Trying Times

It has been a trying day.

Before school started, a plethora of procrastinators barged into my sanctuary, blazing with the fever of last-minute-itis.

The #1 son complained that the book was wrong because he missed two questions out of 13. And in fact, the book WAS wrong on one of those two bad answers. Let it suffice to say that a graph showing increasing acceleration should not be a straight line, but a curved line.

It is cutting things a bit close when your dad has to bring your science project to school during the last 10 minutes of your class on the day you are scheduled to present, because he is putting on the finishing touches.

Saying that you are just joking when you barge in and demand to know why your child only got an 84 on the science project does not really make such behavior acceptable.

Home bound students should not expect a chance to redo assignments that they turned in partially complete, since regular students do not have the same privilege, in addition to not having 7 more hours a day free during which to complete such assignments.

My classroom is the Area 51 of Newmentia. I do not expect or allow willy-nilly intrusion after the school day. If I could put up Trespass Prohibited signs, I would. So I should not return from a 45-minute faculty meeting to find three students darting in and out of my room, and my desk drawer open, and my teacher scissors laid out on a student desk (when 9 pairs of student scissors were readily available with the project-making materials set out at the back table), and music blaring from some mini-electronic gewgaw, music that is not turned off until my third reminder, just because my own two children have access to my room, and know the rules and toe the line. Next time, I may just lock up and let my spawn sit in the hall until I return.

The #1 son learned that his sarcastic perpetual mouth can indeed cause Mrs. Hillbilly Mom to pull T-Hoe right out of the McDonald's drive-thru line and result in a detour to the store and a 60-minute delay in food flowing into his gullet.

Don't mess with Mrs. Hillbilly Mom.