The Perfect Gift

image courtesy of flickr

Today as I walked across the playground to my car, carrying a big box of treasures my little ones and their families had bestowed on me, I stared up at the pale sky and grinned at small miracles, like the joy of outside recess for the first time in weeks.

As I crossed the playground past wallball courts, one of my little boys, who stays for after school care, came tearing across the blacktop, running full speed and only stopping when his arms were tightly wrapped around my legs, like it had been years since we'd seen each other, instead of the short side of half an hour.

I adore this kid.  He's helpful and kind, smart and hilarious.  He excels in making armpit noises.  He's everything a kid should be.

Earlier in the week, he'd strutted into class and during the "Good News" portion of our Class Morning Meeting he'd showed off his new, fast shoes.

He lamented, "But, Mrs. McCauley, it's been raining forever and I'm never going to get to show you my fast shoes during P.E.  All I want to do is run and play."  He rested his head on my shoulder.

"Buddy, I'm with you.  All I want is for you to be able to run and play.  Believe me," I said with utter sincerity.  Sweet teacher friends, you know the desperation that arises after days on end of rain and no recess.  It's a visceral need akin to thirst or hunger.

As I balanced my box and he hugged my legs, he looked up at me and grinned, the windowed smile that is the hallmark of first grade.  This kid has freckles for days, smattered across his nose and cheeks.

"Have a merry Christmas," I leaned into him. 

"Merry Christmas, Mrs. McCauley.  I'm going to miss you."

For many of my little ones, the last day before Christmas break is a difficult day.  Being away from school, from friends, from teachers and librarians and aides and cooks and custodians who love them so much is hard.   This little one has a family who loves him, a warm house, food on the table, but still it's hard.  Two weeks is an eternity to a kid.

"I'm going to miss you, too, but I'll see you after vacation.  And then we'll tell each other all about the things we did,"  I assure him.

I felt him nodding his head against my leg.  He peeled away from me and walked a few steps before turning back toward me.  He swallowed hard.

"I love you, Mrs. McCauley."

He waited for me to say it back.  I always do.  I tell my kids all of the time, but still never enough, that I love them.

"I love you, too, buddy,"  I smiled.

He gave a last wave and ran toward the swings.  I watched his fast shoes splash through the puddles.

At home, I unpacked all of my gifts, filling two notepad pages with names and items for one of these lazy vacation mornings when I'll sit in my pajamas with a cup of tea and pen thank you notes.

As I sat under the light of my Christmas tree, I smiled because I knew I'd received a gift too big to be listed in a notebook, a gift so perfect that I'll be grateful for it long after I've penned my thanks for all the other kindnesses I received today.

The Itty Bitty Airball Queen

Friday was our school wide reading program finale.  The finale was a series of races and games.  There were jump rope relays, basketball relays, soccer relays, minute to win it games, hula hoop contests, scoot board races and a host of other challenges for my little ones to participate in.  It was a scream!  There were times when I was doubled over, laughing so hard that I was crying.  Balls were escaping, jump ropes were tangling, and all the while the first graders were clapping and cheering with abandon.

One of the harder games was a basketball shooting game.  Each kid stood at a line in the middle of the key and shot five baskets.  This is a supremely hard task for first graders.  That basket might as well be in the clouds.  One of my darling little girls-a teeny, tiny breath of a kid-was chosen for this game.  

She's an adorable kid.  When she gets excited about something, her blue eyes open wide and she flaps her arms.  I've seen her do this when reading her favorite books, when mastering particularly difficult math problems, when playing at recess and especially when she paints.

She stood at the line, basketball in hand, with a serious expression on her face.  She shot.  Air ball.  She scrunched up her face in concentration and shot again.  Air ball.  Her third and fourth shots arched through the air and again fell short.  

I bet you're thinking this is going to be one of those stories where she makes the fifth shot and does a victory lap around the gymnasium.

It's not.

Not one of her five shots even came close to grazing the net.  

Not a single one.

Back in the classroom after the reading program finale, we were gathered at the carpet talking about all the fun we had racing and cheering each other on.

My tiny airballer raised her hand to share.  "Mrs. McCauley, I was nervous about that basketball game because I've never played it before."

She paused and I waited, scripting in my mind words of encouragement or some sage advice about perseverance or something, anything to ease the sting.

Then she continued, the pitch of her voice rising to an exuberant squeal, her arms flapping in wild excitement, "I was nervous at first, but then I played the game and I was AWESOME at it!!!"

Wait, what?  

She explained, "I've never thrown a ball that high before.  I threw it really high five times."  She held up five fingers. 

My face broke into a huge grin, mirroring the smile on her own precious face.

What an idiot I am for thinking I needed to pepper her with my "sage advice".  As is so often the case, I found myself marveling at the unconventional wisdom my students. 

I'm so hard on myself when it comes to trying new things, so fearful and bound in nerves, so unwilling to try, lest I fail, or worse yet lest I fail in public.

The next time I'm facing a new challenge, I'm going to remember her face, scrunched up by every ounce of her concentration.  I'm going to remember her candor in admitting she was nervous and afraid.  But most of all I'm going to remember her wild, flapping arms and the triumph on her face for throwing the basketball higher than she ever has before.

She didn't make any baskets that day, and for that I'm grateful because if she had, I would've missed the lesson.  She didn't score any points, but one thing is for sure, my itty bitty airball queen is winning.

The Box

I was writing over here this week in response to a great prompt about unpacking.  It was a timely topic for me because just last week one of my little ones brought in a box and unpacked his most precious things to share with the class.

The Box

He sits in front of the class,

Feet dangling, kicking the legs of the chair.

He is never still,

Even in his sitting, there is motion.

____________________________________________________

Today is his day to bring special things.

He holds a hat box covered in faded demin,

The edges smudged with soot.

This is all I have.  It's one of my only things that didn't burn.

____________________________________________________
Ever so carefully he lifts the round lid

He pulls out a blue onesie,

Laying it in his open palm, rocking it back and forth in his arms

This is how my dad used to hold me.

____________________________________________________
He dangles his hospital bracelet,

Wraps it around two of his fingers,

Can you believe I was ever that little?

Yes, sweet boy, I believe you were once that small.




____________________________________________________
He lifts out a stack of greeting cards,

Searching through them until he finds the one his grandmother wrote,

Her words welcoming him to the world.

Will you help me read this one?  It's my favorite.

____________________________________________________


He scoots over on the chair and I sit beside him.

As the first words leave my lips, he ducks his head under my arm and reads.

He knows every word by heart,

Each period a tap of his toes.

____________________________________________________

He stacks the cards into the box, folds the onesie on top

And tucks the bracelet in the sleeve before replacing the lid.

The box sits atop his desk the rest of the day.

I catch him fingering the fabric, smiling as he lifts the lid every now and again.

____________________________________________________

I can't help but think of how we come to the earth with nothing,

And leave with nothing,

Yet we leave with so much more.

In the unpacking of his box, this little boy filled mine.