Dad on Duty #81

A day at school…any day really…is jam packed with experiences and emotions and human contact.  And so much importance.  Maybe that’s why I like it here; it reminds me of my old job, without getting goop on my paws (obscure Dogbert reference…..gimme a slow clap if you get it…)

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First thing on the agenda today is Show and Tell with an ambulance.

When Tori was in Kindergarten, I had my own ambulances.  We brought one up to the school and let the kids crawl around it and give each other oxygen; basically, trying to show them that if paramedics come to see them, there’s nothing to be scared of.  We did that a few times over the next couple years, until we sold that business.

This year, Tori’s former KG teacher asked me if we could do it again. Problem is, I’m not in the ambulance business anymore.

So I called a couple friends at WilCo EMS to see if they could bring a unit out for the kids.  Sure, we’d be happy to, they say.

The two medics who showed up this morning were great; fairly young, energetic and professional.  I met them at the front and showed them where to park. We talked a bit about the audience and objectives

They obviously had *no* idea who I am.  I’m that far removed now, from the profession in which I was once a well known leader. To these two medics, I’m just the school cop.

That was a weird experience.

Their boss’, boss’ boss once worked for me.  Their physician medical director is my lifelong best friend, and the godfather to my youngest child (and I to his).

There is a 90% chance these two medics have taken a class built on material I wrote, and use protocols based on stuff I created.

They don’t know any of that.  And I am certainly not going to say anything.

We talk about the presentation today. They start setting up, and bring out the handouts they want to give the kids.   They have about 50 copies.

“How big are these two classes?” they ask.

Well, I tell them, it’s two grades, not two classes. That’s about 225 kids.

Whoa.  Their eyes grow big. That’s a bit overwhelming.  But they adjust, and do a great job.

the kids love it. And learn quite a bit.

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Next on the agenda are Limo rides. Kids that sold a certain amount of cookie dough in the school fund raiser are rewarded with a ride in a stretch limo to a local park.  They can also bring a friend.  It’s pretty darn fun; the limos are decked out with disco lights and a impressive sound system.  It’s a heckuva party in there.

Every year, we struggle with kids who are certain they should be going on the ride, but aren’t on the list.  We have to take the claims seriously; once in a great while, the kid is right.

Rosie has to be the bad guy this year.  We call kids down by grade, and then check them off against the approved list.  It’s a lot like a super-cool New York nightclub; if you ain’t on the list, you are sent packing, to return to the company of the un-cool rabble.

One kid is sure he’s supposed to be on the list; he and his brother sold plenty. His brother backs up the story. I’m looking at that grade’s portfolio, and see that we have another kid listed twice. Aha!  I bet the duplicate name is in place of this kid, and he *should* be going.  Problem is, we don’t have a written permission slip; we need to get a verbal OK from a parent.

It’s an ordeal.  We can’t find a parent.  The rest of the kids are loaded, and we are delaying everyone’s departure. And that has a domino effect downstream….the same limos that should be leaving now are the ones picking the previous group up from the park and returning them to school.

This is pretty much on me. I’m the one that has decided that there was an error, and we need to send this kid. Everybody else is following along.

I go to find the A/P to tell her why we’re delayed, and to get her OK for the verbal permission plan. She is chaperoning one of the limos, and is already loaded up.  When I open the door, I am nearly blown over backwards by the sound waves that explode out of the car.  She’s got Queen’s “We are the Champions” blasting at what can only be described as jet engine level.  All the kids are dancing. “We’re having fun in here!” she exclaims.  Yeah, looks like it.  I tell her my story and she nods…but in retrospect I’m not sure she heard a word I said.  Regardless, I take her head bobbing as approval for my plan.  But good for her; the kids are loving her “fun side”; all beaming and clapping and dancing to the beat.

We finally make contact with a parent, get permission for the unlisted kid to go, and launch the limos.  They are now about 15 minutes off track.

It has significant consequences, as I’ll describe shortly.

About an hour later, Rosie tells me that kid was not supposed to go; the brother had already designated a guest who did go.  The duplicate name didn’t mean anything.

Oops.

Good thing I made everyone jump through flaming hoops to solve my imaginary problem.

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With my help, the limo ride shuttle system is now pretty far off schedule.  This also means the chaperones are gone out of the building for longer.

At one point, both the Boss and the A/P are stuck at the park or in a limo, at the same time. That wasn’t the plan.  You’re welcome, I’m just here to help.

We are bossless for maybe 30 minutes. But in that brief span……man, were those two women popular.  No less than six people came stomping, crawling, running or crying into the office asking “is Ms. Storie here?”  Nope. “How about Ms. Gandy?”  Negative.  “Well, um……”

But that’s one of the reasons we do these special events and complex operations on days when myself or Marc or one of the other really experienced volunteers can help. We find a way through the issues.

A teacher comes in very upset; a troubled student has really pushed her buttons and she needs help.  Rosie sends Roel, a male aid who’s fulltime gig is helping with Special Ed kids.  But he also has significant experience and training with behavioral issues. He handles the situation masterfully. Strong and unwavering, he gets the kid back on track. And at the end, the kid thanks him.  Amazing.

A 5th grade girl comes in sobbing, asking for the Boss. I’m the first person she runs into. Our nurse, Rosie and Deb all jump up and start moving toward her.

But I’ve got this one.  I’m pretty experienced with crying little girls. I grab her, pull her close and start talking. The other staff back away.

She tells me what upset her, and I challenge her. Who controls your emotions and reactions, him or you?   If you say something that strong, that mean, what do you expect the other person to say back?  It will be reflected right back at you; do you see that’s what happened?  Does that make sense?   She nods.  Feel better? Now she looks me in the face and nods again.  She takes a deep breath, stands tall and straight, and walks back out.

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As I believe I’ve shared more than once in this forum, Lost and Found is my own personal Hell on Earth.

I hate it. With a deep, burning passion. Seriously, please come get your stuff. I beg you.

As I patrol through and around the school, I find lots of items.  Water bottles, jackets and lunchboxes, mostly.

I go to great lengths to avoid L&F.  If there is anything that even vaguely identifies a possible owner, I chase it down.  Sometimes the item rides around with me for hours as more pressing missions pop up; but I ain’t going to the damn Lost and Found.

Today, for example, I find a lunchbox with a largely illegible name. Deb, Rosie and I figure it out, by cross-referencing the time of discovery with recess periods, against the possible names in the label fragment.

It’s totally CSI Georgetown.

So I sherpa it up to the kid’s home room, which is empty, because they’re off to the library.  I leave it on the dry erase board, with a note and very large arrow.

Wonder how embarrassed he was?

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When the kids are moving through the school en mass, it’s impressive. And intimidating. And a little chaotic. If you haven’t been in a hallway when 300 or more kids are pouring around you, it’s hard to understand what I am frequently trying to describe here.

But as I was helping with traffic control in the hallway today, I snapped this pic.  To give you a bit of a sense of it.

This is only first grade, on their way to a special event near the end of the day (hence their backpacks and stuff).  This is one grade.  20% of the school population.  Several times a day, there are 3x this many kids in that same space.  And often, for special events, everybody is in the hallway; five times this many people.

It’s crazy.

But it’s life.

Emotional, and human, and jam packed.

And important.

That’s why we love it here.