March 2025 SOLC–Day 19
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I arrived at the cafeteria to pick up my class from lunch, and A. raced up to me. “G. has lost her voice!” she announced as dramatically as G. could have hoped. “She can’t talk at all!”

“Oh,” I responded, “Well, I’m sure she’ll be fine. Thank you for telling me. Find a spot in line.”

Inside of me, a small Hallelujah chorus erupted. 

A few moments later we were back in the classroom for Quiet Time and G. approached.

“Can A. go with me?” she asked, in a gruff whisper. 

“What do you mean?” I asked, suspecting I knew where this was might be heading.

“To the nurse,” she continued, “so she can explain about my voice. Since I can’t talk.”

Side note: I deserve an honorarium for the amount of time I spend deterring kids from visiting the nurse. I honestly do. My mantra is that you go to see our overworked nurse if you’re “broken, bleeding or barfing” and that’s about it. But, many second graders LOVE nurse visits and aren’t averse to wearing down teachers either.

“You don’t need to go to the nurse,” I reassured her. “This isn’t an emergency. Just make sure to drink plenty of water.”

G. looked at me. I looked back steadily. Slowly, she walked away. 

A few minutes later, she approached again with a note in hand. She handed the note to me and pointed repeatedly at her throat.

“I can bairly speek I basikly can’t! It is just getting worse!”

“G,” I said, struggling to keep a straight face, “the best thing you can do is to rest your voice. That’s what will make it better.” 

She slumped away, the very picture of dejection and misery. But fear not, as G. is unwavering in her pursuits, whatever they might be.

She approached soon afterward with an additional few sentences tagged on to her original note.

“It won’t worck it will just get worse plus I’ve already tryed resting it.”

“No, G,” I said gently. “You aren’t going to the nurse.”

Side note: Lest you think I’m heartless, please be aware that within 10 minutes of Quiet Time ending, G. was fully and verbally engaged in a collaborative drawing task with her group. It was a miraculous recovery!

And here’s a little more context….

Flash back to the beginning of the day, Day Two of Spirit Week, otherwise known as Dress Like a Teacher Day:

G. burst into the classroom.

“I’m Mr. L.” she announced happily. “See!” She pulled at a lanyard around her neck and pointed to the whistle hanging from it. 

Sidenote: Mr. L, our PE teacher, does not wear, and never has worn, a whistle on a lanyard around his neck. 

Additional side note: I immediately wondered if I had somehow offended her parents. 

G and I had a few discussions about the use of said whistle. Actually, it was pretty much just one conversation that sounded like: “If you blow that whistle again in the classroom, it will need to go into your bag and stay there until you’re back at home.” Honestly, after that, it went much better than I expected. I did notice it was often in her mouth (which kept me on my toes), but she didn’t blow it again.

Now, flash forward to the end of the day:

I was telling my colleague about G’s lost voice. 

“Oh!” she said, “I can’t believe I forgot to tell you!” She started laughing.

“What?” I asked.

“Well, at recess, G. blew her whistle. Mrs. M. told her she couldn’t use it any more. G. then began to screech loudly, apparently attempting to imitate the sound of her whistle. At full pitch. Over and over and over. Finally, she came up to me and told me that her throat hurt and she’d lost her voice. I explained that’s what happens when you try to sound like a whistle.”

We both laughed and shook our heads.

Spirit Week throws a wild card into the week. Tomorrow is Western Wednesday. I’m already wondering what that will bring into the classroom…