I got home shortly before SwampMan, just long enough to toss off my work clothes and shoes and slump into my Lazy chair. He walked in eyeing me uneasily.
“Uh, did you get fired today?” he asked, casually, for I had given him my opinion about going back to work this morning.
“Mmmmmmmmmmmrrrrrguuuuuuuuuuuuuh” is pretty close to my reply. It was a cross between a groan and a whimper. Call it a grimper. It is the sort of sound the walking dead might make.
“No, I suppose you didn’t get fired today because you’d be dancing around nekkid covered in chicken blood because you’d sacrificed some roosters to the Voodoo Gods in thanks. So, bad day at work today?”
“Does this mean that dinner is going to be really late again?”
“Good thing I’m prepared then. I brought you some sweet tea from McDonald’s!” He handed me a couple large sweet teas, and opened his chicken nuggets. The man knows me waaaaaaay too well by now.
At 7 p.m., I roused myself from my catatonic state to go outside and do the feeding.
I trudged back inside, shoulders slumped, in total defeat. Once again this morning, I had stumbled out of bed in full alarm clock malice vowing that This Time, This Very Evening, I would have enough energy when I got home and finished with various chores and cooking to do all the stuff that I hadn’t gotten to finish this weekend, like wash the windows, rake the yard, dust, mop, finish rearranging all the closets, chests of drawers, fold the laundry I’d washed and thrown in the dryer this morning. Ooooh, and my exercise program! And maybe I’ll have time for a shower!
I have a list, you see. If I do only ten (extra) chores per day that are on it, by the weekend I’ll be able to experience the relaxation of the virtuous instead of suffering the fate of somebody who needs to get those things done on the weekend only has other places to go and things to do and so instead of doing the household maintenance chores, they just don’t get done, so I kick myself for being a worthless human being.
I don’t suppose I’ll ever get the opportunity to experience that sort of relaxation of the virtuous. It would be nice to at least get ONE thing done. On the other hand, what if I were to get killed by a logging truck on the way to work tomorrow morning? Would I really want my last day on earth to be spent folding laundry and vacuuming floors?
On the other other hand (how many hands is that now?) women would probably be bringing casseroles over to SwampMan and thinking “Bless her heart, that woman didn’t even vacuum her floors last night. And her windows have frog poop all over the outside. Wait until I tell Linda Sue.”
SwampMan was watching a movie about aliens or zombies or something fairly disgusting on Hulu, completely unworried about what people would think if I died suddenly and the house was a mess, secure in the knowledge that everybody would blame me anyway. Plus he would get casseroles.
“Hey, you want me to put this on the tv so that you can watch? Are you even remotely interested?” he asked as I walked by.
“Uh, NO. Tell me, whoever thought that it was a brilliant idea that would magically fix broken children if they just threw kids that are working waaaaay below their grade level into classes with regular kids?”
“Riiiiiiight. And whoever thought that throwing a child who thinks differently and doesn’t really understand nuance and emotion into a class of kids that can barely read, write, and have discipline problems so that this child will somehow learn how to answer test questions that involves inferences about emotion and nuance like everybody else was a good idea?”
“Uh, the government!” answers SwampMan absently, because he’s come to a good brain-eating part.
“And who thinks that it is a good idea for the normal kids to be subjected to ADHD kids wandering around the room talking to everybody and getting into things, emotionally handicapped kids yelling out, and having to slow the class waaaaaaaay down for the kids who can’t read on a third grade level?”
“Uh, sorry, were you still talking?” asks SwampMan, eyes on the computer screen, pulling an earphone off one ear.
“I just said I was going to cook dinner now!”
All I can say is that if any of your children complain about noise, distractions, and inability to concentrate in their classroom, they’re probably right. The school’s funding in Florida depends, in part, in not having too many disciplinary issues, so the disciplinary issues are ignored.
SwampMan just finished his movie, walked by, put his hand on my shoulder and asked seriously “Are you all right?”
“No!” I replied. “Our school system is broken and getting worse by the year!”
“I know. All these directives that are the result of academic studies…” he said, patting me.
“Which, as we all know, work out a lot differently in a one-on-one situation than in a class of 25….”
“Have you often thought about how much faking of results is involved in that research!” I asked, ever the cynic. And I’ve done some highly, uh, creative paperwork in my time, too, so I know ALL about it.
“Unh hunh. Probably the majority!” answered SwampMan.