Friday before work, I have to head into the oral surgeon's office and have the medicine pack yanked back out again. It feels like a worm squirming out of my jaw when he extracts it, but it only takes a second. There is a residual taste of cloves, and then I'm good to go. It isn't until later I realize how much I wish the damn pack were back inside my jaw. Vicodin, oh Vicodin, my meager supply is almost gone. How will I sleep without you? Tylenol, here I come.
But this is not a tragedy. This is a melodrama. I wish it were a comedy, and I certainly set all those possibilities into motion knowing I was going to be late to school, but even the best artists can be thwarted by their detractors.
But I digress. Let me explain.
I know I am going to miss homeroom and most of my first period class, so I arrange to have an adult sit at my desk for about forty-five minutes Friday morning. On Thursday I spend my entire planning period setting up the board and the room for the following day, leaving explicit instructions for the classes. Once my last period class arrives, a study hall, I recruit some of my students to be in charge for Friday. Alex and Joey will take attendance and deliver the list to the office on their way to science class. Chloe, Kelly, Dylan, and Kyle will run my A block class and take attendance. In case I run even later, Michael and Keith will be in charge of B block.
I type up these notes, complete with instruction sheets and profuse "thank yous" for the students and for the lone adult. I am relaxed and confident that my classes are in great hands while I force myself to relax in the oral surgeon's chair, awaiting the packet removal from my jaw bone. Everything is good. I am completely confident that all is going to go well.
Until I walk into my classroom at school.
The adult in charge has actually taken charge, and the kids are horrified. They are extremely upset that they have not been allowed to do the jobs they looked forward to since Thursday. I can sense it and see it before I excuse the adult in charge with profuse and genuine gratitude. No sooner is she out the door then the children start whining. She didn't let us do this; she didn't let us do that ...
It takes a few minutes before I hear the rest of the story: Some were chatting during announcements. Dante got sent into the hall. The adult announced that she was in charge and no one would be working in groups (even though the desks were set up that way, and it was clearly stated on the board).
Now, I know this adult. She's a lovely woman without a mean bone in her body, but I've also taken her from her regular work to sit at my desk. I'm laying the blame at a 30-70: 30% her and 70% the kiddos. And then ... we move on. I get my four helpers and have them do other jobs for me, making sure the homework is read off the board, that papers are all handed back, etc. When B block arrives, the two boys I put in charge seem disappointed, so I assure them, "Oh no, my jaw is sore. You guys are STILL in charge."
For the remainder of the day, I keep hearing, "Oh, she's here! I thought she was absent..." I hear this from students on my team and from students on the other team who have lockers near my room or who are in my study hall. They are talking about me. I didn't realize they would notice. I didn't realize I'd be missed. And, honestly, it's kind of nice to know this. It's kind of cool to hear what the kids say about you when they don't know you can truly hear them. Oh, I know sometimes to them I'm a miserable, evil, uncaring bitch, like when I give them a zero for homework after waiting five days for it. But it feels warm and fuzzy to get a cheering reception when they see me in the room after believing I'd abandoned them for the day.
The bad news is that I have to be out two more times -- Once to go to St. Mike's for a lacrosse game (if the personal day gets approved), and once to sit on a thesis presentation panel ... as a presenter ... in May. I'm already in a panic. I want them to lead the class again, and now I'm worried about that, worried that my plans will fall apart. It's such a relief, though, to be worried that my kiddos are too helpful.
If only I could have these problems all the time. Life is good. My jaw isn't so great, but at least I can count on my twelve year olds to cover for me. That is the best gift of all.
