Preschool: A War of Attrition
“They got us surrounded, poor bastards” -Col. Abrams, WWII Tank Commander
The mob cheered on as the ring leader laughed. Each pressing against the second-floor balcony railing like inmates in prison.
Past the railing, there is a glass rooftop overlooking the preschool playground. They roared in triumph as the leader of their mischief hurled yet another classroom toy over the balcony onto the glass roof.
It landed next to all the other toys.
The students’ arms thrash through the iron railing.
Suddenly, a red and blue figurine pierced through the gaps in the railing. It flew above the rioters’ heads and rested beside the other toys.
The ring leader retreated from his triumphant position and cried boisterously. He hit his knees, threw his arms up, and shouted into the air,
“No!”
Hurling his lament upon deaf ears.
I stood over the crowd of now attentive three-year-olds and said,
“You threw my toys over the rail. I threw yours! How does it feel?”
He cried and screamed, “Wo da,” which means mine.
Early this week
🎶 Everybody make a line 🎶
🎶 Make a line 🎶
🎶 Make a line 🎶
I Sing with as much enthusiasm as I can muster.
Reluctantly, one by one, the little hellions start to assimilate in front of me. Bruce is in the lead. As we wait for the other little angelic monsters to line up, he shows me what he has in his pocket.
A lighter.
“Bruce! You are not supposed to have that.”
I snatch the lighter out of his hand. I am showing my fellow teachers what he pulled out of his pocket when I realize it’s one of those jet lighters, and there is no child safety on it.
I flick the bic, witnessing the blaze, and look past it to see him pulling something else out of his pocket.
Another lighter
“Bruce! What are you doing with two lighters? You can’t have these. This is not for children.”
I take the other lighter from him, and he reaches into his pocket and pulls out another object.
A third lighter
“Bruce! Why do you have three lighters?”
Sticker Hostage
After all the other students left for lunch, Ryan decided to dump all the cotton balls onto the floor and make a snow angel.
“Clean them up.”
Giggles and mischief ensue.
“Clean them up, Ryan. It’s time to eat.”
Giggles and mischief persist.
“That’s it. Clean them up, or the stickers go bye-bye.”
Ryan perks up and looks up from his blissful defiance. I am holding his chair, and on the back are all the stickers he’s accumulated from participating in class.
I slide my fingernail behind the lip of one sticker and begin the countdown.
“1, 2, 3…”
He scrambles to clean up but quickly loses interest and dumps the cotton balls back on the floor. Attempting to call my bluff.
“Bye-bye.”
I peel one of the stickers off.
Sometimes, you have to kill a hostage to show you mean business.
“No!” he shouts.
“Clean up. I am not repeating it.”
He gathers the cotton balls with impressive efficiency. I gently put down the chair, and he strokes the remaining stickers like Gollum and his precious.
A stone in water
“Holly, you can’t go out there.”
I gently stop her advance with my hand on her belly. She retreats for a moment. Changing directions and attempting to exit the door through my flank, she presses again.
“Holly, I said line up. You cannot run off.”
She does not relent. She tries escaping at my right, my left, and even through my legs.
While thwarting Holly from escaping, Derrick and Ray sneak out from alternate sides of me.
I tell them to get in line, and Holly makes her dash. Now, they are all free to run through the school lobby.
Plants, employee placards, and brochures all go flying in their wake.
Preschool is a war of attrition.
The students are a constant battle.
The parents are a constant battle.
The administrators are a constant battle.
Hence Col. Abrams quote at the beginning of the story.
I love my students, and there's a priceless moment of joy and gentleness for every moment of chaos and disobedience.
They are the best of us: exhausting, defiant, innocent, brilliant, and dumb.
I would much rather deal with them than with the administrators or parents.
I never thought I would have the patience to manage a classroom of 16 three-year-olds. You only know something about yourself once you are put in the situation to find out.
I am blessed with more patience than I ever thought possible.
Every day at 5:30, the battle ends, and the cute little monsters go home, but the following morning, they will pour over the walls of our peaceful lakefront preschool and find new ways to raise even more hell.
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