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