Oh, dear. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is not meeting the needs of her pupils. It's not that she doesn't strive to supply them with their minimum daily requirement of attention and free stuff. She does. Really.
Today, for instance, today Mrs. Hillbilly Mom even left out her cache of Puffs With Lotion and...drumroll...GERM-X! For the very class that had their privileges revoked. Just to see how they've matured over the break. And today, there was NOT AN ISSUE with a single tissue!
In the midst of seatwork, while Mrs. Hillbilly Mom was attempting to complete a practice run on the iTester, which has been souped up to provide more realistic trials for EOC testing, HM needing a scant three minutes to finish labeling her online line graph...one of her charges approached the desk. Not to ask a question pertaining to the lesson, mind you, like the seven others who came before him, when Mrs. HM gladly stopped her mission and gave her full attention to the inquirers. No. This one came holding his shirttail out with both hands.
"Do you have some scissors?"
"Yes. I'm a teacher. Is this a survey?" Mrs. Hillbilly Mom continued labeling her Y-axis with bubbles per minute.
"Can I use them?"
"For what?" Only four left to go.
"I need to cut this thread off my shirt."
"Sorry. I'm busy. I can't stop for that."
"Huh." Threadly huffed away, all frowny-faced.
Sorry. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is not the facility's designated tailor. It's not as if she was putting on makeup, or gambling online, or seeking a Russian groom. She was taking the practice test in order to find out how it will be graded, so she knows how to work practice sessions into her lesson plans. The rest of the class was fending for themselves. Or getting help from Mrs. HM as needed. For the assignment. Not for personal grooming.
Okay. Only one three-part question left on the performance event. List three specific instructions so anyone could perform the same experiment the same way. Piece of cake. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom can do these in her sleep. But not in a class of 20 freshmen, one of which has just appeared at her desk in need of assistance.
"Do you have any lotion?"
"What? Lotion? I'm not giving you lotion."
"But. My hands. They're so dry." Waved under Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's nose, they did appear very dry. As if a working man had taken an emery board to his callouses.
"I don't even HAVE lotion."
"Well, what can I do? Does the office have lotion?"
"I doubt it."
"What about the nurse? Can I go ask the nurse for some lotion?"
"She might have some, but she won't be here until after last lunch shift. You'll have to wait."
"But my hands are so DRY!"
"Sorry. Go by the office on your way to your next class. Ask them."
What's next for Mrs. Hillbilly Mom? Fitting each pupil for a new suit? Grafting skin? I am not so sure these skills fall under the auspices of Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's contract, the clause that says "...and other duties as needed."