induced Friday evenings.)

But I think my philosophy is universal. For anyone who ever thought I treated them poorly, take a good look at yourself. Because it's true: If you treat me good, I'll treat you good. (If I have, or am, treating you poorly, well...).

Or, as I always say to those worry-wort students I really like (and who have treated me good): "Don't sweat it, I'll take care of you."

And I always, always do.

It's a bit frightening, and a little embarrassing, to read what I write the following morning. It's like calling an old friend when you're hammered out of your mind, puking on the telephone, and crapping your pants just before you pass out on the floor.

The thing with drunk texting, or drunk calls, or other drunk escapades is that the person usually needs to be drunk first. Then the following morning they follow it up with a "What, or who, did I do last night?"

With my writing, oftentimes I am sober (and I was last night). My boozing days - which never really started - are long over. I suppose athletes call it "getting in the zone," but something in me comes alive - something I can't control. So, like this morning, when I go back and read posts that I have written I am sometimes shocked to see what I find. And, like I said already, both frightened and embarrassed.

Writing can have the type of hypnotic grip on a person. It certainly does to me. For the hour or however long it is that I write, I'm lost. Apparently last night I took a wrong turn deep into my subconscious. And it hasn't been my first trip down Memory Lane either - I've been mugged a bunch walking down that street.

I sensed something was up when I finished writing last night - which is why I threw in a little disclaimer at the beginning (after the fact). Little Red Flags were popping up every paragraph. This morning it read like a whiny guy who can't move on with his sorry life. Last night it sounded like so much more in my head.

So, children, here's the lesson for the day: Get lost in yourself, write until you can't write any more, then push it aside to read another day.

Or, just do what I do, and "Publish Post".

This post, as with most of my posts, is unfiltered, discombobulated, and sincere - not to mention unusually lengthy. To anyone with an "English" sense, these are all rough drafts. Never do I sit down brainstorm my writing. I just write. Here is tonight's result:

It’s been over a year now since we’ve had the kids. Fifteen months, to be precise.

When we first decided to foster Team Billings (and eventually adopt them) we were lauded by many as Saints. My wife is always told, by people in her foster licensing class, that there will be a special place in Heaven for us. Which is odd, because I thought Heaven in general was supposed to be special enough.

Anyway, her and I will have the Jesus - V.I.P. Lounge, courtesy the adoption of a sub 5-year old sibling group.

A bold move indeed, to adopt three kids. Remember, I wanted a girl, and my wife wanted a boy, so we settled for two boys and a girl. It hasn’t been easy since. And there isn’t a day that goes by where I’m not envious of parents with only one or two kids. Three complicates things quite a bit. I suppose it’s the equivalent of having one or two kids as a single parent, but however you cut it, three is tough.

But a married couple, with one kid (or even two)? Count your blessings people.

I knew parenting wouldn’t be easy. But most parents have some type of transition period – usually a birth (of a single child) to help ease them into parenthood. As far as Kris and I, two professionals with loads of experience with children, we find ourselves on the ropes daily. We take unbelievable punishment.

I work at a job where it’s take, take, take – question, question, question – teach me, teach me, teach me; and I come home to an environment where it’s take more, take more, take more - question more, question more, question more - teach more, teach more, teach more.

In a lot of ways we are a single couple fending for ourselves. The bulk of our blood and old friends are across the country. So it’s not like the kids can spend the night at Grandma’s house while mom and dad take a breather (which we often need to do). That can’t happen here.

At ages three, four, and five – they’re at a crucial stage in their lives. And I caught myself today saying to my wife how unappreciative, spoiled, and greedy our children have become (or already were). Neither of us can believe this, though, since the only thing we feel like we do all day long is yell at them and count down from five.

My mom always says to me that she would watch me and my brother at night as we slept, and she would feel so bad – she would feel like such a terrible parent – because all she did all day was yell, yell, yell.

I reassure her that – while I certainly remember her temper – I don’t remember seeing it all the time. I remember the good, like any kid will. And there was a lot of good.

Despite these words from my own mother, I can’t help but feel guilty about the way I treat them: I certainly don’t abuse them. Well, not in the physical sense. But, like my mother, my temper is short and quick. I feel unappreciated, both at home and at work - and that only contributes to the distress.

With school it’s a simple matter of feeling betrayed or left out to dry at a time when I had expended all I had to help those around me. I felt like, after that 2009 season, I had nothing left. That’s why I walked away from track following my early (untimely) departure from cross country. However, there were no pick-me-ups, I was merely pushed aside without the courtesy of being notified or consulted with.

It was all logistics: I impeded on their employment plans – they needed Coach X for season Y and that was it. The hire was made, and with it promises were broken. You know, anything I did prior to me quitting cross country and backing out of track usurped all. Loyalty was a non issue. I was an obstacle. I pissed some people off with track (which, not coincidentally, took place during my foster classes and the onset of Rogue’s epilepsy) and was replaced. Period. End of story.

There was no, “What can we do to keep you to stay?” or “What prompted this decision?” or “We’re here to help you in any way possible,” or “The job is yours if you change your mind, even if it’s the day before the season.”

Actually, I did hear that last quote, but it was pretty much "Don't let the door hit you on the way out." It didn’t matter, because the AP who said the job was mine left the next year along with the promise he had made. Those in power remaining simply turned their backs, and did their best to avoid confrontation.

With a guy like me, I initially thought I was hurt because I didn’t get my ego stroked like I expected to (and deserved to). But, as I sit here tonight and think about parenting, I realize I just wanted someone to care. I think maybe that’s why I took it so hard (and continue to take it hard). My co-coach at the time seemed to care the most. She was ultimately powerless to help (although I will never forget she tried.) But I followed my Friendship Script, pissed her off too, and permanently ruined any chances at ever coming back.

(A lot of my conversations with her last year sounded like this: "If you become Dean I'd like to take your spot." Well, she became Dean, and I didn't take her spot. Although I am pleased with the person who did, at least.)

At home my kids are too young to pull me aside and give me a hug, or offer me a moment to say, “Hey Dad, what you and mom did was amazing. I can’t thank you enough for becoming our parents. And, by the way, you were an amazing coach and are a truly remarkable teacher, despite what anyone says…” I’m sure that will happen one day – on many occasions. And I wish I could hear it sooner than later, but that just isn’t how things work.

So much of who we are or how we perceive our lives (good or bad) correlates with how much we care for others and how much we are cared for. This worries me because, according to this equation, my self-perception is dim.

My wife, who I’ve gone on record saying many times before, is my lifeline. I shiver to think of who, what, or where I’d be without her. But she can’t burden the “Care Load” all by herself. No one person can.

So pay it forward, people. Go out and adopt three kids, or whatever, but pay it forward. Tell the person next to you how much you appreciate them. Stand up for them, especially if you’re in a position of power and have the ability to help.

Don’t piss your bed and just assume Mom is going to wash your sheets. Because I pissed my bed a ton, and have been sleeping in it for awhile now.

(While I won't - or try not to - use any names, there has been a great deal of support and compliments sprung my way. Mostly from students, and graduates with a few colleagues thrown in for good measure. I wanted to just recognize them "in general" for taking the burden off my wife, and helping a guy back on his feet. Your texts, letters, and conversations with me says it all. As anyone will agree, it's good to know that we're not alone.)