Adventures in Teaching
Sunday, September 29th, 2002Originally posted by Anna E.
The co-op schedules various emergency drills throughout the year so we’re prepared for any crisis. September’s drill was a fire drill, so that involves going outside. The boss sits out in her car and calls the center from her cell phone and tells us to evacuate. I had prepared the kids for the drill earlier in the morning, but then it had started raining, so I assumed that Debbie would postpone the drill until Monday or Tuesday. Nope. She called during Learning Center time. I had the dramatic play center open, which involves dress-up clothes. (I also had the block center, writing center, and puzzle center open, but
that isn’t important to the story.)
It is sprinkling and looking rather ominous when Debbie calls at around 10:50. I reluctantly gather up the kids from their centers (they weren’t happy with me–Center time is their favorite part of the day). I immediately realize I’m missing someone–quick roster check–it’s Tia. I send the line (OK, chaotic huddle–we’re working on a line, but haven’t mastered it yet) of preschoolers outside with the other adults and race through the house to find the missing child.
Then I discover Tia. She’s sitting on the toilet. Tia is very close to being potty-trained, but still not there yet. She’s very proud of herself for going on her own initiative…she beams at me as I run in and says, “Wook, Miss Nanna, I’m going poopoo in da potty!” I try to lift her off the toilet (how do you explain a fire drill to a delayed three-year old?) and she lets out a bloodcurdling scream, “I’M NOT DONE YET!!” Well, what am I to do? The boss is outside, watching, waiting, and likely evaluating me as a teacher to decide if I’m trustworthy…
I decide since it’s our first drill of the year, Debbie will cut me some slack and won’t get too angry. So I let Tia finish (gosh, how long does it take her to go?) and explain that we would come back and wipe in a few seconds (she’s still in Pull-Ups, so it wasn’t a big deal). We race out into the main room of the house…and I notice that poor Thomas has been left behind, busy playing in the dress-up center. He’s oblivious that the class has left him (oblivion is a common state for him). Secretly, I suspect that he was left behind for a reason; I think everyone wanted a good laugh at watching me wrestle with him. Thomas is a little…odd. The co-op has a bet going that he will be gay in 20 years. He’s definitely a WLK (early childhood abbreviation for “weird little kid”). He likes to play dress-up and do hair and pretend to put on make-up and all. When he’s dressed up, he also walks like a girl, doing the hip walk. Anyway, Thomas is all decked out in a long purple skirt and bright red high heels. He is busy admiring his reflection in the classroom mirror and pretending to put on lipstick and fix his hair. Unfortunately, Thomas also has a temper and a bit of a problem transitioning. Most of my kids have transitioning problems because they’re little and are special ed, but Thomas is particularly difficult to transition. So I know he will be traumatized for the rest of the month if I yank him out of his high heels. I try to explain to him that we’re going outside and I’m met with a blank stare (by this point, we’ve been inside for several minutes after the alert and have no doubt perished in the pseudo-fire). No time to transition smoothly–especially since Thomas knows that we normally don’t go outside at preschool. So I grab his hand and try to pull him with Tia and I. He keeps stumbling in his high heels. We’re not getting anywhere. I tell him to take his shoes off…and he starts yelling that he doesn’t want to. I get desperate and pick him up with my remaining arm. (I’ve got Tia under the other arm because she tends to randomly fall over a lot and I don’t want to risk her falling in front of the boss-lady.) Finally, I head outside of the house with two armfuls of children. Debbie was about to come in after me…but then starts laughing hysterically. I guess it did look pretty funny. Here I am, holding a little girl who keeps tugging at her rear end because I yanked her shorts up without ensuring the Pull-Up was in proper position. I suspect her shorts were twisted and her diaper not fully in workable order. Then I have Thomas tucked under the other arm, dressed in a skirt that’s pulled up to his armpits and red pumps, still screaming because I didn’t give him adequate warning of the scenery change. I put Tia down and instruct her to go down the hill to MS. Lynn, the speech teacher. She (for once) complies without needing multiple repetitions, leaving me to fanagle with Thomas. She pulled at her shorts the whole way down the hill, but at least she listened. I put Thomas down because he’s about to either kick me or bite me; I can’t figure out which. Neither one seems inviting, particularly since he’s wearing high heels, so I take his hand and firmly order him to walk. He tries–but the ground is so wet from the rain that his heels keep sinking into the ground. So I pick him up again and finally make it down to where the rest of the class is waiting…a whopping 7 minutes after the boss told me to evacuate.
To top off the whole experience, Debbie does remind me that I’ve not brought the emergency cards, the phone, or the first aid kit with me. I apologized and was forgiven. I suspect that had I not emerged with two preschoolers under my arms, I may have gotten in a bit of trouble. The sight, however, of one little guy in a skirt and heels and a little girl still mumbling “I still have a poopoo in my bottom!” exonerated me from any blame. I guess she realized she’d caught us in a bad time…and that it’d gotten worse because the kids knew there really wasn’t an emergency and were none too happy about being taken from their Learning Centers.
I told her next time to give me a time when she’s going to call a drill so we can be prepared. I know that that goes against the theory of a fire drill, but it’s the only way we can all get out in the time limit. Three year olds rarely move quickly when necessary (though they’re speedy when I’m trying to slow them down!), and special ed kids simply can’t handle the change without warning. In a real fire, I wouldn’t have let Tia finish and my aide would’ve gotten Thomas out already. I think they left him in for me to see and deal with. At least they all had a good laugh over it…and I did, too, after the incident was over and I realized how idiotic I must have looked with my two little darlings…
Then the afternoon session started with a different, and much quieter, group of kids. One of them, Ozzy, is autistic. I suspect he will eventually be very
high functioning. But for now, he is learning those skills to be able to participate in normal society. Ozzy has lots of sensory issues (I guess I shouldn’t be talking considering I’m also tactile defensive, don’t have tags in any of my clothing, avoid play-dough, and couldn’t eat pudding until college because of the texture). His issues always make for interesting stories. We had jello for snack (another food I used to avoid because of the texture). He actually ate it and enjoyed it–I was surprised. Well, Ozzy can’t stand elastic. He was wearing sweatpants–I’m surprised they were still on. Ozzy tends to strip in the car on the way to school and undresses at least 3 times during my session. Anyway, he had one hand continuously stretching out the elastic waistband. While one hand was repeatedly pulling his pants off his waist, the other hand was attempting to steer the spoonful of jello into his mouth. I should also mention that he won’t let the spoon touch his palm, so he has poor feeding skills because he can’t get leverage from his palm. He was carefully aiming the spoon of jello towards his mouth while stretching out his pants. *bloop* The jello slides off his spoon and *plop* lands the exact moment he has his pants stretched off his body. So the poor kid got jello all over his…well, you know what body part I’m thinking of. He looks shocked and horrified for a few seconds and then starts screaming bloody murder. I’ve already got my rag (I am prepared when I supervise snacktime!) to wipe it up and I’m making my way over to his chair. Before I can get there, Ozzy starts frantically rubbing the spot through his sweatpants. I assume it was to spread the gooeyness around so it wasn’t centered over his…, but I don’t know what goes on in his mind. Ozzy has the jello completely mooshed around under his pants. It’s starting to ooze out through his pants. Needless to say, I had to clean up the poor little guy after that. He certainly didn’t enjoy having me wipe him up (particulary in the crotch area), but I think he was relieved to get the jello out of his…
So I have a crossdresser in the morning class and a kid who got jello down his pants in the afternoon session. Teaching is certainly an adventure!
All names changed.

