Dad on Duty #121

Part 2, our continued saga of the first few days of school

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Walking down the hallway, I find this near the bathroom.

I am concerned.

But not about to pick it up.

So I call the custodian, and he comes over.  He checks it out, and just like the pool scene in Caddyshack, picks it up with his bare hands and declares “it’s an acorn”.

I’m still not sure.  I’m gonna let him handle that.

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Working at lunchtime with the little ones is a constant near-frenzy of activity.  Often there is not time to properly deal with things; you focus on the big priorities and duct-tape everything else with the intent of handling it better later.

After getting the kids out the door for recess, I realize I have stuff in my pocket.

A marker, that some kid found and wanted to “return”; a random cheese stick that some other kid didn’t want, but felt the need to hand off to me; and a smattering of plastic wrappers, that I removed from kids’ food or utensils, but didn’t have time to go the 25 feet to the trash can. 

The real trick is to try not to make it home with all that stuff still in your pocket. 

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The fire alarm is malfunctioning.  It went off “for real” before school, requiring an evacuation, but fortunately there were only a few people there.  Now, it is briefly alerting every few minutes, for a second or two, then resetting.  It’s very short, but still loud and kinda upsetting to the little kids.  So Leslie and I go up and down the little kid hallways to tell them “don’t worry, they’re working on it, just go about your business”.  As we head back toward the office, Leslie says “um….I think we just taught those kids to ignore the fire alarm?”.  Yes, yes we did.  We’ll undo that later.

In the office, the panel is beeping pretty much non-stop.  We quickly figure out which button to push to make it shut up, and that becomes a full-time job for anyone close to the panel.

(It’s that middle one, btw, in case that happens at your office)

The alarm guy is here, working on it.  He’s got sensors and klaxons pulled off the wall all over the building, hanging by the wires, while he chases down the problem.  He tells Valerie that at some point, he will need to set off the alarm to test it in full.  That will, by rule, require us to do a full evacuation.  She reminds him to warn us first, as we may have him wait a few minutes if, for example, kids are in transit to specials.  

As it nears 3 pm, I still see lots of alarm parts hanging from the walls.  I’m thinking, no way he’ll be able to test it before school is out.  I pass another teacher, and he says the same thing “I don’t think he’ll be able to set it off. We’ll squeak out of this one!”  We’re high-fiving in the hall.  Woo-hoo, no fire drill today!

I get back to the office and just as I walk in, the full alarm goes off.  For real.  The tech is standing at the panel.  Valerie looks around shocked.  “Did he warn you?” I ask her.  “NO!”  She marches over to him and says “did you just hit the button?!?”  He’s kinda scared now and just nods.  “Oh my g…..” she stops herself short, grabs her radio and proceeds to facilitate the full evacuation of the school.

Good news; it was a pretty good drill for real life.

Bad news; it’s 103 degrees outside.

A couple of days later, the alarm system is still twitching, so our maintenance guys come out to look.  They decide to clean the sensors (that worked actually).

But as hundreds of kids flow around this guy at the entrance of the cafeteria during lunchtime, I am certain disaster is about to strike.  What do I do?  Standby with my camera of course, ‘cause this is gonna be funny…..

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At dismissal, a big girl is crying.  Standing on the sidewalk at car line, waiting for her ride….she’s crying.  I have no idea what it is about.

Her teacher is talking with her, very intensely.  Holding her by her shoulders, crouched down a little, to be eye-to-eye.  They are having this intimate moment in the chaos of car line, surrounded by dozens of people, on the front walk of the school.

But none of that matters.  They have a relationship.

The girl’s ride arrives, and the teacher walks her to her car.  After loading her, the teacher leans in the window and talks more with the girl, who is now wiping tears from her face, nodding. 

I think she’s saying “yes, I understand”.

Finally, the car pulls away.  As it gets about 30 feet from us, a hand appears from the back window, waving to her teacher.  “Thank you”, I think is what she’s saying now.

The teacher never says a word to anyone else.  She just walks back into school to finish her work.

Because that is what she does.