Normally during recess, I stand on the outside and observe.  I make sure kids aren’t being unsafe by going out of the boundary, by touching other kids, by doing crazy little things that kindergarteners might do.  A couple of days ago, I was just feeling heavier than normal, and I made a conscious decision to run around with the kids.  Especially David.  I ran with him, and when we both got tired (let’s be real, it didn’t take too long for me to get tired), we chatted.  He talked to me about his dad (he loves his Dad), about all of his Thomas trains (he loves Thomas the Train Engine), and pizza (I love pizza).  He talked and talked and talked and I saw that side of David that I haven’t gotten a chance to see yet because I’m always having to correct him.  You know, that side where he’s just a cute kid who loves his dad and toys and pizza.

 

I think there’s just one kind of kids.  Kids.

 

David isn’t the only example where I’ve been confronted with the fact that my kids are just that.  Kids.  They’re not these little entities that should be managed.  They’re not a part of this job where it’s my goal to instill knowledge.  No, they’re kids.  And of course I knew this when I came (that’s the reason I came), but it’s easy to get bogged down by the “We all should be sitting criss cross, cub paws,” “Uh oh, we need to be silent in line,” “Oh no, that’s really sad that you made that choice.”  But they’re kids.

 

Andrew’s cousin left the country for two weeks and he was pretty sad about that.  I never had seen Andrew sad before.  That was two weeks ago.  You should have seen his face light up on Monday when he told me that Brayden was coming back that day.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I have a lot of negative interactions with Nicholas because of the choices that he makes.  He didn't earn his nap mat on Friday because he made the choice to try to sneak lying on two nap mats instead of one.  He didn't earn his blanket because fifteen minutes after nap started, he was doing a half summer sault.  Oh, Nicholas.  When I went over to him to talk about it, I was really positive about the situation.  “Nicholas, I’d really love to call your mom and tell her that you followed directions when I told you to lie down.  If you choose to do that now, I’ll call her and tell her that.  Would you do that for me?”  He mumbled.  “Would you do that for me,” I said as I tickled him.  I swear, his huge smile lit up the that dark, naptime environment.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I think there’s just one kind of kids.  Kids.

 

There are stories after stories of moments like these, moments where I’m reminded that kids are kids, and we’ve only had 23 days of school.  We’re not there yet with a lot of the things I expect and demand of them, but we’ll get there someday.  And that’s okay (or at least I’m trying to remind myself of that). 

 

At a professional development we went to today (Yes, on a Saturday.  Yes, our work week obviously isn’t long enough already), one person said, “The work we do equips us to love more deeply.”  This ability to love more deeply results in both heaviness and hope.  Heaviness in the sense that I care so much for them and it saddens me that they’re making poor choices sometimes (and often, for some kids).  Hope in the sense that even though they made that choice, I’m not going to give up on them.  They’re my kids.  And you can't help but love deeply for your kids.