Monday night, fell asleep in the bath. Do you want more
wine, asks my husband. There's a pile of stuff to do, but I can't, I'm
too tired.
A brooch, made for Lucy from a Mollie Makes kit. She loves
it. She doesn't want to wear it in case she loses it. Hattie wants
hers yesterday. It is on its way. Slowly.
Today wasn't even that bad, as they go. We had an Arabic
speaking TA to help with one of my autistic children, and a Polish volunteer.
Amazing the difference that made. Fantastic, beautiful, almost
relaxing, except for the other autistic boy insisting on taking his trousers
and pants off outside; at least he knows to do that before doing a wee.
For the first time in weeks, I didn't feel like screaming as I left work.
Or lying on the chairs and crying quietly. Mr Gove, you know
nothing. You have never been bitten or scratched, hit, kicked or slapped
at work, and you've probably only worked with people who understand what
needing a wee feels like. But go ahead and undermine our profession.
Someone I correspond with on Twitter told me that she has parents who
cannot spell their own child's name. You have genuinely no idea what
happens in schools, and how we stagger on through it all, teaching, caring,
loving, guiding. But please, undermine us some more. You have no
idea. No idea at all.
This wasn't intended to be political, but it was. The
personal is political, and the political is personal.
March Madness - 17/31
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