EEE-ee, EEE-ee

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Fair Weather Friends

When preschoolers start criticizing your clothes, it’s time to go shopping.

One particularly freezing day (the kind where the insides of your nose stick together when you sniffle) I was dressed in my warmest wool pullover.

During snack time, one of the little boys in my preschool program said,

“Miss Angela, why are you wearing that shirt? That doesn’t look like you. Take that off. What do you have on under there?” (my t-shirt collar was visible at the neckline).

“Yeah. You look like a heater,” added another little boy.

(A heater?!?)

“A heater? What do you mean?”

“You’re all heated up,” he replied, munching on his granola bar.

Hmmm. A heater. A lot of critical comments have gone through my head while viewing myself in the mirror, but “you look like a heater” was never one of them.

“How was your day?” my husband asked later that evening.

“Well, somebody told me that I looked hot,” I yelled down the hall, grabbing my flannel p.j.s.

Magic Markers

My niece, Maggie, is an excellent artist. (In case any of my family members are reading this, I should say that they are ALL talented, wonderful people!)

One day, when Maggie was about four years old, she showed me one of her latest creations. I said,

"Wow, that's so colorful. Did you use magic markers to make your picture?"

She replied matter-of-factly,

"No. Just regular markers," and walked away.

So here goes this little girl, into the other room, into the world, accepting the existence of "magic" markers.

I always wondered if she walked away thinking about magic markers. Maybe she thought they worked like Harold's Purple Crayon. Or, perhaps she thought that magic markers created pictures without the guidance of the human hand.

In reality, she probably didn't give it much thought. In a world of fairies that pay for teeth, giant rabbits that hide colored eggs, and a man who sneaks presents to all of the children in the world, magic markers are small potatoes. The real magic is in the mind of a child.

Be Like Fosil!

So, I try my best to promote equality in my programs. Girls can be race car drivers, boys can be ballet dancers, and so on. I challenge my students' pre-conceived notions (which, sadly, already exist) of gender stereotypes.

For example, during a "construction" theme program, I shocked boys and girls alike by drilling a hole, and then attaching a piece of wood with a screw. I also told my students about how I built a doghouse when I was a little girl. (I left out the part about how my dog refused to go inside, probably because she recognized that the unstable dwelling was not up to code).

However, there have been times when I have not set the best example. During a "dinosaur" themed camp, I presented our pint-sized paleontologists with several boxes, each of which included the necessary bones to reconstruct a particular type of dinosaur.

"Be Like Fosil!" the box exclaimed. "Make Like Dinosaur!"

I don't think that I need to tell you that the cryptic "directions" were of no help whatsoever. I had imagined that each box would contain maybe four bones that would snap together. When the children poured out the contents of their boxes, we all stared in dismay at the great multitude of tiny bones scattered in front of us.

Shortly thereafter, my assistant and I were dashing from child to child responding to, "I need help!" and "I can't do this!"

My assistant and I looked at each other and shrugged. Sadly, we also needed help. My face got hot. I couldn't let the children see that I was incapable of putting these crappy little models together! I scoured the directions in an attempt to translate the jumble of words into meaningful sentences. No such luck.

Finally, one of the children said,

"Maybe you should get a boy."

I was defeated. He was right. I called my husband, and he had our little museum set up in no time.

In hindsight I, of course, should have reviewed the materials prior to presenting them. However, sometimes I get so buried (no pun intended) that I have to cut corners somewhere.

Think Fast

My hearing is not so great. I am not ready to resort to a hearing aid, but those old-fashioned cone-in-the-ear things look kind of appealing.

In spite of my condition, I have a superhuman ability to tune into any suspicious whispering. For example, one day I overheard a four-year-old girl saying to a classmate,

"You're fat."

I walked over to the child and said,

"What did you say?"

She immediately responded,

"I meant to say she smelled just like a flower."

Ah! I see. Well now, that would've been a nice thing to say. It's too bad it came out as "you're fat."

I had to give her points for her quick thinking. It was a bit frightening just how quick her thinking was though. Of course we had the discussion about feelings, kindness, being a good friend, and so on.

I'd like to write more on this topic, but I should really go take a shower. This perfume makes me feel so fat...

The Power of Pixie Dust

From time to time, I take out a beautiful glass bottle that is filled with "pixie dust" and topped with a flower stopper. Whenever I do this, the children's eyes widen with anticipation. Sometimes it is sprinkled on princesses at coronation ceremonies, and sometimes it is used to create a magical path for fairies to follow.

Recently, I was doing a “Nutcracker Sweets” program, and the children were pretending to be various characters from the ballet such as sugarplum fairies, snowflakes, wooden soldiers, and dancing flowers. Pixie dust was an essential ingredient in creating the magical atmosphere. I sprinkled the snow fairies with pixie dust, and they twirled away into a land of candy canes, gumdrops, and sugared snowflakes.

At the end of the program, it was time for the children to leave their magical world, and get ready to go home, much like Clara herself. As I was making sure that the students had all of their belongings, two of the little girls approached my husband and asked him if they could have a bit more pixie dust before they left. My husband replied,

“Let’s wait for Miss Angela to finish, and then she can do it.”

One of the little pixies looked up at him and said,

“Why? Because we might turn into frogs?”

The faith that children have in possibility and their willingness to accept that magic is at work in the world is just staggering.

Children are the truest of believers, and that is one of the reasons I so enjoy working with them. Flying reindeer? Giant bunnies that deliver chocolate? Some lady that pays for kids’ teeth? Why not? They really do not know the limits of reality (lucky them) and therefore, are willing to give most ideas a chance. When it comes to children, seeing isn't believing. Believing is believing.

The frog comment reminds me of the following anecdote, which I wrote several years ago after an event:

Raising my glittering magic wand in the air, dressed in my pink, sparkly princess crown, a tiara, jewels, and glitter head-to-toe, I am tackiness personified. A prom-queen-in-pink-taffeta nightmare times ten. In the eyes of the three year-olds, I am beautiful. Tacky+sparkly+lots of pink=beautiful. Disney and Mattel figured that out a long time ago. I say to the children with excitement,

“…and now! I am going to cast a spell on you!”

I prepare to wave my wand dramatically, when a little hand shoots up.

“Yes?”

“Will it be a good spell, or a wicked spell?”

Will it be a good spell, or a wicked spell? It sure would be nice to know ahead of time, wouldn’t it? We spend so much of our lives trying to figure out whether what’s coming our way next is good or wicked.

The little princess was prepared to accept her fate, for better or worse. We do the best we can, but some things we just have no control over.

“A good spell, sweetie,” I answer.

I raise my wand, and with a dramatic swoop, I cast the spell, secretly wishing for them a lifetime in which the good far outweighs the wicked.

Carolyn Out in the Snow

Happy holidays to all of you, and especially to Carolyn, out in the snow.

As an overly sensitive child, I remember being distressed by how casually the singers of “It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year,” would sing perkily about how there’d be, “parties for hosting, marshmallows for toasting, and Carolyn out in the snow…”

I would puzzle over how people could be celebrating in their cozy, festive homes, while they knew perfectly well that poor little Carolyn was standing out there in the snow. It was definitely NOT the hap-happiest season of all for Carolyn. I would expect that summer would be her happiest season. At least she wouldn’t be freezing to death.

The picture that always came to mind was as follows: It was early evening, and the temperature was about 5 degrees...cold enough that the sides of your nose stick together when you sniff. Carolyn did not have a hat or gloves; just a hand-me-down coat and boots that were two sizes too big. She was not one to complain, so she would never think to ask to come in, but she did enjoy looking in on the happy scene with people dressed in their holiday finery, toasting one another. She would particularly enjoy looking at the twinkling lights on the Christmas tree, and wondering what kinds of things were wrapped up in the beautiful presents beneath the tree.

If I continued in this vein for too long, I would eventually come to tears. Who was this Carolyn that she got a special mention in the song? I would wonder. Why was she out in the snow alone? Where on earth were her parents? Was she lost? Maybe she ended up dying, like the little match girl. Good grief, why wouldn’t anyone let her in if they saw her out there?

I remember singing in an assembly during elementary school, and the song that our grade sang was “Bless the Beasts and the Children” (for in this world, they have no voice…they have no choice…for this world can never be, the world they see…) singing this song would hit me like a ton of bricks every time. I would picture all of the little helpless children like Carolyn, and lost puppies and kittens. My throat would swell up into a lump, and I would squeak through the rest of the song, while the kids next to me would shoot suspicious looks at me out look of the corners of their eyes.

To this day, I am still often gripped with agony over the plight of the beasts and the children. I once risked my life pulling over on a highway, to save a cat that was on the median. It turned out to be a stuffed animal. I held up traffic on Route 4 saving a baby bluebird that was standing in the middle of the road. I spent one Easter driving a stray cat to the vet, and a shelter. My husband’s “potential animal-in-distress radar” kicks in pretty quickly, and he attempts to diffuse the situation before I can say anything: “It looks well-fed. It has a collar. It knows where it’s going…you can tell.” Children are part of my protection program as well. I hang around whenever I see a child who appears to be too far away from his/her caregiver in a store, just to make sure that everything turns out okay. Children standing up in grocery carts, leaning too far over bridges, wandering alone in store aisles, or standing too close to the road are all potential problems. I also rescue children that I see being bullied.

An animal or child in trouble can put the brakes on whatever I am doing during the course of the day, no matter how important. I have seen ads in the Yankee Flyer for lost cats, and then see ads in the Foothills Trader for found cats that fit the description, and make the necessary phone calls in hopes of a match. I won’t even get into the lengths to which I went to “rescue” a parakeet that was loose outside near the office. It is a long, sad story, with a tragic ending.

Every story that I hear that involves a child or animal in pain leaves a permanent scar in my mind, that never seems to go away. So, if I get upset over a current animal in need, I have to revisit the cat that got hit by a car, the parakeet that died in my hands, the dog that was left out in the cold, the horse that was abused…and on and on.

I am sometimes concerned that my feelings for animals and children are disproportionate to my feelings for, say, the rest of the world. (Do you think?) If I am watching a movie, and a few adults die, well, that’s life. But if the movie is about a dog that dies, I am a mess. I won’t read many books that are stories about beloved pets, because I know how it’s all going to end. Books about the tragic loss of lives during wartime…it’s a shame and all, but I just don’t feel it on the same level.

Being overly sensitive complicates my life, and causes me a lot of unnecessary stress, but I guess that I'd rather feel too much than too little. So, if you see Carolyn out in the snow, please let me know; I’ll be right there.