I have decided that as a community we are not just lucky, we're blessed with the men and women who teach our children.
Being a teacher takes talent to begin with. Aside from the obvious credentials and education, teachers must have patience, organizational skills, be able to multi-task around the needs of twenty-plus children, and maintain self-control when at times a classroom of Kindergarteners might feel like being trapped in a cage of chimpanzees.
A teacher must also have the ability to keep a straight face when a stinky teenager who has obviously forgotten to wear deodorant comes to him or her with questions, or have compassion when a tearful young girl is beside herself over breaking up with her first love.
And then, there is the teacher who will reside over my 5-year-old son Riley from 8:15 a.m. to 11:35 a.m. Monday through Friday. She is more than a teacher, she is a saint...or at least she will be by the end of this Kindergarten year.
Monday night, the evening before school started, I declared it to be a "take a shower and scrub all 2,000 body parts" night for my little posse of Smith boys. My older two ran off to take their showers dutifully while my sweet Riley announced that he would not be showering. After asking nicely, threatening, counting to three, and numerous unsuccessful requests, I realized I had a battle on my hands. I took a quick look at the clock and had a one-sided conversation with myself that went something like this:
"It's going to take ten minutes to cut and peel the beets and sweet potatoes. Another hour to roast them. Don't forget to set aside time to make the salad. Thank goodness the chicken is already in the crock-pot. Let's see...that gives me three and a half minutes to take control of this shower situation."
So, with lightening speed and grace like a Baryshnikov dancer, I picked up my fifty pound almost-Kindergartner, stripped him down, stood him in the shower, washed his hair and most of his 2,000 body parts, pulled him out, and wrapped him in a towel. Just like that, in three and half minutes flat, Riley was about two pounds lighter due the removal of excesses grime and dirt.
"Your clothes are sitting on the sink. You can either dress yourself or come ask me for help," I said rushing off to start cutting vegetables for the salad.
What followed then was a temper tantrum of ginormous proportions. As I busily chopped away at carrots, celery, and onions, my son writhed on the floor naked by my feet screaming something about not wanting to have taken the shower. Meanwhile, I fell into a zen state and began quietly repeating my most recently adopted mantra.
"He, too, will have a 5-year-old one day. He, too, will have a 5-year-old one day."
It wasn't until about ten minutes later when a pair of Spiderman briefs whizzed past my head, nearly landing into a pot of boiling water that I decided I should probably confront this red-faced, angry little boy. I took in a big breath, absorbing all the peace and serenity I found in my zen state. I knelt down until I was eye-to-eye with Riley, and in the sweetest, Snow White-like voice, I said this to him:
"In a few minutes I will be calling your brothers into the house. They will walk through that front door, see you lying naked on the floor kicking and screaming, and they will laugh hysterically at you. It will be something I cannot control because, yes, you do look pretty funny behaving this way. It is your choice whether or not you would like to be on the other end of their laughter."
With that, I stood up, opened the kitchen window, and let my older boys know that they had two minutes left of play time before they would need to come in to help set the table for dinner. Wouldn't you know it, I turned around to see Riley scrambling into his Spiderman briefs.
The rest of the night went uneventfully with no mention of the chaos that had occurred earlier.
The next morning, my children bounded off to school, Riley most excited of them all to enter his first day of Kindergarten. To be truthful, I'm always sad to see them off the first day of school because summer brings a time of great bonding between us. I miss them terribly.
But that morning, as I sat in the still, quiet, and peaceful ambiance of my home drinking a warm cup of coffee, my thoughts were with Mrs. Garcia, Riley's Kindergarten teacher. I mentally sent her all the patience, love, and compassion that I have for my son, hoping she could absorb it from two blocks away. And then I thanked her for allowing me to have three hours of drama-free adult time.
Our teachers are more than just educators. They are counselors, cheerleaders, and disciplinarians to our children. They console, encourage, and provide structure to the youth who are lucky enough to grace their classrooms. And, I say this with the utmost respect and thanks, they assume authoritative responsibility of the little people who encompass the most fragile part of our hearts.
On that day, alone in my house, I lifted my coffee mug and toasted to the educators who will encounter my children over the next thirteen years.
Three cheers for teachers!
Being a teacher takes talent to begin with. Aside from the obvious credentials and education, teachers must have patience, organizational skills, be able to multi-task around the needs of twenty-plus children, and maintain self-control when at times a classroom of Kindergarteners might feel like being trapped in a cage of chimpanzees.
A teacher must also have the ability to keep a straight face when a stinky teenager who has obviously forgotten to wear deodorant comes to him or her with questions, or have compassion when a tearful young girl is beside herself over breaking up with her first love.
And then, there is the teacher who will reside over my 5-year-old son Riley from 8:15 a.m. to 11:35 a.m. Monday through Friday. She is more than a teacher, she is a saint...or at least she will be by the end of this Kindergarten year.
Monday night, the evening before school started, I declared it to be a "take a shower and scrub all 2,000 body parts" night for my little posse of Smith boys. My older two ran off to take their showers dutifully while my sweet Riley announced that he would not be showering. After asking nicely, threatening, counting to three, and numerous unsuccessful requests, I realized I had a battle on my hands. I took a quick look at the clock and had a one-sided conversation with myself that went something like this:
"It's going to take ten minutes to cut and peel the beets and sweet potatoes. Another hour to roast them. Don't forget to set aside time to make the salad. Thank goodness the chicken is already in the crock-pot. Let's see...that gives me three and a half minutes to take control of this shower situation."
So, with lightening speed and grace like a Baryshnikov dancer, I picked up my fifty pound almost-Kindergartner, stripped him down, stood him in the shower, washed his hair and most of his 2,000 body parts, pulled him out, and wrapped him in a towel. Just like that, in three and half minutes flat, Riley was about two pounds lighter due the removal of excesses grime and dirt.
"Your clothes are sitting on the sink. You can either dress yourself or come ask me for help," I said rushing off to start cutting vegetables for the salad.
What followed then was a temper tantrum of ginormous proportions. As I busily chopped away at carrots, celery, and onions, my son writhed on the floor naked by my feet screaming something about not wanting to have taken the shower. Meanwhile, I fell into a zen state and began quietly repeating my most recently adopted mantra.
"He, too, will have a 5-year-old one day. He, too, will have a 5-year-old one day."
It wasn't until about ten minutes later when a pair of Spiderman briefs whizzed past my head, nearly landing into a pot of boiling water that I decided I should probably confront this red-faced, angry little boy. I took in a big breath, absorbing all the peace and serenity I found in my zen state. I knelt down until I was eye-to-eye with Riley, and in the sweetest, Snow White-like voice, I said this to him:
"In a few minutes I will be calling your brothers into the house. They will walk through that front door, see you lying naked on the floor kicking and screaming, and they will laugh hysterically at you. It will be something I cannot control because, yes, you do look pretty funny behaving this way. It is your choice whether or not you would like to be on the other end of their laughter."
With that, I stood up, opened the kitchen window, and let my older boys know that they had two minutes left of play time before they would need to come in to help set the table for dinner. Wouldn't you know it, I turned around to see Riley scrambling into his Spiderman briefs.
The rest of the night went uneventfully with no mention of the chaos that had occurred earlier.
The next morning, my children bounded off to school, Riley most excited of them all to enter his first day of Kindergarten. To be truthful, I'm always sad to see them off the first day of school because summer brings a time of great bonding between us. I miss them terribly.
But that morning, as I sat in the still, quiet, and peaceful ambiance of my home drinking a warm cup of coffee, my thoughts were with Mrs. Garcia, Riley's Kindergarten teacher. I mentally sent her all the patience, love, and compassion that I have for my son, hoping she could absorb it from two blocks away. And then I thanked her for allowing me to have three hours of drama-free adult time.
Our teachers are more than just educators. They are counselors, cheerleaders, and disciplinarians to our children. They console, encourage, and provide structure to the youth who are lucky enough to grace their classrooms. And, I say this with the utmost respect and thanks, they assume authoritative responsibility of the little people who encompass the most fragile part of our hearts.
On that day, alone in my house, I lifted my coffee mug and toasted to the educators who will encounter my children over the next thirteen years.
Three cheers for teachers!
