Thursday, October 15, 2015

Mrs. HM Is Really NOT A Hater, Even Though She Plays One On The Innernets

Every now and then, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom grows tired of the status quo. It is as if 10,000 bees buzzed into her bonnet, and she can’t proceed without letting them out. Even if she sets loose only a few at a time, the stinging lessens.

Did you know that sometimes, teachers stay after school to work? I know it’s a hard concept to grasp, those worthless babysitters actually working even one second past the 7 hours and 15 minutes for which they’re contracted. But it’s true. In Mrs. Hillbilly Mom’s case, it’s true every day of the week, by at least an hour a day. Not that she’s bucking for a promotion, or setting up a GoFundMe account for compensation.

During that hour a day, Mrs. HM expects to grade papers, run copies, plan lessons, plot test scores on the board, fill out checklists put in her mailbox, assign delinquent work, or dabble in her S L O with her U O I. You would think her very own classroom, and the teacher WORKroom with its two Kyoceras, would be prime real estate for Mrs. HM to carry out such duties. But you would think wrong.

Newmentia, the building which was once a bastion of learning, serving the two Hillbilly boys well with their education that garnered them special recognitions in academia, and scholarship opportunities worth a buttload of money…has become, after school hours, a BLOOMIN' PINT-SIZED-TERRORISTS' PLAYGROUND!

Nobody is safe. They run up and down the hallowed halls, screeching and huffing and shouting, "All clear! All clear!" They wander in the door and stare with their big ol' Keane-painting eyes, mute, making one uncomfortable. They hide in the teacher workroom, around the corner, by the fridge, behind the giant trash can, giggling, waiting to jump out and yell, "BOO!" Yet when a certain man in charge yelled, "BOO!" back, the manly little PST started to bawl. And keened his teary Keane eyes all down the hall, like he was not a causation of his own fate.

I'm not a kid-hater. Okay. I don't let that flag fly in public. But it is not my job to mind somebody else's kids. And when somebody else's kids get in the way of me doing my work, it's a bee in my bonnet.

Yes, I brought my own kids to my building after school was out. But guess what? I kept them in my room. So the only person they bothered was me. They had snacks. They had computer games. They had books to read. They had homework to do. No, they were not perfect. But I was the only one to hear their whining. And I most certainly did not allow them to free-range across the teacher workroom.

It's my last year, by cracky! And Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is not going to make nice and befriend these little PSTs. They need to start learnin' now that they are not that special. Nobody in the real world is going to make over them if they don't have to get along with their parents.

Life is a harsh taskmistress. You're never too young to start learning lessons.


Sioux said...

I think you need to dust off your rod because of those spoiled children...

We have had the same thing at times. Kids running down the long hallway--over and over again--which sounds like a herd of unruly horses above my head.

It is NOT my last year... and I don't enjoy it, either.

Kathy's Klothesline said...

People do not feel obliged to care for their children nowadays. They must have heard Hilary say that it takes a village and took it quite literally ........ leaving the children to be raised by the village. If they leave them in my village, I redirect them to their parents in a very public manner. This village has done her job and is not likely to take on someone else's little darlings.

Hillbilly Mom said...

Thank the Gummi Mary, Mrs. HM does not have an upstairs to listen to the pitter-patter of Bloomin' Pint-Sized Terrorist feet! It's bad enough when they step in and aim those big ol' Keane-painting eyes at her.

It's like they're free-range children. I'll be gosh-darned if I let MY pre-tween kids roam about the building. You never know who could snatch them. After all, that weird old man stepped into my doorway and stared at us one afternoon. The doors are not locked, and are not manned by the secretary and her buzz-in after school is dismissed.