But they're not scrubs

Are you a doctor?
The little boy asked.

Why?
I wonder...

Because I get band aids for your fingers?
Because I tell you to take care of yourself?
Because I make you put away your bag of marshmallows and eat your apple sauce instead?
Because I hold things together with strong surgical (read: duck) tape?
Because I triage your ailments right here in the classroom?
Because I am gogogogogo all day?
Because I do paperwork for hours after you leave the building?
Because I send you to wash your hands after you stick your fingers up your nose?
Because I tell you it is dangerous to lick the lead from your pencil?
And the crayons in your case?
Because I care about you and for you?

I didn't know you were a doctor.
The little boy said again.
Are you a doctor?

No.
I conclude.
I don't think so.

Then why are you wearing doctor clothes?

Oh.

My pants.
I look down.
They're light blue,
maybe a touch baggy.
My shirt.
It's crisp and white.

Go sit down.
I say.
And soon, I all but forget about my clothes.

After all, I've got patients to see.

Then and Wow!

I've gone ahead and made some changes around the room. Most everyone who comes in says "WOW it looks so BIG in HERE".

Come Monday it will feel like the inside of a crowded train car and probably that smelly.
You know, because kids smell.

I've got the handi-wipes ready to scoop up soot from dirty hands and anti-bacterial soap waiting to cleanse the hands that spend half the day up the noses.
Not my nose.

I'll tell you what, too. I'm exhausted. It feels like December and I'm ready for the break.
But now's the time to turn it ON, the pizazz, the charm, the jazz hands.

Jazzzzzzzz.
Nap.

Inside MY Room

I really love my word wall.
Don't you?