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Thursday, May 17, 2007

Who My Baby Daddy?

Despite my outward appearance of youth, I'm an old fart at the best of times and no one can make me feel older than my students. Each grade that barges through my hallway, year after year, zips its way through fashion trends, obnoxiously yells its way through new slang I can barely keep up with, procreates its way to Waltons-sized proportions, and seems to come to us a few years more immature than the last lot. Obviously, I have to take into consideration the fact that I say farewell to kids who have been here a year and have had the chance to accumilate battle scars of maturity and experience, and I then have to go back to square one with the next bunch of bright-eyed, bushy-taled hooligans.

Today I was asked a question, not for the first time, that makes me feel just that little bit older:

"Are you married to your baby daddy?"

I try to be hip. I'm down with my G's. I ain't no lame-ass punk. I gots my wageezies (or however the hell you spell that). But... Am I married to the father of my child? Seriously? I could only imagine how my teachers would have reacted if I had asked them the same question. My cheek would probably still be hurting to this day.

Instead, I hesitated for a moment and said "Yes, we're married." And she said "oh", as though my case were a delightful departure from the norm, perhaps with the thought that I must be some sort of Super Woman for being able to keep my man to myself. I guess this means I should get back to being barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen. AGAIN.

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