Beauty in the day: it was a blood day. Not just any blood day, but apparently “blood day”.
Now, normally, on a regular day, a student (could be male, could be female) will come into the office, wailing loudly, all the while drooling, and cry out that they are bleeding, with great drama, as well as some pomp and circumstance. In some rare cases, you can actually see the blood, and in even more rare cases, you are, at least momentarily, alarmed that the injury may be great.
This was not that kind of blood day.
Today I had 8 (more than a half-dozen) visitations from students that had gotten the memo that it was a blood day. Each and every one of them (of varying ages, mind you) who came to visit, walked in calmly, completely dry-eyed, marched up to my desk, and said (more or less), “I have blood.” And they did. Okay, I take that back. One of them said, “I think I have blood,” but then realized that, no, she didn’t.
All of the blood on “blood day” today was minimal, and some of it was even regarded as a positive sign (albeit somewhat painful, when you add the swelling that a very wiggly loose tooth can bring about).
Very soon, perhaps even tomorrow, it will no longer be blood day, and this will most likely mean that the sight of blood (that often requires a magnifying glass) will be the reason for a good, loud, crying fit.
But not today. Because today was Blood Day.
Beauty in the day: they are 2nd graders. One was in the office to take a “break”, something that is a new development in helping with his success. The other has been known to come and sing for me, particularly tunes he deems as “Spanish-Gaelic”, and also likes a little help with his success.
Singer came in dramatically, dragging his leg behind him and punctuating his steps with groans. Upon arrival, he heaved his gangly little body onto the countertop, the back of his hand grazing his forehead. “I hurt my leg,” he managed, with what was clearly almost his last breath. We went to get an ice pack, which he made use of for at least 45 seconds. He was suddenly back by my side, his upper body strewn out over the desktop again. “I want to know if my idea is going to happen,” he said pointedly.
“Your idea?” I asked, following the obvious prompt.
“Yes. I think I could maybe be Strategy Boy, and maybe there could be Strategy Man, or something.” This was a reference to our principals who dressed up as Unity Man and Virtues Boy a short time ago, which was quite a hit.
Someone came into the office, and the conversation was interrupted. It was at this point that “taking-a-break-boy” approached Spanish-Gaelic Boy with a proposition: “If you change your mind, can I be Strategy Boy?”
“Well, you can be Strategy Man, because you’re taller than me.”
“Well, maybe I could, because I’ve been growing a mustache.”
“I think I might be too. I have some hairs…”