End Of Year Tries Teacher’s Patience

Ten days of school left, and my little darlings are wearing me out.

As their sap rises, my stamina wanes. They’re squirrelly and I’m becoming surly, but with a little luck, we’ll all survive.

Without a doubt, my patience is wearing thin, and episodes that would be overlooked in September become major events in May.

Let me tell you how my life was going around 7:55 this morning.

Midway into the first period tardy bell, Jim flies through the door, trips over Danny’s Ninja Turtles notebook and lands halfway in an empty trash can. Before I can break and run to Jim’s rescue, Benny has shoved Jim the rest of the way into the oversized bin, has guided it through the door and is rolling it down the hall.

“Stop that trash can!” I shriek from my doorway. A few stragglers, intent on beating the bell, pretend not to hear and duck into their classrooms.

In September, this might have been funny. In May, however, nobody’s laughing except Benny and maybe Jim.

“Back in the room!” I command in my best George-C.-Scott-doing-Gen.-George-Patton voice.

But Benny spins Jim around (can and all) and rolls him in the other direction.

I forgot to say, first: “Get Jim out of the trash can.”

The din attracts the attention of other teachers along the hall. Wisecracks range from “I’ve often wanted to do that!” to “Is this another one of your wacky learning experiences?”

Grumbling, I round up my class clowns and head for homeroom. And what do I find? Patti and Jen going at each other like grandma at the wrestling matches.

“They are too short!” Jen hollers, pointing to Patti’s Mickey Mouse shorts. “The handbook says ‘knee-length.”’

Once again, I hear the dreaded, “Ms. Schuett! Ms. Schuett! Ms. Schuett!” Once again, I consider changing my name. The two want a decision on whether or not the dress code has been fractured.

I don’t want to deal with it, but I can’t tell them that.

“Can’t come now,” I mutter, cowering in an attempt to appear immersed in serious attendance-taking paperwork.

It was an artless dodge. They’re closing in on me.

“Ms. Schuett, in the handbook it says that shorts have to be knee-length or they are a major violation of the dress code.”

That’s Jen pointing to 4 inches of bare leg between Patti’s kneecaps and the first Mickey ears.

In turn, Patti spins around and points to Angie’s skirt. “She’s got more leg sticking out than I have, so why doesn’t she have to go to the principal’s office?”

Angie dives right in to defend her itty-bitty miniskirt. “The handbook doesn’t say anything about skirts - only shorts.”

As she turns in triumph, she leans toward Patti. “So there, Poop Face.”

Poop Face? Good grief! It’s intervention time for sure.

Once they’re seated and quiet, I launch lecture No. 302: “Name-calling is never acceptable, and resorting to slang is the result of inadequate vocabulary.”

For a brief moment, it looks like it’s working, so I decide to get on with today’s lesson.

When I call for a volunteer to distribute the paperbacks, Walter jumps up and heads for the shelf.

Midway through his rounds, with an armload of books, he yells for me to look at him. “I’ve got new slidey sandals! Wanna see?”

Before I can refuse, he revs up and cuts loose with a slide that sends him and 21 copies of “The Acorn People” halfway under my desk.

Walter crawls out from under my feet with a silly grin spread across his 14-year-old face and begins picking up the books.

He notices me digging through my desk drawers. “Whatcha looking for?” he asks with just a mite of apprehension. “A detention slip?”

“I’m looking for a copy of my retirement plan,” I grouch. “I want to see if I can give it all up and still afford to eat.”

“Aww, Ms. Schuett,” he says in his best smarmy voice, “you can’t leave us. We luu-ve you.”

It works every time.

Only 10 more days to go, I think to myself. Time to stop acting like an old Poop Face.

xxxx