I Want It That Way. Ann Aguirre

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      While I prepared, Mrs. Trent said, “Okay, time to clean up.” They put away toys with the usual giggling and pushing, nothing serious. She had the routine down.

      “I have to potty,” a little girl said.

      “Yep, it’s that time,” I answered with a glance at Mrs. T. “Should I get that started?”

      “Please.”

      It was a lot easier than in the twos, where there might be diaper changes. In here, the kids went by themselves, but would occasionally come out with pants around their ankles, and I set them to rights then helped them wash their hands at the tiny sink. Getting nineteen pre-K kids to pee and clean up took twenty minutes, minimum.

      “All right, everyone, get your nap-time bags from your cubbies and get on your cots. I’ll read one story, then it’s lights out.” Mrs. Trent motioned toward the cupboards.

      Nobody complained, though Sam looked worried. Maybe he’s scared of the dark? I felt like telling him that it wouldn’t be pitch-black in here, even with the blinds partly closed. The goal was to relax the kids, not freak them out through sensory deprivation. But he went obediently to his cubby and pulled down a tiny Hulk backpack, then he carried it to a cot near the windows. The kids didn’t seem to have assigned spots, and there was only a little bickering before they got out pint-size pillows and blankets. A few had stuffed animals, and I stifled a smile when Sam dragged out his dog-eared bear. As they got comfortable, Mrs. Trent produced a copy of Crazy Town Upside Down.

      She was a fantastic reader, exciting and expressive. I noted some things I’d like to incorporate in my own teaching style. Though I’d be working with older students, some might have a similar mental age. Once she closed the book, I went around doing tuck-ins as she turned on a soothing CD. Next she pulled the blinds three-quarters closed and I hit the lights. The room was pleasantly dim, but I could still see all of the little faces. Some of them closed their eyes right away; others were obviously wrigglers who would be begging to get up in fifteen minutes.

      Mrs. Trent and I moved off to a corner, where we sat on a pile of rugs. From this vantage point, we could spot potential trouble before it got out of hand. I started to whisper a question, but she held up a hand and gave me a notebook, instead. Good thinking. Our talk would only encourage the kids to chatter instead of sleep.

      So I wrote, What do we do with those who refuse to nap?

      She replied, Wait half an hour, then give them a book. Per regs, they have to rest quietly for two hours. We can’t make them sleep.

      Gotcha.

      She added, Usually, I go to lunch now, but I’ll stay for the first hour, until most of them fall asleep.

      Okay, thanks.

      If a kid gives you problems after I leave, rub his back. That sometimes works. If it escalates to tantrum territory, call me. Then she scrawled her number. I’ll come in to regulate.

      The kids were fine, though. Fifteen of them dropped off in the first twenty minutes, and another succumbed as Mrs. Trent slipped out to take a well-deserved break. As if that was his cue, Sam popped up on his cot. Oooh, you little faker.

      He peered around the room. “Nadia?”

      I navigated through sleeping children, afraid he’d wake them up, and it would be a huge, chaotic mess when Mrs. Trent got back. Kneeling down beside him, I whispered, “What is it?”

      “I can’t sleep. There’s too much breathing.”

      “Do you want to look at a book?” If I’d known he was still awake, I’d have offered him one earlier.

      “Okay.”

      He was close enough to the window that I wasn’t worried about his eyesight. I got him the book Mrs. Trent had read earlier, thinking it might help if he was familiar with it, since I didn’t have a clear sense of Sam’s reading aptitude. Some four-year-olds could sound out words like first graders—others were still struggling to remember what sound each letter made.

      “Can you sit next to me?”

      Without answering, I slid down, wedged between Sam and the wall. I could still see all the other kids, though. He turned onto his stomach and opened the book. At this point, I wasn’t sure it was even worth trying, but I followed Mrs. Trent’s advice and rubbed his back in little circles. Honest to God, I was surprised when he shoved the book to the side and flopped on his pillow. Sam gave me a sleepy smile and then closed his eyes. His breath evened out, joining the rest of the class. It was silly how happy it made me, as if I’d scaled Everest or invented a lifesaving vaccine.

      On tiptoe, I went back to the carpet pile, and when Mrs. Trent flipped the lights on, the kids were bright-eyed, ready to put their stuff away. She got them settled for snack while I wiped down and put away the cots. Afterward, another potty break, and then they lined up so they could take their turn playing outside. In a month or so, this ritual would include jackets, then hats and scarves, and eventually, they’d lose outdoor playtime to frosty weather. Usually, I’d have been pulled away by now, so it was interesting to see how routine made things easier.

      Mrs. Trent led them out the side door and onto the playground. I came last to make sure nobody was left behind. Sam immediately ran for the slide while some kids raced for the swings, and others jumped on wobbly bees and dragonflies. I circulated, giving a push here, admiring a rock there, until the break was over. When we took them inside, it was almost four, and time for more face-and hand-washing.

      While I set out crayons and pictures to color, Mrs. Trent sat down to write up her daily reports, detailing any problems or milestones. I got the kids settled and sat with them while they created masterpieces for their parents, who started arriving half an hour later. I shook a lot of hands, confirmed that I would be replacing Elaine part-time and made people happy by confessing that I was a college junior, studying education. By 5:15 p.m. we were down to thirteen students, and Sam was one of them.

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