Today: a kick in the shins. or four.

I am a substitute teacher.
I really like being a substitute teacher.
However.
On occasion, it is rough:

If only this picture did the state of my poor shins justice.

Today I worked at Meridian High School. I've spent approximately 3 of the last 7 weeks working there, because we seem to find one another so agreeable. I work as a signing assistant for a 17 year-old boy, who just so happens to be both deaf and autistic. And very large.

Bekah and I have affectionately named him Fezzik, because he seems to come up in so often in conversation.

We laugh about it, but you have no idea how closely this picture resembles the guy. So perhaps he's not quite so tall, but with a slick haircut and a thin pubescent chinstrap, this picture would be fairly accurate.
Because he has difficulty communicating, Fezzik tends to bang his fist against things to express himself: lockers, tables, doors, windows, himself, me, etc. It doesn't necessarily mean he's upset--often it means he's excited or bored or really just needs someone's attention. When he's upset he's a medley of aggravated bangs, kicks, spits, and dirty looks. These are things we like to discourage. In fact, the hired Behavior Interventionist and I have begun making him sit on the floor when he does this, which has worked out pretty well. It is very peculiar--often, when he is upset, he'll cause an uproar with his banging and then sit down on the floor immediately when you tell him to. Like he knows he deserves the punishment.

Today he wouldn't stop banging. I told him to sit on the floor. He didn't like that idea much. He furrowed his brows at me, folded his arms, harrumphed and spit.
And kicked me in the shins. Repeatedly. You may be pleased to know that I held my ground. I didn't give in. I told him (signed to him, really) that he knew it was coming and that's what he had to do. And he sat and pouted and pouted and sat. I placed a makeshift screen by him to rid him of other distractions. Then I picked up a random book. Read a little bit (and realized it was a book I'd read once in middle school), played with some other kids in the class, helped one with an art project. Occasionally I saw him looking over his shoulder at me, even though he'd made a big show of turning his back to me when he knew I was looking. There were a few reprisal bangs on the counter throughout it all.

Finally, I turned around at the teacher's beckoning to find him sitting there, on the floor, the bitter taste of defeat grimacing at his mouth. And the rest of our time together went beautifully.



Moral of the story: never wear a skirt without some sort of boot to work again.



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