The last installment left us at story time. At this point, the kids have been sitting still for the 40 minutes since they arrived, except for a two-minute dance to Raffi’s “Shake Your Wiggles Out.”
9:25: The Meanie reads, her words punctuated by “Shhh,” her index finger flying to her lips. “Quiet!”
She says “Ssshh!” at least 12 times in five minutes. She’s also reading a lift-the-flap book to a group, which doesn't make sense to me.
Toward the end of the book, she asks, “Does this girl look happy?” Then, as the kids start to answer she slaps her finger to her lips: “Ssshh!” Doesn’t that remind you of the old Steven Wright joke about the dog named “Stay”? “Come ‘ere, Stay! Come ‘ere, Stay!”
9:25: John’s chosen for snack duty. He goes to the sink with the Assistant to wash his hands, while the other kids sit on their mats. (Sit, quiet, wait.)
After John washes his hands, he goes back to the circle, where his friends wait. He stands with the Meanie, who helps him call each friend individually. Each child then goes to wash their hands and find a seat for snack.
He's then led to the tables. The Teacher has a stack of napkins and tells John he will help hand them out. He tries to get the stack from her, but she hands him one at a time. They hand out 14 napkins this way, then repeat the whole process with plastic cups.
This snack preparation ritual takes nearly 10 minutes. Perhaps if John were handing out the napkins and cups himself, I could see the educational benefit. But as it stands, I do not see the value in taking a cup from the teacher’s hand and moving it 10 inches to the table top. The process is a waste of time, and more unecessary sitting and waiting for the kids.
9:33: I put my coat on, yet the Teacher, the Assistant and the Meanie still ignore me. “Good-bye Teacher, thank you!” I say loudly, trying not to sound pissed. This is VERY DIFFICULT. “Oh, bye,” she says, glancing halfway toward me over her shoulder.
I push open the door, my brows furrowed. John had not played or babbled or guffawed for a whole hour -- none of the kids had. Biting my lip hard, I see all the tantrums, tears and difficulties of the last five weeks flash before my eyes, the reason for most of them now crystal clear. "Sorry kiddo," I think, as I walk home.
11:00: I stand at the bottom of the stairs waiting for John to come out. The Meanie brings him onto the landing. It's cold and blustery outside, but John has no hat or mittens on. He's upset.
"Where's your hat?" she says, flipping his hood up and attaching the Velcro tab beneath his chin. "There you go." She pats him on the back, and he starts down the stairs, fighting tears.
This isn't the first time he's come out hatless and crying, saying the teachers wouldn't let him put his hat and mittens on. See, John has his method: He must put his hat and mittens on first, then his coat. He can do the whole thing himself, with zippering. They've known him for five weeks now, yet they still cannot let him do it his way.
"What's the matter, hon?" I say, within earshot of the Meanie, who ignores me. "Where's your hat and mittens, in your backpack? Let me get them for you." I take them out and hand them to him. He carefully puts them on as he whimpers, then he puts his hand in mine, and we walk home.
Later: When I ask John what he did after I left, he says they had painting. "So, you painted?" I ask.
"No, I wasn't allowed to."
"Why not."
"Only the other kids could."
He tells me that he tried to play with the Rescue Heros, too, but couldn't.
"So, what did you do?" I ask.
"Nothing."
Somehow, that doesn't surprise me.
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