Today was my second day back at school after Winter Break. It was also the second day in a row — and thus, the second day all year — in which the teacher who I normally assist missed school because of an illness.

Entonces (Therefore), I more or less taught the class yesterday, which basically amounted to a highwire act of inventing games and finding ways to pass the time speaking English with my third graders, who in general behave well. The teacher I normally work with, Cristina, did not leave instructions for what we should do, as she has been sick since classes resumed. But yesterday was fine, as I taught and led them in games while other Spanish-speaking teachers observed the proceedings.

Today, too, started out smoothly. My friend Juanjo (pronounced Juan-HO), our gym teacher, was the substitute helping me with the third grade English classes the first two periods. He’s learning English, and it was fun watching him work without using his Spanish. We put the kids to work in their English activity books, and no pasa nada — everything was fine.

But third period, Juanjo had a gym class to teach, and I showed up to teach the third grade science class (which is always done in English). It immediately became apparent, to the kids and to Yours Truly, that I was alone.

Now, the children are used to me being the so-called “Good Cop,” while Cristina normally lays down the law. In the past, I’ve noticed how they devolve into miscreants when she leaves me alone in the room for a few minutes, as they know it’s not my nature to severely discipline them.

So with me all by my lonesome, pandemonium ensued. They were talking, refusing to sit down, and causing each other to cry. They’re not usually allowed to go to the bathroom, but I foolishly let one do so. Then they all wanted to go to the bathroom, and I had to say no … even to the always-sweet Adriana.

I got them to settle down by writing “Extra Work” on the blackboard, and writing “Everyone” underneath. (They fear Extra Work like the chicken pox and cooties.) Then I started reading a book to them but had to stop five times and send two of them to “Time Out.” One of them, Alberto, insisted on misbehaving even while sequestered in the corner, so I actually told him to bring me his personal planner and wrote a note — in Spanish — for his parents to sign. While I tried to teach them about vertebrates and invertebrates, it was necessary for me to show them that I was not spineless.

Then, two things happened. First, I explained how a tail formed the bottom part of the spinal column, and that humans basically had tiny tails at the end of their backbones … and a child named Daniel said something in Spanish that another student, Marley, translated for me: “Danny says that human tails are in the front,” he said, rubbing his crotch. (Mind you, these are eight-and-nine-year-olds.)

While I was trying not to laugh at Danny’s inappropriate but humorous comment, Adriana stood up and rushed over to me. Remember how I had told her she couldn’t go to the bathroom because everyone else was asking me? Well, she came right up to me and said, “Voy a vomitar.” Translation: “I’m going to puke. Like, now.”

She didn’t need to tell me twice. “Ok, go!” I said, pushing her toward the door, grabbing a trash can and chasing after her. She beat me to the bathroom sink and started vomiting, and I turned the water on and held her hair back. (Hadn’t done that move since college.)

Meanwhile, I could hear my class’s screams echoing down the hallway. As soon as Adriana’s stomach storm abated for a second, I told her to wait there and took off down the hall toward the main office. My friend Vanesa is the school secretary, and she’s great with children who get sick or hurt during the day. “Vanesa … ayudame!” (“For the love of God, HELP!”)

There are some truly good people in my school, and Vanesa’s one of them. She dropped everything she was doing at a moment’s notice and ran with me, getting filled in on the situation en route to Adriana. That base covered, I hurried back to class and restored order.

Right when they all stopped playing 20,000 questions about what was wrong with Adriana, she came back in the room to get her stuff, disturbing the peace once again. Then she left, and — for the first but probably not the last time — I lectured them in Spanish. Then I assigned them two pages of science homework. They got the message … I hope.

Later, I related the tale to Juanjo. We spoke in Spanish. “For the first time, I needed to play, ‘Bad Cop.'” I said, sitting down next to him, exhausted. “This job is not easy.”

He laughed and shook his head. “No it’s not. You need a lot of energy,” he said.

“And patience.”

“Yes, and patience. People do not realize this,” he said. “But a teacher is a parent, a doctor, a psychologist —”

“— a policeman —”

“— a policeman, yes. People do not know how difficult it is.”

His words couldn’t be more true. I had no idea, before coming to work here, what teaching children entailed. Before today, even, I don’t think I had a full grasp on it.

Sometimes, you’re the good cop, and sometimes the bad cop. Sometimes you’re the doctor and sometimes the patient. Sometimes the friend, sometimes the enemy. Sometimes the shrink, and sometimes the guy on the couch. Sometimes — as I was in gym class today — you’re the forward, the defenseman, and the goalkeeper all at once. Most times you’re the teacher, but sometimes you’re the student as well.

But always — always — you are counted on by people who stand no taller than your hipbone. It is far from easy.

And I don’t want to even begin to imagine what it’s like being a parent.

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