Teacher of Doom!

    Today is the first day of school.  I love year round; my girls never have much time to forget anything. 
    I thought my kids were excited until I heard them telling horror stories about their teachers.



    This is how it started:
    Yesterday, I decided to treat my four kids to popcorn and a movie, but we celebrated mom style: we stayed home, snuggled up in our pj's and watched Stowaway (a classic Shirley Temple movie).
    The Scribe turned to The Hippie.  "See how this is black and white?" she asked.
    The Hippie nodded.
    "It's because this movie was made when people were stupid and everyone was colorblind."
    I'd taught her the word "colorblind" hours before, and her application cracked me up.  The Hippie soaked in her words and some more hand sanitizer--mystified.  I wanted to clarify, but the microwave beeped because the popcorn was done.
    "Don't worry about pausing it.  I'll be down in just a minute."  I headed up the stairs and smiled about my kids.    
    Now, one of the greatest things about my children is that they don't know the secrets of being a mom.  They haven't realized that labor is so painful, so absolutely horrific, it practically turns you into a super hero.  Some people get bit by radioactive spiders.  Some people fall into vats of acid.  But me, I chose to become a super hero by going through labor.
    So, as I got the popcorn and sipped on a coke in the next room, I heard every word those kids said.  The Zombie Elf (my three-year-old) whined about the girl movie.  My amazing-mother ears caught the baby cooing.  Then I heard The Scribe mute the TV.  "Listen to this." She giggled.  "My name's Shirley Temple and people love me because in every movie, no matter what it is, I never have any parents . . . ever. And adults LOVE kids with curly hair and no parents."
    I nearly spewed my coke everywhere.
    "So, you excited for school?" The Scribe asked The Hippie.
    "Yep.  I heard my teacher's really nice.  She even gave me a sucker when I met her."
    "Wow, those evil teachers are getting good at tricking kids."  The Scribe paused for effect.  "And you actually ate the sucker?"
    "Of course I did.  What do you mean?"  
    I imagined The Hippie using more hand sanitizer to keep the germs and bad thoughts away.
    "It's just that . . . Well, I didn't want to tell you, but I think your new teacher's a witch," The Scribe said.
    "What!"
    "It's true.  Real witches always wear gloves.  They wear wigs.  Remember that book we read?  What was it called again?"
    "'The Witches,'" The Hippie's voice shook.
    "Oh, yeah . . . 'The Witches.'  Well, your teacher wears skin colored gloves that do look like hands.  Her hair's too nice to be real!  Her face is too pretty; it must be a mask.  Once a kid didn't read when she told him to and he stayed in that chair for one-thousand hours, just reading.  The strange thing was, his parents didn't even miss him, even though he turned into an old man."
    "But Mama would miss me!" The Hippie said.
    "Not if your teacher's a witch."
    "Oh, bad guy!" The Zombie Elf suddenly joined in, terrified.
    "So, when the moon in full, like tomorrow night, your teacher will pick her first victim.  No wonder her class gets smaller and smaller as the year goes on!"
    "All right."  I finally came down the stairs.  My three oldest kids seemed as pale as milk.  There they sat, in front of a Shirley Temple movie, telling horror stories!  "Who turned off the volume?"
    "It just did it . . . on its own."  (Insert Twilight music)
     I raised a brow and The Scribe laughed.
    "Fine, it was me."
    So, after Shirley got adopted and the movie ended, I asked The Hippie what was wrong.  She looked really concerned.  "I think my teacher's a bad woman, maybe even a witch," she said.  "Will you ever forget me, if I read for too long?"
    "Of course not!" I turned to both my girls. "We better put both your teachers through a test.  Witches don't like reading letters.  They hate it because bad people don't like reading."
    "Even teacher-witches?" The Hippie asked.
    "Yep," I said.  "They hate children, real hair AND reading."
    "But that's silly," The Scribe (that bee in my bonnet) said.  "All teachers love reading."
     "Just like teachers never wear gloves . . . or wigs?" I asked.  "Some teachers really hate reading.  But you have to test them with the best thing ever.  You need to write a letter.  If you each write to your teacher, and she hates it, then you know she's a bad guy, or worse . . . a witch."
    "How do you know that?" The Scribe asked, making my head hurt.
    "I read it in the back of a book called 'The Witches.'  Trust me, it's true."
    They gasped.  If I'd read it in "The Witches," then it must be true.
    They both wrote a note before going to bed last night.
   
    Here's The Scribe's loooong note!

Something  

Sometimes I wonder what is out there,

but I know that won't change.

Doesn't matter what people say,

it still won't change.

I just feel like a cyclops

because I want to see everything.

And that won't 

change.

Sometimes I won't get a move-on

but that won't change.

I go-got go-got go-got

the feeling,

but that won't change 

my personality.

I have something in my heart 

that they call personality.

Oooooooooo!

Something!

And that won't change.

    I don't know if it turned into a song at the end or what, but I thought it was pretty cute, and that won't change!

    Here's The Hippie's note:

    

                       Dear Teacher,

I like you even though I don't know you.

By the way, do you know who made God? 

    So, I hope their teachers will like the notes.  If not, I'm in a heap of witchy trouble at school and here at home. 

    I hope I handled this right.  I could have gotten mad at The Scribe, except that she's serious.  She really thinks The Hippie's teacher is a witch.  She's told me about it since second grade.  

    Kids . . . they're better than the sunrise, or an iced mocha on a sunny day! 

  How would you deal with this situation?