Nobody knows the trouble I've seen. Nobody knows my horror.
Just when I thought it was safe to go back in my classroom, I found out that my classroom is not really safe, what with its overnight reconfiguration raising my blood pressure and all. A teacher's room is her castle. Nobody should move the contents to suit their own warped vision of how a castle should be furnished. No. Just no.
The last two days this week, I had to move 25 desks and 25 chairs back to their original positions. Their starting positions. The positions they were in when I left them for the evening. Desks and chairs don't live a secret life. They don't participate in ballroom dancing, play Twister, or break 2 electric boogaloo while the queen of the castle is away, rending themselves three inches off their starting marks.
I am fairly confident that the earth's axis did not shift during those two nights, that my desks and chairs did not succumb to earthquake tremors and vibrate off their designated tile corners, and that a UFO did not pick them up with a tractor beam to play a prank on ol' Mrs. Hillbilly Mom. Yes, the rearrangement of 25 desks and 25 chairs virtually defies explanation. But then there's Cus.
Who has a master key and the power to come and go from Castle Hillbilly Mom at will? Cus. Who has a motive to move 25 desks and 25 chairs? Cus. Who thinks they have the ability to outsmart Mrs. Hillbilly Mom? Cus. Who assumes that repositioning 25 desks and 25 chairs by three inches per row towards town will go unnoticed as long as those desk and chair feet in their comfy carpet-bottomed circular shoes are still aligned precisely with each other? Cus.
Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is nobody's fool. The minute her eyes survey her kingdom, she sees the shift. Three inches per row, four rows...means the back aisle will be impassible when populated by students. That's a difference of 12 inches, by cracky! One would have to be blind to miss furniture so amiss.
But that's not all! Yesterday, dashing to the office with an assignment, I overheard Cus in the hallway between 5th and 6th hour. I suppose Cus had just set up the "Closed for cleaning" yellow sandwich board signs to keep kids out of their restrooms for two hours, because Cus was wheeling the giant yellow and blue built-in mop bucket cart between the bathrooms. And I heard Cus mutter, "Great. Now I'm going to be caught in the commotion." Let the record show that between those two bathrooms is Cus's closet, where the mop cart originated, with the door propped open. A perfectly safe haven to pull back into during the four-minute passing period. A distance of not more than 10 feet from where Cus stood at the double drinking fountain.
The bell rang to end 6th hour. I kicked my doorstop out of the portal as a kid pushed my door back, once again landing it perfectly for propping. This feat amazes the kids every day. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is a ninja. I stepped out to my regular leaning spot, the right side of the concrete-block entryway into my room. Or tried to. I could not assume the position!
A giant yellow and blue built-in mop bucket cart was parked right where I stand!
Well. Wasn't THAT a coincidence? I think not. I think it was a premeditated act in an attempt to get my goat. I've got news for Cus. It's gonna take more than a little passive-aggressive prop placement to wrestle the ol' horizontal-pupiled caprine from Mrs. Hillbilly Mom.
I'm taking a stand, by cracky! One of the kids left a tissue on the floor, and I did NOT tell The Pony to pick it up.