I had that weird (but quick-moving) cold last month, the one that is almost (but not quite) the flu. Since recovering, I avoid coughing co-workers, sneezing students, and infectious minions as if they have the plague because, quite frankly as far as I am concerned, they DO.
So, the other day when a student says to me, "I have a sore throat," my immediate response is so nurturing and so caring and so motherly and so tender.
Yes, it truly is. I point toward the door and scream, "GET OUT OF MY ROOM! TAKE A PASS AND GO ... TO ... THE .. NUUUUUUUUUUUURSE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
My arms flail back and I push my rolling chair away from my desk. "I am NOT touching THAT!" I say, shock registering in my expression. He tries to give the nurse's note to me again and again. Finally, he drops the paper on my desk.
The entire class emits a sound that resembles a train whistle and a fog horn all at the same time, deeply sucking in their collective breath and holding their words in like water balloons on the verge of bursting their contents over anything and everything. We can hardly believe that this poor, sickly cherub has done the unthinkable: infected my desk.
I quickly grab two pencils and use them to pick the paper up off of my desk. I start past the rows of students on my way to the recycle bin. That piece of paper is so outta here. As I approach groups of children, they all lean far away from me, some flailing their arms to get away.
Suddenly the air resistance gives way, and the paper starts to slip from between the #2 Ticonderogas. One girl screams and a couple of boys audibly shriek. I quickly maneuver the pencils, smoosh the paper between them, and continue toward the recycle bin. Once there, I let the paper float away into the green plastic receptacle, then I put the pencils down next to the container of antibacterial wipes.
I apologize to the youngster who is being dismissed to go home and rest for the day. He understands: vacation break is next week. No one wants to be sick for that.
