Rest assured, we're okay.

     The first grade classroom was quiet as usual when Mrs. Tavashi stood up at the front to address the class. It was early in the day still. I was sitting on the left near the front. One aisle over in the front row was Kiralee, who was probably the smallest student in the class, but talked more to make up for it. Mrs. Tavashi was sternly lecturing about something I’m sure when a noise interrupted. An audible squeak, gag and splatter sound. Mrs. Tavashi put her hand to hear heart dramatically and murmured: “oh my.”

Kiralee had thrown up on the floor.  

     I thought she had probably thrown up because she was so little. Back then at the age of 6 or 7, I made solid and sure conclusions about things however inaccurate they may have been. And I considered myself an expert on vomiting since not only had I seen my sister do it all over the backseat of our van, I myself had succumbed to throwing up before. I wasn’t prone to motion sickness. I was more the middle of the night type and had twice woken up my parents with my own incidents.

My dad urged me to use the family bathroom if I ever needed to barf at night again and not the master bathroom accessed through their bedroom. It made sense to me only at night to turn away from the family bathroom just outside my room and walk all the way to their room. My mom was always reassuring. Before my sister got carsick she complained of a bellyache and felt terrible. Once she hurled all over the backseat and started crying my mom gently declared, well there’s your stomachache.

So I learned that this potentially scary gastronomic expulsion was a good thing. It provided relief from pain and discomfort and meant that you were on the mend. When Kiralee got sick on the classroom’s wooden floor that morning it was a tribute to Mrs. Tavashi and her classroom management that everyone stayed seated and calm. Kiralee was sent home but Mrs. Tavashi seemed rattled the rest of the day. I thought she seemed worried for the poor little girl and so I followed after my teacher and reassured her.

“Mrs. Tavashi, she’s going to be okay,” I told her. It didn’t matter to me that she might know more than me being a 1^st grade teacher and everything. The poor distressed woman didn’t realize that when someone threw up it was a good sign. Today I think that that the teacher just didn’t appreciate having the disruption and that may be why she looked a little stressed the rest of the day.

But I also reflect back and wonder if Mrs. Tavashi realized what a nice mom I must have had. There was a reason I went into my parent’s bedroom in the middle of the night to share the experience of nighttime emesis. Kiralee was a funny little girl who talked a lot. I may have even believed that barfing on the classroom floor would cure her of being so chatty. Because if my mom said that throwing up made you better, than that was truth. I felt I must share it.

It’s amazing and scary how a parent can create a culture and belief in a child. Even as a 1^st grade teacher, Mrs. Tavashi was able to skillfully create a culture of respect and obedience. My home had a culture of love and safety. It was so rich that I took it to school.

Prajna and I tend to agree on a culture to foster in our home. Even if we don’t always succeed we try to keep things loving and safe. And I don’t mean safe as in outlet covers and padded walls. Safe can mean that the kids can mess up or throw up and still be loved. And I am by no means saying that anyone has found a secret to parenting. Of all the kids I’ve known throughout my life and kids I’ve worked with in my adult life, I can see the kids who get that at home.  Sometimes the media saturates the public with bad news of individuals gone bad and wrecking havoc and terror. But it’s encouraging to know that there still are good families and good kids out there. To a first grader, barfing on the floor should be the scariest thing imaginable. And you know what? Sometimes it is.

    

           

first grade anxiety

I went to the first grade in 1973. I don’t know what first graders do nowadays, but we held hands in a circle and sang songs, learned about Pilgrims and had a picture of George Washington on our wall.
The teacher’s desk was at the back of the room. My best buddy, Charles sat close and did different work sometimes because he was so bright. I will refer to our teacher as Mrs. T. She stood up in the front of the classroom when she lectured us. More than once she would stop teaching and start sniffing the classroom air. She narrowed her eyes a bit and jerked her head slightly. I could hear her nose hiss.
“It smells like somebody has to go to the bathroom,” she declared. “It smells like someone has to sit down.”
I remember this happening at least one time where she completely halted the lesson. No one chuckled at Mrs. T. saying someone had to sit down. 20 children were at their desks sitting down right then. But her discreet way of stating that one her charges had to pass a stool was not amusing. It was stressful. She wouldn’t resume the lesson until someone left the room. I don’t know about anyone else but the anxiety would have slammed shut any evacuation desire right away.
“Come on,” Mrs. T. finally said. “You can get some water for my plant too.” And he held up an empty coffee can.
Finally Charles walked out of the room taking the can. I don’t know if it was his flatulence that began the incident or he was just taking a bullet for us. But that’s the kind of courage that is rarely acknowledged. Thanks Charles.