Taking the Tumble

Finishing off the last morning support I glanced up at the clock on the wall. 11:14am and a handful of seconds. I waited. Counting the seconds. 11:15am. I leaned back in my chair to peer out the door. They were coming. Some limping, others with dazed looks of confusion. Each one had their unique story but all were victims of PRT, post-recess trauma.

Reuben, slight bump on the head, normal pupil dialation, no headache, cot 1, observation.

Alicia, skinned left knee and bloody right elbow, superficial wounds, antiseptic, bandaids, back to class.

Rhonda, swollen left ankle, still supports weight, nothing broken, cot 2, ace bandage.

And on and on the wave continued. Soon the cots were filled up and the press of bodies coming through the door diminished. The last to enter the ward was Cindy, supported by two of her class mates. As she approached she favored her right leg. She seem not to be in too much pain and her leg was supporting most of her weight. It was not broken.

"Cindy, what happened to you at recess today?" I queried.

“I was doing flips on the monkey bars. I'm learning to do gymnastics and I am going to be a famous gymnast!” she exclaimed with excitement followed by a small groan to emphasize the injury she took in her quest for gold.

Further examination of her leg told me it was just a little sprain and she would be fine. My office was filled up with mostly kindergarteners and first graders so I asked the brave PRT sufferers a question.

“Do you know what a gymnast is?”

As always the children were ready to show their vast knowledge of any subject.

The boy that was helping Cindy volunteered right away, “I think it’s a clown.”

The girl next to her said, “No, it’s a Doctor.”

Another girl offered, “A flipper.”

Another girl, “A girl who does tricks.”

Boy, “It’s playing soccer for boys and girls.”

Boy, “It’s for you to work out and run.”

Girl, “It’s like a bump on your eye.”

Girl, “Some of them are like bumps all over.”

Boy, “People that do stuff like thinking.”

Girl, “No, people that bend in half and stand on their heads.”

The last answer came from a chubby little boy in the corner, “Maybe it’s a snack.”

And so ended my wave of PRT victims. Hmmmm.... I think it is just about time for lunch.