According to my teaching certificate, I am allowed to teach sixth graders. Just because you are allowed to do something, doesn't mean you should really do it. I learned that a long time ago. Just because I'm allowed to play the bagpipes, doesn't mean I should.
I never had the misconception that I was cut out to teach younger children, but I used to think that if the situation demanded it, I could handle it. About ten years ago, I was trying to make some bucks working as a part time substitute teacher in between college classes. The secretary called me to work an afternoon in a fifth grade classroom. Easy breeezy, I thought. I sauntered in, whipped off the grammar lesson, but then the rest of the afternoon was completely downhill. After much chasing, crying, running, screaming, lying, taunting, and scheming from 30 ten-year-olds, the final bell rang. They left. Quickly. It was the most efficient part of the afternoon. All of them were out the door by the time the buzzing of the bell had stopped. Then I looked around the room and realized that they had not put anything away. I was used to older kids who had lockers and took all their crap with them. Elementary school kids keep all their stuff in their desks, but most of these kids had kind of scattered everything around their desks on the floor. Most left their lids up. It was a mess. I left. I didn't even try to tidy up. What went where? Who knew. All I knew was that these kids were jerks, and I did not intend to see them again until they had their own lockers.
I had mostly forgotten about that story until today when I took Duncan to the Hands-On Museum in Ann Arbor. We walked in, ready for an exciting afternoon of science and hand-ons-eness. The friendly guy at the counter took my money and recommended that we would be most comfortable in the preschool room on the second floor, so we headed up there.
The preschool room was kind of a joke. It was a lot like Duncan's bedroom, but bigger, and it had a water table, and there were a lot of random children there. There was no museum-y qualities to the room except for maybe the docent sitting at the front desk to make sure--what?---that no one stole any of the puzzles with half the pieces missing? Duncan and I quickly figured out that we were destined for greater parts of the museum, but I encouraged him to stay and play for a while. I didn't want the docent to think we were too flighty and pat us down for stolen Legos on our way out. Anyways, I was enjoying being around the other moms. Not that I was talking to any of them. I don't really have an urge to socialize with moms I don't already know. But I do like to feel young, and that's exactly how these moms were making me feel. Comparatively, my clothes and haircut were hip because most of them had a good ten years on me, and this never happens. Normally, when I'm out on the playground with Duncan, I seem closer in age to the grandmas than the moms, which is downright depressing. I was soaking this in for a good ten minutes trying to make sure the sunlight coming through the windows was hitting my cheekbone just right so the other moms could appreciate how few wrinkles I had. I hope they talked about me after I left.
Next, we made our way out into the real museum. I don't know what that loser at the desk was talking about. The exhibits out in the rest of the museum were much better than the preschool room. Duncan was having a blast. I was enjoying all the sciencey crap, learning about electricity and all that jazz, and that's when it happened. I could see them first pushing their way through the swinging cafeteria doors. Then I could hear them. A dull roar like a swarm of angry bees pushed forward. The elementary school groups were being released from the museum lunch room. Some were still fatigued from gorging themselves on pizza and baloney sandwiches, but there were others who were clearly in pre-tornado mode. One boy in particular had skin like milk...so pale it was almost transparent. He had a ring of color around his mouth from whatever candy had been his lunch. No doubt his mother just packed him a one pound sack of Pixie Stix. His spindly arms and legs were in constant motion and he was gearing up to come towards us. He couldn't wait to get to the hands-ons part of the day. The parent chaperone reminded him to wait for the rest of the group, but he broke free and she was powerless. The rest of them took their cue from the Sugar King, and I could see that the herd would soon be upon us. I scooped up Duncan and my mind flashed back to the warm, safe preschool room which would have been off-limits to this group of hooligans. The guy at the desk was no dummy after all.
Then I remembered that I am sometimes smarter than 5th graders, and took Duncan up to the next floor. Up we went, leaving the dull roar behind us. Each time we heard them coming too close, we went up a floor and had the place all to ourselves for about three minutes before they would start trickling in with an unwilling chaperone lagging behind calling, "Jimmy, Kaiden! Wait! We're not...okay, well, don't break that, you...um..." That's when the abuse would start. Duncan would be blissfully playing away with whatever and the boys...the boys would ALWAYS be the first ones up....would simply push him out of the way and take over. I tried to communicate with them, but it was no use. Their eyes were glazed over in a sugar daze and I could see them thinking go, go, go, faster, push, break, bang, go, run, spin, jump, go, go, go.
I saw the Sugar King himself a few more times. The Sugar King rarely stayed at one station longer than 1.2 seconds. The longest amount of time he spent at anything was when he got into the the ambulance. They have a full-sized real ambulance at the museum that the kids can play in. Somehow, seeing your three year old in the back of a real ambulance, even if he is playing, is unsettling. Especially when the Sugar King is driving. The Sugar King took charge, knocking a little girl out to the ground, he climbed in to the driver's seat and nearly ripped the steering wheel off. He push all the buttons at once and the ambulance responding by sirening, beeeping, and honking simultaneously. Since that did not have the effect that the Sugar King hoped for, the Sugar King stuck his head out the door like a New York cabbie and shouted GET OUTTA THE WAY!! Duncan stared up at the Sugar King, and I really don't blame him. Neither of us had ever seen anyone quite like him.
So, on we went. When we hit the top floor, there was no where left to go. They were everywhere. So, we headed for the bathroom on our way out. That's when I noticed the most foolish sign I've ever seen in my life. It hung over the small sink, clearly intended for children. Nine steps---NINE---to washing your hands. Hand washing was supposed to be an easy process, or so I thought. I was intrigued. How could hand washing possibly be broken down to so many steps? Then I saw it, step number six. It said, "Clean under your nails. If you have a nailbrush, use it." I pictured the Sugar King actually stopping long enough to wash his hands after using the bathroom. Then, I tried to picture him reading the sign...all nine steps. Then, I imagined him fishing a nailbrush out of his cargo pants, and I laughed out loud. At that moment, one of the preschool room moms was ushering her daughter out of the bathroom and looked at me strangely since I clearly should not have been amused by the hand washing sign. But she didn't know about the nailbrush instructions, so I just smiled a bit too much just to show that I could still do so without crow's feet showing up.
