Tuesday, December 7, 2010
Monday, December 6, 2010
Time Flies For Mrs. Hillbilly Mom
Perhaps I've mentioned that my workday simply flies by. I feel like that old magazine ad for Maxell tapes, the one with the guy sitting in a chair and the sound blowing his hair and tie. Yeah. Like that. Extra duties blowing me away at the speed of sound.
I stay after school for an hour or two every day just to break even with my basic job duties, such as lesson-planning and paper-grading. I use every spare minute throughout the day to stay caught up, like entering grades after passing out the assignment, grading make-up work while students are working, using my plan time to run copies. Actually, make that 10 minutes of running copies and 39 minutes of unjamming the copier and 1 minute for the bathroom.
Today I thought I was going to coast along, perhaps have time to read for pleasure during a portion of my plan time. I was giving a test to four classes, and by the end of 1st hour I had all of theirs graded, though not yet recorded. I intended to do that during 2nd hour, after a short review, while they were taking the test. Well, you know that old saying...Teachers plan, the principal laughs.
OK, I didn't actually hear the principal laughing. But I know he would take the side of all the various and incidental time-suckers who waltzed into my classroom, and tell me that of course I should cheerfully grant their wishes, because that is my job. Point taken. Which doesn't mean I agree, only that I will do it, because that is the way to stay out of trouble and the doghouse.
Within five minutes of starting 2nd hour, just after taking roll and reading the announcements, and on #8 of my study guide review before the test, I had double guests. One came from the office, needing five days worth of assignments for a student who has already missed 25 days this semester. There are only 45 days in a quarter, people. 90 days in a semester. This student has missed a fourth of the school year so far, not all at once, but a few days here and a few days there, and I must seek out the past five assignments and send them home, expecting them to be done and handed in upon return, or else why the rush? But no, the student will return empty-handed, and say, "I get one day for each day I missed to turn that in, right?" Which is written in the student handbook. So it might conceivably be ten days after the assignment before it is turned in, and meanwhile we've moved on, and so I'll have to look up the answers and what date to record the scores and how much it's worth etc.
The second guest came right on the heels of the first, before the door even slammed shut, and asked for the four assignments he missed last week. I told both guests that I was in the middle of something and would have to get to it later in the hour.
While gathering those past nine assignments, a third guest traipsed in, asking for a test to take that hour for one of the previous guests. I told him that Guest 2 must first make up the past four assignments before taking today's test in his resource room. That's normally the way things are done, you know, read the material, do assignments to master the concepts, then take the test.
I barely caught up with grading the tests that hour, and then had two classes awaiting recording and posting in Gradebook. I planned to do that 3rd hour, but saw that I had only one alternate test page out of four for my Biology test tomorrow, so I used my spare time then to alter more questions. Copy and paste is the best invention EVAH!
During 4th hour, I had to watch my testees closely (hah, hah, I said testees) because I caught one keeping his book and study guide on his desk right after passing out the tests. I might have to take a page out of Miss NewMath's book and make them pile all of their belongings at the front of the room on test days. Again, I barely got the tests graded when the bell rang, leaving three classes awaiting recording and posting.
5th hour just had a study guide to work on for their test tomorrow, but even though it only had 15 questions, they kept me hopping by needing more assistance than a preschool class of two-year-olds during potty-training season. In the midst of our self-continence lesson, in strolled a former absentee with a note that said, "Please excuse X from class." I asked if it meant not to count him tardy, because the way it read, he was excused from class. I also wanted to know who wrote it, because of the scrawl and no signature. A senior student office worker, he said, so now I need to check that out tomorrow because that doesn't seem right to me.
In the meantime, that office worker rushed in to drop off a list for ISS assignments that needed to be done immediately, because the ISS was the very next day. The next FOUR days, in fact, which necessitated taking my plan time to run off future work in a hurry for the immediate ISS. Which of course meant that the copier jammed up.
During 7th hour, I had three students who had been absent Friday who decided to take their test today, plus two others who should have taken it today but didn't come get one, so decided to take it in their resource class tomorrow, plus another one who already took it in resource this morning and wanted to sit and do nothing. Try figuring that out on the fly while passing out two different versions of your test and listening to some really nonobservant kids demand to know why I skipped their row again this time when passing out the answer sheets and had to come back and then give them answer sheets while the observant kids shouted, "Because she gives different tests! Where have you been all year?"
But I got all of their tests graded, just not recorded or posted, and then it was time for the monthly faculty meeting after school, so I took two classes worth with me and recorded them during the Tech Nazi's speech.
The day was over before it began. But I can't figure out why I'm so tired.
I stay after school for an hour or two every day just to break even with my basic job duties, such as lesson-planning and paper-grading. I use every spare minute throughout the day to stay caught up, like entering grades after passing out the assignment, grading make-up work while students are working, using my plan time to run copies. Actually, make that 10 minutes of running copies and 39 minutes of unjamming the copier and 1 minute for the bathroom.
Today I thought I was going to coast along, perhaps have time to read for pleasure during a portion of my plan time. I was giving a test to four classes, and by the end of 1st hour I had all of theirs graded, though not yet recorded. I intended to do that during 2nd hour, after a short review, while they were taking the test. Well, you know that old saying...Teachers plan, the principal laughs.
OK, I didn't actually hear the principal laughing. But I know he would take the side of all the various and incidental time-suckers who waltzed into my classroom, and tell me that of course I should cheerfully grant their wishes, because that is my job. Point taken. Which doesn't mean I agree, only that I will do it, because that is the way to stay out of trouble and the doghouse.
Within five minutes of starting 2nd hour, just after taking roll and reading the announcements, and on #8 of my study guide review before the test, I had double guests. One came from the office, needing five days worth of assignments for a student who has already missed 25 days this semester. There are only 45 days in a quarter, people. 90 days in a semester. This student has missed a fourth of the school year so far, not all at once, but a few days here and a few days there, and I must seek out the past five assignments and send them home, expecting them to be done and handed in upon return, or else why the rush? But no, the student will return empty-handed, and say, "I get one day for each day I missed to turn that in, right?" Which is written in the student handbook. So it might conceivably be ten days after the assignment before it is turned in, and meanwhile we've moved on, and so I'll have to look up the answers and what date to record the scores and how much it's worth etc.
The second guest came right on the heels of the first, before the door even slammed shut, and asked for the four assignments he missed last week. I told both guests that I was in the middle of something and would have to get to it later in the hour.
While gathering those past nine assignments, a third guest traipsed in, asking for a test to take that hour for one of the previous guests. I told him that Guest 2 must first make up the past four assignments before taking today's test in his resource room. That's normally the way things are done, you know, read the material, do assignments to master the concepts, then take the test.
I barely caught up with grading the tests that hour, and then had two classes awaiting recording and posting in Gradebook. I planned to do that 3rd hour, but saw that I had only one alternate test page out of four for my Biology test tomorrow, so I used my spare time then to alter more questions. Copy and paste is the best invention EVAH!
During 4th hour, I had to watch my testees closely (hah, hah, I said testees) because I caught one keeping his book and study guide on his desk right after passing out the tests. I might have to take a page out of Miss NewMath's book and make them pile all of their belongings at the front of the room on test days. Again, I barely got the tests graded when the bell rang, leaving three classes awaiting recording and posting.
5th hour just had a study guide to work on for their test tomorrow, but even though it only had 15 questions, they kept me hopping by needing more assistance than a preschool class of two-year-olds during potty-training season. In the midst of our self-continence lesson, in strolled a former absentee with a note that said, "Please excuse X from class." I asked if it meant not to count him tardy, because the way it read, he was excused from class. I also wanted to know who wrote it, because of the scrawl and no signature. A senior student office worker, he said, so now I need to check that out tomorrow because that doesn't seem right to me.
In the meantime, that office worker rushed in to drop off a list for ISS assignments that needed to be done immediately, because the ISS was the very next day. The next FOUR days, in fact, which necessitated taking my plan time to run off future work in a hurry for the immediate ISS. Which of course meant that the copier jammed up.
During 7th hour, I had three students who had been absent Friday who decided to take their test today, plus two others who should have taken it today but didn't come get one, so decided to take it in their resource class tomorrow, plus another one who already took it in resource this morning and wanted to sit and do nothing. Try figuring that out on the fly while passing out two different versions of your test and listening to some really nonobservant kids demand to know why I skipped their row again this time when passing out the answer sheets and had to come back and then give them answer sheets while the observant kids shouted, "Because she gives different tests! Where have you been all year?"
But I got all of their tests graded, just not recorded or posted, and then it was time for the monthly faculty meeting after school, so I took two classes worth with me and recorded them during the Tech Nazi's speech.
The day was over before it began. But I can't figure out why I'm so tired.
Sunday, December 5, 2010
Around The Mansion
The #1 son is getting a truck tomorrow. He can't get his license for another week, but he'll have wheels when he does.
#1 and his new best friend, Daddy H, went Santa-playing and truck-shopping Saturday. One must have been a condition for the other, because I distinctly recall #1 stating that he was not going to be an elf. And Daddy H agreed that he was too big to be an elf, having obviously forgotten Buddy, that spaghetti-syrup-swilling, raccoon-hugging fellow. The Pony must have been mentally pumping his fist and hissing "YES!" after his unfortunate incapacitation on Thursday. Apparently, elves do not have splints and arm slings. Santa Daddy H dropped The Pony like a hot potato.
We had a spate of snow flurries at the Mansion this morning. A dusting of snow hung around until noon. It was only 25 degrees, which was not news to the giant goldfish trapped under ice in the Hillbilly fish pond. The cats marveled at their captive prey, stepping out and licking the transparent barrier.
Tank the beagle has found his own prey, which are like sitting ducks, the laying chickens in the chicken coop. He hasn't eaten the chickens yet, but enjoys a round of fresh eggs daily. That is Daddy H's conclusion as to why he's only getting about 1 egg a day now, instead of the usual 4 or 5. Of course, chickens slack off on their laying in the cold weather, but they don't normally leave broken egg shells laying around their coop. A further nail in Tank's coffin of circumstantial evidence is the fact that The Pony has caught him sleeping in the coop on two separate evenings. Daddy H needs a refresher course on how to build a chicken coop, because what good is a coop that allows a fat beagle to enter at will?
According to the forecast, this is going to be a week of wasted cold weather. Temperatures near freezing for the highs, and no precipitation in sight. At least my chance to win a free notepad is still alive in the Guess The First Day We Miss School Due To Snow contest. January 11, here we come.
#1 and his new best friend, Daddy H, went Santa-playing and truck-shopping Saturday. One must have been a condition for the other, because I distinctly recall #1 stating that he was not going to be an elf. And Daddy H agreed that he was too big to be an elf, having obviously forgotten Buddy, that spaghetti-syrup-swilling, raccoon-hugging fellow. The Pony must have been mentally pumping his fist and hissing "YES!" after his unfortunate incapacitation on Thursday. Apparently, elves do not have splints and arm slings. Santa Daddy H dropped The Pony like a hot potato.
We had a spate of snow flurries at the Mansion this morning. A dusting of snow hung around until noon. It was only 25 degrees, which was not news to the giant goldfish trapped under ice in the Hillbilly fish pond. The cats marveled at their captive prey, stepping out and licking the transparent barrier.
Tank the beagle has found his own prey, which are like sitting ducks, the laying chickens in the chicken coop. He hasn't eaten the chickens yet, but enjoys a round of fresh eggs daily. That is Daddy H's conclusion as to why he's only getting about 1 egg a day now, instead of the usual 4 or 5. Of course, chickens slack off on their laying in the cold weather, but they don't normally leave broken egg shells laying around their coop. A further nail in Tank's coffin of circumstantial evidence is the fact that The Pony has caught him sleeping in the coop on two separate evenings. Daddy H needs a refresher course on how to build a chicken coop, because what good is a coop that allows a fat beagle to enter at will?
According to the forecast, this is going to be a week of wasted cold weather. Temperatures near freezing for the highs, and no precipitation in sight. At least my chance to win a free notepad is still alive in the Guess The First Day We Miss School Due To Snow contest. January 11, here we come.
Saturday, December 4, 2010
A Blissful Saturday At The Mansion
It's a wonder I know how to type this little story on a keyboard. I am the biggest know-nothing living in the Mansion. I was happily unaware of that distinction until Mensa President H informed me of the fact today. Three times.
First of all, I dared ask why the kitchen floor of the Mansion has become the latest candidate to host the Winter Olympic figure-skating event. I was left out of the loop during the submission process, only finding out when I stepped a sock foot onto the vinyl and nearly crashed onto the floor harder than a Gillooly-sanctioned club onto Nancy Kerrigan's right leg.
Mensa President H had no idea, unless it had something to do with spraying his boots. What boots and what spray I am happily ignorant of. I can only conjure an image of MPH spraying shiny stuff on his Santa boots. Whatever was entailed, it left the kitchen floor a slippery level slope for bare feet, sock feet, and even Croc feet. MPH later denied any involvement in the iceless capade caper, and soundly chastised me for complaining. How dare I ask the floor-slicker what he did to the floor to make it so slick.
Nextly, I strolled out of my basement lair, thanking my lucky stars for floor traction, and spied Mensa President H and the #1 son laying under the new fake Christmas tree. "That tree is leaning." I consider myself somewhat of an expert in ascertaining whether a tree pipe trunk is at a 90-degree angle with the basement floor, or listing at 80 degrees. Stupid me and my stupidness.
Mensa President H declared in no uncertain terms, from his position on his back looking up at me and the ceiling, that his new tree was straight. I suppose I had only to lay down and look up at it to solve my problem with perspective. After returning to my office, I heard MPH fiddling about, and then heard him tell #1 that now it was straight.
Lastly, after The Pony clogged the main toilet, I dared to inform Mensa President H that it was not flushing properly. I knew that by how the bowl was not filling up with water, and the gurgling bubbling activity with rising bowl water when I flushed it. MPH flopped out of his La-Z-Boy and stormed into the master bathroom, the scene of the crime where The Pony had committed his elimination faux pas before his bath in the large triangle tub. Without even a plunger, MPH flushed and declared the fix was in. I begged to differ. The same symptoms plagued the toilet as before MPH's ministrations.
Mensa President H castigated me for declaring his labor ineffective. If this is the best he can do, I'm not sure what they pay him the big bucks for at work. My job does not involve plunging toilets, but I DO know that you use a plunger for that. Which I did, and devoted 15 minutes to that toilet, and still did not solve the bubbling, gurgling, low-water issue. But I'm sure I could beat Mensa President H in a Lesson-Plan Throw-Down.
Ahh...ignorance is bliss, if nobody is harping about how ignorant you are.
First of all, I dared ask why the kitchen floor of the Mansion has become the latest candidate to host the Winter Olympic figure-skating event. I was left out of the loop during the submission process, only finding out when I stepped a sock foot onto the vinyl and nearly crashed onto the floor harder than a Gillooly-sanctioned club onto Nancy Kerrigan's right leg.
Mensa President H had no idea, unless it had something to do with spraying his boots. What boots and what spray I am happily ignorant of. I can only conjure an image of MPH spraying shiny stuff on his Santa boots. Whatever was entailed, it left the kitchen floor a slippery level slope for bare feet, sock feet, and even Croc feet. MPH later denied any involvement in the iceless capade caper, and soundly chastised me for complaining. How dare I ask the floor-slicker what he did to the floor to make it so slick.
Nextly, I strolled out of my basement lair, thanking my lucky stars for floor traction, and spied Mensa President H and the #1 son laying under the new fake Christmas tree. "That tree is leaning." I consider myself somewhat of an expert in ascertaining whether a tree pipe trunk is at a 90-degree angle with the basement floor, or listing at 80 degrees. Stupid me and my stupidness.
Mensa President H declared in no uncertain terms, from his position on his back looking up at me and the ceiling, that his new tree was straight. I suppose I had only to lay down and look up at it to solve my problem with perspective. After returning to my office, I heard MPH fiddling about, and then heard him tell #1 that now it was straight.
Lastly, after The Pony clogged the main toilet, I dared to inform Mensa President H that it was not flushing properly. I knew that by how the bowl was not filling up with water, and the gurgling bubbling activity with rising bowl water when I flushed it. MPH flopped out of his La-Z-Boy and stormed into the master bathroom, the scene of the crime where The Pony had committed his elimination faux pas before his bath in the large triangle tub. Without even a plunger, MPH flushed and declared the fix was in. I begged to differ. The same symptoms plagued the toilet as before MPH's ministrations.
Mensa President H castigated me for declaring his labor ineffective. If this is the best he can do, I'm not sure what they pay him the big bucks for at work. My job does not involve plunging toilets, but I DO know that you use a plunger for that. Which I did, and devoted 15 minutes to that toilet, and still did not solve the bubbling, gurgling, low-water issue. But I'm sure I could beat Mensa President H in a Lesson-Plan Throw-Down.
Ahh...ignorance is bliss, if nobody is harping about how ignorant you are.
Friday, December 3, 2010
Handbasket High
I am not feeling particularly witty, nor pretty, nor gay tonight. I'm running on four hours of sleep, and not firing on all cylinders.
The students of Newmentia have been full-moon, storm's a-comin', bat-poop crazy over the past 24 hours. And it's NOT the full moon, and no storm is on the radar. I don't know what has gotten into them. Somebody took a crap on the locker room floor. Two girls had a slap-fight on the bus. One dude socked another one in the eye, and he didn't even retaliate or tell, because he didn't want to get in trouble. A young hipster called MathCrony the C word. They're flippin' out, right and left. You'd think it was the February doldrums. Thank the Gummi Mary, we have a weekend to recoup.
I'm going to put my feet up and take a recliner nap.
The students of Newmentia have been full-moon, storm's a-comin', bat-poop crazy over the past 24 hours. And it's NOT the full moon, and no storm is on the radar. I don't know what has gotten into them. Somebody took a crap on the locker room floor. Two girls had a slap-fight on the bus. One dude socked another one in the eye, and he didn't even retaliate or tell, because he didn't want to get in trouble. A young hipster called MathCrony the C word. They're flippin' out, right and left. You'd think it was the February doldrums. Thank the Gummi Mary, we have a weekend to recoup.
I'm going to put my feet up and take a recliner nap.
Thursday, December 2, 2010
Here We Go Again
I had a scary moment today when the nurse and counselor showed up at my classroom door. I had just promised my class a Chapter 5 Assessment with five bonus points for a word search. They were chomping at the bit to get to it, but I reined them in until attendance could be taken. Which never happened.
Nurse tapped on the glass panel of my door, and I motioned her in. She motioned me out. We Newmentians are experts at nonverbal communication. I stepped outside the door and saw Counselor as well. The first thought that jumped into my mind was that they needed my expertise in sniffing out some illegal substance on one of my captives that hour. It's happened before. But no. The nose of Mrs. Hillbilly Mom was not the target of their mission.
"You need to come with me," said Nurse. "The Pony has fallen down the steps of Basementia. Now don't worry, we think he's all right, but there's a chance that he's broken his arm."
Well. What to say. After the air whooshed out of me, I said, "I was just getting class started. All they need is their assignment." Because you can't just waltz away from 23 juniors just returned from vo-tech school, freshly caffeinated and fish-sticked from lunch.
Counselor said, "Get your things. I will take your class. I have different plans for them. They are going to the gym."
The gym would have been a treat for my freshmen classes. But I was sure the juniors would see it as a thorn in their side as they tried to lay their heads down for a clandestine nap. Too bad, so sad. I grabbed my keys and was off to Basementia.
Nurse asked, "Are you sure you're all right to drive?"
Of course. It's not like The Pony had cracked his head open and had brains leaking out. I found him behind the Basementia office counter, his arm propped up, chatting with his keyboarding teacher. After admonishing her to stop shoving my boy down the stairs, I asked The Pony what happened.
"I was going to lunch, and my foot hit the bottom step, and I tripped, and fell on the first two steps, but my arm hit the top step (he's lanky, that Pony, but not THAT lanky--there are only three steps at that location, in Lower Basementia by my old classroom, the lair of Basementia Buddy). One of my shoes fell off, and I think someone stepped on me, and I skinned my arm. See?"
This was his left arm, his good arm, the one not broken at the elbow three years ago that required surgical repair. The elbow was swollen and purpling in a U-shape, with a scrape on the bottom of his forearm. The Pony said he was not in great pain unless he moved it, as in tried to straighten it, which just wasn't happening.
"I went to lunch because I didn't think I was hurt. I ate my two corn dogs, and then I noticed that I couldn't bend my arm out straight."
Nurse grabbed a wide elastic bandage and immobilized the elbow. She was trying to fashion a sling from a narrow elastic bandage, but it was not long enough. Just then the dude from Wall Street Financial Services walked in.
"Hey, buddy, did you get hurt? I hope you don't mind...I used to be a medic. It's your elbow? Did you reach out your arm like this to catch yourself? No? Is there one part that hurts more, like a specific point? Can you wiggle your fingers? Do we have a triangle bandage?"
Nurse informed Dude that we were fresh out of triangle bandages. Secretary whisked away to ask ParkingSpotUsurper if she had any fabric swatches suitable for slinging. A student office worker was dispatched to the upper reaches of Basementia for The Pony's backpack and hoodie. Secretary returned with some lovely purple polyester and a utilitarian cotton red/navy/green striped fabric. The Pony chose the purple, and Dude and Nurse commenced to slinging him. I must say, he was fit for evacuation from the battlefield forthwith.
We returned to Newmentia for my phone and glasses, and, oh yes...the #1 son. A call was put in to Family Ambulance Driver H, and a discussion ensued as to whether The Pony should go to a local ER, and if so, which of the three, or whether FAD H should simply meet us for transfer of The Pony and take him to Children's Hospital. We agreed on the latter, after FAD H strode into the last ER we took The Pony to, the one that did a fine job stitching #1's open head wound last November 12, and inquired as to whether there was an orthopedic surgeon in the entire county. The answer was that he was better off taking The Pony to the city, because not much could be done for him locally, except for the short term while awaiting services in the city.
That's where they are now, FAD H and The Pony, at Children's Hospital. I am awaiting the prognosis.
UPDATE:
The Pony is safely ensconced in the Mansion for the evening. The doctor thinks he has a hairline fracture somewhere in one of his arm bones at the elbow. Three X-rays were inconclusive. The doc and the X-ray tech pulled The Pony's arm until his elbow straightened. To hear FAD H tell it, "He darn near came off the table when they straightened his elbow!" Until then, The Pony only had moderate pain. They gave him regular tylenol, and a prescription for 500 mg tablets, which is what we have sitting above the stove of the Mansion, only in caplet and generic form, so that's what he'll be getting if he needs it.
The Pony has a splint holding his arm at 90 degrees at the elbow, with a rotation of 30 degrees, which FAD H says is the neutral position. It looks uncomfortable to me, and is the position that his previously broken right elbow was cast in for 10 days. The one that the physical therapist said would have had a much greater range of motion if it had been cast in the thumbs up handshake position. That's my interpretation. She was a bit more technical. The splint has to stay on for two weeks, then he returns to the doctor to see how things look.
So...playing the trombone in the Christmas program on December 12 is out. Poor Pony. He also missed Band pictures today. Club pictures are tomorrow, so he's going to school.
He's got to go right back up those steps that tripped him.
Nurse tapped on the glass panel of my door, and I motioned her in. She motioned me out. We Newmentians are experts at nonverbal communication. I stepped outside the door and saw Counselor as well. The first thought that jumped into my mind was that they needed my expertise in sniffing out some illegal substance on one of my captives that hour. It's happened before. But no. The nose of Mrs. Hillbilly Mom was not the target of their mission.
"You need to come with me," said Nurse. "The Pony has fallen down the steps of Basementia. Now don't worry, we think he's all right, but there's a chance that he's broken his arm."
Well. What to say. After the air whooshed out of me, I said, "I was just getting class started. All they need is their assignment." Because you can't just waltz away from 23 juniors just returned from vo-tech school, freshly caffeinated and fish-sticked from lunch.
Counselor said, "Get your things. I will take your class. I have different plans for them. They are going to the gym."
The gym would have been a treat for my freshmen classes. But I was sure the juniors would see it as a thorn in their side as they tried to lay their heads down for a clandestine nap. Too bad, so sad. I grabbed my keys and was off to Basementia.
Nurse asked, "Are you sure you're all right to drive?"
Of course. It's not like The Pony had cracked his head open and had brains leaking out. I found him behind the Basementia office counter, his arm propped up, chatting with his keyboarding teacher. After admonishing her to stop shoving my boy down the stairs, I asked The Pony what happened.
"I was going to lunch, and my foot hit the bottom step, and I tripped, and fell on the first two steps, but my arm hit the top step (he's lanky, that Pony, but not THAT lanky--there are only three steps at that location, in Lower Basementia by my old classroom, the lair of Basementia Buddy). One of my shoes fell off, and I think someone stepped on me, and I skinned my arm. See?"
This was his left arm, his good arm, the one not broken at the elbow three years ago that required surgical repair. The elbow was swollen and purpling in a U-shape, with a scrape on the bottom of his forearm. The Pony said he was not in great pain unless he moved it, as in tried to straighten it, which just wasn't happening.
"I went to lunch because I didn't think I was hurt. I ate my two corn dogs, and then I noticed that I couldn't bend my arm out straight."
Nurse grabbed a wide elastic bandage and immobilized the elbow. She was trying to fashion a sling from a narrow elastic bandage, but it was not long enough. Just then the dude from Wall Street Financial Services walked in.
"Hey, buddy, did you get hurt? I hope you don't mind...I used to be a medic. It's your elbow? Did you reach out your arm like this to catch yourself? No? Is there one part that hurts more, like a specific point? Can you wiggle your fingers? Do we have a triangle bandage?"
Nurse informed Dude that we were fresh out of triangle bandages. Secretary whisked away to ask ParkingSpotUsurper if she had any fabric swatches suitable for slinging. A student office worker was dispatched to the upper reaches of Basementia for The Pony's backpack and hoodie. Secretary returned with some lovely purple polyester and a utilitarian cotton red/navy/green striped fabric. The Pony chose the purple, and Dude and Nurse commenced to slinging him. I must say, he was fit for evacuation from the battlefield forthwith.
We returned to Newmentia for my phone and glasses, and, oh yes...the #1 son. A call was put in to Family Ambulance Driver H, and a discussion ensued as to whether The Pony should go to a local ER, and if so, which of the three, or whether FAD H should simply meet us for transfer of The Pony and take him to Children's Hospital. We agreed on the latter, after FAD H strode into the last ER we took The Pony to, the one that did a fine job stitching #1's open head wound last November 12, and inquired as to whether there was an orthopedic surgeon in the entire county. The answer was that he was better off taking The Pony to the city, because not much could be done for him locally, except for the short term while awaiting services in the city.
That's where they are now, FAD H and The Pony, at Children's Hospital. I am awaiting the prognosis.
UPDATE:
The Pony is safely ensconced in the Mansion for the evening. The doctor thinks he has a hairline fracture somewhere in one of his arm bones at the elbow. Three X-rays were inconclusive. The doc and the X-ray tech pulled The Pony's arm until his elbow straightened. To hear FAD H tell it, "He darn near came off the table when they straightened his elbow!" Until then, The Pony only had moderate pain. They gave him regular tylenol, and a prescription for 500 mg tablets, which is what we have sitting above the stove of the Mansion, only in caplet and generic form, so that's what he'll be getting if he needs it.
The Pony has a splint holding his arm at 90 degrees at the elbow, with a rotation of 30 degrees, which FAD H says is the neutral position. It looks uncomfortable to me, and is the position that his previously broken right elbow was cast in for 10 days. The one that the physical therapist said would have had a much greater range of motion if it had been cast in the thumbs up handshake position. That's my interpretation. She was a bit more technical. The splint has to stay on for two weeks, then he returns to the doctor to see how things look.
So...playing the trombone in the Christmas program on December 12 is out. Poor Pony. He also missed Band pictures today. Club pictures are tomorrow, so he's going to school.
He's got to go right back up those steps that tripped him.
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
The Elderly Get A Bit Forgetful Every Now And Then
All this cold and no precipitation makes Mrs. Hillbilly Mom a cranky gal.
I had to break down and adjust the thermostat in my classroom today. I anticipate a visit from Little General Handyman in the near future. Not a visit where I serve him tea and cucumber sandwiches. More like a visit during which he installs a locked metal grate over my thermostat while chastising me for wasting valuable utilities. Because I'm a scoff-utility kind of person. Evidenced by using all that fluorescent lighting during my plan time, when I could just as well sit in the dark like Abe Lincoln without firelight.
Little General Handyman might just point out that it wouldn't BE so dark in my classroom if I hadn't covered my two tall windows with black butcher paper. The paper's black. I don't know about the alleged butcher, or why we have rolls and rolls of his paper. But anyhoo, I blacked out those windows for my pre-Thanksgiving showing of Avatar to my biology class, and I've left it up. Because I'm in a festive holiday mood, and nothing screams FESTIVE HOLIDAY MOOD like windows covered by black butcher paper.
I might use that black butcher paper to reason with Little General Handyman. Since the Tech Nazi hooked up my electronic accoutrements with wires dangling from the ceiling, leaving me no alternative but to set up shop with my desk right under a drafty window...I need that black butcher paper to staunch the flow of northwest arctic winds. And it absorbs more sunlight in the afternoon. So there, Mr. Little General Handyman Smartypants. I'm actually SAVING you money that wasn't yours to start with.
Except that this afternoon I forgot to reset my thermostat back to the 60 degree mark that it normally lolls on overnight. It will be a toasty 71 degrees when I shuffle into my dark, dark lair Thursday morning. BWAH HA HA!
I had to break down and adjust the thermostat in my classroom today. I anticipate a visit from Little General Handyman in the near future. Not a visit where I serve him tea and cucumber sandwiches. More like a visit during which he installs a locked metal grate over my thermostat while chastising me for wasting valuable utilities. Because I'm a scoff-utility kind of person. Evidenced by using all that fluorescent lighting during my plan time, when I could just as well sit in the dark like Abe Lincoln without firelight.
Little General Handyman might just point out that it wouldn't BE so dark in my classroom if I hadn't covered my two tall windows with black butcher paper. The paper's black. I don't know about the alleged butcher, or why we have rolls and rolls of his paper. But anyhoo, I blacked out those windows for my pre-Thanksgiving showing of Avatar to my biology class, and I've left it up. Because I'm in a festive holiday mood, and nothing screams FESTIVE HOLIDAY MOOD like windows covered by black butcher paper.
I might use that black butcher paper to reason with Little General Handyman. Since the Tech Nazi hooked up my electronic accoutrements with wires dangling from the ceiling, leaving me no alternative but to set up shop with my desk right under a drafty window...I need that black butcher paper to staunch the flow of northwest arctic winds. And it absorbs more sunlight in the afternoon. So there, Mr. Little General Handyman Smartypants. I'm actually SAVING you money that wasn't yours to start with.
Except that this afternoon I forgot to reset my thermostat back to the 60 degree mark that it normally lolls on overnight. It will be a toasty 71 degrees when I shuffle into my dark, dark lair Thursday morning. BWAH HA HA!
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