Unfair: A Diaper Dimension Novel (Chapters 115 Uploaded!)

[YourFNF]

7 minutes ago, Personalias said:

You sound very much like Cassie.  Lol.  Also the Pepe Sylvia thing had me rofl.  Thank you for your interaction and readership!

Welcome XD

3 hours ago, Personalias said:

Mrs. Brollish was a wretched old beldam of an Amazon, but she was significantly quicker on the uptake than Miss Forrest.  “Miss Forrest,” she said.  “We’re going to have to talk...privately…”  I felt her gaze shift to me.   “Mr. Gibson,” she said curtly.  “The buses?”

“Right away Ma’am.”  

And I walked off, doing my best to hide my own smug expression and shit eating grin.
 

Well played ?

Also who is Cassie?

[littleTomás]

Very good update. The chocolate trick was amazing and very funny!

[Personalias]

1 hour ago, littleTomás said:

Very good update. The chocolate trick was amazing and very funny!

Thanks! I liked that part.  One of those things where I just HAD to.

[WBDaddy]

26 minutes ago, Personalias said:

Thanks! I liked that part.  One of those things where I just HAD to.

I love the parts where you "just HAD to".  

In pretty much all your stories. 

[Personalias]

1 hour ago, WBDaddy said:

I love the parts where you "just HAD to".  

In pretty much all your stories. 

It's just how my brain works.  And while the DD (and these kink stories in general) are filled with non-consent scenarios and diaper torture porn and feelings of helplessness, it's the moments of laughter and happiness and random asides and insight, those bits of respite from the dread that make the dread so much worse when it returns.  Tension and release.

That and since was gonna write a Little in the Dimension who's grown up there and lasted into their 30's, I HAD to have one of the oldest tricks in the book just blow up in an Amazon's face.  (Thanks Chasing Emily) 

[Guilend]

Just thinking outloud here, no need to answer any of these questions, just something I ponder on.

This does make me wonder how many teachers have had an accident, either from a trick backfiring on them or general accident and had to wear "just in case" diapers and out of those,  how many used their just in case diapers and if there's a punishment for that or even a punishment on top of having to wear just in case diapers for an accident, like getting spanked or paddled for it. And of course how many found out they loved either just the diapers or the humiliation that came with it. Would they get to change their self or have someone else change them? 

 

As for the teacher that tried to spike him, in my opinion she should get paddled or be forced to eat one of the chocolates she spiked as punishment. 

[Personalias]

Chapter 4: Just like the Big Grown-Ups

The sun hadn’t been up long when the first of the buses arrived.   Most teachers hated bus duty. Within their classrooms, every teacher is a benevolent dictator; a king or queen. A demi-god.  Outside, even on campus, our power is greatly diminished.  We’re not in our space. We’re not in our environment.  Not in our zone of control.  We’re not acting, and we can only react and hope for the best from our students.  

That’s the nicest way to put it.  Teacher lounge talk went a little more like: “Darn kids keep dragging their feet.”,  “It’s not hard! Just get to breakfast!”,  “Why is bus 1017 always late?”,  and “How am I supposed to get any planning done when I’m on monitor duty?”

Me?  I loved it.  My students were too young to walk across campus unaccompanied, and the Pre-K bus as well as the (sigh) Maturosis and Developmental Plateau bus were scheduled to be the last to arrive.   Ergo, I was always on bus duty, at least until my students came in.  All of my current students, anyways.

“Good Morning Eleanor.  Hello Michael.  Glad you’re back Mindy, hope you’re feeling better.”

“Good Morning Mr. Gibson.”

“Hey, Mr. G.”

“I am. Thank you, Mr. Gibson.”

And so it went.

Going into my tenth year of teaching meant that I knew a good chunk of every kid in every grade.  I’d taught a lot of these children their alphabet and first sight words.  Heck, I’d potty trained a lot of them.  For all their blather about maturity and adultness, Amazons in my experience tend to suck at potty training their children.  

I’m showing my bias, but I suspect that deep down neither their children nor they are ready when it happens.  That and the giants tend to spoil their children and make up in the “discipline” department with the Littles that they choose to “adopt”.

Typical Amazons.

Knowing the kids had its perks.  Regardless of size, there was an almost mystical power that happened when you called someone out by their full name.  And I knew a lot of names.  “Phyllis Mary-Ann Finster! You know better than that!”  The third grader’s jog slowed into more of a power walk.  “That’s better, Phylls! Thank you!”  I wasn’t going to begrudge a power walk.

No one gets into teaching for the money.  They get into it because they want to make a difference in a stranger’s life.  They want to pass on what they know and what they’ve learned to the next generation; the next several generations if they’re lucky. 

 I was no different. My first class of pre-schoolers were all late middle school and early high school age now.  I was able to watch them grow up- watch all of my students grow up- and got to be a constant presence and example for them.  I was proof that any preconception of Littles they might have had was wrong.  I was just as much a teacher, just as much an authority figure, just as much an expert, and just as much an adult as any Amazon on campus.  And I reminded them every day as they got older just by saying hello and reminding them not to run over each other as soon as they got off the bus.

Heh...kids.

After the initial bus and breakfast rush- the infamous bus 1017 included- Mrs. Beouf’s and my buses pulled in.  Tracy looked to me. “You want I should get our guys off?”  

I stroked my chin in thought.  “Not quite,” I said.  “Sosa says that most of our guys are making gains in their O.T. metrics, right?”  Tracy nodded.  “Go on in,” I said.  “Tell them to unbuckle their seatbelts.  We’ve got a couple minutes to practice getting off the bus like big boys and girls.”

“Elmer?”

Dang.  How did I forget about Elmer?  “Help Elmer,” I told her, “but let him be first off.  He can be our good example.”  Amazon strength buckles were hard enough for Amazon strength kids that age.  Elmer was my youngest this year AND a Tweener.  He was also the only kid in my class that was completely potty trained.  Yes, even for nap time.

“You got it, chief.” Tracy said before climbing up the stairs to get things underway.
Meanwhile, Mrs. Beouf was busy unloading her “children”.  Mentally, I kicked myself. In taking the time to teach my own students real life independence, I was forcing myself to be exposed to some very unpleasant reminders.   Life just wasn’t fair. 

Mrs. Zoge trotted up, Ivy riding shotgun on her hip.  “Excuse me, Mr. Gibson,” she said.  “Would you mind watching Ivy for a minute while I go help Mrs. Beouf unload?”  She didn’t wait before sliding Ivy off her hip and placing her down next to me.  She stayed at Ivy’s (at our)eye level long enough to say, “You be good.”

“Yes Mommy.”  And then Zoge was off, climbing onto the bus so she could unbuckle restraints made to look like car seats.  Ivy looked at me and then waved as if we hadn’t already seen each other not ten minutes ago. “Hi.”

I gave her a polite nod of recognition and then turned to face my bus.  I tried to give Ivy-to give all the Littles at Oakshire Elementary-a modicum of quiet dignity and respect.  They were infantilized enough. A simple understanding nod would go a lot farther than a big toothy smile or a cooing voice. That’s what I told myself.  

In hindsight, it went deeper than that. I should have taken it as a compliment from Mrs. Zoge, really.  Babies didn’t watch other babies, and she was super possessive of her “daughter”.  I’d just scored a victory over Forrest and had been a hair’s breadth away from humiliating Brollish.  But the truth was captured Littles made me uncomfortable.  Why wouldn’t they?  No one liked looking at a worst case reflection of themselves.  Ivy and other Littles like her were reminders that victories didn’t matter so much when I only needed one loss for it to be game over for good. 

If Ivy and I had ever been alone behind closed doors, I might want to talk to her.  To ask her if she was okay.  Ask her when had adulthood been stolen from her. Offer to try and sneak a message to her family, her real family.  Let her use the toilet.  Let her sit on it for a few minutes, even if she didn’t have to go; just for the novelty.  Show her a funny internet meme with cursing in it.  Maybe even, in my wildest fantasies, tell her to run. 

But we were in public.  And Little legs never got far without cover of darkness, a crowd, and a several hour head start. I probably wouldn’t have asked or offered Ivy any of those things if we had the privacy to talk, anyways. 

Ivy would have likely refused.  Likely tattled.  Helping “adopted” Littles escape was against the law. Tantamount to kidnapping.  A crime, ironically, punishable by “adoption”.  Ivy would have turned me in, I knew.  There were Helpers, and then there were Littles who were just so far gone that they completely bought into all of the Amazon’s hype. 

Perfect Little Baby Dolls.  

That was Ivy all over.  She wasn’t worth the risk.  A nasty thought burned in the back of my skull.  Was I watching her, or was she watching me?  I stood up a little straighter as Elmer hopped down the steps and onto the sidewalk with me.

“Come on, Elmer.  Good job!”  I looked at him.  He was still a bit shorter than me.  “Do you want a high five, a handshake, or a hug?”  Elmer, held out his hand, grinning.  I slapped his hand and he gave me a giggle.

Meanwhile, Beouf and Zoge were trotting out of the bus, carrying Littles out in ones and twos.  Oakshire Elementary didn’t have school uniforms, and there wasn’t really a dress code for the MDP unit, but I’d noticed certain trends held true over the years. 

Boy Littles tended to be dressed in shirts and shorts that did nothing to conceal their diapers, usually with the top still poking out over the waistband.  Girls tended to be forced to wear dresses that were so short they barely covered the tops.  Onesies and shortalls were fair game for both sexes, especially in the hotter months.   

Anything that covered the knee was avoided unless it was cold enough to see your breath. And even then, the Littles were so bundled up with cutesy crap that there would have been almost no chance for them to run away through all the extra layers.

All ten of Mrs. Beouf’s charges wore shoes, meaning they were expected to be able to walk at least some of the time.  Walk was a generous term.  Their legs were forced to bow out to keep their balance thanks to all the plastic and padding stuffed between their thighs. Waddle was a more apt descriptor.   

As my class was slowly but surely making their way down the bus steps and getting their high fives, handshakes, and hugs from me,  Mrs. Beouf or her assistant would set a Little down, guide them hand-over-hand to each other, and force them to clasp onto one another.  Then, they’d get a pat on the head and their Amazon caretaker would go back to the bus to get more.  It was a kind of nursery school chain gang.  Ivy, of course, was their good example and Line Leader.

None of them looked directly at me, or I at them.  No cries for help. If nothing else, everyone had accepted our limitations and expected roles.  We all knew what this was.  

“LET ME THE FUCK OUT OF HERE!“ 

Except, apparently, for the new fish. The side of the school bus opened and a ramp was lowered down.  Beouf came down the ramp wheeling a blue umbrella stroller.  A kid, he might have been twenty, was strapped in, wearing nothing but a t-shirt and a very wet diaper.  Sopping wet. Discolored.  Close to leaking.

His lack of clothing probably meant that he was a new capture.  His “Mommy” or “Daddy” had “adopted” him on impulse and hadn’t taken the time to buy a more expansive and babyish wardrobe.  

“LET! ME! THE! FUCK! GO!”  He definitely talked like he was new to this.  Poor bastard.

“New student,” Beouf called over the stroller.

“Yeah...I figured.”

Mrs. Beouf put on the stroller’s breaks and walked around.  She took a knee and looked him in the eye.  “Chazz, right?”  The kid nodded.  “I’m Mrs. Beouf.  I’m gonna be your teacher for the rest of the year.  Okay?”  Chazz said nothing.  There was a pacifier clipped on to his shirt likely the kind where the little rubber bulb inflated so that a Little couldn’t remove it on their own.  

Chazz recoiled when she took the pacifier.  He looked confused when she unhooked it and put it in her back pocket.  “You can have this at nap time if you want it.  But until then, it stays with me, okay?”  The guy spit in her face.  Beouf didn’t even blink as the saliva dripped off her glasses.

Fun fact: Beouf had just screwed Chazz over and he might not even have known it.  A gag, spanking, or additional restraints would have allowed Chazz to scream his head off and feel (and to other Littles at least, look) justified.  Now his options were to either keep fighting and screaming and be written off as a “fussy baby”, or to keep his temper and seem complacent in his treatment.

“Chazz is already soaking wet,” I heard Beouf tell Zoge.  “You take the others to the cafeteria.  I’m going to stop by our room and change him.”  

Mrs. Zoge nodded and had Ivy start leading the way; an entire pack of Littles all waddling like good baby boys and girls to get spoon fed their breakfast.  If they were lucky they might get to play with finger foods.  Chazz’s screams went noted by the other Amazons, who just clucked their tongue and made loud remarks to everyone in earshot, including their students, how someone got up on the wrong side of the crib and was super cranky.

Damnit.  Not that I blamed the guy, but we were at decidedly cross purposes just then.

“That’s everyone,” Tracy told me when all of my students got off the bus. Thank god.  My students got in line, no hand holding required. I’d weaned them off of that. I gave the Amazon pre-schooler in the back of the line a hug and then noticed the wet spot on her jeans.

I waved Tracy over and cupped my hand to her ear as she bent over.  “Natasha’s had an accident...again.”  

My assistant let out a sigh.  “Again?”  She stood back up and moved Natasha to the middle of the line.  Physical camouflage.  Spare the girl some grief.

“Do you think she has any spare clothes in her backpack?”

“Checking…” Tracy said.  Followed by a, “No sir.”

I frowned.  “Clinic probably doesn’t have any spare undies, either.”  

Tracy shook her head. “Nope.”  How was I going to keep this kid out of diapers?  “Don’t worry,” she said.  “I went and bought some spares as soon as we got her parents to take away the Pull-Ups.”  

I was genuinely touched. “Tracy,” I said. “you know you didn’t have to do that.”

She beamed at me.  It was a smug, know-it-all expression.  “I know.”  

I exhaled.  Darn it.  I just couldn’t get mad at her.  “Alright then, class,” I said.  “Elmer, lead us to our room.”  And off we went.  Me walking right beside Elmer, with Tracy taking up the rear lest any of our students fall behind.  

We didn’t eat breakfast in the cafeteria.  We ate in our classroom.  A cart of single serving cereals, milk cartons and fruit was always left just outside our door by the cooking staff.  I’d managed to convince Brollish (with Mrs. Beouf’s help) that it’d be better for my students to start their day eating breakfast in my room so that they could be closer to a toilet.  Fewer accidents and less embarrassment if they had one. 

In reality, it was mostly because I couldn’t stand the cafeteria.
 

[littleTomás]

This keeps getting better and I'm just waiting for the shoe to drop!

[YourFNF]

It's really fascinating seeing someone try to survive this particular dystopia and have to walk a tight rope between resistance and colaboration. Other than that more Autumn wanting to reap vengeance so Amazon's bringing out the Tanky in me as usual I see..... starts whistling "John Brown's Body"

[WBDaddy]

3 hours ago, YourFNF said:

starts whistling "John Brown's Body"

LIES A'MOLDERING IN THE GRAVE!!!!!

(I have an intense anti-authority impulse as well....) 

[littleTomás]

34 minutes ago, WBDaddy said:

LIES A'MOLDERING IN THE GRAVE!!!!!

(I have an intense anti-authority impulse as well....) 

Do you hear the people sing?
Singing a song of angry men?
It is the music of a people
Who will not be slaves again
 

I think y’all know the rest ???

[Personalias]

11 hours ago, YourFNF said:

It's really fascinating seeing someone try to survive this particular dystopia and have to walk a tight rope between resistance and colaboration. Other than that more Autumn wanting to reap vengeance so Amazon's bringing out the Tanky in me as usual I see..... starts whistling "John Brown's Body"

 

8 hours ago, littleTomás said:

Do you hear the people sing?
Singing a song of angry men?
It is the music of a people
Who will not be slaves again
 

I think y’all know the rest ???

 

8 hours ago, WBDaddy said:

LIES A'MOLDERING IN THE GRAVE!!!!!

(I have an intense anti-authority impulse as well....) 

In reply to all of you, I can only say:

"Hush Little baby, don't say a word..."

[YourFNF]

1 hour ago, Personalias said:

 

 

In reply to all of you, I can only say:

"Hush Little baby, don't say a word..."

The people will not be silenced! You are too late ?

[littleTomás]

4 hours ago, YourFNF said:

The people will not be silenced! You are too late ?

??? Admiral! Flight Engineer at your service! 

[YourFNF]

On 8/18/2020 at 1:29 PM, littleTomás said:

??? Admiral! Flight Engineer at your service! 

XD

[Personalias]

Chapter 5: My One Hundred Thirty-Seventh I.E.P. Meeting. 

“Is everyone here?”

“I think so.”

“Then let’s begin with proper introductions.”

“Hello I’m Tamara Bankhead, and I’m the Resource Compliance Specialist.”

“Hi, I’m Chandra Skinner: Speech and Language Pathologist.”

“Hello, I’m Maxine Winters: Physical Therapist.”

“Hello, I’m Jasmine Sosa: Occupational Therapist.”

“And I’m Clark Gibson:  Pre-Kindergarten Teacher.”

There was a friendly smile, followed by a nervous chuckle.  “I’m Winnie Roberts.  I’m the Mom.”

Yet another ritual.  Another routine in what was my regular existence: The I.E.P. meeting.  I.E.P. was shorthand for Individualized Education Plan.  Contrary to popular belief, schooling isn’t always  the same knowledge conveyor belt, pumping kids full of information and then passing them on to the next grade level.  

To prevent them from falling through the cracks and to get them needed services and therapies, some students had I.E.P’s.  All of mine did.  In order to even get into Pre-K at Oakshire Elementary, a student had to have an I.E.P.  This wasn’t terribly hard to do in Oakshire, if I’m being honest.  The school got more tax dollars per student with an I.E.P. so they were incentivised to load up my classroom as much as possible.

People like Brollish were doubly incentivised.  A crack under the pressure, a misfiled paper or something improperly filled out would have been all the excuse a clericly minded Amazon might need to dismiss me and “arrange a transfer”.  All of Beouf’s caseload had I.E.P’s., too. 

The first time I was in an I.E.P. I was a wreck.  Buzzwords like “federal documentation” and “data based conclusions” got thrown around all willy nilly.  My peers gathered around the conference table would be all but sweating bullets sometimes, making sure to have all of their notes perfectly in order, their lines perfectly rehearsed.

 Teaching is a weird job.  You’re expected to be educated and infinitely more informed on educational practices than a layperson, but also do service with a smile while keeping in mind that the parent is always right.  The technical expertise of a doctor with the social constraints of a nurse.

“We are gathered here today,” Bankhead all but read from a pre-approved script, “to discuss Jaden’s progress in meeting his yearly goals.”  Bankhead was a Resource Compliance Specialist:  Essentially, a glorified secretary whose sole job was to keep minutes for and run these types of meetings, as well as make sure everyone else had their paperwork properly filled out.  It was a thankless job, but she made more money than me, so she didn’t need thanks.  “For this Annual Review-”.

I tuned out for a second and suppressed a smirk.  Annual Review was such a bullshit term.  Far too often, bureaucracy demanded multiple ‘Annual Reviews’ for the same kid.  An annual review would happen for a kid in the early Fall, to ‘get it out of the way’.  Then the same kid would get ANOTHER annual review close to Summer so meetings didn’t ‘pile up with all the new kids come Fall’.   Did people not know what “Annual” meant?  

It was an equal inconvenience to everyone, so I can’t even say ‘Typical Amazons’ here.

Mrs. Bankhead looked to the Speech Therapist.  “Miss Skinner,” she said.  “How about you go first and review Jaden’s progress towards annunciation and vocabulary acquisition?”  Translation: How good was a four year old at pronouncing words and how was he when it came to learning new ones.

“You see, Mom,” Miss Skinner started, “based on the results of Jaden’s latest Language Development Survey, or L.D.S. for short-”.  I tuned out again. My first I.E.P. meeting I was a nervous wreck.  This was my one hundred thirty-seventh such meeting.  

It probably wasn’t, in actuality.  I didn’t keep track of how many of these boring meetings I’d attended in my life, and that kind of normality, that lack of importance, was a good thing.  I could do these in my sleep now.  Yes, an I.E.P. was a Federally accountable document, but it really was just a kind of promise: A promise to pay attention to a kid, to keep track of where they’re at, to not give up on them, and to change up strategies if the current one wasn’t working.  It’s literally what any teacher that hadn’t completely given up on their career would do anyways.

The rundown of Jaden’s speech ended and the narrative was passed to the Occupational Therapist.  “Jaden is now using a tripod grasp to when delineating…”  Standing on the chair so that I could lean on the conference table, clenched my jaw and bit my tongue.  

Trace!  Don’t say delineate!  Just say ‘trace’!  For all the fancy buzzwords that my colleagues were throwing around, they might as well be saying “Bounce the graviton particle beam off the main deflector dish”. All of these people were so nervous around an average working mother.  They were all so eager to prove how much they knew and what experts they were in their field.  But if Mrs. Roberts didn’t like something, they’d be pressured to the point of obligation to go along with her opinion. 

From her own seat across from me, I could see Mrs. Roberts’s eyes start to glaze over as she smiled and nodded.  She had almost no idea about what these experts were talking about, but didn’t want to admit what she didn’t know.  All of these people were talking, but none of them were really communicating with each other.

Everyone was so afraid to slip up and look stupid in front of each other for fear of personal embarrassment or how it might come back to bite them.  One of the things I liked about having a goatee was that it let me smile, ever so slightly, without giving myself away. Socially and psychologically speaking, meetings like these might be the closest thing that any of these Amazon women experienced to being a Little.

Bankhead broke me out of my revery.  “Mr. Gibson?  You’re up.”

I could have rattled off a string of fancy technical terms.  Done the whole alphabet soup of educational buzzwords.  “Your child is making A.Y.P on his I.E.P. in accordance with I.D.E.A., N.C.L.B., and R.T.T.T.  Now if you look at this data chart based on the latest developmental diagnostic survey…”“   

 I didn’t.

I smiled and stood up in the chair a bit taller.  “Okie dokie,” I said.  “So about Jaden, Mrs. Roberts-”

“You can call me ‘Mom’,” she interrupted.  “Everyone else has.  It’s alright.”  I never, ever called an Amazon “Mom”.  Didn’t want them getting any ideas.

I slid a folder across the table.  “Jaden’s doing fine,” I said.  “Here’s some samples of his school work.  He knows his letters, colors, basic shapes, numbers, and animal sounds.  He’s even learned some sight words and we’re working on basic arithmetic using hands on manipulatives.” I suppose 

In truth, Jaden probably didn’t need an I.E.P.  In ten years, maybe five percent of my students had. Technically, my students were  all “Developmentally Delayed”, a catchall term meaning that three and four year olds weren’t acting “developed” enough for their parents, but it was still too early to label them with any particular learning disability.  Chances are they’d grow out of it, but it was my job to nip it in the bud, so to speak.

 That’s what it meant for my class, at least.  They somehow weren’t living up to Amazonian standards, as ridiculous as they were.  Most of my students just needed time, a tiny bit of attention, stimulation, and adults willing to push back on certain undesirable behaviors.  I’d had more than one parent all but admit that they pulled strings because public pre-school was less expensive than daycare.  “I think he’s got a good head start for Kindergarten, next year,” I said.  “I think he’ll outgrow his D.D. label very soon.”  

“He’s even starting to use the potty at home!”  Mrs. Roberts chimed in.  Her eyes unclouded now that she finally felt like she was able to contribute to the conversation regarding her child.

“Oh yeah,” I agreed.  “Not counting nap time, he’s very consistent.”  I felt, more than heard my colleague’s hold their breath.  I was a Little telling an Amazon that her son wasn’t quite potty trained yet.  “He’s four,” I said.  “He’ll grow out of it.  That and there’s no nap time in Kindergarten.” 

Mrs. Roberts was all smiles.  “I know, right?  What is up with that, anyways?  No naps in Kindergarten?”  I gave my best what-can-you-do shrug and smirk and felt the tension leave the air.  “Thank you so much for that, Mr. Gibson!”

“You’re quite welcome.”  Mrs. Roberts was what I called a second-year-parent. The majority of my students came to me when they were three and left when they were just about to turn five.  Two years.

Most of their parents had never seen a Little in a position of authority.  If I had a dollar for everytime I’d heard a crack about “babies teaching babies”, I’d make more money than the Superintendent.

I’ve had parents who’ve openly talked about putting me in a playpen, or taking me over their knee, or offered to let me sit in their lap, or asked where the “real” Pre-K teacher was. I ‘d be halfway to retirement if I got a bonus for that.  That was my first year with any given parent. For some reason they just couldn’t wrap their head around the idea that their child’s very first teacher was a Little.

By Fall of their child’s first year, I was an incompetent who was going irrevocably damage their precious boy or girl.  By mid to late Spring of their second year, I was a miracle worker who’d whipped their kid into shape.  First they couldn’t stand me, then they didn’t want to leave me.

“I’m gonna miss Jaden being in your room, Mr. Gibson.” Mrs. Roberts gushed.  “I know I shouldn’t be, but I’m nervous about Kindergarten.”

I smiled.  All reassurance.  “Don’t be.  Jaden’s grown up a lot, and he’ll do a lot more.  Just wait and see.”

“I still can’t get over it,” she went on.  “When he didn’t potty train at two, I thought he was...was…like a...like...a....”  She stopped.  Clearly, she didn’t like where this train of thought was going and who it might offend.  At least she was cognizant enough to watch what she was saying in front of me.  Progress.

“Not every kid potty trains at two.  They’re called late bloomers because they do still, in fact, bloom.”
Mrs. Roberts leaned over the table a bit.  Much more at ease.  “Still, I gotta know, for future reference..how’d you do it? What’s your secret?”

My secret?  I made the kid change himself.  Peeing and pooping yourself isn’t nearly as fun when you’re the one who has to clean it up.  Especially if you’re made to do so and you’re missing play time.  “If I told you that, I might put myself out of a job.”

That got a laugh from just about everyone assembled.  “Mr. Gibson is really good at motivating his students,”  Miss Winters, the physical therapist said.  She was only at this meeting to officially dismiss Jaden from P.T.  Kid didn’t need any help with his gross motor skills at all.  “He really makes a connection with them.” Everyone nodded in agreement.

“Mr. Gibson is very good at getting into the mindset of his children,”  Mrs. Bankhead said, not even looking up from her laptop as she typed away at the meeting’s minutes. 

Miss Sosa nodded.  “He is very empathetic.  We’re lucky to have him.”  

From there, the meeting went back to auto-pilot.  Academic goals were presented and read.

“By the review date, Jaden will recognize and read thirty Dolch Sight words.”

“Jaden will add and subtract using manipulatives with sums and minuends up to twenty”

“Jaden will write his first and last name correctly with legible handwriting.”

And so on and so forth.  Fairly advanced stuff for a kid who hadn’t gotten into Kindergarten just yet, but a kid’s need for an I.E.P. would only be re-evaluated every three years, so I made the goals to.

“To be clear,” I said, “these aren’t the ONLY things that we’ll be working on.  These are just the goals that I’ll be collecting data for.”

“Of course, Mr. Gibson.”  Mrs. Roberts reached out and shook my hand.  Another satisfied customer.

After that, minutes were read, papers were signed and I was able to walk out of the meeting room and make a bee-line for my personal sanctuary.

***************************************************************************************************

Tracy was laughing when she opened the classroom door for me.  Not polite laughing, fake laughing, either.  Full on belly laugh cackling.  “Hey, Boss!” she said.  “How was the meeting?”

Most of the kids were busy doing coloring worksheets.  Social Studies.  People in our community. Basic fun stuff.  No sense in having Tracy run herself ragged in my absence, but somebody had to watch the kids.  “Second year, parent,” I said.  “So it went well.” 

“What does ‘second year parent’ mean?” I heard.  I looked past Tracy.  Sitting at my kidney table, playing a match game with a couple of my students was a dark haired Amazon woman. Not a stranger.  Not exactly what I’d call an acquaintance, either.

Tracy gestured to the intruder, not a hint of weariness in her tone.  “Administration sent Ms. Grange over to help while you were at your meeting.”   Janet Grange. Third Grade Teacher.

Time to go into action, and graciously get this stranger out of my room.  I went over to my kidney table.  “Thank you so much, Ms. Grange for taking the time to assist my students.”

“Mrs. Grange, actually,” the Amazon said.  She didn’t sound particularly snooty about it.  Most Amazons insisted that the shorter folks get their titles precisely correct.  “And don’t worry about it, Mr. Gibson.  My kids are out at P.E. so I had some extra time.  This was fun.  Tracy and I were just telling jokes about our husbands.”

Tracy?  Joking about her husband?  She never talked about her home life.  Sometimes I legitimately forgot she was married until she started talking about Aaron...or was it Eric?  I could never remember.  “Oh really…”

“Tell him what you told me!”  Tracy said, giggling just at the thought.  This was weird. Tracy only ever let her guard down this much around Beouf.  And we’d known Beouf for years.  

Mrs. Grange smiled.  It was thin.  Polite. Maybe slightly embarrassed?  “Nah,” she said.  “The moment’s passed.  Not really a joke.  You kind of had to be here for it.”

I did my best to give a comically exasperated sigh and shake my head smiling.  “Thank you again.” I said, wishing she’d take the hint.  

“Before I go,” Grange said, holding up a piece of paper scribbled with my handwriting.  “Can I ask you about this?”

Internally I froze.  I’d been bored and working on math problems the other day at my desk.  Nothing major.  Just sometimes counting to a hundred and stopping there got boring.  “Oh that?” I said.  “Was just trying to think of a different way to teach greatest common factors.”  If I couldn’t have been a Pre-K teacher, I would have wanted to be a Math teacher.  Other way around, if I’m being honest.

“But why use a factor tree?” Grange asked.

“Because if I reach prime factorization of two numbers, I can re-multiply all the prime factors that they have in common to make the greatest common factor. That way I don’t accidentally miss something and I don’t have to go through listing each and every variation.”

Grange pouted her lip out.  “Huh…” she said.  “I wouldn’t have thought about it like that.  I would have just listed all the factors, individually.”

Again, she wasn’t being critical, but typical me was nervous that this was some kind of trap.  “Yes, but if your third graders don’t have their fact families completely memorized, they could overlook something and identify a common factor instead of the greatest common factor.”

“I know,” she said.  “I’ve got stragglers in my class who think that the GCF for every even number is two.  This is safer.  Makes them think it through instead of just plain memorization.  I like it.”

I smiled; I had to show appropriate gratitude.  “You can steal it if you’d like.”  Please please please!  Just get out of my room so that I can let my guard down!  Thank goodness she couldn’t read my thoughts. 

“I don’t know…” she clicked her tongue.  She put down the paper and stood up, really towering over me.  I swallowed, feeling my throat go dry.  “I don’t think I could explain it the right way.  Think you could drop by my room in a day or two and teach it to my kids?”

This was a trap.  It had to be a trap.  There was no other explanation. “I’m not sure I have the time.  My students don’t have the same schedule as the older kids.”  

“You could go during nap time,” Tracy offered. “That should be fine.”  I shot her a look.  Why was she not reading me?!  TAKE THE HINT!  

Grange looked past me and to my Tweener assistant.  “When’s their nap time?”

“Just after Noon.”  Murder.  I was going to murder Tracy.  That’s what I’d have to do…

The intruder nodded.  “Okay.  So I’ll rearrange my Math block for just after Noon this Friday.  How’s that sound, Mr. Gibson?”

I smiled.  Big, toothy and fake.  “Great,” I said.  “Just great.”
 

[littleTomás]

So this is where the routine shall brake and the mighty shall fall? Only time will tell.

[YourFNF]

6 hours ago, Personalias said:

Yet another ritual.  Another routine in what was my regular existence: The I.E.P. meeting.  I.E.P. was shorthand for Individualized Education Plan.  Contrary to popular belief, schooling isn’t always  the same knowledge conveyor belt, pumping kids full of information and then passing them on to the next grade level.  

Okay I'm legit surprised by this. I would expect a society this socially rigid to be hell on people with disabilities. Especially people with neurocognitive ones, given there whole focus on "maturity" and acting like a proper adult. Like even if I was Amazon sized I would except someone with even my moderately impaired functioning to be sent back to the nursery.

[Personalias]

1 hour ago, littleTomás said:

So this is where the routine shall brake and the mighty shall fall? Only time will tell.

Who do you think is mighty in this instance?

1 hour ago, YourFNF said:

Okay I'm legit surprised by this. I would expect a society this socially rigid to be hell on people with disabilities. Especially people with neurocognitive ones, given there whole focus on "maturity" and acting like a proper adult. Like even if I was Amazon sized I would except someone with even my moderately impaired functioning to be sent back to the nursery.

I'm glad that I could surprise you.

[WBDaddy]

1 hour ago, YourFNF said:

Okay I'm legit surprised by this. I would expect a society this socially rigid to be hell on people with disabilities. Especially people with neurocognitive ones, given there whole focus on "maturity" and acting like a proper adult. Like even if I was Amazon sized I would except someone with even my moderately impaired functioning to be sent back to the nursery.

Think about the societal pressure on the rare person who was actually fertile and produced new Amazon offspring?  They'd be viewed as a failure if one of their kids never made it out of infanthood, right?  

[Moon3ye]

I love that he is always on guard like a wild animal living in a hostile environment.

I think that sooner or later he will end up in diapers with some crazy Amazon. It will only be exciting to see who will be his new mommy.

[kirababy]

I sort of agree with Moon3ye - he is walking a tightrope existence, and seemingly without a net.  Feels like we are simply introducing potential mommies to him.  Had to chuckle at the part in the meeting where he would not address the mother as Mom.  Loved that little bit of insight.

[Personalias]

9 hours ago, WBDaddy said:

Think about the societal pressure on the rare person who was actually fertile and produced new Amazon offspring?  They'd be viewed as a failure if one of their kids never made it out of infanthood, right?  

Very much so.  Also, I think it makes Amazons more complex and wicked in a way.  They HAVE the culture and systems and professionalism and decency to help EACH OTHER!  But Tweeners?  Nah, they're practically just big kids.  Littles?  Pfft...helpless and hopeless for the most part.  They even have a condition!  Just baby 'em.  It'll be okay.

7 hours ago, Moon3ye said:

I love that he is always on guard like a wild animal living in a hostile environment.

I think that sooner or later he will end up in diapers with some crazy Amazon. It will only be exciting to see who will be his new mommy.

I imagine always being on guard and walking that tightrope is how he's made it as far as he has.  

4 hours ago, kirababy said:

I sort of agree with Moon3ye - he is walking a tightrope existence, and seemingly without a net.  Feels like we are simply introducing potential mommies to him.  Had to chuckle at the part in the meeting where he would not address the mother as Mom.  Loved that little bit of insight.

I'd like to think we're doing more than simply introducing potential Mommies et. al.  I think we're taking the time to get to know and flesh out Clark and his world.  He has a routine where he's on edge, but he feels fairly deft and skilled at it.  He has a handful of Amazons and Tweeners that he trusts implicitly and feels he knows how to work the system and balance on that tightrope.  

A sort of baseline has been set and rhythm described (and hopefully established).  Now let's throw a couple more balls Clark's way and see if he can change his rhythm and keep juggling.  And while we're at it, we'll hopefully get to know Beouf, Brollish, Tracy, Cassie, Zoge, Ivy, and Chaz a bit better. (To be faire... Raine Forrest...y'all pretty much have her figured out...lol)

[WBDaddy]

By the way, that earlier exchange got me thinking about Amazonian culture and biology a bit...

What if the obsession with having babies stems from the fact that so many Amazonian women are infertile?  What if it's a biological "adaptation" of societal pressure for the few fertile Amazonians to have as many babies as possible, crank 'em out as fast as they can, that spills over into the infertile women?  Like, the hormonal drive that leads fertile women to have babies constantly until they can't anymore is also the hormonal drive that makes all Amazonian women go crazy when they see creatures that aren't babies, but, "close enough for government work"...

 

[BabySofia]

14 minutes ago, WBDaddy said:

What if the obsession with having babies stems from the fact that so many Amazonian women are infertile?  What if it's a biological "adaptation" of societal pressure for the few fertile Amazonians to have as many babies as possible, crank 'em out as fast as they can, that spills over into the infertile women?

That's basically the premise I've always followed in my stories. Hormones/infertility causing issues like instant lactation reflexes is the mechanism I see behind it.