After three years of this, I can still be surprised.
Today a boy with a braided pony tail got his head plastered tight to the gym wall because the velcro for holding protective pads to the wall really liked the frizz on his braid.
This was my last shift in the preschool before heading west for about five months. Taking a long break always raises the prospect that I may see none of these children again. The kids know I'm going, but I doubt it's any different to them than the usual news I won't be back until next week.
Families come and go, so there's no guarantee a child will be in the classroom next week, either.
Still, after they leave the shelter, we might meet. Two weeks ago on the aquarium field trip, we ran into a brother and sister who were in another school now. It was fun because they'd been away such a short time and they recognized me before I saw them. If six months had passed, they might not have remembered me at all.
That's part of the deal.
We're all living in the moment in the classroom. Four year olds do that as a matter of course. The adults have a longer perspective, but our influence over the future is still fairly limited, and in a homeless shelter, the sense of impermanence is heightened.
For me, at least, there's a constant push-pull of giving all I can without becoming too attached.
Today two mothers brought their boys to enroll in class and another couple came by to make sure their son was behaving himself. He's impulsive: throws toys, kisses girls, slaps himself when he's frustrated and says "excuse me" when he wants my attention.
Except when he's saying, "hey you!"
We played around with hey you a bit. I told him it wasn't my name and I wasn't going to answer to it. Of course that meant he did it even more for awhile, but after he tired of the joke he started calling me Charlie.
Another boy who's been in class longer has some trouble with his speech. He calls me Chalky, which today seems to fit my grey head more than usual.
Because I am about to become a ghost.
