21 pairs of hands, holding oversized pencils, 21 pairs of little feet swinging and crossing beneath shin high seats. 21 eyes taking in their bran new classroom.
We spent the past break dusting, cleaning, scrubbing and sanitizing a room of Mrs. Erickson's very own, one that has a tall bouleton board, one name plate over the door jam, and one teacher's desk in the corner.
As I sit here, listening to my wife teach 21 little minds, I can't help but smile at the memory of my own kindergarten, paper lions and lambs hanging from the ceiling, a giant doll house full of furniture and toys, blocks, blocks and more blocks! Reflected in the small pool of faces before me are my friends, aquaintences, and self of the past.
Part of me often feels the need to sit at the desk, and write the letter of the day, or sit on the rug and listen to a story being told. I even feel myself cringe with everyone else as someone gets in trouble, or yearn for praise when someone else receives a complement from Mrs. Erickson.
With Hello Kitty bandaide on finger, my wife fearlessly teaches one how to count to ten, keeping little minds working and staying on task. I wonder how she does it all. I come to volunteer and often end up a spectator, and then come home practically falling asleep before my head hits the pillow. And she's the teacher!