We jumped through a myriad of safety drill hoops today. The first one kicked off during my plan time. Oh, sure. I could have turned out my lights and sat in the corner away from the door with my chair tilted back for a nap. Oh, wait! That was the old custodian during his shift.
No, I participated, in the spirit of safety drills everywhere, hauling myself down the gym steps and into the boys varsity locker room. Of course, I stopped by the bathroom on the way. Doesn't everybody go to the bathroom on the way to shelter for a tornado? This Val does. I still made it down there before some students from the other end of the building.
A colleague who fancied herself in charge, with good reason, because nobody else wanted to be the disaster drill director, turned to me and asked, "Are your kids in here, too?" Like we haven't done that same drill over and over enough for her to remember that my classroom is on the hall with all the other classrooms who report to that designated safety spot. She had just commanded five members of her class to sit on the floor of the handicap toilet in the boys varsity locker room. Yeah. Isn't that the stuff nightmares are made of?
Many pairs of eyes from heads about to assume the position zeroed in on me as I stood in the no-man's-land away from concrete walls. "I have no class." I caught a few eyes, from my prime stand-up location in the center of the room. Elicited a few smirks. "But we both know that's not news." Heh, heh. She cracked.
"Yes. Isn't THAT the truth!"
Then we all got yelled at because the kids weren't down on the floor yet. We're usually the last room inspected. Surprise, surprise. No skin off my nose. None of those about-to-be-blown-away kids were mine.
The lack of class has its perks.