Little Humans, Large Hearts

My head is spinning; I can feel my face begin to flush. I sit down at the front of the classroom to take attendance. My ears are buzzing with the power of a room full of 1980s television sets. My students wander around the room, eating breakfast and socializing. Their little faces lit up when they walked in and saw me this morning instead of a substitute.

“Can I read to you,” one little voice pleads.

“Oh, of course, just give me a minute,” I try to buy some time and clear my head. I can do this, I just need to suck it up.

My mouth starts salivating and my sight is lagging. My body temperature has risen so I fan my face with my hand. I contemplate sending a kid across the hall to get another teacher for my impending fainting spell but decide that is too dramatic. I sit still breathing deeply and willing this feeling away.

Another request to complete a craft project from the day before.

A suggestion for our morning transition song.

A question about afternoon activities.

I hear my principal’s voice from the hallway and my arm swings into action as if operating on behalf of my wellbeing without the permission from my stubborn brain. I flag her down and into my room. After she greets my children and I fight back tears I choke out the words I’d been avoiding.

“I hate to do this to you but, I feel like I’m going to pass out.”

Before I’ve fully finished my sentence she is on the radio calling for a sub to be reassigned from the library to my classroom. I have no plans to leave for her. Hopefully she can figure out what to do with these kids for the next 7 hours. I know I am inconveniencing other teachers who will miss library and who will have to jump in to help in my room. Hopefully they aren’t too annoyed with me.

As the sub is arriving in my room I gather my students on the carpet to tell them that I am leaving for the day. In a voice no louder than I’d use with my grandmother I ask them to meet me in a circle on the carpet. They follow directions quickly and quietly with no complaints even though this is clearly out of our routine. I explain that I’m still not feeling well and I need to go home so that I can be a better, healthier teacher for them. They all express concern and wish me well. Almost immediately they start reminding each other of what they need to do today (assignments from yesterday and which specials class they will go to) and how they need to act (if you get upset just walk away and do your own thing, we are a family so take care of each other). If my head wasn’t already going to explode my heart would have done just that. It was such a loud reminder that though they be but tiny their hearts are just as big. They are capable of wonderful things and only adults see their limits.

Still sick. Still sick of it. Still want soup.