My mother teaches history to a bunch of high school kids in a small town. My stepfather also taught band to high- and middle-schoolers for 30 years or so.
This may seem insignificant to some, but being a teacher’s kid shapes many facets of one’s personality.
Teacher’s kids develop certain neuroses other people cannot understand. It’s in the genes.
My half-brother Noah for instance, detests any form or flavor of chewing gum.
When he was a toddler, he could sniff out a gum-masticator at 20 yards and would break into screaming fits at the slightest hint of Doublemint, Juicy Fruit, Bubblicious or Big Red.
My parents probably said “SPIT OUT THAT GUM!” at least twice daily for 10 years before Noah even was a twinkle in their eyes.
That has to do something to your DNA.
Genetic anomalies are one thing, but teacher’s kids also are conditioned behaviorally.
We know exactly how much we can get away with before a vein pops out of the forehead and our parents began talking in “satan voice.”
This is useful knowledge in school.
When other kids jabbered away during quiet time, we could see our teachers’ forehead veins popping out and knew to shut the hell up, duck and cover in time to avoid the fallout.
When it comes to trouble, teacher’s kids get away with a lot less than their peers.
Once, in my infinite ninth-grade wisdom, I chose to drag a traffic cone down the street while hanging out of the window of a friend’s car.
My mom knew what I had done before I got home, but in true teacher fashion, she waited until my guilty soul had to unburden itself.
She made unsubtle subtle comments about road construction and traffic cones daily until I burst into tears and confessed my sin.
Then, she grounded me for a week.
Teacher’s kids also learn about the value of community service very early in life, because we must perform it regularly.
Every August, teacher’s kids across the nation are busy scraping year-old gum off desks, copying syllabi and making bulletin boards while other kids enjoy the last few days of summer.
Weekend family activities often included helping the service club paint bathrooms, striping the band field or planting flowers in front of school.
While these activities were beneficial in my growth as a responsible citizen, they weren’t as fun as the things the cool kids were doing — i.e. watching the Road Rules marathon while drinking Boone’s Farm.
Most of them are in prison doing now what I was doing then.
I sure am glad I’m a teacher’s kid.