The other day in Kindergarten passions were high. Probably a better word would be tempers were flaring. Crying. Silent treatments. Uncontrollable laughing. Emotions were erupting right and left. As usual it was an emotional battlefield that had to be dealt with before learning could take place.
Teaching little people is a rollercoaster ride. Up and down we ride the tracks of wonder, hilarity, perseverance and patience. Little children, as a group, are a different beast. They aren’t adults waiting to grow up. They are a species aside from that. They tire easily, are still so very ego centric, have definite opinions about how life is going to be, and it’s not been that long since they had to cry to let it be known that they’re hungry. And, when you’re hungry it’s the end of the world because you might die if someone doesn’t help you right this instant.
In kindergarten children spend a lot of time practicing using their words instead of snatching toys from each other. They ignore people who are not doing what ever they want them to do at that moment, and that makes the other person insane. They’re just doing their four and five years-old job. It’s important that they learn to do their job well or this world is not going to be a peaceful place for any of us. Their job is to play and play requires us to interact. Sharing? Mostly it happens but when it doesn’t, watch out - everyone is going to hear about it. (Author’s note: Play is the work of childhood. That’s how they learn. Don’t think so? You’re wrong, look it up.)
There’s this kid I want to tell you about. His name is Little Guy and he has so many good ideas if anyone would just listen to him for a change (and part of listening to him is doing what he says to do – it’s complicated). Little Guy was the line leader for the week. He took it very seriously. He felt it was his responsibility to keep his soldiers in line and possibly defend his school against invaders. It went to his head. He wasn’t just the first guy in line. He was Napoleon leading his men into battle.
After snack and recess on this particular day, we all walked over to the occupational therapy sensory gym where we go every week. The students love this place. They get to challenge their bodies and brains at the same time. One of the activities that they get to try is a big padded solid cylinder hanging from 2 ropes. Previously they had to climb up and ride it like a horse, using their core muscles to make it swing forward and backward. It was difficult for some, but they accepted the challenge and if they didn’t, I accepted it for them and helped them up. Usually reticence to try something new comes from fear, so I help them overcome that fear by making the first time trying easier. The delight in their faces when they finally got it going was a teacher's bonus paycheck in itself.
Today it was different. Today the task was to hang from the bottom of it, with your arms and legs around the cylinder like a monkey in a tree. Little guy found this difficult and wanted to go on top the way he did the last time we were there. I showed him the directions for the task. The picture showed what he was supposed to do. They all have learned that we do what the kid is doing in the picture. Our therapist changes it up so different muscles and parts of the brain get a workout.
Little Guy wanted nothing to do with it. I told him again that we had to do what the picture told us to do. He looked in my face and shouted “NO!” I was proud of myself when I said, in my nicey-nice look how patient I am teacher voice, “Ok then, you can go to a different center.” (Let me explain my relationship with Little Guy. He tells me daily how to drive this Kindergarten bus on which we’re all traveling. You can imagine the frequent conversations we have about this.)
Little Guy does not like what I just said. He cranks up the volume and shouts, “NOOOOOOOOO!” in my face. Wow. Snap! Super teacher becomes angry stomping teacher. I take his hand and march him over to our OT therapist and ask her if “boys are allowed to say no to their teachers in her room”. Of course they aren’t, but I was angry teacher and angry teacher reacts like an idiot. As soon as it was out of my idiotic mouth I regretted it.
Little guy starts crying. Loudly. Mouth opened wide for maximum volume with his face turned up toward me. He was so ANGRY at me that all he could do was cry. I told him to stop shouting at me, so he turned the volume down two or three notches. He sat down in a nice quiet spot, at my suggestion, for the rest of the short time we had in the gym, crying. I’m sure he was plotting revenge against me the whole time.
Then it was time to walk to class. He got in the front of the line. He was the line leader after all and still had his job to do, so he led us back to the room with his hands over his ears. He did his job, but on his own terms. That’s fine. I admired him for sucking it up and pressing on. He could have fallen to the floor and refused to move.
In the classroom everyone got a book while we waited for the afternoon class to come. He got a book, held it and glared at me, moving his head to visually follow me as I walked around the room. I’m almost sure he was shooting his optical lasers at me. He was following directions, on his own terms.
I believe that we all have a need to be heard and a need to control at least a few things in our lives. I believe we all deserve that so I left him alone.
Time to walk to the library. Little Guy takes his place in the front of his line. Napoleon. I’m walking backwards, keeping the line from scattering like a trail of ants that have lost the pheromone trail, which keeps them together. They are young and don’t really do that straight line thing yet. I glance down and Little Guy’s face has become even angrier. His mouth is down and his eyebrows are almost touching each other with a deep furrow between them. His laser eyes are still focused on me. I’m amazed at his ability to multi-task. He can lead his battalion and destroy me at the same time. This skill will probably make him Businessman of the Year someday. But not today.
“Don’t you look at me with hate eyes,” I tell him in my best teacher voice. He’s smart. He looks down at the ground so I can’t see his face. He's following directions, but on his own terms.
We make it through library time without me exploding into laser flames and Little Guy not having to sit in another nice quiet spot. I stand by the door and call the class to line up. Napoleon stands in front of me.
This is when I take a chance at reconciliation. I know he holds a grudge and I want to make this better before he goes home. I don’t, however, want to back down on the following directions part of our struggle with each other. As we wait for the ants to find the line, I reach down and rub his head, saying “Thank you, Little Guy, for doing such a great job at being the line leader.” He moves a little closer to me. I continue, “I know I can always count on you to do a good job.” Closer. “You’re such a sweet boy who always does his best at school. I love you.” By this time he’s leaning into me and I’m hugging his head to my stomach. He hasn’t learned how to hug back yet and I think he’s probably not ready for that level of forgiveness anyway so we spend time together, on our own terms.
When I’m not with children, reconciliation is not really my thing. It’s too painful. I have these thoughts about getting back at the other person or giving them the silent treatment. Maybe I’ll invite everybody else to my birthday party, but not that person. They’ll be sorry they messed with me. I think these thoughts until I realize that I hate, hate, hate being in discord with myself and others. I know that I’m called to be better than that. So I talk bad about that person to my husband, God bless him, and then I begin to chart my course into calmer waters.
Just this morning I was talking with friends over coffee about how relationships with other people bring me the most joy and yet the most pain in my life. I joke to my own children that they “should not get attached to people or animals because eventually they either move away or die”. Thankfully they know me well enough to not take my advice. I include these small children in those joyful/painful relationships. Ask any teacher and they’ll tell you that once a kid is in your class they’re in your family forever. It can’t be helped. Kids are like weasels. They burrow, searching for the core of your heart and they get you every time.
I tell myself each time I’ve been the cause of pain for someone else or I’ve gotten my own feelings hurt that I’m too invested in what other people think of me – that I’m too thin skinned and need to protect myself from this awful feeling of vulnerability and then I plot how I’m going to do just that. I tell my husband my foolproof plan. He just listens, God bless him, and then he waits for me to pull myself together. He knows I’m throwing an adult tantrum and will quit it sooner when left alone.
Everything I’ve learned about reconciliation leaves me open to continue to learn about it. It never stops, dang it. If we all only get a limited number of times we can stop being a jerk about stuff, say we’re sorry and still be considered a halfway decent human being, I better start conserving my chances. I bet I’ve about used them up.
The wind-up of the story about the day Little Guy and I had was that he went home and completed his “All About Me” poster. Under the words “What I Love” he wrote
“Mrs. Barnett”.
With humility I’m so thankful that once again
I am forgiven.
Teaching little people is a rollercoaster ride. Up and down we ride the tracks of wonder, hilarity, perseverance and patience. Little children, as a group, are a different beast. They aren’t adults waiting to grow up. They are a species aside from that. They tire easily, are still so very ego centric, have definite opinions about how life is going to be, and it’s not been that long since they had to cry to let it be known that they’re hungry. And, when you’re hungry it’s the end of the world because you might die if someone doesn’t help you right this instant.
In kindergarten children spend a lot of time practicing using their words instead of snatching toys from each other. They ignore people who are not doing what ever they want them to do at that moment, and that makes the other person insane. They’re just doing their four and five years-old job. It’s important that they learn to do their job well or this world is not going to be a peaceful place for any of us. Their job is to play and play requires us to interact. Sharing? Mostly it happens but when it doesn’t, watch out - everyone is going to hear about it. (Author’s note: Play is the work of childhood. That’s how they learn. Don’t think so? You’re wrong, look it up.)
There’s this kid I want to tell you about. His name is Little Guy and he has so many good ideas if anyone would just listen to him for a change (and part of listening to him is doing what he says to do – it’s complicated). Little Guy was the line leader for the week. He took it very seriously. He felt it was his responsibility to keep his soldiers in line and possibly defend his school against invaders. It went to his head. He wasn’t just the first guy in line. He was Napoleon leading his men into battle.
After snack and recess on this particular day, we all walked over to the occupational therapy sensory gym where we go every week. The students love this place. They get to challenge their bodies and brains at the same time. One of the activities that they get to try is a big padded solid cylinder hanging from 2 ropes. Previously they had to climb up and ride it like a horse, using their core muscles to make it swing forward and backward. It was difficult for some, but they accepted the challenge and if they didn’t, I accepted it for them and helped them up. Usually reticence to try something new comes from fear, so I help them overcome that fear by making the first time trying easier. The delight in their faces when they finally got it going was a teacher's bonus paycheck in itself.
Today it was different. Today the task was to hang from the bottom of it, with your arms and legs around the cylinder like a monkey in a tree. Little guy found this difficult and wanted to go on top the way he did the last time we were there. I showed him the directions for the task. The picture showed what he was supposed to do. They all have learned that we do what the kid is doing in the picture. Our therapist changes it up so different muscles and parts of the brain get a workout.
Little Guy wanted nothing to do with it. I told him again that we had to do what the picture told us to do. He looked in my face and shouted “NO!” I was proud of myself when I said, in my nicey-nice look how patient I am teacher voice, “Ok then, you can go to a different center.” (Let me explain my relationship with Little Guy. He tells me daily how to drive this Kindergarten bus on which we’re all traveling. You can imagine the frequent conversations we have about this.)
Little Guy does not like what I just said. He cranks up the volume and shouts, “NOOOOOOOOO!” in my face. Wow. Snap! Super teacher becomes angry stomping teacher. I take his hand and march him over to our OT therapist and ask her if “boys are allowed to say no to their teachers in her room”. Of course they aren’t, but I was angry teacher and angry teacher reacts like an idiot. As soon as it was out of my idiotic mouth I regretted it.
Little guy starts crying. Loudly. Mouth opened wide for maximum volume with his face turned up toward me. He was so ANGRY at me that all he could do was cry. I told him to stop shouting at me, so he turned the volume down two or three notches. He sat down in a nice quiet spot, at my suggestion, for the rest of the short time we had in the gym, crying. I’m sure he was plotting revenge against me the whole time.
Then it was time to walk to class. He got in the front of the line. He was the line leader after all and still had his job to do, so he led us back to the room with his hands over his ears. He did his job, but on his own terms. That’s fine. I admired him for sucking it up and pressing on. He could have fallen to the floor and refused to move.
In the classroom everyone got a book while we waited for the afternoon class to come. He got a book, held it and glared at me, moving his head to visually follow me as I walked around the room. I’m almost sure he was shooting his optical lasers at me. He was following directions, on his own terms.
I believe that we all have a need to be heard and a need to control at least a few things in our lives. I believe we all deserve that so I left him alone.
Time to walk to the library. Little Guy takes his place in the front of his line. Napoleon. I’m walking backwards, keeping the line from scattering like a trail of ants that have lost the pheromone trail, which keeps them together. They are young and don’t really do that straight line thing yet. I glance down and Little Guy’s face has become even angrier. His mouth is down and his eyebrows are almost touching each other with a deep furrow between them. His laser eyes are still focused on me. I’m amazed at his ability to multi-task. He can lead his battalion and destroy me at the same time. This skill will probably make him Businessman of the Year someday. But not today.
“Don’t you look at me with hate eyes,” I tell him in my best teacher voice. He’s smart. He looks down at the ground so I can’t see his face. He's following directions, but on his own terms.
We make it through library time without me exploding into laser flames and Little Guy not having to sit in another nice quiet spot. I stand by the door and call the class to line up. Napoleon stands in front of me.
This is when I take a chance at reconciliation. I know he holds a grudge and I want to make this better before he goes home. I don’t, however, want to back down on the following directions part of our struggle with each other. As we wait for the ants to find the line, I reach down and rub his head, saying “Thank you, Little Guy, for doing such a great job at being the line leader.” He moves a little closer to me. I continue, “I know I can always count on you to do a good job.” Closer. “You’re such a sweet boy who always does his best at school. I love you.” By this time he’s leaning into me and I’m hugging his head to my stomach. He hasn’t learned how to hug back yet and I think he’s probably not ready for that level of forgiveness anyway so we spend time together, on our own terms.
When I’m not with children, reconciliation is not really my thing. It’s too painful. I have these thoughts about getting back at the other person or giving them the silent treatment. Maybe I’ll invite everybody else to my birthday party, but not that person. They’ll be sorry they messed with me. I think these thoughts until I realize that I hate, hate, hate being in discord with myself and others. I know that I’m called to be better than that. So I talk bad about that person to my husband, God bless him, and then I begin to chart my course into calmer waters.
Just this morning I was talking with friends over coffee about how relationships with other people bring me the most joy and yet the most pain in my life. I joke to my own children that they “should not get attached to people or animals because eventually they either move away or die”. Thankfully they know me well enough to not take my advice. I include these small children in those joyful/painful relationships. Ask any teacher and they’ll tell you that once a kid is in your class they’re in your family forever. It can’t be helped. Kids are like weasels. They burrow, searching for the core of your heart and they get you every time.
I tell myself each time I’ve been the cause of pain for someone else or I’ve gotten my own feelings hurt that I’m too invested in what other people think of me – that I’m too thin skinned and need to protect myself from this awful feeling of vulnerability and then I plot how I’m going to do just that. I tell my husband my foolproof plan. He just listens, God bless him, and then he waits for me to pull myself together. He knows I’m throwing an adult tantrum and will quit it sooner when left alone.
Everything I’ve learned about reconciliation leaves me open to continue to learn about it. It never stops, dang it. If we all only get a limited number of times we can stop being a jerk about stuff, say we’re sorry and still be considered a halfway decent human being, I better start conserving my chances. I bet I’ve about used them up.
The wind-up of the story about the day Little Guy and I had was that he went home and completed his “All About Me” poster. Under the words “What I Love” he wrote
“Mrs. Barnett”.
With humility I’m so thankful that once again
I am forgiven.