So, I'm officially a preschool teacher. Alright, only a preschool teacher's assistant, but you know... baby steps to living the dream, right?
I have so many amazing stories to tell about the last month (which, by the way, is also the first month in over 6 years that I've been back in the work world), but cannot. For many reasons. The first being that in the spirit of apple-appliqued denim jumpers and sneakers, teachers are mature and responsible and loving and are politically correct and indiscriminate. (And they like kids.) In my mind, they don't blog, unless it's to document some crafty creation that only supports their case in being even more sweet, respectable, and quilted. (Yes, they themselves are quilted.)
I'm happy to report that my fears of not being "teachery" enough have faded. I've found my inner Shari Lewis. I'm outfitted with a pocketed apron (my shield), and with finger puppet gnome* residing in that pocket (my sword). My armor is complete with chainmail Waldorf-approved finger plays and songs, newly added to my alto repertoire. I've gained mastery once more in self-controlling any incidental flatulence that was a byproduct of my 6 year stint of being a stay-at-home-mom. (A relief to know that I'm not an 80 year old trapped in a 29 year old body.)
And... drumroll... I do in fact like children other than my own! What a relief!
These kids, I love them already. I only work 3 days a week, and let me tell you... I find myself thinking about them those other days that I'm away. I wonder and hope what they are doing and if they're enjoying it. Each little kid's quirks makes me smile, as I reminisce about my 4 hour day with them... how simultaneously precocious and innocent they are. And, it has served as a reminder that my kids are amazing, but not the only amazing kids in existence. (Friends' kids are an exception of course, as I've always known they were special.)
The first time I pulled a felted faceless finger puppet out of my pocket in a sweaty desperate attempt to get them to peacefully transition from bathroom to sink to sitting on the rug indian style- I mean, crisscrossapplesauce- without smothering each other with 2 year old affection,
I saw their faces light up.
Like really light up. Not in an I'm-humoring-you-because-you're-obviously-a-sweaty-desperate-teacher-impostor kind of way, but in a hey-you're-a-finger-play-genius kind of way. And the gnome went back into the pocket victoriously.
Not one kid made fun of me, not one kid rolled his/her eyes, not one kid gave me the gong, and not one kid (even the one I thought would be the Simon Cowell of the bunch) blinked as I sang about apple trees, personified winds, and bruised produce (that I think makes it's way into our neighborhood's ghetto supermarket.)
In all seriousness, if you're at all inclined to brush up on Waldorf preschool philosophy, you can click here to read more about what/how/who/and why (do my kids play with peach pits in a school that costs as much as a mortgage payment?). Seriously, it's a beautiful thing.
*Gnomes in pockets souncded scary and creepy at first, but are now proven effective in the classroom.
When She Asked, I Said...
"Well, um (clear throat), when two people love each other, their love makes a baby."
This was not enough. "But how does the love make a baby?"
"Daddy and I kissed, and the love in our kiss made a baby."
"Oh. And you had a baby in your tummy after that?"
"Mmm hmmm."
She then instructed me to immediately kiss Daddy when he gets home from work, so that she may have another sibling. Preferably a boy sibling, thankyouverymuch.
That was when I found this in her room, I suppose to act as an inspirational how-to in case the urge arises:
"Good night, Terry." And then BAM- the following morning, reality sets in. "Terry? Terry?"
It all seemed like yesterday that I was pregnant. And as quickly as I made our son (note the male appendage), he had arrived with similar haste. In Fiona's reality, my gestation period is the same as that of a goldfish.
When I asked Fiona to tell me about each character in the drawing, she explained, "The picture of you with the big belly was from before the baby came out." Ok, gotcha. "And then he pops out, (*POP*) and Daddy is so happy he starts dancing." And I see the post-delivery belly sag. The girl is all about some accuracy. "And then you take his picture. And then we tickle him." You say tickle, I say ticill.
We've been here before. And by here I mean the hell-like place that is somewhere between truth (I hate being pregnant, and I'm too vain to get pregnant and gain 80 lbs again) and fable (when does the stork arrive with our bundle of baby boy joy?). And yet, somehow, this 6 year old girl knows just what to say to make me actually consider the happiness of an addition to casablanca.
This was not enough. "But how does the love make a baby?"
"Daddy and I kissed, and the love in our kiss made a baby."
"Oh. And you had a baby in your tummy after that?"
"Mmm hmmm."
She then instructed me to immediately kiss Daddy when he gets home from work, so that she may have another sibling. Preferably a boy sibling, thankyouverymuch.
That was when I found this in her room, I suppose to act as an inspirational how-to in case the urge arises:
"Good night, Terry." And then BAM- the following morning, reality sets in. "Terry? Terry?"
It all seemed like yesterday that I was pregnant. And as quickly as I made our son (note the male appendage), he had arrived with similar haste. In Fiona's reality, my gestation period is the same as that of a goldfish.When I asked Fiona to tell me about each character in the drawing, she explained, "The picture of you with the big belly was from before the baby came out." Ok, gotcha. "And then he pops out, (*POP*) and Daddy is so happy he starts dancing." And I see the post-delivery belly sag. The girl is all about some accuracy. "And then you take his picture. And then we tickle him." You say tickle, I say ticill.
We've been here before. And by here I mean the hell-like place that is somewhere between truth (I hate being pregnant, and I'm too vain to get pregnant and gain 80 lbs again) and fable (when does the stork arrive with our bundle of baby boy joy?). And yet, somehow, this 6 year old girl knows just what to say to make me actually consider the happiness of an addition to casablanca.
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