Last Friday, I’d volunteered to help in the classroom. A clay project. The kids were making picture frames and they’d be excited if I could join them. The last time I’d helped with one of my son’s schoolroom projects was back in kindergarten, where I’d been assigned to a table of ten kids at a time, rotating constantly. My job that time had been to supervise the scooping of pumpkin seeds from fresh pumpkins, have the kids separate the seeds from the pulp, wash them perfectly clean, and then dry them so they could be placed in an envelope for planting in the spring.
It was immediately clear to me that this particular kindergarten teacher had no sense of reality, and I spent the next two hours keeping boys from whipping pumpkin slime in each others hair and convincing squeamish girls to stick their hands into the pumpkin. Any progress that I did think we were making was immediately rebuked by the teacher. “Those seeds aren’t clean enough. They need to be cleaner.” I smiled and returned to my job. Seeds shot across the room by the handful.
The idea, I guess, was for the children to see the source of the seeds, clean them, store them, and then return to them in the spring, so that they could plant them into egg cartons. It was a grand idea. An agricultural marvel. I sloshed through the pumpkin with the kids, doing what I could to contain the natural disaster, all the time thinking that the pumpkin was probably a hybrid. The seeds, most likely, would not produce pumpkins like the parent. But I had a job and kept my mouth shut.
Friday went better. Third graders are much better at projects then kindergartners. I marveled at the teacher’s ability to go over the instructions. I audibly gasped at her proficiency in silencing errant talkers by simply looking up. The kids giggled at my foolishness, and as I looked around, I recognized several faces from the failed seed project three years earlier. My eyes twitched, but I told myself that clay beats pumpkin seeds any day of the week. I couldn’t let them see my weakness. Everything would be okay.
I think that third grade boys pay more attention to women then I did when I was that age, although I wouldn’t necessarily say that it’s a good thing. They smirk and joke, but I’m not convinced they know what they’re talking about. And I don’t remember any girls wearing makeup when I was in third grade, although I suppose they could have and I just didn’t notice. I did wonder if any of the girl’s classmates could have told you that she had makeup on, or whether that was something that still was outside of their focus. The other little girls surely knew, but what about the boys? I kind of doubt it.
Today I return to the classroom for yet another project. I forget what it is, but I remember it sounded easier then clay. Something with paper. I don’t even know why they needed my help.
And tomorrow is the great train caper. An entire pod of my son’s school, which amounts to about 150 students, will be taking the Amtrak train on a short ride north, then return by bus. And yes, I will be there. Part observer, part first-time train passenger, part time chaperone. I will help herd the children. I will keep them organized and in line. Mostly, I will just hope that the train is not running behind schedule. I mean, what do you do with 150 kids in the cold and rain on a train platform?
Update:
I have, of course, been duped. Dropping the boy off at school, I find out that this afternoon’s paper project is really another clay project. Another afternoon spent repeating the clay volunteers mantra: “Okay, careful. Now remember, you don’t want to cut all the way thro . . . ooooohhhh. I think we can fix that.”