Welcome to Spider School

"...now please take your seats." i now hear these words each morning that i watch the children. asa proceeds by lining us up on the couch, as he slowly walks behind his (coffee table bench) podium with his arm out stretched, his palm pointed upwards, in a long and dramatic welcome. there is order to his classroom, like there WAS an order to my living room the hour before when i straightened the pillows, lit the candles, and dusted the wooden furniture. he is calmly confident. he stands upright, his head slightly tilted. there is a routine to his teaching style, from his mannerisms to his lesson plan. he first picks up the sabrina ward harrison art journal that i have visually arranged on top because of its boldness. he calls out our names. he then passes it around so that we can "sign up." i pretend that i am signing my name in large cursive letters and his 15 month old sister slaps her hand on it loudly for proof of her attendance. he hasn't of yet realized that both calling out the roll and signing in is repetitive. he next creaks open my large black and white photography books that create the wider foundation of the coffee table stack. he flips through the pages, stops at pictures that hardly resemble anything that he is talking about. he holds it up for our viewing, without ever taking his eyes off of the words that he is "reading." he says things like, "now on a lighter note," and "pay careful attention for this is a very important point." i try not to laugh when he says this. he doesn't use the transitions in an understandable context. they are instead randomly thrown about his lecture. and he does really lecture. he will in lengthy detail describe the process of web making. he closes the book, the pages being turned at a faster speed when he was ready to wrap it up. he next chooses a "teacher's assistant," which always ends up being me, as i am looking at him quizzical, "did this kid go to college?" we pull out my dry erase board whose scribbled "to do" and "payment due dates" lists have permanently stained the background, as if to haunt me of things i haven't done or the bills that i haven't paid. but not today, not at spider school! we erase what we can to make room for drawings of webs. i now sit beside him on the floor as his sister loses interest in what we are doing. i pull out a large garden book whose cover she is consistently drawn to by the red lady bug. she flips the pages and entertains herself for the time being. i apologize to the professor. he reassures me that "oh, no one is late for spider school" and "its okay, she is too little to understand this part." he draws at least 50 spider webs. i hand him the eraser each time he has completed one. he rewards my diligent work with large imaginary golden stars. (this i never received in college, although i did once have a professor that would put smiley faces besides the points she liked in a paper in a senior level class!) in return for his appreciation of me, i suggest that i nominate him for teacher of the year and follow it by, "and i am sure you would win!" he turns his head quickly, smiles with squinted eyes, and says as he pats me on the hand, "no, no, we would BOTH win." next when he thinks i have seen every possible spider web that he could dream up (meaning of course that i have now seen every possible spider web that actually exists in his opinion) he says its time to move on to actually making webs. he shows me how to shoot spider webs out of my fingers, the movements to make to create an orb web. he is again very detailed, this time with his actions. i point my arm towards a corner of the room in preparation, when he stops me. "no, you have to use your spinnerets. you don't have the super spiderman powers like i do." apparently i am not advanced enough to spin webs using my fingers, and even with all of my imaginary stars hanging around my neck, i still must still bend over and shake!!