Beauty in the day: he came to the clinic with cracked, bleeding lips.
“I have just the thing!” I told him. Afterwards he asked to call his mom.
“Hi mom. My lip was bleeding, but Ms. Nordstrom put gasoline on it, and it’s better now.”
Beauty in the day: there were two of them, and they had a pass, which they handed over with an air of importance. “We need to get 10 copies of this.”
“Okay,” I responded dutifully, and held out my hand for the paper.
“We need 10 copies.”
“10 copies of this math.”
“Okay.” I extended my hand a little further.
“Please make 10 copies of this math.”
“Okay.” I sort of waved my hand a little.
“10 copies for my teacher.”
I tried a different tack.
“I think you need to give me that copy, so I can use it to make the 10 copies.”
This brought me a suspicious gaze. But as I am generally trustworthy, she handed over the paper, albeit slowly.
“My teacher needs 10 of those.”
Yes. 10 was what I had stuck in my mind, so I was relieved that we were still on the same page.
I brought back the copies, giving the original to one girl, and the copies to the other. For a moment it appeared that we might have an equality issue, but Logic won out, and they headed back to class with their mission accomplished.
Beauty in the day: he talks to us. We often don’t understand what he’s saying, but he’s also pretty animated, so us educated folk are generally able to decipher his antics. Today he had a few words for the Librarian. He seemed interested in her vest, and she leaned down to let him in’vest’igate. He motioned to her zipper, which he then grasped, and pulled up to her chin. She thanked him with a smile, and he left, exhibiting pride in a job well-done.
Sometimes love is letting someone zip you up.
Beauty in the day: it was actually last Friday and I forgot to share. We have Eagle Tickets that kids earn for being great kids in a way that was noticeable (since they are already all great kids).
Two young men came into the office with their tickets. One was telling me that he was SURE to get a prize, because he had 14 tickets in the drawing. His friend slowly shook his head with a calm smile. “You don’t get it, dude. The prize is the happiness you get in earning the ticket.”
Beauty in the day: he wanted an ice pack. “I need an ice pack for my arm,” he said, massaging his shoulder at the joint.
“What happened? Why is it hurting?”
“It hurts because I was raising my arm for so long.”
“Oh – I don’t think an ice pack will really work for that, but….wow! You must be a really good student! Were you raising your hand and waiting to answer a question?”
He said no, but explained further. “I was raising my arm to signal zero noise level.”
I faked a double-take. “Seriously? Wow! You really ARE a good student!” I stood up and motioned to shake his hand, which he allowed, in a proud-yet-bewildered manner. I dismissed him then, calling after him, “Keep up the good work!”
Unlike some of the kids who leave with no memory of why they had arrived in the first place, this one left happy, but kept looking back at me on his way down the hall.
He may be onto me.
Beauty in the day: he came and stood at the tall end of the desk, his eyes peeking at me. I asked him why he was there.
“Well, I was in line, and [one classmate] got in line in front of me….” he trailed off for just a moment, and looked distant – then resumed. “And [other classmate] got in line behind me.”
I waited for the terrible tragedy that must have befallen him at this point.
He blinked. Three times, I think.
That was it. The tragedy.
At least, that was all I was getting.
Beauty in the day: he came to school with his two fingers taped together. He said that he had a broken finger and that it happened two days ago – no, two weeks ago. Mid-class, he decided he wanted to change the tape, so he came to the Clinic. I bound it with some of that paper first-aid tape. Not too tight.
“I’m so lucky I have a pencil,” he informed me. “At recess I can let people sign my finger.”
The he added, “The good one. I don’t want them to sign the bad one.”