Job at a day care = birth control!
Burnt out day care teacher, here. (Hey, I've done something proactive about it - I re-start college on August 18. Business administration and e-commerce. Minimal human interaction.)
So. Summer. Room full of school-agers (about 30 average - has been as high as 42 this summer, which DAMN). Trying to keep them occupied best we can short of pulling Hannah Montana herself out of our collective asses.
Still had kids peeling a big chunk of paint (which BossCouple had just re-done) off the wall. That is, when they weren't totally trashing the play centers. I watched in horror as two boys randomly threw plastic food around with no intentions of cleaning it up. And when I told them to pick up their mess and GTFO, they did so as slowly as humanly possible, still finding little ways to leave a big mess. In fact, getting anybody to clean up after themselves today was like pulling teeth.
And a gaggle of girls found a blanket (from Harry knows where) and did a mass huddle-cuddle underneath it (on top of the cushions from the couch that they had spread on the floor) in front of anybody with eyes and gave me attitude when I told them to knock it off...
S'okay. I took the chunk of paint and put it on BossMan's desk with a note: "The school agers need a talking to again!" And I asked the other kids that weren't involved in the preteen bicurious orgy blanket party what some of their parents would think if they came in and saw that. (Got answered by a chorus of "ooooohhhh's".)
So tomorrow, there's gonna be changes. My fellow dungeon mistress co-worker and I have decided to close the centers for the day (the kids have a field trip scheduled), get everything clean, and tell the kids to keep out unless they can leave the place in the same shape they found it. And if they can't do that, they can't play there. Plain and simple.
That is, if they survive the fallout from BossCouple for tearing paint off the walls.
And one of the girls under the blanket thinks she's made of Teflon because her mom is a co-worker of mine. I haven't spilled the beans to Mommy about her daughter's recent activities. Yet. No, I'm not considering blackmail. Eleven-year-olds have no money. I'm just giving her a chance to kiss butt redeem herself.
So. Summer. Room full of school-agers (about 30 average - has been as high as 42 this summer, which DAMN). Trying to keep them occupied best we can short of pulling Hannah Montana herself out of our collective asses.
Still had kids peeling a big chunk of paint (which BossCouple had just re-done) off the wall. That is, when they weren't totally trashing the play centers. I watched in horror as two boys randomly threw plastic food around with no intentions of cleaning it up. And when I told them to pick up their mess and GTFO, they did so as slowly as humanly possible, still finding little ways to leave a big mess. In fact, getting anybody to clean up after themselves today was like pulling teeth.
And a gaggle of girls found a blanket (from Harry knows where) and did a mass huddle-cuddle underneath it (on top of the cushions from the couch that they had spread on the floor) in front of anybody with eyes and gave me attitude when I told them to knock it off...
S'okay. I took the chunk of paint and put it on BossMan's desk with a note: "The school agers need a talking to again!" And I asked the other kids that weren't involved in the preteen bicurious orgy blanket party what some of their parents would think if they came in and saw that. (Got answered by a chorus of "ooooohhhh's".)
So tomorrow, there's gonna be changes. My fellow dungeon mistress co-worker and I have decided to close the centers for the day (the kids have a field trip scheduled), get everything clean, and tell the kids to keep out unless they can leave the place in the same shape they found it. And if they can't do that, they can't play there. Plain and simple.
That is, if they survive the fallout from BossCouple for tearing paint off the walls.
And one of the girls under the blanket thinks she's made of Teflon because her mom is a co-worker of mine. I haven't spilled the beans to Mommy about her daughter's recent activities. Yet. No, I'm not considering blackmail. Eleven-year-olds have no money. I'm just giving her a chance to kiss butt redeem herself.