Perhaps I've mentioned that I have been sick as dog this week. It's just a cold, but quite uncommon for me, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom, who avoids sick people like the plaque, who buys gallons of GermX for her classroom, who has a strict hands off my stuff policy concerning her desk, who won't let students touch the stapler, who holds her breath when a cougher/sneezer walks down the hall, and who never, ever touches her face without first slathering on the GermX herself.
The best I can tell, it came from a close-talker who was infected. It started in the back of my throat, meaning that I breathed it in, in my mouth-breather way, not daring to nose-breathe at school due to past student-inflicted intestinal gas trauma.
Today, at least two students per class inquired about my health. Yesterday, when I tried reading selections from their chapter about simple machines and efficiency, my 7th hour class sensed my discomfort. It might have been the rasp of my fading voice instead of psychic ability, but still. The Feel My Butt boy turned to ask if I was okay during a fit of coughing, and then began reading where I had left off to finish the section! I'm not worthy.
Here are some other people who are not worthy. Those kids who asked why so many teachers now stand in the parking lot after school. Oh...I don't know...just a guess here...a shot in the dark...but I'm going with...because there have been more students run over and cars crunched this year than in the sum total of years we have been in the Newmentia building. Another student and I pointed out that things have gotten out of hand. Something must be done. And I don't think teachers putting themselves in the places where others have been mowed down is a good idea. The Anything Goes In Our Parking Lot crowd disagreed. "You teachers are paid to do that." Flippity flappity floo! Excuse me while I sputter like Walter Brennan, dagnabit! We are not paid to sacrifice ourselves to the junior demolition derby crowd. My idea is to dismiss cars one row at a time. Seniors. Juniors. Sophomores. The AGIOPL crowd did not like that idea one little bit. Of course not. It would mean teachers taking back control from the students.
Another unworthy scalawag would be the Cleaner of the Women's Faculty Bathroom. Yesterday, I saw a big black spider crawling along the tile baseboard trim. Not that I expect the CWFB to jump in and smush it for me. My teaching buddy, Mabel, gave it a good college try. But who wants to bend her head over the toilet to get to a creepy crawly critter? Not Mabel. Not me. So what if a spider with a bloated abdomen probably ready to release thousands of baby spiders upon the teacher's workroom floor is left to roam freely? I'm not putting my head in a toilet. That's beyond the call of duty. Even for the CWFB. My issue is with the LAST spider in that bathroom. He was dead. Probably the common-law husband, the bloated spider's mate, dispatched at her own eight hands after they did the dirty deed. I know he was just a lowly arachnid. But he did not deserve to lie in state on the bathroom floor with his eight legs in the air for five freakin' days!
Oh, I saw him all right. Spidey was there on the last night of conferences, a Thursday, and he was still there on Tuesday afternoon of the next week. Yes, I observed him from my throne on numerous daily trips to use the facilities. It's not my job to pick up a dead spider. But it's somebody's job to clean and sweep that bathroom. How can you sweep a four by four bathroom and miss a giant spider carcass lying right next to the trash can?
I suppose it's the same way you can't miss backing over a classmate walking behind your car.