Roger* has hair the color of Cheez-Its. A face the exact size, shape, and shade of an empty Mr. Potato Head. Ice blue eyes round and shining as you would find on a porcelain doll. He has just turned six years old and is currently standing atop his chair in the lunch room bellowing and shhhhhhhhh-ing the other forty children in the room with every breath in his little body in an attempt to gain complete silence. He has an important announcement to make, it seems. I observe him from my chair by the stereo where I am nibbling my Clif Bar. No one is really listening, so after one final and very agitated "SHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH" (he's trembling with effort at this point), he goes ahead with his news:
"Does anyone--" (he redoubles his efforts) "DOES ANYONE HERE LIKE HAM & JELLY?????????"
No one answers him. Well, that sounds disgusting. Probably nobody does.**
I should preface all this with the information that I'm teaching theater camp to children for the next eight weeks. Let's prepare ourselves.
As lunch draws near, I find myself standing in the midst of a round of Barricade- a fantastic game wherein the children are all lumped into a bunch on the far side of whatever room they're in and told their only object is to cross to the other side. In complete silence. We field the usual questions: "What if I have to breathe? Can I breathe?" "What if I sneeze? Can I sneeze?" "What if I had to cough a little bit because my throat hurts maybe today a little bit and maybe I'll need to cough but that's just because I'm sick so I can't help it, does that count?" Counts. Take your vitamins.
The children are creeping across the room like snails in a coma when suddenly one of the tall ones approaches on my right and tugs at my yellow sleeve. I glance down. Her entire face and front are covered in blood. Mr. Paul is reaching for my left sleeve to use me in demonstration of the lethal consequences of error in the next round of the game, but I weigh my options quickly and decide participating in this demonstration probably isn't worth having a child bleed out before lunch.
"I got you," I say, and put an arm around the tall child's shoulders. I escort her to the bathroom. Slowly at first: more quickly when in peering down at her face I notice her teeth are now stained red and blood is falling from her shirt and chin onto the floor as we go. Once in the bathroom, I prop the tall child up in front of the sink and turn on the water. I reach for paper towels but pause midway because I notice the tall child has not taken it upon herself to lean over the sink. She's so tall, I forget she's six. I tip her slightly over. Immediately that thing happens when your nose bleeds into the spray of a faucet and each droplet erupts and multiplies into millions of droplets which spray everywhere and cause you then to have to clean not only your face and the sink but the walls, mirrors, curtains, front lawn, and - in more extreme cases - the underside of the dog. Who is at the neighbors'.
I turn down the spray and evaluate the tall child's current mental state. She seems a bit rattled and shaky, but is making a valiant attempt to keep it together. Once I've got her with an ample wad of paper towel mashed against her nose and comfortably seated in a corner by the trash can I engage in mood-boosting conversation.
"Is this your first nosebleed?" She shakes her head- no- but does not speak through the poultice of towels and clots blocking her face. I go on.
"I've had nosebleeds my whole life. Used to get them all the time. All the time! It just starts bleeding. And nothing even seems to cause it! I'll just be sleeping and wake up inhaling really hard because I could feel even in my sleep that blood was about to fall out of my nose. In fact- my first nosebleed- boy! It scared my mom. I was a very little baby and sleeping in my crib and my mom came in to check on me and saw me just lying there with my eyes closed and a huge pool of blood under my head!"
Silence.
"So, yeah. That made her nervous for a minute."
The tall child stares at me. She lifts a corner of the bloody towel away from her mouth to speak. "You look like you're wearing your pajamas."
Sigh. I'm not. I am in fact wearing my very best and favorite Idaho sweatpants and my third favorite camp T-shirt. I decide I am not insulted. I also decide not to counter with, "That may be, tall child, but you're certainly not thinking about the fact that blood is pouring out of your face and you look like you may have just participated in last week's episode of 'Game of Thrones' anymore, now are you?"
I use all the rest of the paper towel supply for the remaining seven weeks of summer camp to blot out all the blood stains on her teal flamingo T-shirt. We are silent. After that pajama comment I decide not to tell her about my many experiences with nose cauterization surgery. It's a good tale -having your blood vessels roasted and sizzled into charred and useless nubs while you sit fully conscious and inhale the aroma of the blood frying. But she might come back with some sass about my topknot or something even more personal and I'm not having that.
We verify that the nose has stopped bleeding, but I have her keep it blocked up and clotting for a few more moments while I scour the building for a spare shirt of some kind. Just envisioning the impromptu Q&A and potential waves of vomit that would ensue had I walked her back into the gymnasium full of now-lunching children in her blood-soaked clothing was enough to make me willing to craft her a top out of mown grass clippings and string cheese, if necessary.
Mr. Paul directs me to the lone available shirt in the building. I have the tall child change her top. I wash her flamingo shirt out as best I can and make sure she has cleaned the dangling congealed blood wads from the rim of her nostril. That's just not lunch material. She rejoins the pack. I spend the first third of lunch Clorox-wiping blood splatter from the floor. It was a long trail- from bleed initiation to bathroom. "Dexter & Gretel."
After my burrito, it's time for art class. Art class goes well. Mr. Paul can run an art class, let me tell you. At one point he convinces the entire pack of children not to tear or wrinkle their grey sheets of construction paper they are using to make Olympic torches because......."This grey sheet of paper. This grey sheet of paper symbolizes the base of the torch which is the emblem for Olympic Pride in not only our country but every country around the world! We must respect that pride. We must respect the torch!"
Flawless, rip-less torches.
Arts & Crafts is winding to a close when I turn to see one of the children standing before me giving me the middle finger. First-rate offense. I am about to pull the fire alarm when I notice the tip of said finger is covered in gold. I think, "Oh, that's like 'Goldfinger.' That's James Bond, I think. I don't know the song for that one. But it is James Bond, right? It's not 'Goldmember?' No- I think that was definitely Austin Powers and the one with Beyonce and where he does the weird split but it's not a great costume effect and just looks distracting. I feel like I shouldn't bring up 'Goldmember' in front of the children. I love those movies though."
The child is still staring at me. He speaks. "Mr. Paul is making us paint our medals with gold paint and when I washed my hands I forgot a finger."
There are no more paper towels.
*Names have been changed to protect the innocent. Except for Mr. Paul's name.
**My brother used to eat peanut butter and mayonnaise sandwiches. In front of me. It really speaks the the existence of a higher love-based power that I still allow him in my life.
No comments:
Post a Comment