You couldn't handle this. Not on your best day.

I would like to take a moment to explain a couple of the more interesting aspects of my job that no person outside of education would quite understand.

I can feel the eyes rolling already.  Settle down, Beavis, it’s funny.

I am not going to whine about how hard my job is.  I spend 6-7 hours a day in direct contact (within sneezing distance) of 9 year olds. 

I think the whining is implied, don’t you? 

As for the difficulty?  It’s not a “hard” job.  It’s just, well, kind of like spending 7 hours in a room where there are about 10 sentences/requests being repeated ad nauseam. 

The sentences are burned into my brain.  They are, in no certain order:

1.     “Mrs. Smith, (insert child’s name), stole my (insert some sort of banned toy).”

2.     “Mrs. Smith , can I go to the bathroom?”

3.     “Mrs. Smith, can I have a (insert school supply)?”

4.     “Mrs. Smith, can I go to the nurse?”

5.     “Mrs. Smith, can I have a band-aid?”

6.     “Mrs. Smith, is it time for snack/lunch?”

7.     “Mrs. Smith, what is for lunch?”

8.     “Mrs. Smith, my mother forgot to put my homework in my backpack.”

9.     “Mrs. Smith, will you tie my shoe?”

10. “Mrs. Smith, I NEED A TISSUE RIGHT NOW!!!”

11. “Mrs. Smith, (insert child’s name) is touching me!”

Do you see a pattern?  Do you see the first 2 words in EVERY sentence/request? 

My name.  Repeated.  Over and Over and Over.  It makes me a little cuckoo.  I get silly and fantasize about responding to them in some foreign language.  You parents think it’s so easy.  You would snap like a twig.   

I get these 10+ sentences every 2 minutes from 18 children. 

Sometimes I just mess with them and say, “I have changed my name.  I am no longer Mrs. Smith.  You only have one chance to guess my new name and if you get it wrong, you will no longer be allowed to ask me ANYTHING.”

I laugh.  They laugh.  They get it. 

I am glad I don’t work in the corporate world.  Adults don’t get it. 

Hard job? 

No. 

Fun job. 

A chance to stretch my comedic muscles with the little pumpkins that truly appreciate the tension release of a good laugh! 

Now, my all-time favorite child request. 

Why is it that school age children who spend all summer with skinned knees and splinters come to school in September with the idea that every hangnail requires a trip to the nurse’s office? 

I let them go to the nurse, so don’t send me hate mail and descriptions of the time you got gangrene from stapling your finger to a piece of paper. 

But really?  That poor woman! (or man) 

In the middle of cleaning up vomit and comforting a hysterical child with a bee sting, a child comes in needing an ice pack for some phantom pain that just appeared out of nowhere and is located on the smallest part of their knuckle.  

The job of a school nurse sounds so tame.  But let me tell you, she (or he) is dealing with a clientele that doesn’t understand that sometimes you get a pain and there is no need for an ambulance.  Don’t apply unless you have a strong stomach.  Because children have no sense of humility when they are sick.  AND, they are biologically unable to figure out the correct time to head to the bathroom when they feel the urge to puke.  They will also let loose all over the floor even though there are about 3 appropriate vomit receptacles within two feet of them. 

I am not joking about this.  The school nurse deserves combat pay. 

I deserve a bonus every time I read that, “Oh crap, I don’t feel so good!” look on a child’s face, jump over desks like hurdles and shove that garbage can under their pale white face just in time.  All while holding their hair and successfully guiding 17 other horror-stricken children into the hallway without one of them doing a sympathy puke.  AND, one time, I was 7 months pregnant when all this nastiness went down.  So, take that!   You might not be strong enough to do what I do.  If you are, you are already doing it.

I have now resorted with a stock response to the question of, “Can I go to the nurse?” 

I only use this response with healthy children so DON’T yell at me!

 My response goes like this:

“Are you bleeding?  Are you going to throw up?  Do you feel dizzy or lightheaded?  Would your mother/father bring you to the doctor for this?  No?  Ok, then let’s wait about 20 minutes and see how you feel.”

Most of the time, they forget that they “needed” the nurse.  Other times, they are insistent and they come back with an ice pack. 

The ice pack. 

Somehow, when you walk through the doors of elementary school, the ice pack offers the same comfort as a mother’s kiss.   The next time I am sad, I am going to grab an ice pack and...

Use it to hold my beer.