I’ve determined that my cosmic chemistry (which happens to also be a popular elective at the University of Phoenix) has positioned me to attract the bleeding and infirm of our young learners. Within five minutes of the arrival bell on any given day, you might peek into my room and think that I was wearing a velcro suit, by the looks of the three-to-five children who are attached to my sides and burrowing into the folds of my clothing.
A year and a half ago, when I embarked upon the blogging journey, I speculated that I might owe the school nurse a case of wine or six. At this point, I need to look into buying her a timeshare in Boca Raton.
“Ms. Peachy, my stomach hurts.”
“Okay, put your head down, let’s see how you’re doing at gym time.”
After gym, “My stomach still hurts.”
“Since you just performed ‘Flashdance,’ let’s sit down for more than eleven seconds and see how you feel.”
Three minutes later, “My stomach still hurts.”
“Honey, how about you write down exactly where your stomach hurts and when it started and what you ate today.”
“Ms. Peachy, I was looking in my desk for my pencil and I hit my head on the desk. Can I sharpen my pencil? And my stomach still hurts.”
Child skips out of the building during fire drill.
Upon return, her stomach—well, you know.
Ten minutes before dismissal: “Ms. Peachy, my stomach still hurts.”
“You made it to the end of the day! Yaaay! Great job! Go get your things to go home!”
Don’t judge, people. I am not insensitive. This is a daily script. Oh, and don’t quote me the old teacher comeback, “Show me the blood.” My kids are happy to show me the damn blood, dripping down their legs, arms, eyelids. And their compassionate classmates make sure to alert me of each and every bloody incident. My own little Blood Alert Posse.
At least I am not Miley Cyrus’ TV stepmom once removed.