Mother Hen.

She opened the door; I had been to this room before. I took my first test here. I looked at the waist-high tables that surrounded the room. How would the sit at such high tables? And so many of those at that. At least six along the length of the room and three at the end. They formed a familiar U-shape around the room. Looking at the tables, surely their legs would dangle and sway all around. Even at my *cough* adult height, I just reached the floor when seated at these tables. What about little six-year-old legs?

 

“They will sit there.”

 

Her voice broke my daydream. I looked to where she was pointing. There was a baby table in the middle of the U-shape. A safe distance from any of the tall tables. Bright blue. I like blue. But I was starting to feel a lump of dread in my throat.

 

For one, the table (well, tables actually; there were three to be exact.) was very low; which to me indicated just how “tiny” my students would be. I tried to chase away the fidgety feelings that came to my mind. Only for today, I told myself. I patted the two lions I had in my bag. Hopefully that will buy me some time if the need arises.

 

Six-year-olds are difficult enough. But I knew it was all false pretenses. The ones that came in seemed smaller and smaller as they came. I suspect some of them were four. But I didn’t want to ask. I didn’t want the answer. Six-year-olds are difficult enough.

 

First up: spelling. The thing about not knowing the capability of a group of children is that you risk them getting scared and shutting down. The last thing I wanted was a child bawling because he/she couldn’t spell the word I wanted. I glanced at the word list that was thrust in my hands a few minutes ago: BOX. Ah, seems like an easy enough word. But wait, they are quite small. Do they know their alphabets yet? Well, at any rate, they wrote their own names fast enough.

 

“So who can spell for me the word BOX”

 

What I expected was a torrent eager voices chanting the three letters again and again. What I received, were six serious pairs of eyes looking into the air in front of their noses. Deep in thought, I see. Oh Lord, if BOX gets this response, what will happen when I ask for (I glance at the list and the lump in my throat raises to my eyeballs) ELBOW? I sent silent curses at my colleague. You….what have you done….*dramatic over-the-shoulder with menacing/betrayed look*

 

After much trial and tribulation, I finally manage to coax the spelling for box from the little ones. As a *cough* slightly below average height full grown adult, these little totters stood no higher than my waist. Most of them disappeared if I went on the other side of the tall tables. Silent curses escape my thoughts once again.

 

I realize that they need to see the word, especially if I expected them to write it down. I turned. Again, another silent curse floats in my thoughts. Not only is the whiteboard 3 meters away (a great distance when you are talking about a class of 6 totters), but in the middle of the path there was a large teacher’s table blocking the way. I would have to write high up and in big block letters to make sure the little totters would be able to see them at their little blue island here. Do small children have problems seeing things afar?

 

There was no way around it. The journey had to be made, and I was the one who had to make it. I huffed. Uncapped the marker in my hand. Placed my hands on the edge of the small blue table and pushed myself up.

 

 

 

 

Magic happened.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The little totters ceremoniously got up as well. Before I understood what was happening, they clumped to my sides. Not a word nor sound from the little totters. They were ready.

 

Together, we journeyed the two meters (many steps when you are traveling with little totters by your side, in front of you, and behind you, trying not to step on any little toes or walk too fast so as to leave any tot behind, or too slow that the tot in front got too far ahead) straight ahead, slight turning to the right to bypass the big teacher’s table, and finally we arrive to the whiteboard. Wanting the word to be in full view later on, I reach up high and write B-O-X in large block letters. The clump of little tots around my ceremoniously looked up to the word. But they could see nothing because of their tot-ness. They turn, take a few steps back. The teacher’s table is blocking the way. They go to the right side of the table, clump formation intact, and look up. They solemnly look up, repeat the word to themselves again and again.

 

Instinctively, I recapped my marker and joined the clump and together, we travelled back to our small blue island. They took their seats. I did not sit, but somehow they knew I was not going to leave them. So they remained seated, ready for the next lesson.

 

It so continued that, each time I stood to go to the board, they would ceremoniously make the journey with me. I wondered if they were afraid of me abandoning them and bolting out the door, or if this was common practice with their previous teacher, or if they just wanted to stretch their little legs, or if they somehow telepathically agreed that this was something they wanted to do with me. Perhaps this was how mother hens felt with her little chicks. Ducklings usually followed in a straight line. These were little chicks right here. Each one wanting a spot near Mother Hen.

 

And so it became, that they would reach the board, watch me write up high, then realize they couldn’t see the word, and have to turn back to the right side of the teacher’s table. Always the right side. Instinctively, I would rejoin the clump to bring them back to safety of our blue island.

 

One time, I felt a little curious and instead of rejoining the clump at the right side, I exited via the left side of the table. The clump, quickly reacting, cut me off at the end of the table, and united, we travelled back to our blue island. They were quite serious about it.

 

 

 

 

 

These are little joys, which make the dread just a little bit bearable. In fact, they make the whole ordeal kind of addictive.