So, we’re all back to school at this point. We’ve made it through the first week.
And, man, am I tired.
My mother and I teach at opposite ends of the spectrum. She teaches High Schoolers, and mine, well, mine still sometimes have trouble with pronouncing the letter R.
I teach preschool, and this year, my class is eleven BOYS. And one girl. ONE. to ELEVEN. Eleven sweaty, rowdy, smell like a mix of gym socks and maple syrup, making guns out of everything, wrestling in my home living center BOYS.
I love them. I love their sticky hands and their analytical little minds and sweet little male voices singing the days of the week.
Don’t get me wrong. preschool has it down sides. “Fancy” Parents are one. If you want to know if you are a fancy parent, you aren’t one, because fancy parents live in a fantasy land inhabited by themselves, their offspring, and occasionally the common folk, who exist only to make life FABULOUS for them.
I spend a LOT of my time thinking of the following.
“No, I cannot guarantee that your four-year-old will be reading by the end of this year”
“Wait, your kid doesn’t speak ANY english? Like, none? And I have to teach him the alphabet?”
“Yes, they have to sleep. No, I can’t make an exception. Yes, I realize your child is a special snowflake unicorn.”
“No, your child was not much better today. Your child is probably related to Ghengis Khan.”
That being said, I also think a lot more of this:
“This kid is so stinkin’ SMART!”
“YAY! A is for Alligator! They get it!”
“These kids ARE going to be reading before the school year is over.”
“I get PAID to make playdough cookies!” *I always feel slightly sketchy about this one, like I’ve somehow slipped it under the radar. Seriously, I have the best job.
I spent this week teaching the letter A and the number 0, giving hugs, wiping tears, patting backs, doing puzzles, molding playdough and hoping against hope that I make it through my year of eleven little boys , all while thanking my lucky stars for my eleven little boys.