Teaching Preschool, or How I Lost My Mind

So for those of you who are creepy e-stalkers and don't know me personally, basically the deal is thus: I was once a musician, and I am going back to school in the fall to be a musician again. I like the musical lifestyle. I like the quiet (sort of) hours alone in a small room, just me and my instrument and my metronome and tuner and cell phone and facebook. Those last two weren't really so much of an issue when I was in college (#oldoldold). Essentially, I like the freedom and solitude that come as part of the musician package. I went OUT OF MY WAY in college (it wasn't easy) to not be in any major that would in any way cause me to have to have contact with children. I remember once, sometime in my undergraduate career, I saw a child on campus. My jaw dropped. I stared, slack-jawed at this miniature human, the likes of which I hadn't seen in several years. It was a weird moment.

Anyway, in the meantime, while I'm waiting to get back into that whole music deal, I teach preschool.

What? you say. How did that happen? you say. Are you alright? you ask.

Yes, I don't know, and not really.

Here's how I see it. There are, in this life, some sainted individuals who possess the ability to deal, compassionately and kindly, with four-year-olds. When things get spill-ey, they calmly pull out the cloth and go to work on the child's pants. When things get grab-ey, they passionately explain why sharing makes the world a better place. When things get yell-ey, they flick the lights and magically the little guys and girls lower the volume. This is what such a teacher looks like.

His preschoolers are so well-behaved
that they hover right over his shoulders.

Now, I try to be this teacher. But most of the time, our classroom (as a result, we believe, of the unique mixture of children) functions like an asylum, and we are the hapless wards, attempting at any cost to keep the inmates from injuring themselves or others, eating glue, or repeatedly dunking the matchbox cars into a mixture of water, oobleck and sand. Or flying into fits of rage over a toy that they forget about fifteen seconds later. Or saying loudly "I don't want to sit next to HER" causing a volley of gulping sobs by the other party involved.

So this is a closer approximation.

We have a preschooler whose main pursuit seems to be building miniature block structures for Swimmy, our class fish. The limit of his joy is when he is able to, heavily supervised, hurl pellets of beta food into the tank, and should "YAAAY!" as the fish consumes them, one by one. He also loves to try to feed Swimmy people food while we're not looking. Once, both of us went on vacation at the same time and when we came back, the tank was cloudy and smelled terrible, and Swimmy was obviously in respiratory distress. We are fairly certain that our little friend thought Swimmy might like a drink of milk and some crackers.

He made it, thank god.

Another little friend finds his life's fulfillment in the constant attention of others. As a result, when he wants something, he says the name of the person over, and over, and over, and over, ad nauseum. He never gets tired of it. Once, he said the name of a classmate repeatedly for three straight minutes during snack. Another time, when he was waiting for my attention and mindlessly muttering my name on loop, and I finally turned to him, he had forgotten what he was going to say. In the absence of other words, he just continued to repeat my name.

And yet another of my small people finds joy in playing with the bubbles at the bottom of the sink while washing her hands. I love to encourage bubble play, and she's a very sensory oriented kid, but I personally think that rubbing hands all over the bottom of the sink while getting ready to consume snack is kinda gross. So I have asked her, every. single. day since school started, to use soap from the dispenser and not the bottom of the sink. I have explained that it's not clean. It holds up the line. Other friends need to wash their hands. I have said this to her every day. Every day. Everyday. everyday. every day. And today, the last day of school after nine months, I looked over to see her happily raking the bottom of the sink with her fingernails. She scooped up a handful of used soap, held it up to the light, and joyfully exclaimed, "BUBBLES!"

We have a milk-spiller. Every time there is milk in front of him, he will spill it. If there isn't a lot of milk in his cup, it's a good day. If we're having cereal, he has double the opportunity to splash milk on the floor and the surrounding children. We wait anxiously for the midpoint of snack, where we will inevitably hear, "Teacherrrrrrr? I spilled my milk."

REALLY?! YOU DID?!?

Are these individuals precious? Absolutely. It is fascinating and inspiring to watch them change and grow so quickly. They have, despite their quirks, wormed their way past at least one of the heavily barricaded walls around my heart. I will remember their unique personalities, their hugs, and their unexpected wisdom. And I have learned a great deal about the power of memory, the flexibility of time, and the meaning of forgiveness.

And I'll keep those lessons close, and whenever I think of them, I'll also recall the kid with the foot fetish, who liked to ask inquisitively, "my feet?" as he petted women's toenails. Or the sweet little guy who always walked around with his arm twisted behind him, because he was a backhoe. Or the girl who would compulsively steal shiny things from around the classroom and had to be frisked on the way out the door. Or the child who, after having run face-first into the wood chips on the playground, picked himself up and dusted himself off, and asked "That was pretty good, right? Just like the Green Bay Packers."