Ruminations on Emesis

Let me tell you something about small childrens' vomit. Yes, it is disgusting, yes, I have had it all over my body, and yes, it looks and smells just as vomit usually does. But there is something anatomically different about how these small people manage to bring it up...so to speak. Most of us, at least in my experience with emesis, have to instigate it through using our gag reflex. You know, the typical noise and motion used to represent throwing up. If you've ever seen The Goonies, just reflect on this, "And then I made a sound like this (insert vomiting noise) and then all the people in the audience started puking. It was the worst thing I've ever done." Yes well, at any rate, you get the general idea. Gag reflexes.

But in small children, they don't use them. Honestly, they don't. Amazing, really. When they need to throw up, all they do is open their mouths and out it comes. Kind of like one of those fountains you find in fancy gardens with the statue in the middle and water effortlessly trickling downwards. It's like that. A child has only to open their mouth to achieve instant stardom amongst fellow students and a direct ticket home. No layovers, no travel fees, just go home.

Now this wouldn't be so alarming in and of itself it weren't so very fatal. You see, with a child there's no warning. No gag reflex. No sound, no action, nothing. One minute they say they feel sick, the next your standing next to a child vomit fountain. And guess who the lovely center piece is that receives the attention of the liquid tinkling down so iridescently? That's correct. The only thing that would make the scene more perfect would be the teacher wearing a toga.

A perfect example. My students walk into school at 12:47 pm. The zwing of backpack zippers, the aroma of sweaty hair, and the motion of moving children is enough to make anyone feel somewhat nauseous, but it is the seventh month of school so most of us are used to it by now. Samantha is standing by her table, not moving. Her pink and blue coat is slack on her shoulders with one sleeve slipping slightly off. Her backpack sits at her feet. I bend over, oh fatal mistake. "Samantha, are you all right?" She looks up at me, and before I have time to blink, it's all over. The making of a first class fountain.

I have always been extremely sensitive to smells. Even as a young child, if something didn't smell right, my stomach knew it before it even reached other people's nostrils. And I stand by the statement that there is no more vial or potent stench than that of emesis. To that I hold firm. And although my heart goes out to this poor, sickly child, there is a certain level of self-preservation that kicks in when this sort of situation arises. For the good of the whole, I must exit the room before I too contribute to the aroma that is now permeating the air. After a few moments of composure, I fulfill my teacherly duty's, telling everyone to back away, escorting said student to the nurse's office for her direct flight home, and calling the janitor in a voice bordering on hysterics. I make it through the rest of the day by cranking open all the windows. Who cares if it's the middle of winter?
"But Mrs. Baird, we're freezing!"
"Put your coat on then," I respond in a sing-song voice. Because there ain't no way those windows are closing today....in fact, I'm not sure if they were closed at all that week.

But we've hopefully made it passed stomach flu season and are on to better things, like runny nose rivers and cough concertos. But we'll save those for another rumination. Until then, I remain faithfully yours, the classical teacher.

Happy Easter

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The Glories of Spring Break

I made it! I have five whole days. I own them. They're mine. No sharing.
On that note, I have resolved to read, write, eat, sleep, hike, walk, do yoga, and spend exorbitant amounts of time in the library, my sanctuary. Sigh.
I haven't been writing very much. Too much school and applications and interviews and nonsense that seems to suck the time away from the more meaningful aspects of my life. Although some could argue visa-versa. But I can't seem to strike upon what it is that I am suppose to be writing about. Usually it comes so easily, so naturally. I know what it is that I am suppose to write about, and I write about it until it's raw. Then we move on. But right now, I can't seem to identify it. Any ideas Sis. Morgan?
You always say to write from the front of your life. But what if I can't tell what's at the front right now? I feel I've dwelt too much on the past, and the middle is kind of blah. I'm I just not seeing what I am suppose to be seeing? Maybe I need to read some Annie Dillard. Ah, but then my tone will sound too much like her and what's the point of trying match her tone. This always happens when I read her. Maybe I need to go sit in the mountains and meditate. That would work probably, but it looks like it's going to rain, and as much as meditating in the rain sounds romantic it's really not. (I think Chan explored that idea once upon a time).
I've watched my Cardinal birds for about an hour, just thinking and watching and thinking. They are my favorite birds who come to our feeder. I think I like them because they don't waste. The house and goldfinches will fly up to the feeder and pick out the sunflower seeds that they like and throw the rest of the ground. It kind of looks like it's raining black pebbles. But then the Cardinals show up and they clean everything up. They eat what falls on the ground, and when they are at the feeder I only see broken shells fall from it. Good birds.