I've ventured into the world of the knee huggers - the rooms full of squirmy four-year-olds sitting at little tables. Let me tell you, it's not for the faint of heart.
Mind you, I was a teacher for almost thirty years. But little kids? Take the challenges of teaching and multiply by ten. It takes a strong constitution to walk into a room of four-year-olds and survive. So I'm just subbing as an aide. Care to join me for a day? Let's go!
Picture a room with bright rugs and bulletin boards. Every wall is covered with clever displays with the days of the week, names of colors, the alphabet and numbers up to ten. There are books everywhere, and games and blocks and play-doh. And all the chairs and tables are very, very small.
Most of the children are still taking off their coats when I come in. A small boy with blue hair and a t-shirt sporting some rock band I've never heard of marches over to me, yanks on my lanyard and yells, "Who are YOU?" He runs off before I can say a word.
The teacher, Liz Collins,* is young, maybe half my age. She's got a wry sense of humor and the sharp eyes and lightning reflexes of a teacher who knows how fast a roomful of four-year-olds can descend into chaos.
"All right, friends, this is Mrs. Jerrie. She's new here today, so let's show her what good listeners we - Mason! We do not cut our crayons in half. Put those scissors down. Let's show her what good listeners we are - Kimberly, come out from under the table right now."
And so the day begins.
We start with Circle Time; gathered on the rug, we clap through songs, share about our weekend, and then open a special envelope to reveal the Helper of the Day. Grinning from ear to ear, Noah helps update the calendar and the weather board, and proudly sets up the special lawn chair he gets to use all day.
Now it's Work Time. No more chalkboards - the classroom you remember from your childhood is long gone. Liz turns on the SmartBoard and the camera on her desk, so they can all watch her writing on the front screen. "OK, my friends, our letter last week was U, like in - who can tell me?" Hands wave. "Emma?" "Umbrella!" she shouts happily. "Right! So what letter is next?" A thoughtful silence, and then Hunter raises a hesitant hand. "Ummm - V?" "That's right! Very good!"
We look at pictures of a vase and a van and a violet and a violin, and they make the sound of V over and over, and Ms. Collins carefully shows how to write a V, and they make a V in the air again and again. Then she hands out their writing sheets. "Oops," she says, "We're one short. I'm going to get a copy. I'll be right back."
"Oh, no!" It's Serena. "What's wrong, Serena?" She turns a tragic face to me. "She's going to take forever!" "What do you mean?" "She's going to get coffee!" I assure her that Ms. Collins is just getting a copy, not going off to sit calmly down in the teacher's lounge, put her feet up and sip a cup of coffee. (I passed this on to the teacher later, who thought it was hilarious.) Now they're clutching pencils in every grip possible, writing out shaky Vs and coloring vans and vases.
Then it's Center Time. Some of the children are listening to books on tape, some are looking at picture books. Three boys have gathered at the tall dollhouse. They've put all the dolls on the roof and are staging a fight. "Pew! Pew! Aaugh!" The bad guys are falling off the roof. I move over to where two girls are drawing. "Wow, what's that?" I ask, pointing to a large square with seven arms and pointy teeth. "It's a monster. Rawrr!" "And mine's a zombie!"
It's 11:30. I'm exhausted, and the day is only half done. We get them lined up for lunch, and soon I'm struggling to open eighteen milk cartons. Olivia spills her milk and begins to cry. I give her a rag to help and fetch a mop. Caleb has a loose tooth, and spends most of lunchtime wiggling it instead of eating. Kimberly sits and stares at her tray. "I don't like it," she says. Eat three bites, I tell her, just three.
I walk them back and Liz tells me I can leave for lunch. Oh, heaven! Thirty minutes of blessed quiet!
When I come back in, they turn and smile. "Mrs. Jerrie! You're back!" Two of them run up to hug me. Aww. I turn to Ms. Collins. "Do you need me to take over so you can leave for lunch? "Me?" she laughs. "I eat during their nap time. I never leave."
And you're still sane. Amazing.
Center Time again. I sit down with Miles to look at a book. Rebecca sidles up to me, tears in her eyes. "I want to go home," she says, her lip trembling. "Here, come on over with us," I say, putting my arm around her, and soon she's laughing at the pictures.
Recess. The kids are struggling with zippers, putting their coats on upside down and their boots on the wrong feet. Soon they're running to their favorite spots - the slide, the swings. Liz and I walk and talk, while she periodically kicks a ball back and forth with Mason, not losing a beat. She nods at one of the boys, walking around the edge, balancing on a railroad tie. I'm worried about him," she confides. "He's not interacting and doesn't play with the other kids. I'm putting his name in for testing." "Covid's been so hard for the children," I comment, and she nods vigorously. "Especially the little kids. Parents have been swamped, not able to give them time. They have a lot of catching up to do."
Jake comes up, crying. "Nathan hit me in the face. " She turns and looks sternly down at Nathan, who looks down and scuffs his feet. "Did you hit him?" "I - I put my hand on his cheek," he mutters. "Jake, did you like it when he did that? "No!" "Tell him you didn't like it." He does. "Nathan, you need to say you're sorry." And for the thousandth time that school year, she teaches them again how to speak up for themselves and to take responsibility and make amends.
Now we're back in, and everyone is back at the rug for Story Time. This old retired teacher is fading. I find myself wishing I could crawl onto one of the nap-time mats piled up in the corner. I manage to stay awake, but it's close. I'm too old for this!
Science Time. They've been learning about the weather, so now Ms. Collins teaches them a big word. "Class, someone who predicts the weather is called a me-te-or-ol-o-gist. Can you say that?" They mumble through it once or twice. "Today you're all going to make a picture of yourself as a weather forecaster." They cut out TVs and people, their brows furrowed in concentration, and add faces, with hair sticking out the sides. She's made sure to cut out strips of paper in all shades, including for Miranda's curly red hair. They look a bit like balding hedgehogs, but she compliments every one.
The desk camera isn't working now. "Oh, I'm done!" she sighs in exasperation. Serena shouts out, "You can't be done, Ms. Collins! We love you!" She smiles.
2:45, and it's nearly time to go home. They're cleaning the room and filling backpacks when suddenly Caleb shouts, "My tooth! I lost my tooth!" Big excitement! The teacher puts it in a baggie, and all the kids crowd around respectfully to stare at it. Melody grimaces and points: "Ew! It's all bloody!". Caleb grins.
Eloise and Audrey run up to me with their monster and zombie drawings. "They're for you!" they tell me proudly. "Wow, I'm going to put these on my fridge!" They smile. It's a long time, I think, since I had kids' pictures on my refrigerator.
Finally I'm marching my group out, while Lynn takes the rest to the bus. There's a long line of parents in waiting cars out front, and strict rules to keep the kids safe. Mason gives me a sidelong look and a smile, and starts to run. I catch him by the hood. "You need to wait by the door with me," I say. Hey, I think my teacher reflexes are coming back!
By the time I walk out to my car, my pictures of zombies and monsters flapping in the wind, I'm tired to the bone. But back in that room, there's still work to be done, I know.
There are plenty of politicians who haven't set foot in a classroom since they graduated. They bluster and swagger and demonize hard-working teachers. You know what? They haven't a clue what goes on in those busy rooms every day. Those vital days, learning the skills that carry us through life: holding a pencil, writing letters, counting, learning to listen, learning to take responsibility, to work and sing and play together. Those teachers are the ones who hold open the door and start them on their journey.
Thank heaven for the ones who teach the little kids. Let's give our schools the funding and support they so desperately need - and a lunch hour in a grown-up sized chair with a cup of good coffee.
* Names have been changed
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