Mumbling Madly

One boy is all checks and balances. He is followed around with a laminated card. A series of positives equal checks which equal one starburst candy. If he doesn’t look at the teacher or spaces off, a notation is made for future reference.

One boy is at constant odds with his body. He wears a unitard under his clothing for modesty–his pants like to come down. He has been known to pee next to other kid’s desks. The moment he touches his toes for a 10 seconds it is so precious, so genuine; the whole room seems to hold its collective breath.

One boy seems to always be overlooked. Void of emotional drama, physical challenges, and problems with authority, he floats from one thing to the next. A shy, sweet smile spreads across his face when he sees me, eager to dance. Very little words escape him, instead he gallops happily from one corner to the next. I try everything I can to verbally recognize his silent grace.

One boy is terribly conflicted internally. One moment he is fine with being brought back into the world, next thing you know he is howling with offense. Hands clutch his ears, eyes close defiantly, he slacks and wobbles and refuses. This is one of the hardest parts about autism for me: for a few precious moments I can see the little boy within, the genuine article, before it slips away and he is no longer touching his toes with joy but hiding, oppressively, under the table.

The one, solitary girl, is so beautiful it’s shocking. Bangs cut neatly across her head, long eyelashes, and pink tights hiding her diaper. She never sees me, only glimpses around me, past me, through me. Vapid.

Because I constantly have guilt for not serving the needy, for not teaching in my own low-income neighborhood, and for usually finding myself in the company of affluent kids I have turned karma a few steps around. I’ve done this by recently taking a job as a Dance Specialist at a school for kids ‘on the spectrum’ of autism. “Oh, not all of them are autistic,” the director dismissed, certain that their varying degrees of disability equaled out to one complete, slightly below average, child. I have had a few high functioning autistic children in my various classes over the years. There was the high-profile kid who had suspicious Asperger like qualities in my kindergarten class. There was the little boy who stayed in Storybook Acting for a year, happy as a lark and then crying at random intervals–specifically when we sang “Twinkle, twinkle.” Currently, I have a little girl whose obsessive compulsive nature, unwillingness to be called anything but “Miss. Butterfly,” and habit of walking into doors due to out-of-body awareness hints at some sort of placement on the fancily titled “spectrum.” We all know the stats: 1 in 150 births, 1 to 1.5 million Americans; Autism is the fastest-growing developmental disability with a 10 - 17 % annual growth. It is mysterious, devastating, and most prevalent in boys. Because of its growth, the media has finally dragged autism out of hiding. Why just this week you can see Jenny McCarthy crowing about how she ‘cured’ her son’s autism on the cover of People, (using almost entirely diet and therapy according to her book).

On my first day it became clear that, while a few children seemed fairly high functioning, the large majority of the children in the younger grades were not. I was to spend a half hour with seven children (ages 6-9), four teacher’s aids, and myself. One boy was wearing a full body unitard under his clothes. This was because he regularly pulls his pants down. One of the only girls in the class, beautiful, vacant, was in a dress and diapers. One narrowly peered through squinted eyes, suspicious and halting. One, heart-breakingly shy, knew my name already from the board (my welcome letter tacked up next to the school calender and the teacher bios). He stared at me, almost piercing my soul, until furtively looking away and retreating…where? I was unsure? We danced and sang, the kids fighting their handlers at every turn, emotions turned on high. I dodged elbows, shouted praise over the ruckus, and found myself being clung to by the boy with squinty eyes before he immediately endowed me as some sort of jungle gym.

The fifth grade class, all four of them, were much more comprehending. Ages 10-11, they were fantastic in the gawky way they had claimed themselves. One of them, tall with long limbs that he introduced himself to me with a rapping rhyme. Another boy had no sense of personal space and I found him constantly standing right in front of me eagerly staring up at my face. I was surprised at how easy going the only girl of the group was, until I saw her eyes vacantly search the floor. “Many of them have no short term memory,” the director informed me. “They’ll forget your name five minutes after you tell them.” The fifth graders persevered, although the cramped confines of the tiny classroom left us struggling for space.

These kids are endearing simply because they have abandoned social norms, left the standard ideas we have for children about who they are and what they should be, and instead, have created their own struggling, halting, unique personalities. OK, so that’s how I feel today. Two weeks ago, when I started I felt in over my head.

I just taught 3 children’s classes in a row and wow…wow, wow, wow. Acting, dancing, and toddlers is the large realm I covered in 3 hours. I jumped in for a teacher as a last minute sub; I needed the money, they called on the phone, I couldn’t find a great reason to say no. Really, the only reason I would say no is for my mental health. It takes a ton of stamina to maintain a room filled with 20 children. Incidentally, I think classes with over 9 children is too much. The quality is compromised, the children don’t get individual attention, and this means the addition of a million parents. I’m not quite sure why (but maybe it’s a money thing) a school chooses to allow 20 kids in one dance class.

20 kids means a lot of group games. A lot of place spots, dancing around randomly to music, a lot of strain on my vocal chords. It was also the first day of class for many of these families, which is a huge shame that they have to start out with a sub. Details are lost; do I really care or have the capacity to learn every child’s name? Hell no. Parents linger with anxious children, their eyes watering while their child bitterly cries, a sense of overwhelming panic courses through the first five minutes. I do my best. Kids are late which is an enormous disservice to a child entering a new classroom. A woman from a nearby college shows up with her infant and claims to have permission to watch the class for a research paper. Kids are wide eyed and expectant. Some are barely 3 others are leaders at 4.

We finish our opening circle with the Abc’s. One mother won’t leave. Her child is being kind of a butt head. I don’t understand why parents insist on pushing it with their child. If your kid hates the class why make them stay? At one point the mother barks, “You need more spots.” I realize she is passive aggressively telling me her child isn’t being included–despite her kid lying prostrate in her lap refusing to participate. “Here, have mine, ” I say shortly, throwing them a green spot. (Don’t boss around the teacher, people, c’mon). The class is too large to gauge. I can’t tell if they’re having a good time, which child is crying, and who smells. The parents are all crowded around the viewing window, which I really, really hate. I hate the viewing window. It’s almost as bad as having parents sit in the class. They lurk behind the glass, a shadowy, willowy, worried presence. The parents are scrutinizing me, I know it. I’m subbing for the head of the dance education department, there is a waiting list for this class (hence the 20 students), people wait years for this class to open up. I am inadequate in their eyes, I am sure.

We march around the room. I wistfully remember a mere hour earlier when I was teaching Storybook Acting to five really nice little girls upstairs. We were away from the prying eyes, acting out “Caps for Sale,” pretending to be monkeys in trees. Now I am bombarded by twenty pairs of stomping feet. Several kids are pulling the old I-want-attention-so-I’m-going-to-opt-out act that I don’t tolerate. I ignore them. Let them sit on their butts while the rest of us go marching by. “Why are you sitting down?” “Because I’m tiiii-red.” I move on, I don’t care, whatever, I just need to survive.

Parents are itching to get in to the classroom. The teacher I am subbing for goes all out for her classes, inviting the parents into the room 10 minutes prior to the end of class, performing elaborate story ballets for them and really getting the kids involved. I do this because I know it is expected. I suffice with the every reliable Animal Game. I’m not a big fan of parents crashing the party at the end of class–it’s something I never do in my own curriculum. The kids are barely hanging on, having exhausted themselves with bounces and marches; an hour is too long for 3-4 year olds in my opinion.

The toddlers are next, descending on the classroom like a herd of gerbils, they bounce and sway on fat toddler legs to the plethora of rubber balls I’ve set free. Their parents come slowly after, casing the joint out, eying each other, checking for kids that just might be cuter then their own. I turn on festive music and let the toddlers play while I take roll. I introduce myself to each and every parent and child. I explain that I am the sub, but I teach this class on Mondays. I explain that we will go back and forth from structured to unstructured play. I inform parents that their job is to model behavior. Parents smile politely and nod, one eye trained on their kid and one eye on me. I am exhausted, having reached my 3rd class in a row. One tiny girl has a ridiculous pink feather clip secured to her barely there hair. It makes her look like some sort of disturbing baby chicken, or a mini-hipster with one pink forelock, or a bad attempt at baby fashion. “How cute,” I say, my fingers brushing the clip to feel its fluffy softness. The mother glares at me as her daughter immediately pulls the clip out. “We never mention the feather clip,” she retorts, rescuing it from the floor, distracting her daughter and then sneaking the clip back on to her mostly bald head. I quickly move on.

We start marching in a big circle, the toddlers, grown-ups, and I. This is when I catch myself saying ridiculous things (were they not in context), “Ok, everyone grab your ball! Great job! Swing your ball back and forth…great! Oh, look Sophie has a blue ball, can you grab your blue ball?” The kids are absolutely terrified of the parachute. Most of them won’t sit on it despite it being so goddam fun. The bright colors waft and flow as we shake the ends of the parachute to create ripples of color across the floor. I forgot that this is a particularly young class with many barely 2’s who are not ready for the vast joy the parachute can provide. We turn the parachute into a slide–this warms a few kids up. We waft the parachute up and down while the kids run around underneath. One little girl howls with despair–’she really loved the slide,’ her mother explains. We pull the ends underneath and create a tent. We shop for different colors until the tent becomes a suffocating vortex of crying and short attention span. Open Play is next and I dump hundreds of scarves all over the floor. I do nothing and say nothing for five full minutes. My mind and body are reeling. I can’t do three classes in a row.

The last class of the day for me is never as good as the first one. My stamina is low, my patience is shorter, I find myself saying ‘fuck’ to myself over dumb things like the scarf bag falling over. We clean up the Open Play props, it takes while, one mother has the nerve to suggest we ’sing a little song next time and the kids will clean up better.’ I almost say, “Shut the hell up, I KNOW the power of song, I barely have a voice left and the idea of singing another damn song makes me want to barf right now…YOU sing a little song.” This is very harsh, and I know it. I’m turning into a jerk with each passing second. And yet, I find myself during closing circle croaking out “Row, Row, Your Boat” and “Abc’s” (again). Then we’re done! Have a nice weekend! I am a shell of a teacher as the parents pass and fade away. I can barely smile my way through the waves and polite questions, realizing that I am starving and have no almonds. As I leave the studio I pass the beach where a dozen little bodies are playing in the sand. “Bye teacher!” One of my students calls, decked out in a polka dotted bathing suit and sun hat. “BYE!”

Found myself in a position I swore I would never be in: nanny. Just for three hours, just one day a week (the pay is really good). I go back pretty far with this family, keeping an eye on the little boy back at my old job while his Mom took fitness classes. He was/is very sweet–although we’re looming on his second birthday and entering the ‘terrible twos.’ His Mom just had another baby who is four months old and completely content to just sit and watch her brother. She can’t even focus on being fed she’s so focused on tracking her brother. This makes up for all the ‘neglect’ she receives as a second child–the two-year-old commands more attention. Despite this she is a happy and loving baby girl.

Last week the little boy and I spent a whole hour putting his stuffed animals in time out. They languished on the stairs, hidden by the baby gate, until brought out of their respective punishments and released back into the real world. “Why is the zebra going into time out?” I would ask. “For hitting Mara,” the boy replied solemnly. “Oh dear, that’s no good,” I said and off we’d go, zebra in hand, ready to put him back on the stairs. Hitting is a new discovery for this little boy, and his punishment is to sit on the staircase for two minutes. I think it’s interesting he’s processing this new development by executing the same discipline on his stuffed animals.

The baby can’t be fed unless her brother is distracted. The best distraction, admittedly, is 1/2 hour of Dora the Explorer. While the little boy watches TV the baby is fed. Simple, right? Not if Tivo decides not to work and the baby is screaming because she just woke up hungry and the little boy is losing patience and the Mom on the phone can’t give me the right instructions to get Dora to come on. It’s a disaster. While struggling with the TV I check on the little boy: I find my clogs in the kitchen sink with him about to turn the water on. “No, no, I don’t need my shoes washed,” I dump a handful of plastic cups and rubber dog toys in the sink for him to scrub. I give up on Dora. With the baby facing the opposite way I stuff a bottle in her mouth while eying her older brother–he has discovered the sponge excretes an enormous amount of water on the floor. “Not on the floor,” I bark. “Keep the sponge over the sink.” He only tries it a few more times before the message is received.

The baby is furious with me because I put her down to figure out Tivo and then put her down again to warm up her bottle. She cried huge crocodile tears, her face was bright red, and I could practically see her little heart breaking. She emitted little protest cries throughout her feeding but eventually forgave me. While I monitored the kitchen sink play, the baby watched eagerly from her swing. The mechanical device swings back and forth while playing tinny music. The baby is happy. The little boy is drenched from head to toe and is happy. The baby ‘blows out’ her diaper just when Mom shows up. I completely forgot about the diaper (kids usually poop while sleeping, right? Isn’t the first thing you do after a nap is check their diaper?). I barely figure out how to get the baby’s shirt over her head; luckily she’s still smiling. She’s thrilled to have such one-on-one attention from her baby-sitter. She coos and laughs at me with her little fingers. Wow.

The little boy is tired. He’s mad because I put my clogs on and am ready to go. He cries pitifully while his mother talks with me. We discuss preschool, waiting lists to go to preschool, soccer, the new development of hitting, the guilt she feels over not being able to spend much time with the baby. I’m a good listener, having spent all week with children her son’s age. I see a range of children, I can compare, I can assure her that he’s fine. He’s smart and a good kid despite the new hitting development. Starting preschool at three is fine–two is really young. The baby is learning so much from her brother, it’s ok if the Mom isn’t focused on her 100%. I’m glad to give her a three hour respite in the middle of her week. “It’s all good practice,” I say, for teaching and eventual parenthood. The little boy gives me a mournful wave. His zebra has been removed from time out and is sitting limply next to him. I wave good bye.

Yesterday, I read a book about a rooster named Bob. Not only is the idea of a rooster with this name a pretty funny concept, but the kids and I enjoyed this one part:
“Who? Who? Who?” Someone hooted from the trees.
Bob, not wanting to be rude, called back, “Bob! Bob! Bob!”
And so this went all night: the owl hooting and the rooster answering.

This is what I say to my tiny students all day, “Good job, good job, nice work, good job, thank you for doing that, great work, keep it up.” In order to encourage appropriate behavior I have over emphasis the good stuff. If a kid is being a naughty and you correct his behavior, the next time you see him making a good choice you have to support it with a “good job.” Who doesn’t want to hear that they’ve been doing a good job? This prompts better behavior and teaches them to avoid the old behavior (which is usually redirected or ignored–no need to dish out equal attention for naughtiness).

“Putting you shoes on by yourself? Good job! Need to know what to do? You could look at ‘Lucy’ who is sitting criss cross with her hands in her lap, thank you Lucy! (Imagine the kids scrambling to mimic Lucy so they can get a ‘good job’ nod as well). At times I feel like I have an endless stream of positive feedback for every little child that stumbles my way. We have some very good times together, my preschoolers and I.

Because I am deep down a pessimist, I am constantly working on presenting the most positive image as possible in my adult life. Like my students, I revel in recognition, affirmation of a job well done, and therefore I am eager to make those around me feel successful. However, I am not doing very well with the adult aspect of this job, stumbling to learn the ropes, feeling constantly corrected, trying to do the right thing, and having many awkward moments. It’s not my home, not my program, not even my students and the negativity creeps up in my throat and threatens to lash out. I was reminded recently that I am, indeed, an open book. While I am determined to stay tight lipped and demure, something must come across my face like a shadow and my annoyance is betrayed. My face gives me away, which results in more tension.

For some reason, we went on a half mile walk with these tiny children and it was difficult for all of them. Walking in a single file line for a half mile with folders and bags and coats is a lot to ask of preschoolers. One of the smallest ones fell, splat, on her face and I swooped in and did what I do best: soothed. I have become very good at curing the barely injured–it used to be terrifying to me when a child hurt themselves, my stomach balling up in a knot at the sound of their cries. Now I use my patented technique of hugging and rubbing the injured spot (lot’s of rubbed elbows, hands, and heads). It works every time. As a huge cry baby myself, it’s amazing to me that I can cease other’s crying by simply rubbing their hand in my mitten and saying, “all better.”

When as children do we phase out the approval, the support, the positive feedback? Middle school? Surely by high school my teachers no longer felt the need to give praise, substituting a passing grade for approval. Perhaps, I have not outgrown the need to hear “all better.” I realize, as I try hard not to lose it driving home, that I need to treat myself like I do my students, and I tell myself, “It’ll be all right, it will be okay, you’re fine.” Even if I don’t believe it…

As many of you know, I am currently teaching Preschool with a Montessori based curriculum. It’s interesting because I could launch into a big description of what it really means to be a Montessori school, but my Mom summed it up best: Clean, very neat, no plastic. As soon as she told me this it all made sense: the incredible attention to detail, the demand that children sit with two feet on the floor in their chair at all time, the abundance of wooden puzzles, the absence of dust (I know this because it is my Tuesday job). This is combined with the most eco-friendly person I’ve ever worked with, Ex: She has one garbage receptical, it lives under the sink, and it is actually a paper bag (that she reuses). This means that if I blow my nose in the bathroom I have to throw the tissue away in the kitchen.

All of this articulate, detailed-focused planning has caused me to question: is Montessori style training really this retentive? Or am I working with a neat, organized, and rigid person who has incorporated these character traits into her curriculum? I know I am new to teaching pre-school, but after years of working with 3-5 years old I’ve learned not to sweat the small stuff. I don’t really care if a child puts his artwork vertical into his folder so it sticks out a little instead of horizontal. I don’t mind if kids sit with their legs askew. It doesn’t bother me if a child is simply playing with the puzzle pieces instead of actually focusing on putting the puzzle together. Maybe I am too relaxed for this sort of education model.

I do understand that it is important to teach children organization and that the skills for this are wide and varied. I also feel like, with creativity, comes a little sloppiness. My mother-in-law constantly brings up the fact that she really believes Josh’s sister could have (should have) been an artist had she not been so focused on always cleaning up after her. “If I had only understood that art is messy then she could have had room to express herself artistically.” This brought me back to my own childhood art projects: painting an empty cardboard box orange, putting it on its side, my dad using an exacto knife to cut out little windows, and calling it a doll house. Or making a doll for my baby sister by cutting out a doll shape in old rags, stuffing it with toilet paper, using markers for the facial features, and taping the whole thing together. (I can recall laying the doll in my sister’s crib while she slept, not knowing that my Mom would later remove it for fear that Gina would destroy it). Typing out newsletters on my Mom’s old typewriter. Constructing large houses out of hard back books and blocks. I don’t ever recall the chore of having to put away any of these projects immediately upon completion, or feeling pressure to be clean, or aching for perfection. Is this personality? Or did my parents allow me the room to be creative?

Oh sure, Josh still marvels at my work space: half completed jewelry in one corner, an incomplete watercolor drying on the table (waiting for another layer of paint), supplies all over the desk, NOTHING IS PICKED UP. Why should it be? I’m still in the middle of all these projects, I need my supplies out, I don’t want to drag my paints out of a drawer. All my stuff sits on my desk (largely because storage is so tight in my work room). I’m pretty sure I carried this into my school life, my desk very neat and organized at the beginning of the week and then slowly falling into dissaray. Am I a huge slob? No way. Do I dust my house every Tuesday? Hell, no.

Therefore, it’s hard for me to ‘catch’ the children doing something untidy. It doesn’t even occur to me. I also feel like they’re young, with so much already on their plate (’how do I put my shoes on?’ How do I remember what the number 8 looks like?’), what’s important and what is overrated? If their yoga mat is folded, but it’s still messy, I don’t care: it’s still folded.

I have found a job teaching preschool very part time in Queen Anne. It pays well (much better that the average preschool gig) and is very small (only about 10 kids). The owner/head teacher is a quirky little lady who comes from a Montessori background. I’m a little hesitant because I’ll be on her turf, following her rules, and coming into a tightly knit community of kids and parents. I know I will learn a lot. She hired me largely because she was intrigued by my dance and theater experience–and interested in my hope of incorporating those elements in an academic setting. I’m bummed that the school has a shoes-off policy (which means spending Christmas money on boots seems silly) and I’m actually debating on buying some cute house slippers to wear in addition to my socks (I hate shoes-off policies).

In addition I am hoping to supplement with additional teaching gigs around the area. This means I will be in the car a lot (one of the gigs is on Mercer Island), which I had initially hoped to avoid. However, I will have more time returned to me overall–which is good and bad. I killed an hour and a half sitting around, drinking coffee, and watching my sister make donuts yesterday. I also returned home exhausted, having trekked all over the greater Seattle area…this is where I wish we had a decent transportation system. I have grand plans of buying an unlimited class card at a nearby Yoga center, working on the play I’ve been crafting for five years, creating some meaningful art, and pushing my jewelry sales via website and local venues. I hope to ignore the strangling feeling of being unsuccessful, worthless, partly unemployed, and lost in the sea of employment that is out there.

I had a really great interview at a really nice school…it was for a position that I didn’t really care for (teaching assistant and after school care) but they called and asked me to interview to be a full time teaching assistant in a preschool classroom. The pay starts at $9.50/hr and increases based on education and experience. This sucks. If I was hell bent on being a classroom teacher this would be all about ‘paying my dues’ to get ahead in the teaching world. However, I’m done with making dirt. I’m continually insulted by what people are (not) willing to pay instructors in the classroom. I would much rather teach older children, but I can’t seem to get away from 3-5 year olds–and I can get away with teaching that age without certification. So until I figure it out, I’m piecing together a career out of…something.

Yesterday…
I assisted in helping babies learn the joy of paint. The class was for ages 12-24 months old and you just have to imagine six babies lined up on a plastic tarp with six pieces of gold paper and five tubes of paint. There were brushes…sure…and a few kids actually enjoyed holding the brushes and swirling them around their paper. This is the time when personalities reveal themselves, the intricacies of human preference, the humor that makes up a person. One baby diligently painted swirls on his paper, another refused any tools and used her hands, and one baby ended up using her entire body as a canvas: she sat on top of her paper and smeared paint all over herself. This particular baby comes from a very conservative household, or so I was told by her nanny, “She’s not allowed to make a mess, not ever…I want to do more art with her at home but her parents would freak out…their house is immaculate and not very ‘baby like.’”

One little girl is not interested in the paint. She finds the roll of blue painter’s tape that I used to tape the sheets onto the canvas. She carefully affixes several pieces of tape onto her paper, creating blue curly-q’s and x’s. This child leaves the canvas spotless, ready to move on.

I am in charge of cleaning these babies up…I have a big bucket of warm soapy water and lot’s of rags. One by one each baby is dropped into the bucket, the water coming up to their chubby knees as we carefully avoid getting the diaper wet. I wipe down the multi-colored streaks of paint from their legs as their grown-up holds them diligently–eventually every baby leans over and puts their hands in the water. They splash the water around with their fingers and make bubbles pop. I encourage them to do this because it cleans their hands. One little boy lingers a long time near the water. He trails his finger through the water’s surface, making little paddling gestures with his hands, and splashes around. His mother claims he is obsessed with water: fountains, puddles, wading pools. “Your hands are sparkling!” I proclaim as I dry his fingers off again and again. The baby who has immersed herself in paint is stripped of her onesie and plopped in the tub. She bitterly complains as I scrub off the paint. The paint is everywhere: on her back, in her hair, in her elbows, on her ears. She spends the rest of the time padding around in nothing but a diaper; I notice her masterpiece drying on the rack: one single solitary piece of paper covered completely with several layers of paint. Not a trace of gold, the colors creating a beautiful muddy brown.