My Job Here is Done

It happens every year in August. I receive my class list of 18-22 Kindergarten students. I laugh and wonder why parents give their child a name with an apostrophe in the middle. I anticipate darling little faces that will accidentally call me "mom." I worry about whether or not someone has given them a pencil and taught them how to write their name. I fear learning disabilities and my own ability in coping, reaching, and teaching them effectively.

Most of them are five year olds filled with curiosity mixed with a slight bit of fear. And I worry about teaching them. Some are four and I'm worried. Some are six and I'm worried. I start writing their names on cubbies and nametags and posters. I call them "angels." I worry. I wonder if I'm capable enough to teach them all the things they need to learn: share, play fair, don't hit, put things back where you found them, wash your hands, hold hands and look both ways. Be respectful, learn independence, take responsibility. Oh, and how to read and add.

I watch them marvel at the inside of a pumpkin, penguins, how a seed grows. I hear them sing songs. I sit with them and explain how and why words rhyme. I listen as they learn to sound out words. I see them manipulate counters as they work a math problem. I try to help and hope I've succeeded.

Then May comes and they are pounds heavier and inches taller. They are more responsible and capable. I watch the miracle of development and know that they would have achieved growth in spite of me. It is my privelege to watch personalities unfold.

I may have yelled one too many times. They may have stomped across the room and acted far less mature than their age should allow. I didn't set expectations. They didn't respect my authority. And then it all comes to a close.

When it is Graduation Day, we walk in to Pomp and Circumstance. They sing "It's a Small World," I call their names, and they walk across the stage. And then I look at Q and D and think, "Man, they ticked me off this year." and my immediate next thought is, "I love them, though." And I do. They are just so fun and so "big boy." That comes from me saying, "Do you want to keep acting like that or do you want to be a BIG BOY?!" And parents come and clap for me and tell me nice things even when I think I'm the worst teacher of all time and I've screwed up their precious child for all of eternity. I receive gifts and meaningful letters that make me choke up because people believe that I made a difference. That is the best part of teaching.

So I give them back reluctantly. I'm reminded that they'll leave me and I've spent more time with them than some of their parents. And I'll forget them and they'll forget me...except for when we run into each other years down the road and for a brief second, we'll remember antics and the most special and formative year in school.