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handing them
     out, I always give the Comb Speech: Do
not
share your combs. Hold on to them. Please take them out of your hair before having your picture taken.
    Normally, the little plastic combs are black. But this year they were red, green, blue, and yellow.
    I handed Melanie a blue one.
    “Can I have red?” she asked.
    I gave her red.
    Sarah was next. “Green, please.”
    I felt like I was handing out Otter Pops.
    Gina studied the combs in my hand as if she were deciding on which cupcake had the most frosting. “Mmm… can I have yellow?”
    “Honey, they’re all the same.”
    She pointed to Emily. “
She
got yellow.”
    I let out a sigh and handed her a yellow. Then I made an announcement. “Okay, class, no more choosing colors. Take the ones
     I give you.”
    “Then can we trade?” asked Brian.
    “No!”
    By the time the teacher gets to sit down for his own photo, he is completely wiped out. But the fun has just begun. Now the
     teacher must take a seat on the photographer’s stool. This is similar to sitting in the dentist’s chair while he performs
     a root canal. The teacher can’t move. He must sit perfectly still with hands folded, knees together, back straight, chin up,
     and feet planted on the masking tape while his students stand on the sidelines unsupervised.
    Our school photographer’s name is Charlie. He has been taking school photos for thirty-seven years. Charlie loves taking kids’
     pictures — except when the cafeteria is serving pizza. If Picture Day takes place on Pizza Day, Charlie says kids will have
     ear-to-ear sauce stains and look like clowns.
    This year while I was sitting helplessly on the stool and Charlie was tilting my chin, Christopher was demonstrating for his
     classmates how to slide across the multi floor as if he were stealing second base. Trevor was making farting noises as he
     emptied his gel bottle onto Kevin’s head. And John was trying to see if he could turn his plastic comb into a boomerang.
    Every year before I take a seat on Charlie’s stool, I say the same thing: “Listen you guys — when I sit down I don’t want
     anyone to fool around. I mean it. I’m serious.” But do you think my students listen? Absolutely not. They stand behind the
     lights and point and giggle and make faces at me because few things are more fun than trying to make your teacher laugh when
     he is having his photo taken on Picture Day.

VANILLA WAFERS
    W e have a new teacher at our school. Her name is Carrie. Carrie teaches third grade a few doors down from me. At the end of
     the first week, I went to check on her. She was sitting at her desk sorting through some papers.
    “Well,” I said, clapping my hands together, “you made it through week one. Congratulations!”
    “Yeah!” Carrie cheered.
    “Only 180 more days to go.”
    “Ahhhhhh!” she cried.
    I sat down in a kid chair. “So how’s it going?”
    “Well,” she sighed, “between today’s fire drill, a birthday party, and the school assembly that I forgot about until the last
     minute, I don’t know if my kids learned anything.”
    I laughed. “That’s normal.” I leaned back in my chair and crossed my legs. “So can you relax this weekend?”
    She held up her lesson plan book and grinned. “It’s empty.”
    “Ah yes,” I said with a nod. “I remember. Don’t worry. The second year is easier. Trust me.”
    “I hope so,” she breathed out.
    “Hey,” I said, “mind if I give you some advice from an old vet?”
    “Please.”
    I uncrossed my legs and leaned in. “Don’t try to do it all your first year.”
    Carrie gave an understanding nod.
    “You’ll want to make everything perfect,” I continued. “Like you were trained to do in teacher school. But you can’t.” Carrie
     nodded some more. “And cut yourself a lot of slack. Learning to teach is like learning a new language.”
    “Uh-oh,” she squeaked.
    “What?”
    “I didn’t do so well in French.”
    We both laughed.
    “May I