Tale of a Teacher and the Sixth Grade Psychic

*This is a story very loosely based on a particular incident when I made a rash of baby predictions when I was 12. Wrote this from the perspective of my teacher. Some details have been changed.*

I hadn’t thrown up - not yet, anyway.  You know when something is not quite right?  I was tired all of the time, but, with a full time teaching job and three sons, ages 5 to 9, exhaustion was my baseline.

I have always loved kids, so my life of being an English, French,  and Art teacher and mom was pretty ideal.  That said, I wasn’t looking to have any more children….Colby just hadn’t warmed to the vasectomy idea quite yet.  We had been fairly consistent about condoms at least.

I had been put in charge of our school’s annual Mardi Gras Carnival, which was something I’d usually enjoy.  The grade sixers were each assigned various booths to design and operate - bean bag games, Nerf gun targets, and the ever popular Fortune Telling booth, just to name a few.  As with other years, parents would send all of their spare nickels, dimes and quarters in for the little kids to use for games, while some would donate discarded McDonald’s toys and various tchotchkes as prizes.  At the carnival, the older kids would run the booths while the little ones would take turns playing.  They’d win the recycled prizes; new treasures for another child to cherish and the change would go toward a charity of choice.

I had carefully worked on the decorations with the bigger kids that day and was at the school until even the janitorial staff was done.  Little tasks like setting up the lights to give it a fun ambience for the kids and straightening up booths ended up being much more time consuming than expected, but it had to go well.  Not only was this my first year running the show, but all the funds raised would go to the mission in Ukraine.  However, I still couldn’t shake the fact that I didn’t feel quite right.  My period was late…but my boobs could hurt because that time of the month was imminent, I told myself.  Myself was not convinced. 

I just had to be sure…one less thing to worry about for tomorrow.  So, on the way home from the unusually quiet school, I took a quick detour past the late night drugstore for a test.  Just to be sure, I even splurged on one of those high quality, early result digital ones.  Because I knew I wasn’t pregnant, but it never hurts to be totally 100% certain.  As I purchased the loud pink, blue and white box, which didn’t even embarrass me anymore, I stashed the test into my bulging purse and headed home.

Stealthily, I slipped into my boys’ room. I gave them each a peck on the forehead and took in their little boy cheeks and smells.  One thing that I appreciated about teaching was that I was rarely ever home too late for bedtime routines. Outside of parent/teacher interviews, this was a rare exception.

Bone tired, I was eternally grateful that Colby had gotten the boys into bed on time.  He was also already sleeping, which made me equally relieved with the unused ticking time bomb of pregnancy tests in my purse.  When he flipped over in his sleep, I could swear that he could sense its presence in our house, but he just grunted and cuddled in. 

After a fitful sleep of worrying about the pregnancy test, sprinkled with dreams about a failed carnival, I was fully up for 5 am.  This was pretty early, even for me.  I quietly snuck out of our bed, tip toed out of our room and snatched my purse from the hallway.  Once I had locked myself in the safe haven of the communal bathroom, I started opening the package.  Why do they make the foil-like packaging around the test itself so darn noisy?  With every thunderous crinkle it made, I was certain one of my boys would awake and bang on the door, insistent they couldn’t wait one more second to go pee.  Before removing the cap, I opened the door and peaked out.  No, all was quiet on the home front, so back to the task at hand.

I pushed; I had to pee really bad, but all of a sudden my body rebelled.  “Pee dammit!”, I muttered to myself.  

Once I had a nervous stream going, I thrust the stick under and prayed that I wouldn’t accidentally get any on my hand.  Almost immediately, a little hour glass appeared.  I checked the instructions - up to 2 minutes it would take to give me its judgement.  So I washed my hands and looked at my reflection; gauging my regularly bloated belly for any sign of a baby.  Nothing out of the ordinary, to my tired and naked eyes.

We had been careful condom users.  I’d swear to it!  And really, three boys had generally been helpful birth control.  While we liked sex, we were always tired and had little time after they fell asleep to actually do much lately.  Then I thought about the time around New Year’s when the boys had been with Colby’s parents for two blissful nights.  I did the math.  Maybe we hadn’t be careful enough.

And with that realization, the confirmation appeared on the little window.

3-4 weeks Pregnant

I wasn’t excited.  I wasn’t upset.  I was just stunned.  

I didn’t remember much from that dazed morning.  The test was quickly and quietly slipped into the bottom of the wastebasket.  While waking the boys up, I wondered where exactly the baby was going to sleep in our already full home.  How Colby would feel - could he tell already?  But when he kissed the boys and I good-bye before heading to work, he only mentioned that I looked tired from carnival prep and offered a lengthy back rub when we got home.

Once in my school sanctuary, I was much too busy with last minute organization to even think about the morning’s revelation…much.  There was palpable excitement by the bigger kids, as they put the final touches on their booths.   Then, once things were running like clockwork, I was able to try out most of the booths.  Not to brag, but having sons with copious amounts of Nerf guns, I kicked serious butt on the target booth.  Even the too cool preteens seemed impressed.

After checking on everything and problem solving various small grievances (“Mrs. T!  I swear I hit the target, but Ashton won’t give me my prize!” and “Teacher, they didn’t give me the three turns that I paid for!”), a grade five girl, known to be a bully, approached me.  I was fortunate to have never had her in my class, as she even terrified me at times.

“Mrs. T!”, she almost sneered, “ I don’t understand why you let Reesey run the fortune telling booth!  She gave me the bitchi-..”

“Janelle!  Watch your language!”

“Well - she’s not sticking to the script!”

“Oh?!”  I was much too tired for Janelle today, but tried to remain patient. 

“She started my fortune off with I see money in your future -“

“That’s not mean!”

“LET!  ME!  FINISH!”

So reluctantly let Janelle continue.

“I see money in your future…but IT’S NOT YOUR’S!  Then she told me that I’m GOING TO MARRY NOSE PICKER NATE!”

While attempting to use a sigh to stifle my giggle, I promised Janelle that I’d have a chat with Reesey.  And I reminded her that calling Nate that wasn’t very nice.

Honestly, I should have known better than to put Reesey in the role of fortune teller, but was impossible not to.  She was the lead in almost every school play and embraced all things dramatic.  Sure…she was an eccentric little girl.  The severe haircut her mom gave her did nothing to soften her sharp features and she had been dressing in drapey blouses, gypsy skirts and big hoop earrings all week.  She said it was to, and I quote, “get into character”, using what I assumed was some sort of fortune teller accent.  Yes, Reesey was the perfect person for the job, but I should have been prepared for the school drama queen to use this role to exact revenge on any classmate that would dare cross her.

I composed myself and approached the fortune telling booth.  Reesey had gone overboard with draping black and purple gauzy fabric over the cubicle and had found a shimmery silver table cloth.  Even the fishbowl I had provided as a crystal ball (that she’d been none too impressed with) had been painted to perfection with a light beaming through just so.  I am sure the kids figured it had magical properties.  I was impressed…until I saw the container of approved fortunes had been discarded to the side of the booth.  I rubbed my temples, as I listened to the fortune she was unleashing up on a wide-eyed grade two student.

“You will be cast in a new series of Harry Potter movies and will become a millionaire…but then you will eventually die from extreme diarrhea…”

“Reesey!”, I chastised her…although I could not deny this particular student would make a great choice for Harry Potter.  “You were given approved fortunes to use!”

“Oh, Hey Mrs. T!  I can’t use those…they were boring!”. Meanwhile, the terrified student took this opportunity to escape his fate.

“You can’t go off script…or Janelle is going to want to take over this booth.”

Reesey recoiled, but then snickered (probably at recollection of Janelle’s reaction to her fortune, I assumed).  After a beat, she agreed to stick to the provided fortunes.  Thinking back to her “helping me” direct (micromanage) plays gave me an automatic headache.

With a twinkle in her eye, Reesey reminded me, “Mrs. T!  I haven’t given you a fortune yet!”

“Are you going to use one of those?”, I asked, pointing to the discarded container of boring fortunes.

“Those ones are for students…I have a special one for you!”

I was intrigued, so I sat down and took in the show of Reesey chanting; her bejewelled fingers doing a fancy hover dance over the makeshift crystal ball.

“I foresee BIIIIG changes in your life…”. I was about roll my eyes at the production, when she took my breath away.   “I see a new baby…you will have another baby BOY!”  Very soon!”

Remembering the test from that morning, my skin felt clammy.  I was sure I wasn’t showing yet.  But I could see Reesey peeking at me, so I gave an awkward laugh slash cough, thanked her and got up to go.  I had to pee really bad all of a sudden, so I quickly went to the safe hide out of the girl’s washroom.

I caught my reflection.  There was no way she could know…right?  As I went to use the toilet, I heard a light knock on the cubicle door.

“Mrs. T?”

“Yes?!”  I was perturbed now…and how in the heck could she know what was going on?

“You need to pay me for the fortune!”

“I’ll be right out, Reesey!  Please give me privacy!”

…

I was relieved later that night, when Colby took the news in stride.  We’d need money to add a bedroom in our seemingly shrinking house.  Money that my husband had been putting aside to buy his dream car - a Shelby Cobra.  He asked that, if the baby was a girl, could he name her Shelby? As we excitedly discussed the new addition for our family, Colby was equally puzzled on how Reesey could have known when he had no clue.

While I wasn’t completely stoked about that name, we did get confirmation a couple of months later, just before school was over for the year.  The ultrasound technician told us in no uncertain terms that I was carrying a girl.

I pulled out the majority of my boys’ old sleepers and onesies.  Although, I am not a pink person, after years of buying various shades of blue blue blue over the years, I splurged on a few things.  A tiny purple newborn sleeper, little white christening shoes and an ultra soft micro-fleece, pink baby blanket with “Shelby” embroidered on it. 

As the kids prepared for their last weeks of school, they noticed my ever growing stomach.  My lovely students had mixed emotions; some seemed happy for me and others sad that I wouldn’t be around the following school year.  The ever pleasant Janelle stated that I was too old to be having more kids.  

Meanwhile, I kept waiting for some kind of “told you so” from Reesey, but it never came.  During our last conversation before she went on to Junior High, she slyly mentioned, “You know…my mom says that boys can be named Reesey too!”, then gave my swelling belly a knowing look.

Though slightly on edge (Reesey had that effect), I just chuckled.  When I returned to work, I was going to miss her involvement in plays, art shows and special events.  Maybe not so much of her micro-managing co-director stuff, but she was one of those students that stuck with a teacher.  When I told her that I was having a girl, I half expected her to really dig in her heels that I name the baby Reesey.  Instead, she just shrugged with an unnerving “If you say so!”.

…

Labour went so much faster than expected.  My water broke a month early on a sweltering August day.  Lots seemed different about this pregnancy, but I was 5 years older and carrying a girl for the first time.  Before I knew it, the doctor was holding up a beautiful wrinkly pink munchkin with the longest lashes known to man.  Colby had the pink fuzzy blanket ready in the baby’s hospital bed, when the Doctor asked what we were going to name him.  Colby started to say “Shel-“ when the name died on his lips.  “A..A…boy?!”  

Colby and I just looked at each other and laughed - But then my eyes fell on that fuzzy pink blanket.  I felt so completely and utterly ashamed.  I knew that he would likely not know that I had thought he’d be a girl.  And I loved him already so incredibly much - the little one that would complete our family.  While I had no problem with boys liking pinks and purples, my post childbirth rationale needed to have those abhorrent purchases gone;  I gestured to Colby to get rid of the now offensive baby gear.

He went into action, like a dutiful soldier that knew a just laboured mama was not one to be trifled with.  Colby folded it into a pastel parcel and motored for the door.  I wasn’t sure what exactly he was going to do with it…throw is out…save it for my sister-in-law someday.  All I knew was it had to go.  Within a moment, the babies in the labour and delivery unit let out a collective wail in sequence with the hospital’s alarm.  In the glow of my newborn, I didn’t pay too much attention until my husband didn’t return.

When I finally looked down at my cell phone an hour or so later (don’t tell Colby that the only reason I did so was to get a picture of my new little boy, Reese). 8 missed calls.  2 from a hospital number and the other 6 were from the local police station.  In Colby’s haste, the nursing station saw him running out with a bundled pink blanket.  He was arrested after a very concerned nursing station thought he had stolen (then dropped) a baby.