My hip was hurting last night and even after a couple of Ibuprofen I still slept poorly. The pain is the result of a 15 second classroom melodrama:
One moment I was asking Kenny to wash his hands. The next he was thrashing around on the floor screaming, “No! No! No!” like soap and water were torture devises from the Spanish Inquisition. He flung himself against my shins. I lost my balance and grabbed for the bookcase. It teetered. I flailed some more and grabbed for the easel. It tottered. I flailed some more.
I tried to step forward to regain my balance. Kenny rolled forward as well. Now I was off balance with one foot on the floor and nowhere to step. I was going to fall on a four year-old child. Unless — I jumped.
And landed on his hand. I made the step as large as I could. I put only my toes on the ground and it was my heel that touched him, so he felt very little pressure. Luckily I was wearing tennis shoes and the soles were soft. I didn’t leave a mark on his hand — not even any dirt — but he shrieked like he was dying.
I stopped with my feet spread dang near two yards apart, hanging by my fingernails from the edge of the desk with one hand, with my other hand on the floor and my butt in the air, I looked down and snapped, “Enough!” He stared at me in open-mouthed surprise. “Are you trying to kill me?” I demanded.
Kenny looked up at me indignantly. “You hurted me!” he wailed.
Of course. How foolish of me. The whole incident was clearly my fault. After all, I took the job in pre-K.