Commentary by Danielle Wilson
Last week, I was using the girls’ bathroom at the high school where I teach, and when I flushed, my keys and ID badge fell into the toilet. Suddenly aware of time epically slowing down, I plunged my long-sleeve-shirted arm into the tainted water in a futile attempt to rescue them. Alas, the entire set-up was gone before I could even scream “NOOOOOOOO!”
I then immediately relayed the story to everyone I saw. First the three horrified juniors standing outside my stall, who’d heard everything but had no context. Then to my posse of teacher friends, chatting in the hallway. And finally, to my seventh-period class, who’d listen to anything if it meant a postponement of actual history stuff.
Their reactions surprised me. I assumed I’d be met with laughter and possible wishes for good luck as I navigated administration hell to obtain new credentials. But without exception, their expressions ranged from shock to disgust. Why? Because I’d willingly stuck my hand into a bowl full of urine.
Look, people. I’m a mom. I’ve probably changed close to a million diapers, cleaned up enough bodily fluid to own a hazmat suit and continue to consistently pee myself whenever I run, laugh or sneeze. Last month, when I had to scrub the basement toilet after it had been clogged for something like 13 days by a king-sized “deposit,” I literally didn’t flinch. I’ve seen worse. So much worse.
I acted on instinct, honed by years in the field of motherhood. My only thought was, “Save the keys!” But now I’m “that crazy teacher” from the bathroom with highly questionable decision-making skills. NOOOOOOOO!
Peace out.
