Last week while retrieving my older grandson from school his teacher approached me outside the room, nervously informing me the lad had hurt his finger catching a ball. She said an icepack had been applied and he seemed to be Okay but was complaining of pain.
The little fella was milking the attention, informing us that he thought the finger was broken and needed X-rays. But the finger wasn’t swollen and moved freely so I thanked the teacher, told her he was fine and we went on our way.
The teacher’s skittishness is understandable: outside her classroom is a whiteboard – that must be walked around to enter – bearing warnings that one of the pupils inside has a severe food allergy, no food or food containers are allowed in and all who enter must first clean their hands, hand wipes provided on an adjacent table.
My grandson informs me that the allergic child’s mother is in the classroom all day every day functioning as a teacher helper. I’m sure the teacher is delighted with the support, and constant observation.
Anyway, this week while picking up my younger grandson from daycare, one of the delightful childminders somberly informed me that the little fella had been bitten by another child, presenting a two page incident report for me to read and sign. The report, complete with anatomic drawing to show the injury location, must have taken 20 minutes to complete and would have taken probably five minutes to read. I looked at the bite marks, which were beauties, but since there was no blood, merely skimmed the form, thanked the lady, told her the lad was fine and we left.
My mother taught nursery school four hours a day, five days a week for over 40 years until her retirement in the 1980s, not once filling out an incident report. She probably wouldn’t last more than a couple of years in today’s over-bureaucratised world.