Dad on Duty #86

A young boy…younger than Tori….enters the office, holding a referral slip. That’s the paper teachers use to document a disciplinary trip to the office.

Deb takes the paper from him, glances at it, and says “OK, wait here” as she heads back to tell the Boss.

The boy starts shuddering. At first I think he’s crying. But then I realize he’s….hyperventilating. I go over to him and touch his shoulders. “I…..can’t…..breath” he says, quickly unraveling like a ball of yarn.

“You’re fine, you’re fine” I assure him. “Come back here with me”.

Our counselor, Heather, has done a lot of amazing stuff for our school, already, in her first year here. One of those things is our “quiet room”. She took a space that previously had no clear use, at the back of the office, and enclosed it with heavy, dark curtains. She furnished it with super soft chairs and pillows. It is equipped with a small dry erase board (so you can write down your thoughts if you’re having trouble saying them), aroma therapy and sound machines (both set to “uber-calm”) and a wide variety of fidget-friendly items.

I escort (nearly carry) him back to the quiet room. Coaching his breathing, rubbing his back, talking him down. Two or three times, other staff members stick their heads in, and promptly back out and leave it to me. Within a few minutes he’s calm.

‘You ready to talk to Ms. Storie now?” He nods.

After the Boss chats with him, she comes up front and asks me “could you walk him around a while?” Sure. Walks are amazingly curative.

So I go collect him from the Boss’ office: “hey buddy; I need your help for a bit. Would you like to come help me?” He pops up “yes!”

So I explain to him what we’ll be doing; we’re going to walk around the whole school, check all the doors, pick up lost & found items, look for problems and fix them.

“All the way around the school?” he asks. “Yep”. “I’ve never been on the back of the school” he says, with wonder in his voice. “You will today”.

He likes this assignment a lot. He bounces out the door.

Right away we find an open door, and then a jacket, even a lunchbox. Real work going on here. He’s beaming.

We talk a lot while we patrol. Walking therapy works. He tells me what he did to get in trouble; he acted out against another student in his class. We talk about choices, and citizenship.

Finally we make it back to the front. I deposit him at a desk in the Boss’ office, next to hers.

He spends most of the day in there, working on assignments his teacher has sent down. I check on him frequently. He does well with his work, completing it all with minimal help from us.

He also finishes the apology letter to the other student involved, as assigned to him by the Boss.

“You ready to turn your work in to ?” I ask him. “Yes……and also….this….” He hands me his apology note. It is an artful compilation of penitent words arching over drawings of bad behaviors (stricken by a circle and slash) and good behaviors crowned with exclamations and affirmations.

And the coup de grace; a piece of candy taped to the note. A gift of repentance.

*********

A couple of times a day, our nurse has to take short breaks (she is a new mother). The office gals do their best to cover. When I’m there, I try to take that function over, since it’s something I can actually do.

As I come back toward the front of the school, returning from a mission upstairs, I see a couple of girls approaching the nurse’s office. The nurse’s office is closed, with the “I’m out, go to the office” sign on the door. I intercept them and take them in the nurses station. It’s ant bites. Ok, lets get the shoes and socks off, clear off the ants, check for allergies, get some soothing lotion on the bites.

Right behind them, in walks a boy, crying and limping. He tripped outside and crashed hard. He has abrasions on his elbows, hip and knees. Lets get those cleaned up and debrided. Bandaids and ice applied. Better?

The door opens again. A girl enters, holding a Kleenex to her nose. “Spring a leak?” I ask. For a second, she doesn’t get it. Then she chuckles and nods. Pressure and ice applied. Clean the blood off her hands and face.

One of our diabetic boys bursts into the office, crying and hollering. His sugar is off. I dispatch him to the back to check his sugar.

Two more girls walk in. One of them is my neighbor. She’s holding a paper towel to her mouth. “Lost a tooth” she exclaims. I snap a quick pic and text it to her parents, then get her cleaned up, gauze on the bleeding gum, tooth cleaned up and into a box for the Tooth Fairy.

Nurse Lindsey returns, to a full office. She thanks me and takes over.

Five patients in eight minutes. It’s like that all day, every day, for the school nurse. Next time she calls you about your kid’s upset tummy or fever, remember, and picture, that.

**********

On my way to deliver some supplies, I run into a teacher and a boy talking just outside their classroom. He’s getting chewed out. The teacher delivers her initial redress, and tells the student to sit in the hall till she can come back. She returns to her class to try to teach the other 22 kids for which she is responsible, for a few minutes. Her time divided.

I don’t know this kid at all. But I figure I can help. The kids all love me….Right?

I plop down next to him. He scooches away from me. I ask him “what happened?” He kinda growls at me. I wait a minute, sitting in silence, hoping his emotions will abate. “You wanna talk about it?” I offer. He screams at me. “Get away from me!”

Ok. Mentoring failure. This is not working.

His teacher hears the commotion, and returns. I limp away, wounded.

A few minutes later, on a hunch, I return to check on them. Teacher and student are still in the same spot, hunched down on the hallway floor. As I approach, I hear a knocking on the door of their classroom; a student is pressed to the window, calling for help. I enter the classroom to find a bit of a situation. A couple of boys are practicing their karate moves on each other. Two other kids are literally standing on one of the tables, for reasons which are unclear. I mitigate the immediate threats as best I can, and head back into the hall to talk with the teacher. “What’s going on in there?” she asks. “Well, its…problematic. I think they need you.”

She looks at the kid, then back at the classroom. She’s stuck.

I offer: “You want me to get Heather? Maybe she could do some good here”. “Yes, lets do that. Thanks”. I move quickly back downstairs to the office and find our counselor, Heather, in her office with a teacher who is shadowing her to get some counselor training. “Can y’all make a field run, right now?” I ask. “Um…yeah..sure” Heather replies. I give them the address of The Scene, and off they go.

Ten minutes later, I go back up to check. All is well. The kid is calm and responsive, the teacher is…well…teaching.

We need the right team in the building, then the processes to enable that team. It. Can. Work. It did just now. And it was meaningful.

**********

I’m leading kindergarten out from lunch to recess. It takes considerable attention and effort. This is not an “auto-pilot” job.

Stay in line. Eyes on me. Drop your lunch boxes in the right repository. Stop at the door and wait for me.

Each batch of kids is comprised of about 25 little people. I try to do two at a time; 50 kids moving down the hall and outside. They are excited and antsy; it’s recess after all.

I’m focused on the operational aspect of it. And missing the human aspect.

As I walk a group of kids to the gate, two kindergarten girls whisper to each other and pause. As I coax them into the playground, they…smiling…turn to me and ask “would you be our Dad for recess, and play with us?” “Yeah, we want you to be our Dad!”

My heart squeaks, more than a little.

“Sure! Thank for asking me!”

I help them swing and climb and slide.

And I feel the Peace of God wash over me.