Chapter 4
Jill: Lord, that is one fine man.
Kristi: That meeting was interesting, huh?
Marvin: OMG was I horrible?
Kristi: No, I mean because we were all gobsmacked.
Jill: That man can butter my biscuit any time.
Marvin: You’re married.
Jill: Hey, looking is free!
Our first day back unfolds better than anticipated. Partly because I’d known my one coffee at home wouldn’t suffice, and stopped for an extra cup. But also, the kids, with some reminders, remember so much. They all seem a little older, a little taller, a little more mature. A few children step up to help Illona navigate her new surroundings. In particular, Cynthia (please don’t call her Cindy, thank you very much), a quiet little girl with dark brown hair that’s always in elaborate braids I’m sure require enormous amounts of time and effort to achieve, takes Illona under her wing. They hold hands most of the day, and beyond the sweetness factor, Cynthia seems thrilled to have someone to show the ropes to.
At one point, I glance at the library area, and the girls are lying on the carpet reading The Very Hungry Caterpillar . We’ve read this story many times as a class. It’s dear to my heart, and seeing Cynthia read every word to Illona with such verve fills me with joy. I check in with Illona numerous times, and by the time our mid-morning snack rolls around, it almost feels like she’s been in our class all along.
“Teacher! Can you help open my fruit snacks?” It might take her a day or two to get my name down.
“I’m Mr. Block,” I say in the kindest tone possible.
“Oh, sorry! Mr. Block, can you help me with my fruit snacks… please?”
“Of course I can. I’m going to show you how to open them yourself, so you won’t need help from anyone. How’s that sound?”
Her face scrunches up, and she gives me a sure-teacher-I-just-met look.
“Watch me.” I take the package from her tiny hands. “To open most snacks, you can use the pinch and pull method. You pinch each side of the package.” I demonstrate up close. “Pull as hard as you can.” I begin to pull but stop just short of the packet ripping open. “Now you try it.” I hand it back to her and begin voicing over the instructions as she tries it.
“Pinch.”
She pinches.
“Now, pull.”
Nothing happens.
“Pull harder, as hard as you can.”
She takes a deep breath, gives it all she’s got, and as if by magic, it pops open. Illona’s eyes light up as if I’ve just shown her one of the great secrets of the universe.
“Want one?” She offers me a yellow fruit snack.
“Sure, thank you!” I pop it in my mouth as she watches me. “Oh, banana, not my favorite,” I say with a rumpled face.
She lets out a genuine laugh, and hearing her giggle from her core, for the first time, only a couple of hours into our first day together, I’m reminded of the complete joy of kindergarteners. She has her father’s smile, and it illuminates the room. Soon the other children join in, creating a chorus of laughter.
“Mr. Block isn’t a banana fan, but I am!” Ricky shouts, making his banana into a phone and eliciting more chuckles from the room. It’s my goal to model at least an openness to trying new foods and not proclaiming hate for any food in front of my students, but bananas are the one food I can’t stomach. Something about the smell makes me nauseous; if I get too close to one, my gag reflex kicks in. I had taken the risk, eating the fruit snack for Illona, hoping it was lemon or pineapple, but also knowing I could stomach artificial banana flavor much easier than real ones.
In the afternoon, Illona joins Cynthia and a few others at the crafting table during Choice Time. Today, they’ve landed on cutting scrap construction paper and creating collages. Glancing over, I notice Illona struggling.
“Can you pass me the scissors?” I ask.
She glances at me curiously.
“The scissors. I want to help you.”
Illona twists the tiny scissors in her hand, her chubby fingers wrap around the closed blade, and the handle faces out.
“Now, watch me. The key is to move the paper, not your scissors,” I begin.
I wrangle my adult fingers into the child-sized scissors and slowly start cutting into the paper. As I cut, I move the paper, keeping my hand stationary to create a circle.
“See how much easier this is? Now you try.”
I return the scissors to Illona. She looks up at me, confused.
“Remember, your thumb goes in the smaller hole. Here. There you go. And your other fingers in here. Now thumb up!”
Illona follows my directions methodically, and I wait for her after each step. As she cuts an irregular circle, more of a lopsided oval, her tongue pokes out of the right side of her mouth. Finishing, she proudly holds up her creation.
“Nice work.” I pat her on the shoulder, and she leans her head back and grins.
Small steps. Small shifts. Patience. Building relationships with children happens in small moments.
By the time our day begins to wind down, Illona has held my hand and hugged me multiple times. It’s time for her to pick a book to take home for the week, and she holds up the well-worn cover of The Very Hungry Caterpillar , her face beaming.
“This one.”
“Oh, you’ve picked one of my favorites.”
She simply nods and dips her smiling face into her shoulder.
Another part of the pure magic of kindergarten. Children learn very quickly. My main goal is for them to feel welcome, safe, and loved. The learning that takes place is merely icing on the cake. Relationships come first. Only then can I begin to teach them.
As we sit on the rug, I read them a silly story about dust bunnies, and we all giggle until we’re interrupted by Jean reading the dismissal announcements over the intercom. Once the children taking buses depart, I line up and bring those being picked up by a family member to the back entrance. Approaching the pickup area, I spot Olan Stone immediately, standing near the back doors, waiting. His hair now hides under a Sea Dogs baseball hat, and he looks like he’d rather be getting a root canal than waiting with all these curious moms. If he’s trying to distract from his looks by wearing a cap, he’s failing miserably. I wonder what the pickup mothers think of him. Sure, they aren’t mobbing him with platitudes, but they’re definitely staring. More than a few appear to be huddled together, chattering. Illona still holds my hand as we walk, but upon seeing her father, sprints over and wraps herself around his thick thighs. I can’t say I blame her.
“Princess, did you have a good day?” The moment Olan sees his daughter, a shift takes place. He lifts her up and gathers her in his arms, and she wraps her legs around his waist, causing his burgundy fleece to ride up just enough to show a sliver of skin. Damn. There I go wanting to lick him again.
“I had so much fun! We went to Art, and I made a sculpture with clay, and we played games inside for recess because it was too cold, and I played Candy Land, and I won, and I made a new friend, and she held my hand and read me a story, and I have the book in my backpack, and everyone was so nice, especially Mr. Block.”
“Wow, sounds like you had a busy day.”
“She’s probably going to be exhausted tonight. I know I will be.” I chuckle at my own joke. Olan glances my way and gives a little grin. That punim. And that smile. Can I bottle it up and keep it for times I’m anxious or sad or just need a pick-me-up?
“Illona, can you share the book with your dad tonight?”
She nods quickly.
“I’ll see you in the morning.” I throw her a wave.
“Hey, thank you. For everything.” Olan puts his hand out for a shake.
And there it is. Another chance for skin-to-skin contact. Clumsily, I wipe my hand on my pants and reach out. Our hands touch, and he wraps his long, strong fingers around my palm and squeezes just hard enough to show me he’s a master at the art of the handshake.
“I truly appreciate it.”
His eyes home in on mine, and I feel a warmth coming from his hand and entire body. He holds on a second or two longer than I expect, and my insides take a little tumble. I’m keenly aware of the gaggle of moms watching us, and I pull my hand away a little more abruptly than I want to.
“Okay, I will see you tomorrow, Illona,” I interrupt, hoping he’ll be back again too. “There’s some paperwork in her blue folder for you.” I glance up at him quickly, stealing one more look. “Some nitty-gritty information for you, all my contact info, email, and cell phone, so if you have any questions, don’t hesitate to reach out. I’m here for you. The blue folder goes back and forth daily. Please check it, and I’ll do the same.”
Not every teacher gives out their cell number, but honestly, it avoids more problems than it causes. A simple question, concern, or issue can be addressed more quickly and easily through text than email or returning a phone call the next day. It’s meant for emergencies, although what each family defines as an emergency varies. Will I heat up your child’s ravioli in the teacher’s room microwave at lunch? Not an emergency. In all my years doing this, I’ve never had anyone abuse it, but with how he’s looking at me with his dark umber eyes, I almost wish he would.
“Got it, thanks again,” and I swear, by all that is mighty and good in this world, Olan Stone gives me a little blink-and-you’d-miss-it wink. My pulse quickens, and I close my eyes to steady myself. How can a simple wink from this man make my insides turn to complete mush?