Tales from the Toddler Room.
Two work-related anecdotes:
Last Wednesday afternoon, with Thanksgiving break shimmering on the horizon, I looked around the classroom just before locking up and realized that one of the children, Ashley, had left her Dora the Explorer blankie at school. Now, you have to understand--this child carries this blanket everywhere, is nearly impossible to put to sleep without it, and is one of the most capable tantrum-throwers I've ever met. I dashed outside to try and catch her mom's bus before they left, but they'd already gone. I could only imagine the horrors that the weekend would hold for their family.
Ashley wasn't in school yesterday. This morning, I'm sitting at my computer in the entryway and in she walks. Her face is completely deadpan--usually her first day back to school after a weekend she's all smiles to see me and her friends, but this morning, nothing. She barely blinks when I greet her, just walks like a little robot into the main area of the classrooom. I follow her, asking if she wants to take her coat off. No response. Finally, as I start to help her unzip it, she mumbles something I can't understand. "What?" She repeats it, louder, "Blankie. BLANKIE." "Ohhhh!" I whip it out of her cubby, where it's been sitting forlornly for six days, and hand it to her. Like someone flipped a switch, humanity re-enters her eyes, she twinkles a smile, and dashes back out into the hallway to her mom, who's waiting to take her to the cafeteria for breakfast. I'm picturing that a little zombie Ashley staggered her way through the entire weekend, eyes glazed over, just repeating "Blankie...blankie..." between bites of Thankgsiving dinner.
(The nurse next door popped out of her classroom a moment later to tell me that she had seen Ashley stumbling past her room moments before and asked where she was going, and got that same automaton response, "Blankie.")
And Story #2:
Yesterday, to keep the kids from tearing each others' throats out on a dreary Monday afternoon, I pulled out a playground ball so we could play a rolling game. The kids hadn't spotted the ball yet, so I sat down where I was somewhat hidden by some shelves and called one of the kids' names. When she looked, I tossed the ball up into the air so she could see I had it, then, as she made her way over, ducked back behind the shelves and stuffed the ball up under my shirt. (Toddler humor, you know.) So I'm sitting there, grinning at her, with this ENORMOUS bulge at my belly, and Autumn stands there looking directly at it, baffled, and saying, "Where's the ball? Where'd it go?"
Oh, yeah. Thanks a heap, kid.
Last Wednesday afternoon, with Thanksgiving break shimmering on the horizon, I looked around the classroom just before locking up and realized that one of the children, Ashley, had left her Dora the Explorer blankie at school. Now, you have to understand--this child carries this blanket everywhere, is nearly impossible to put to sleep without it, and is one of the most capable tantrum-throwers I've ever met. I dashed outside to try and catch her mom's bus before they left, but they'd already gone. I could only imagine the horrors that the weekend would hold for their family.
Ashley wasn't in school yesterday. This morning, I'm sitting at my computer in the entryway and in she walks. Her face is completely deadpan--usually her first day back to school after a weekend she's all smiles to see me and her friends, but this morning, nothing. She barely blinks when I greet her, just walks like a little robot into the main area of the classrooom. I follow her, asking if she wants to take her coat off. No response. Finally, as I start to help her unzip it, she mumbles something I can't understand. "What?" She repeats it, louder, "Blankie. BLANKIE." "Ohhhh!" I whip it out of her cubby, where it's been sitting forlornly for six days, and hand it to her. Like someone flipped a switch, humanity re-enters her eyes, she twinkles a smile, and dashes back out into the hallway to her mom, who's waiting to take her to the cafeteria for breakfast. I'm picturing that a little zombie Ashley staggered her way through the entire weekend, eyes glazed over, just repeating "Blankie...blankie..." between bites of Thankgsiving dinner.
(The nurse next door popped out of her classroom a moment later to tell me that she had seen Ashley stumbling past her room moments before and asked where she was going, and got that same automaton response, "Blankie.")
And Story #2:
Yesterday, to keep the kids from tearing each others' throats out on a dreary Monday afternoon, I pulled out a playground ball so we could play a rolling game. The kids hadn't spotted the ball yet, so I sat down where I was somewhat hidden by some shelves and called one of the kids' names. When she looked, I tossed the ball up into the air so she could see I had it, then, as she made her way over, ducked back behind the shelves and stuffed the ball up under my shirt. (Toddler humor, you know.) So I'm sitting there, grinning at her, with this ENORMOUS bulge at my belly, and Autumn stands there looking directly at it, baffled, and saying, "Where's the ball? Where'd it go?"
Oh, yeah. Thanks a heap, kid.