Too Much to Take In
4:24 p.m. - 2004-10-13

My principal is driving me nucking futs again, and I'm ready to throw a large, heavy object at her head.

I know, I know, I said I wouldn't complain about her this year because, after all, she did give me a job therefore saving me a hell of a lot of time and trouble this summer.

But GOD. Enough is enough. The woman is studying for her doctorate, and she's damned and determined that she's going to implement every possible program available all at once to ensure that her dissertation blows everyone else out of the water.

I'm irritated enough by the new lesson plan format, which takes at least three hours to complete, but she's also instituted a new writing program (4 writing assignments across the curriculum every nine weeks), Whole-Faculty Study Group meetings twice a month, a Faculty meeting once a month, Grade-Level Collaborative meetings once a week, and now the ever-dreaded, much bitched about data folders that must be kept on every student in the class. Said folders are supposed to contain a list of the GLE's and benchmarks for every student, when they were taught, how they were taught, test scores, actual tests, and any other corresponding data. We've been instructed to place the folders in a conspicuous place so that when she walks in, she can grab a couple, look through them, and then call various students over to explain to her the information contained therein.

It's a ludicrous idea, especially for lower grades, because my six year olds can barely write their names, much less correlate and discuss data.

After hearing the news I went into a slightly comatose state, because I don't see any possible way for me to get all that shit done. I hardly have time to teach the basics--how on earth does she expect me to teach these children to understand stanines and percentiles when they can't even add yet? Fucking ridiculous, I say.

And while other teachers are in agreement with me, none of them seem to be willing to step up to the plate and admit that we're being asked to go above and beyond the call of duty. I get paid from 8-3. Nevermind that I get there by 7:10 every morning and don't leave until 3:30 (or much, much later, some days) and then spend at least three hours at home working on shit. I don't get a penny's worth of overtime for that, and honestly, if that time were being spent planning/doing stuff that would help my kids, I wouldn't complain at all. But it's a bunch of goddamn busy-work, all in the name of where HER priorities lie. Forget about the kids and what they know. Just make sure that her dissertation rocks the socks off of whatever professor she's trying to impress.

Gah. I've been stewing about this all day, and I think it's time I get of my soapbox and begin my work for the evening. Lesson plans await me, as does Season One of Dead Like Me. I'll be watching and writing simultaneously, and hopefully no one will bother me for the next four hours. Alan's already been instructed that he's on his own for dinner (take-out night around the Dreamer household), and I'll be screening phone calls and keeping the doors locked.

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I am: so very many things. A mother, a wife, a dreamer, a lover of animals and babies, a friend. I've been called a bitch, but if that's what you call someone who stands up for what they believe in and refuses to settle, then I guess the title fits.

loves: my family, horses, a full night's sleep, puppy breath, my daughter's laughter, thunderstorms, bubble baths, makeup, soft sheets, David Sedaris and Augusten Burroughs, wine, massages, the written word, and sour straws.

dislikes: closed minds, depression, pimples, extreme heat, math, panic attacks, black licorice, doing laundry, white chocolate, gin, Bush.