Day 4

A. asked me today what my favorite part of daycare was.  I must say, when I talk about daycare or sing the songs that are stuck in my head, all about popcorn, ice cream cones, pink dinosaurs, I feel like I'm one of the daycare kids.  I sit "criss-cross apple sauce" during singing time, trying to keep up with Ms. S.'s movements, trying to sing along with the songs, dancing quite enthusiastically.  And I'm delighted with myself.  Being a four-year old is so fun in so many ways.


That's not to say that it's not hard.  Sometimes, the kids don't listen, and three kids are having temper tantrums at the same time, and one is racing for the door, or trying to buck out of your lap while sitting on our circle rug.  Sometimes, kids purposefully, smilingly, run away from you on the sidewalk, after you've warned them multiple times in your most serious voice that if they run too far away one more time, you WILL take away the bubbles they're playing with.

So when sister A., who is lovely and strong beyond description, asked me what my favorite part of today was, I answered that I couldn't remember.  But as always happens when reflecting and sitting in the bathroom hours later, I remembered a particularly peaceful and beautiful moment that stuck out to me today, a best part of my daycare day today.

H., I think, is on the autistic spectrum and doesn't speak much.  He's one of the ones who likes to run for the door as often as he has the chance.  I picked him up while he was jumping around the classroom before most of the kids had arrived, and headed for a table that was covered with these plastic chain links (or toys that looks like these):

 

H. seems to be pretty forgiving.  Most of our interactions consist of me trying to get him to stay in a place he doesn't want to be.  But today, I sat on a tiny chair at a very small table, and H. sat on my lap, quiet.  And he wasn't headed for the door.

I tried to demonstrate to him the possibilities of this multi-colored plastic chain, after he'd taken a lot of the pieces from other trays on the table and put them on his.  I picked up a red link and showed him: "Look, H."

After he'd caught on, and many of the links were connected, he gently pushed my hand towards the end of the chain as I held the next piece, knowing it would be easier for me to connect the piece to the whole, directing where my hand should go.

I can understand why some kids bite or pinch during temper tantrums, or have temper tantrums.  But H. doesn't bite or pinch, even in his temper tantrums.  I know it's necessary to get kids to follow orders about how to line up and when to clean up their places at the table.  But lately I've been feeling more understanding of rebelliousness when the result of following orders is that one has to keep one's shoes on during nap time or stay on one section of the sidewalk because teachers are humans.  I guess it's a pretty great thing to be an adult.  This is mainly because when you take a nap, you get to decide if you take off your shoes or not (generally).

In any case, H. doesn't bite or pinch.  Today, he gently and patiently directed my movements so that we could create a very long, colorful plastic chain.  I wanted to say thank you to H., who probably was unsuspecting of the beauty I saw in this gentle act, let me share with him in a moment of quiet creation.