What I Learned At Open House, By Mrs. Hillbilly Mom

Live and learn, people. Live and learn at the achy knee of Mrs. Hillbilly Mom.

I learn something every day. I learned three things Tuesday night at open house. As you might imagine, this was quite a feat for one who has been a captive performer at 27 open houses before that one.

The First Thing I Learned is That Some Kids Are Cared About More Than Others

A family brought in their youngster to meet me and pick up information about my expectations. That’s nothing new. Whole families come all the time. Some with wailing infants on shoulders, some with grandparents on squeaky walkers. This particular family had a toddler. Not uncommon. Except this one ran 180 degrees around the room, to the opposite corner from where I was holding court by the door, and rushed my control center, shoving my rolly chair out of the way, and began pounding on my tax-payer-provided school-issue laptop. Which is five years old! Older than the toddler!

What did the family do? All four others of them? “Oh, don’t do that Bubby. Come back here.” While they chatted with me. ME! Who was trying not to turn and bellow, in a police-sounding voice, like that in Risky Business, before Tom Cruise calls Jackie, who is not exactly what every boy off the lake wants, the fantasized voice that says, “Joel, step away from the babysitter.” Only my police voice would have said, “Babysitter, step towards Bubby, AND GET HIM THE NOT-HEAVEN AWAY FROM MY LAPTOP!”

Thank the Gummi Mary, I had logged off, and the future enterpriser did not crack my password in his flailed attempt. Eventually the family grew weary of speaking with me, and sent the prospective pupil to fetch Bubby by throwing him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

The Second Thing I Learned is That Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is Educational Enemy #1

An older lass entered, who was in my class two years ago, and has another course with me now. Never any problems between us. Normal interactions. Grade very good. No reason to anticipate otherwise at this juncture.

O’Lass walked across the front of the room to collect her material. Several groups of younger pupils were co-mingling in the general area while I greeted parents/guardians. O’Lass was towing boyfriend and mom. She picked up her paperwork, crossed back toward the door, made eye contact with Mrs. Hillbilly Mom, who was in the midst of conversation with other pupils’ parents, and shot her the stinkeye. “And NO. PEANUT. BUTTER!”

Let the record show that not once in her life has Mrs. Hillbilly Mom ever brought peanut butter to school. She does not eat it for lunch, she does not eat it for breakfast, she does not use it in experiments, she does not stock it for little birdies to eat off pine cones. Never has there been peanut butter in Mrs. Hillbilly Mom’s classroom. And furthermore, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom was never notified of, and never read in O’Lass’s profile, that she had any issue with peanut butter or peanuts. WTNH? (What The Not-Heaven?)

O’Lass acted as if Mrs. Hillbilly Mom had trussed her up and rubbed her down with Jiffy! Or shoved it down her throat and packed it in her facial orifices! That did not happen. Even in the somewhat disturbing dreams of Mrs. HM. Looks like free Reeses will not be passed out at Halloween.

The Third Thing I Learned is Mrs. Hillbilly Mom’s Hand is Not Safe in an Open House Full of Boys.

Some of last year’s pupils stopped in to say hello during a lull. We were pleasantly shooting the bull while they busted on a kid who always says I don’t like him. This was the second time the leader of their pack returned that night. He bragged that he had brought me the old group, rather than the freshmen he brought before. I held up my right hand. You know how you do. Like, “Whoa there!” I told him, “The deal is off. Now I am NOT going to miss you this year!” I had my left hand sticking out, gesturing to the self-professed-not-liked kid who was standing the closest to where I was sitting.

AND HE SLAPPED MY HAND (ACTUALLY MORE LIKE BUMPED MY HAND) AND TOOK OFF OUT THE DOOR!

Let the record show that kids always want to high-five me in the hall, and I won’t do it. It has become a challenge for them to try and trick me into it. So far, I have prevailed.

I turned to the other four boys and said, “I can’t believe he did that!”

They agreed. Shocked. “Now you REALLY don’t like him!” “He should know better than that! We are going to have a talk with him!” “What is the world coming to, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom?” “He knows he’s guilty. Did you see him run?”

“You guys know, right, that there is one student who was just here ten minutes ago, who has tried to get me to high-five him for THREE YEARS! Unsuccessfully. And now THIS incident. Which was NOT a high-five, I’ll have you know, because my hand was way down at waist level, and he only touched the side of my hand, not all five fingers. I can’t believe the audacity of that guy, thinking that just because my hand was out gesturing at him, it was there for the fiving!”

“We know! We’ll get right on that. He’ll NEVER be able to show his face in here again!” And off they went.

These, my readers, are the moments I will miss when I retire AT THE END OF THIS SCHOOL YEAR.