“You OK, Pal?” I ask Graham for the third time.
We’re visiting his new classroom, and it’s abuzz with eager second graders searching for friends’ names on desks and choosing their own seats accordingly.
“Yeah,” he says, “I’m fine,” and he sighs.
He is grey, his eyes don’t sparkle like little stars, and he’s limp like old rope, but he says he’s fine, and I trust him.
I turn to listen to his teacher and to check on Evan. Evan’s friend Patrick is in the classroom next door, and he wants Patrick to be sure that he knows that he and Graham will be neighbors. I glance over my shoulder back at Graham.
His head is down on his desk, and a trickle of watery vomit is oozing from the corner of his mouth.
“Oh no, Bud. Let’s get you to the sink.” I try to sound gentle and calm, exactly like the supportive and cool-headed father that I am not. I don’t want to upset him, and I don’t want his teacher to think that I’m grouchy, even if that’s the truth.
I take his arm and help him stand, while he pukes at my feet. I note that he’s narrowly missed my shoes, and I’m thankful, though slightly guilty feeling at my momentary selfishness.
When he’s through, I guide him to the sink, where he finishes.
His new teacher is young and upbeat. She greeted me as soon as I walked in the door with a smile and handshake.
She’s grabbed a roll of paper towels, and she’s rubbing Graham’s back. “It’s OK, Graham. You’ll be just fine,” she says reassuringly, and even I feel more relaxed hearing it. She’s cool with this. She can handle it. She’s a pro.
Graham stands up, and she wipes his chin for him.
I’m beginning to wipe up a trail of puke from his desk to the sink.
“I’m sorry,” Graham frowns looking at the floor. “That’s not a very good way to kick off the new school year, throwing up in your classroom.”
“Oh, Graham, that’s OK,” she says taking his hand. “You know what?”
“What?” he asks.
“I think this is a good thing, because we’ll always have a funny story to tell,” she smiles. “I’m sorry you’re sick, but I will always remember you and when we first met.”
“Yeah,” he says, a believer. “That’s good,” he nods. “It can be a funny story.” He manages to smile just a little bit.
“Why don’t you sit here a little longer, so we know you’re OK? Alright, Pal?” I pat his shoulder and continue cleaning up.
In the meantime, his new teacher has already called maintenance for a clean-up kit and one of the moms is helping me with the carpet, and the desk, and the sink.
Evan is building a pod-racer using interlocking cubes that he found on one of the shelves.
It occurs to me that I’m getting extra help because I’m a dad, and that if Jennifer had been in the room during Graham’s little accident instead of me, there might be a little less pitching in. I accept it gratefully, however, considering it the same sort of thing as the extra help a woman might get when she finds herself roadside with a flat tire or at the check out with a large package.
I wait a few moments to be sure that clean up is on its way and that Graham is going to be OK to make it out to the car. “I’m sorry you have to work extra hard before the year’s even started,” I tell his new teacher.
“Oh, no problem at all,” she says. “It’s going to be a great year.”
And I believe her.
August 21st, 2007 at 4:00 pm
I once threw up during a spelling test in 3rd grade. I ran suddenly towards the door but didn’t make it out in time. I think I was the teacher’s favorite from that day on. So tell Graham it’s cool, even the best of us throw up.