Rhythms, Routines, and Bathroom Breaks

One of my classes was a bit out of sorts this week. As the teacher and I were talking, and she was apologizing to me, she commented that this week had thrown the class out of rhythm. I thought her phrase quite profound, and I knew her phrase to be very true.

I suppose that many occupations depend on a schedule, but I can’t imagine an occupation much more schedule driven than teaching. Our daily schedule, that becomes a routine, is so set that even our bodies start working around it.

At risk of sharing too much information, I confess that my body knows when it can use the bathroom: after morning duty, noon, and just before afternoon duty—and I’m lucky that I have those moments because many teachers do not. I’ve learned that I can have one cup of coffee in the morning but that I shouldn’t drink anything else until lunchtime—which isn’t really healthy, especially for someone who uses her voice all morning. If I stay hydrated, though, then my body betrays me by doing what it is supposed to do and then I have to pee. And if that happens, then, well, I end up doing the pee-pee dance with the kids who sometimes come to my hut and have to use the bathroom as well. Then I have to run across the parking lot during classes, bang on B’s door, walk quickly to the little bathroom in her building, and hope that I get back to my hut before my class arrives.

That being said, I have made myself laugh twice this year as my body has betrayed me.

The first time was on our first First Friday a few weeks ago. While setting up the food, I ate a few snacks and poured myself a Coke. Sure enough, my body did its job, and I found myself having to pee by the beginning of my second class. I have four before lunch. I knew that I wasn’t going to make it, so I wrote the teacher who was coming third. At first I wrote: “I drank too much this morning. Must run to restroom before your class. Just wanted to let you know where I was if you get here while I’m gone.” Then I thought: “Hmm. That sounds like I’ve been drinking as a form of self-medication and that I was drinking before school. I’d better not send that.” So I edited my message and changed it to: “Consumed too many liquids this morning—drank both coffee AND soda like a dufus. Must run to the restroom before your class. Just wanted to let you know where I was if you get here while I’m gone.” The teacher understood. All was well. I got to make an emergency bathroom stop, and I didn’t make myself sound like an alcoholic.

The second time was today. I’m not sure what happened this morning—I only had one cup of coffee—but during the middle of my second class I realized that I was going to need to use the bathroom before noon. During my third class, I called the teacher of my next class to let her know where I’d be if she and her class got to my hut and I wasn’t there. Instead of stating this simply and eloquently, however, this is how the conversation went:

“Good morning, this is Ms. Orr.”
“Hi, Orr. This is Deaton. I have to pee.”

As soon as the statement exited my mouth, I realized how ridiculous it sounded and started to laugh. Orr laughed, too, and started to say, “Okay. And what would you like for me to do about this?” but I quickly began to explain the full point of my call and she quickly understood. But that didn’t mean we didn’t still laugh really hard when she brought her class. And it doesn’t mean that I haven’t laughed at myself all day. It’s as if I were saying, “Hi. My name is Deanna. And I have a confession to make.”

Which…I guess I have just made a confession. A bathroom confession. A confession about the importance of routine and schedule. A confession about rhythm. And a confession that teachers give everything and give up everything for our jobs—time, money, effort, and normal body functions included.