I started teaching in March, subbing for a teacher in a Montessori toddler community who had a medical emergency. "Can Cassidy come, too?" was all I needed to know when the job was pitched to me. We've been there together ever since. Not the ideal situation, but great to get my foot in the door, and honestly, we were both getting bored being home.
The awesome thing about being a teacher in the class your child is in is that you get a whole different perspective on who your child is in social community situations. The horrible thing about being a teacher in the class your child is in is that you get a whole different perspective on who your child is in social community situations. I have witnessed my child paint her face purple, run out of the classroom and book ass down the hallway countless times, pull her slippers and socks off and refuse to put them back on, and scream "I WANT SNACK NOWWWWWW!!!!!" This past week, the last of school, I happen to know how poorly she has been sleeping. I happen to know that she's going through some growth spurt, as she complains about her knees and legs hurting. I wanted to put a sign around her neck saying "please forgive me, I'm very tired."
I mostly have a sense of humor about all of it. After so many years of teaching preschool, I am practiced in patience and acceptance. And I have the utmost for children who are not my own. But today, the third time Cassidy hauled ass through the door and down the hallway, I implored Drew, the lead teacher, to please go after her. I could not play teacher anymore, I was straight up mom. I wanted to leash her.
At pick up, parents always ask how the day was. And what we say is that the days were good, or great, or that the children had "really high energy," which means most likely that we are really glad the day is over. There are children that grate at us, screaming or running or spinning and creating a vortex for the other children to join in, and things get chaotic. As it should be: for the most part, this is totally age appropriate behavior, and we are trained and practiced at riding these waves. One of the children has fierce tantrums, which is no news to her parents, and I am not reactive when she melts down lying down on the floor in a fit. We let her know we're there if/when she needs us, and let her go. The other children step around her, totally accepting of it, no big deal.Most of the time when Cassidy chucks things across the room or puts toys and materials in her mouth, I redirect her, know it's appropriate behavior for her age, and find it all amusing. Other times I am astonished: this is my kid? MY kid? What the hell is she doing?
All of this, and at the same time, I am fiercely proud of my girl. I am proud of her spirit, her testing, her pushing, her questing. I suppose if she were just this good girl who followed the rules and pushed no limits, this would all be easier. But in the process of this self construction, no matter how humbling in front of other parents when she runs away saying "I leaving you, Mommy!" when I tell her it's time to go home, she is who she is, she will be who she will be, and starting in the fall, she will be in her own classroom with her own teachers, and I will be in mine.
