Dad on Duty #90

So here’s a question I bet you haven’t ever asked yourself:  How many chickens does it take to evacuate an entire school of nearly 1,000 people?

Turns out, it’s *1*.  Just one.  If you do it right.  We’ll talk about that later.  It’s pretty damn funny.

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So today is picture day.  Always a lot of moving parts.

We gotta herd all 600 kids through the gym, in the right sequence, without having too much of a backup.

An interesting change is happening this year, from my perspective.  Tori, and all of her friends, are really worried about their hair.  Fifth graders don’t get their pictures done until after their first “mini recess”, which means outside.  In the humidity.

“That’s not happening” declares Tori.  Maddi, Mia and a couple other girls nod their agreement.    Their hair does look really good.  So when it’s time to go outside, most of the 5th grade girls stand near the building, out of the wind and sun.

To save their hair for picture day.

We successfully get everybody through the picture factory, with minimal drama.  It’s a pretty well run operation.

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So, for those of you who are new to this blog, or who do not know my background, I worked as a street medic for about 20 years.  In some pretty tough places.  I got in a lot of fights, most of which I lost.  So I’ve had my butt kicked many, many times.

But, it’s been a while since that happened.

Until today.

I wasn’t even looking for a fight.  I swear, really.  I was just doing my thing and next thing you know, I’m in an MMA semi final.  Actually, two.  Except that there was no referee there to stop it when I tried to tap out.

As we discussed in the last blog, we have some additional special ed and behaviorally challenged kids this year.  They are new to us, and (perhaps more importantly), we are new to them.

At mid-morning, I’m walking down the hall toward 1st grade to check on the littler kids, and one of the new special needs kids breaks loose and bolts toward the front office, right at me.  His teacher is in hot pursuit right behind him.

Out of habit, and without thinking about it, I stick my left arm out in his pathway to visually signal “slow down, dude”.  I ask him “hey buddy….where you going?”

He drops his head like a linebacker, powers forward and impacts my left bicep, with everything he’s got.  He’s a decent sized kid….the contact is, well…..noticeable.  I hold my ground, and he is stopped, at least long enough for his teacher to catch up.

I didn’t realize he’d hit me that hard.

Three (3) days later, as I am getting out of the shower, I see this.

Amy asks “what the hell happened there?”  I really didn’t remember at first.  But as I reflected tonight on my notes from that day, I remembered….oh yeah, that kid clocked me pretty good.  I don’t bruise easily; that was a laudable hit.

During kindergarten lunch, one of the SPED classes is trying to come in from early recess and return to their home room to prepare for lunch time.  I am managing traffic at the cafeteria/main hallway intersection, guiding KG-ers to the playground.  Two staff members wave at me to come to the next hallway, and tell me the SPED teacher needs my help.  They didn’t indicate a real sense of urgency, so I just walk down there.  I figure there’s a lost lunch box or something.

That was a mistake.

In the 15 seconds it took me to get there, the situation has deteriorated markedly.  This particular SPED teacher has a very full class, and her normal assistant is out today.  She has a sub helping her.  The sub is a very experienced and very competent teacher, but not with these kids.

It is not going well.

One child is completely unraveled, as we’ll reflect on a little later.  His behavior is profoundly upsetting to the other kids in his class.  Three of them are crying, screaming or trying to bolt.  We are right at the door to the playground.  One of the kids in this class is still outside. So the sub is holding the door open, trying to get the last kid in, while myself and the regular teacher wrestle with the remaining four kids, within about five feet of the open door.  They see the open door, and it represents a possible escape from this noise and chaos that is upsetting them.

They lock eyes on target; the way out.

Oh.  Crap.

At the same time the kids arrive at their escape plan, I also see what is developing.  I start barking at the sub “Close the door!  CLOSE THE DOOR!”  Two of the kids start bolting past me.  I grab one in each arm, still yelling “CLOSE.  THE.  DOOR!”  The kid in my left arm settles down.  I think the kid in my right arm is doing OK, too.  I talk with her a bit, and give her a reassuring hug, using my best calming voice.

The door is still open.  So, in a calm (I think…) voice. I say one more time “close the door, please”, and the sub realizes the issue and does just that.

At that moment, I feel an intense sting on my right bicep.  The kid in my right arm has chomped down on me, as hard as she can.

She could have portrayed the part of the shark in Jaws 3.  I’m quite sure I could have picked her completely off the ground just by lifting my right arm.

I slowly push her forehead back and get her to let go.  I talk her down as best I can.  At this point, the three of us adults are standing, completely disheveled, with the five kids, in the hallway.  Everyone is injured at some level, and a little overwhelmed.  “We got everybody?” I ask.  Yeah, this is it.  “Ready to head to the room?”  Lord yes.

Like wounded soldiers after a battle, we escort our prisoners of war to their classroom.

Three (3) days later, I still have this mark on my arm.  Pretty good bite power, I’d say.

***********

Shortly after that melee, the counselor comes out in the hallway.  “Are they OK?” She asks about the SPED kids.  No, not really, I tell her.  It’s not good.  She checks on the class, and returns to the hall.

The Boss, the A/P, the counselor and I have a meeting in the hallway, while guiding first graders to recess.

Something is really wrong with the SPED boy that set off that disaster.  It’s not like him.  We’ve had that boy for a few years, and know him well.  These behaviors are out of character.

Something is wrong.

The nurse checks him over carefully, but can’t find anything.  But she agrees….something is going on with him.

But we don’t know what.

And he can’t tell us.  He’s non-communicative, in his normal status.  And now, agitated and (apparently) feeling bad, it’s worse.

What do we do now?

Nobody knows.

We are all very frustrated, upset, and….frankly….disappointed in ourselves.  Why can’t we figure this out?  Why can’t we fix it?

There is no answer for us.

Or for him.

*********

Another behavioral explosion, down the hall, in the new SPED room.  Both administrators are in full sprint.  There is yelling and what sounds like a scuffle.

Shortly after that, they call for a custodian for a clean up.

Now, that can’t be good.  That can’t be good at all.

I move to the center of the school, realizing that both bosses are now mired in a situation that is probably….well…..messy.

I manage a few issues, redirect some kids, help a teacher with a minor supply problem and make an administrative decision about a proposed party in the cafeteria (“No”, is what I decide.  Everyone skulks away sadly.  Sorry.).

Finally, the two bosses emerge, a little worse for the wear.  But assuring us all that everything is cool, just a little normal outburst from one of our new kids.  Stuff we just gotta get used to, and figure out how to handle within the context of a successful school day.

That, right there, is the trick.

*******

I think the thing I will miss the most next year will be the hugs.

Middle school kids are not quite as huggy as these guys.  And nothing….absolutely nothing…..will recharge you from a booty-whooping like today than the hug of a second grader.

These kids hug a *lot*.  I believe that’s because we’ve created a safe and loving environment that makes that behavior seem normal and welcome.

I spend most of the day in the main hallway.  Being visible and available.  As a result, every single kid in the school passes me at some point during the day.  I, literally, see every single child at least once, every day that I am there.

Many of them take the initiative to hug me as they walk by.  Probably 100 per day.

Despite the struggles and episodes of anarchy I describe here, the kids here are really happy.  This is a healthy place for them.  They feel safe.  They dance down the hallways to PE or music, and spontaneously hug me, sometimes so hard my eyes water a little bit, on their way.

There is magic in that.

Truly.

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Fundamentally, this is about love.  You must embrace and understand that.

If you approach these kids, and these challenges, as merely a responsibility, or a job, then I believe you will fail.  And you might take us down with you.

For this school, or any school, to succeed, we must genuinely and, as purely as we can, love each and every one of these kids.  Each.  And.  Every.  One.

And the tough ones?  The ones who frustrate you, who confound you…even anger you?  You must love them even more. 

Please take a moment and reflect on what I’m saying now.  Just a moment.  Hear me.

If you work in this building, whether we pay you or not, we need you to truly love.  Love each child, each, individually.  No matter what.

As He would do.

It will not work any other way.

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So, how do you completely empty a school with just one chicken?

You burn the holy living hell out of it.  In a microwave.  That you really aren’t supposed to have in your classroom in the first place.

And, by the way, it is HILARIOUS.

I happen to be at the front desk for a minute.  The phone rings, and the gals are busy, so I answer it.  It is from one of the teacher’s extensions.  So I just answer “yes ma’am?”  The teacher calling says “oh thank God it’s you.  Can you come up to <teacher’s> room for a minute and help us with something?”

I figure it involves a heavy object that needs to be moved or something they can’t reach.  That’s pretty much the only time I get that request.

As I head up the stairs, I notice a strong smell.  The upstairs kids are all at lunch, recess or PE, so it’s pretty much empty upstairs.

Thankfully.

As I move down the fifth grade hall, there is a distinct haze.  Smoke.  A lot of it.

I get to the room in question, and three of them are up on chairs, fanning the haze away from the smoke detectors.  It is thick.  Like, I literally cannot see the tops of their heads through the smoke, thick.

“What the hell happened here?” I ask, rather loudly and incredulously.  “I burned my lunch in the microwave” replied the teacher to whom the room belongs.  “No s&*^” I replied, before realizing that is not an appropriate response at an elementary school.  But, really, holy cow…this is bad…..

The smoke is atrocious smelling, and heavy.  It completely fills the hallway.  The teachers have already opened the hallway door and evacuated both the (now destroyed) microwave and the charred chicken carcass to the patio outside their hallway.

Gradually it dawns on me…..this is bad.  I don’t think the kids can come back in here.

I grab a fan….it’s really more like a portable hurricane…..from Frank the custodian.  We are pushing hundreds of cubic feet of air per minute out the hallway door…..but it ain’t getting better.

I call for an admin.  We go room by room, and think, yeah….maybe they can come back in.

When it’s almost time for the 5th graders to come back, their teachers walk the space again with me.  I’m now less confident.  There is still as haze, and the odor is really strong.

After a quick tour, the teachers are starting to have serious doubts.  It’s still pretty bad.  And if even one kid has any symptoms or complaints, it will be like a bunch of dominoes; in no time, we’ll have a mass casualty incident.  Been there, done that.

I put it directly to the teachers; you ok with bringing the kids back up here or not?  Your call.  No, they decide.  I agree.

I call the Boss on the radio.  It’s a no-go.  We gotta find another place to put the 5th graders for the rest of the day.  (Including my own kid).

OK, got it.  No problem.  Both bosses set to work to move 120 kids somewhere else.  And, as you might imagine, the list of places you can put 120 kids is, well….quite short.

We are going to the cafeteria.  In the meantime, the 5th grade kids get about an hour of extra outside time.  So they’re pretty happy.

First, we need to quickly collect all our stuff from the classrooms.  In the Cloud of Chicken Gas.    So the 5th grade populace returns briefly, under our watchful eyes on constant needling to get your stuff fast, and get out.

Within a few minutes, and without incident, we get everyone moved down to the cafeteria.  The teachers start with a movie but quickly change to a talent show.  It’s actually pretty darn fun.  The 5th graders have a great time.

So maybe that chicken pyre was a good thing after all.

But I don’t recommend it as a routine procedure.