We are supposed to use the bathroom at 10:00 AM recess, and at 12:00 lunch. Unfortunately, even after post-childbirth surgery, I occasionally need to use the bathroom at other times, likely triggered by my Behcet’s disease, likely triggered by teaching in that environment).

The approved procedure for peeing outside of recommended times, as it was explained to me in my training, is to open the connecting door to the next classroom and ask the teacher there to take official responsibility for monitoring your class while you are away.

We have no connecting door. The Office has stuck me and my thirteen Special Education students in a large storage closet instead of a classroom.

However, even better than a teacher in the next room, I have an almost full-time assistant. My assistant is well-experienced and highly respected by me and by the administration—this is her sixth year helping such students. I ask Rose to watch the class while I run to the restroom.

I race down the outside corridor on my urgent mission. Before I reach my goal, the Assistant Principal appears from around a corner. She positively pounces:

“WHAT are you doing out of your classroom?!”.
“I have to use the bathroom.”

(child of abuse, here, being faced by a screamer).

“WHO’S watching your students ?!” she blares.
“R-R-Rose,” I nervously stutter.

Her eyebrows can’t possibly go any higher.

“What were you THINKING!?
Only a certified teacher can watch your students!”

Then, she glares at me and spits out:

“Go back to your classroom IMMEDIATELY!”
“But…but…I really have to use the bathroom,” I manage to speak up.
 

Like She Couldn’t TELL

Is THIS how The Administration will treat me?

Is this how The District treats all its teachers?
 
 
ABUSED ASPIE ADDENDUM

It is very sad to me, on a personal level, looking back at this now:

That the woman who was once a confident white-collar professional, running projects, and meetings with Senior V.P.s, designing systems, travelling all over, managing people (only adequately, that last)–

Immediately reverted to the whipped, beaten, cowed puppy she was each time she was put into a new situation and faced with bullying. My abusive marriage negated any gains I’d made after my abusive childhood–with my Aspie social skills always willing to pitch in and hogtie a hand.
 
And this reaction is still my first instinct today. That is both sad, and infuriating. Makes me want to go out a kick a cat.

(THIS is why my friend Joey says I’m Satan. I was tempted–really and truly tempted–to leave the post like that, and hit Update, just to see what happened.)
 

I am KIDDING, y’all!
 
I would only give a kitty One Hard Look–really.

Dratted faustian felines and their sly little furry-footed ways…
 
 

‘Nuff Said.