I guided him over to the sink area and pulled the first-aid kit out of one of the cabinets. I grabbed a band-aid and was just starting to tear its wrapper when I noticed that the boy was pulling down his pants to grant me access to the cut.
"Let's not do that here," I murmured, before the rest of the class saw his underwear and teased him in the take-no-prisoners fashion pervasive among seven-year-olds.
I steered him to a supply area across the hall, where I applied the band-aid.
A staff member was already there searching for plastic cups. "A little privacy was warranted," I confided, and she nodded, understanding right away, as anyone who works with young children would.
Then she said, "It's good that I am here so I can serve as back-up if there were ever to be a problem." She looked at me meaningfully.
And I froze. Not because she spoke out of turn, but because she reminded me this is what we have come to. This is what the world looks like in 2015.
I patted the boy's shoulder. "Let's go back to the classroom. We're all done here."
"Thank you for helping me, Mrs. P.," he smiled.
Would you understand if I told you that for the rest of the day I wanted to cry?