Last week we had 18 kids, and most days, the two teachers have to manage without volunteers. Believe me, a 1/9 teacher-to-preschooler ratio is two-and-a-half handfuls, especially when the kids are still not fully socialized and are coming from stressful conditions.
"K" and his younger sister are both in my class. He's the biggest kid by far, so it's good that he's relatively gentle. He was standing at the bottom of slide, blocking it, and another kid banged into him. The slider bounced to the ground and started crying. I told K he wasn't supposed to do that — it wasn't safe — and then he cried much longer than the other kid.
"M" is four and already can express the body language of a strutting gang banger. I hope his talent turns out to be mimicry instead of violence.
I'm not just trying to head off confrontations during the day. I also look for kids doing things right. Some days, I don't see one worthy event. When we catch them doing peaceful things — sharing toys, giving hugs, helping each other — a link is added to a paper peace chain in their honor. When the peace chain reaches the floor — about 30 links long— the class gets to watch a movie.
(The movies are my least favorite activity, but provide an ultimate payoff to the kids and they do give the teachers a guaranteed quiet time. Two weeks ago we watched a Bob the Builder cartoon that was loaded with recycling propaganda and a simplistic story line in which Bob comes up with a community master plan in one day to win a design competition.)
"S" is a good, smart kid and an expressive singer. She was comforting a friend who went into I-want-my-mommy meltdown mode. Definite peace chain move. And "J," one of the youngest and newest kids who is already on a behavior plan that will get her removed from class if she doesn't respond, did a beautiful job greeting and including a new kid who was wandering aimlessly around the classroom. My second nomination for the day.
Except before the time came to award them, J ran off the rails and S decided it would be fun to be disruptive, too, so J ended up going home with her mom and S took a time out.
After our morning meeting, the kids who listen well get a stamp from the teacher. "JL" didn't get one, and he was distraught, protesting his exclusion as unfair. In these cases, the teachers make the call, and I always defer to their authority, so I tried to help him understand what he needed to do to earn a stamp. He wasn't buying it.
A couple hours later, when it was time to leave the playground and go to lunch, "JL" was hiding out under the climbing equipment. My job is to round up any straggler without turning it into a chase, so I quietly told him, "This is why you didn't get a stamp."
He looked at me and said, "Oh, okay," and went over to the line.
Each day there are variations of these tiny struggles, with different kids and unpredictable outcomes. Because the children are only here as long as they are staying in the shelter, we don't know how long we'll have to work with them. I've seen kids only once, some have gone and come back, and a rare few have stayed longer than a year.
Each time I arrive, it's a new group, with a new set of challenges, and my role as a volunteer is to be sort of a sixth man, bringing in some energy off the bench and spelling the teachers.
I know our team is behind, but I never know how much time is left on the clock.
