I hate spring

Actually, I like the idea of spring. I merely hate its implementation.

Here in Cowtown, spring means mud. And dirt. And puddles. And for some reason, kidlets and mud and moisture seem to attract each other.

I have this problem a couple of times a year; sometimes in the early winter, at first snowfall, and sometimes right around now. My kids (who, at grade nine, ought to know better) insist on rolling around in old snowbanks and stomping around in the muck. And then returning to class after lunch.

My class.

Well today, encouraged by the in-your-facedness of the God of such things (I am not worthy), I did the following:

1. I sent four grade nine students from my period 5 science class to the office for late slips (which they know they should have done in the first place);
2. Upon return with said slips, asked them if they were “dressed” appropriately (their shoes were muddy beyond comprehension, and their pant legs, up to their crotches, soaked);
3. Upon hearing a bunch of mutterings and stutterings, sent them back to the office for permission to change their clothing;
4. Accepted one student back, twelve minutes later, dressed in their gym strip.

I suppose the other three students simply chose to fuck off for the afternoon, which was no great loss.

Oh, and did I say that we were writing a long scheduled unit pretest? We were. Those three get zero, which has repercussions beyond the scope of what I will write about today.

That dripping, schloppy noise? Not the mud on my floor. It’s the sound of their term mark which just took a bit of a tumble.