Teachin' the Youngins: Chaos Incarnate

Not too long ago, I was describing to a parent my abrupt transition from working with 4 and 5 year olds last year to 2 and 3 year olds in what is now my second full year as a preschool teacher. Maybe it was the subtle-as-a-shotgun hint of exasperation in my voice or the glazed-over look of bewilderment in my eyes, but she immediately sized up and assessed my situation with the needling accuracy of a sniper; "It's just like herding cats, isn't it?", she quipped, as if she'd been there with me all along. "Herding cats" is not only a funny image of a job that sounds like a herculean undertaking - I mean seriously, who even has the time to run a cat farm these days anymore? - but it was the most apt description for what my life as a preschool teacher had become in the last few months.

Let's make no mistake here - I love what I do. Because I've always enjoyed working with children but never intended to be a teacher per se, there are days when I get I feel like my hiring was an unbelievable convergence of good fortune for me and oversight for my employers; some huge mistake for which there's only a matter of time before someone comes in to tell me the jig is up. It's heretofore the only job I've ever had that could even be vaguely be mistaken for a career, and my cup hath runneth over with shareable instances of kids doing that wonderful kids thing they do. But the disparity between the classroom I was in last year and the one I'm in this year is incredible. Albeit separated by just one closet door, it seems like a wholly separate building at times.

First of all, the most invaluable luxury afforded me with 4 and 5 year olds is that they are already potty-trained. Being proudly able to facilitate my own needs in this manner for more time than I can recall, I've been guilty of taking it for granted that most kids begin potty training pretty much as soon as they can walk. That theory has been, until now, shared with and corroborated by no one, for the record, but I still harbored this assumption going into the 2 and 3 year olds room.

This is simply not true.

It should be noted that I'm one of those people that isn't particularly grossed out by germs or feet like most people seem to be, preferring to marshall all of my disgust for bodily functions, most notably human waste. I'm not saying that defecation is the worst thing on earth, but I will say that everything else is better. I say all of that to say that my ironic detachment to the world of changed diapers just one classroom away last year has really come back to haunt me. This is not a colloquialism - there have been points this year where shit has literally hit a fan. I've changed diapers filled with what could otherwise be mistaken as hot soup - if it weren't for the accompanying stench that was threatened to peel the paint on the walls.

So yeah, still just like some hot soups, I guess. It having been years since I'd last changed a diaper, the adjustment was not a particularly enjoyable or easy one for me. Now, in fairness, there are days when I come across not a single bowel movement, but those days only serve to lull me into a false sense of security, as you can bet it just means that a day with me changing what seems like 20 soiled diapers is coming down the pipeline. The sooner I learn to accept this, the sooner I can learn to tame my resultant gag reflex.

Other notable differences? Communication. My 4 and 5 year olds had a pretty sizable vocabulary, so they'd often say the most ridiculous things. For instance, one week last year, we were celebrating the 100th day of school. One of the ways we commemorated said occasion was by compiling a list of 100 things we'd all eat if given the chance without any consequences. All of the children standards were thrown out there - chicken, cupcakes, pizza, etc - but when my time came up, I said I'd eat 100 gummy bears (I'm watching my figure). This answer did not satisfy the youngest kid in the class, who immediately dismissed my answer because "That doesn't make sense, Mr. Marcus; that's not food."

That kid had previously said he'd eat "100 honey." Now, to be fair to him, he could very well have been talking about a brand of honey, not a number. But in fairness to sensical sentences, he wasn't.
Because these kids are right there on the precipice of understanding how speech works in terms of tenses and conjugates but not quite there yet, that classroom was positively pregnant with potential for comical lapses in language like that.

That's not to say that 2 and 3 year olds don't have the same things happen - Lord knows they do - but because their lexicon of usage tends to be a lot more limited, these instances are more difficult to come by. Not only do they struggle to articulate their feelings and ideas consistently, but naturally, they struggle to understand what I'm often saying to them. I sometimes forget to not talk to children like I might an adult, and there's no better reminder of that fact than a blank stare from a 3 year old doing EXACTLY what you're telling him not to do.

How do I make up for the lack of language follies? By playing on that same astounding lack of understanding. I regularly set one girl straight by threatening to call her family dog or cat on her. When she needs to see that I mean business, I put my hand up to my ear as if it's a phone and simulate an actual conversation. This usually results in a fit of hysterics from the young girl in question, but that's usually quickly followed by her cleaning up her act. To my knowledge, dogs have yet to master speaking English or telecommunications (no opposable thumbs!), but this girl doesn't know that. A 5 year old knows how ridiculous this is, but a 3 year old might not. Youthful naivete` is a hell of a drug.

One thing consistent in whatever preschool classroom which I've ever worked, though? Sometimes, naptime WILL break your spirit. It helps to give us teachers a bit of a respite from the constant activity of grubby little hands and feet gesticulating every which way they can, but the battle is getting them to sit still long enough to go to sleep. In a room with just 2 teachers and any more than 10 kids, this is no small task. For every one or two that are quiet and mellow enough to lay right down and take advantage of the rest period, they are 4 or 5 that are bent on driving you to insanity, which is already a fairly short trip. Whether it be jumping up and down on cots, talking to themselves, poking you in the face, incessant bathroom breaks, or skinning, filleting, and stuffing a chicken, if it can be used to delay their nap, THEY WILL DO IT. And when you finally do get the most rambunctious munchkins to sleep, it's only a short time before it's seemingly time to wake them back up and relive the day's shenanigans again. Most of them will not wake up happy.

The "Wild and Feral Children" documentary may have actually been shot in a 2's & 3's classroom after naptime. 

But even with that all being said, I'm glad to have the opportunity to do what I do. It's an unquestionably trying and exhausting job, but on days when I come in just trying to figure out how to bleed 8 hours off the clock and 5 or 6 tiny faces greet me at the door with smiles and hugs, I'm reminded why I'm incredibly lucky to do it. Kids have an uncanny way of lending you some perspective just when you need it, whether it's when you're angry, glum, jovial, or indifferent. There are fewer feelings more gratifying than a parent laughing as they watch you and their child goof off and enjoys yourselves, or when they come to you and say that their child loves to tell them about you when at home. Those moments fuel the determination to soldier on.

But for Christ's sake, parents, teach your rugrats to keep their hands off my food. Being a teacher also means I can't afford to be buying new Pop-Tarts every other day because little Dingleberry dug in his diaper before deciding my snacks were communal. Those are the WORST flavored Pop-Tarts.

Those and the S'mores ones.