This year I have some of the silliest 7th grade girls ever. Individually they’re well-behaved, but on breaks? My word. it’s like mob rule in the halls. They scream and shove and tug one another’s hair and play food tag.
Food tag? Maturity, where art thou? So I spent Thursday’s and Friday’s lunch breaks in our classroom. The four offenders sat silent with their food.
Isolation and silence? That’s torture for a talkative girl. The next time they’ll face after-school detention.
Yes, the School of Consequences has a tough curriculum. I’ve been twelve myself, with many a life lesson learned the hard way.
“Don’t bring Goldie inside.” My parents’ instructions were clear. And you can guess what I did the moment their car was out of sight. Yep. I let the dog in. But what happened next was the real surprise.
Like all dogs in our neighborhood, Goldie lived in the backyard. We never spent much time with her because she was just too unruly. Obedience class? She never learned a thing. The poor girl didn’t have a mean bone in her body, she was simply too friendly. And not very smart.
Enthusiasm was her downfall. A guard dog? Naw. She would jump up and lick an intruder to death. When let in the house she would tear around like a wild animal. Her wagging tail could clear off the coffee table.
So on that fateful evening when we were home alone, Goldie was beside herself with joy. My little brother and I envisioned a nice evening watching television with Goldie curled at our feet. Um, not.
In she ran, tearing through the dining room and bounding into the entrance hall. Once there, she squatted and produced a large liquid turd right on the carpet. My brother and I just stood there, too horrified to speak.
I dragged Goldie out to the backyard, but the mess she’d made remained. My brother was no help; he was too busy laughing. (Plus, he was only seven.) So it was my responsibility to clean up the mess. Never before had I faced such a sickening job.
If my mom wondered where all the paper towels went, she never said. I found the floor scrubber, dragged it out, and figured out how to use it. So much for my evening–and my twelve-year-old bravado!
Here’s hoping my boisterous girls learn to rein it in. Because “Reality Therapy” is a sad way to learn.