Too little, too late

Too little, too late

Preschool teachers have all my respect and admiration. All these young souls to lead and protect who are pushing out into this mind blowing world, where words and actions are a mystery to explore. Preschool teachers have to help these small creatures first understand themselves and then comprehend a world which is hardly graspable to adults.

"A case of too little, too late," said my boss.

For a short while, I was part of the rank of preschool teachers. How one person can attend a group of 15 three-year-olds who all want to be unique in your eyes but also want to push your limits to the maximum is beyond me. But I was determined. After totally bombing on controlling the toddlers, I watched as many tutorials as I could and read a book on class management.

And it worked...for the most part. Rules and rewards (stickers, points, and high fives) had become my mission and method. But there was still the little boy who sat against the wall and would have no part of the group, even after I explained this would preclude him a sticker at the end. 

There was also the girl who refused any indication until she saw all the others with rewards. She was another case of too little, too late. Was my mistake in not rewarding her after efforts? I told her and the self-segregating boy that there was a sticker waiting for them next time if they listened to me.

Later, as my boss explained that some parents had complained, a face flashed before my vision. The angry eyes and pursed lips in my mind belonged to a mother as her child darted out from behind me. Hadn't I already matched that child with her mother? The toddler was the same girl who liked to push limits. Not a bad girl–just trying to test the edges, pursuing her options.

Like me.

And then I heard the sobbing in the back of my mind of another girl. I already had a toddler on my lap or in my arms–I didn't have enough arms to comfort everybody. I don't know why she was crying–perhaps it was too much for her. Maybe she was just overwhelmed, like me.

So, in the end I'm just like a three-year-old. Maybe we all are...just big, little kids trying to understand what's going on, and just when we get it, the rules change. 

Was it really a case of too little, too late? Possibly. It was only during the last lesson that I learned that there was no class–just clay kids needing to be molded. They didn't need English. They needed love, approval, and training that would serve for the rest of their lives.

Photo: <a href="https://pixabay.com/users/leemurry01-20252177/?utm_source=link-attribution&utm_medium=referral&utm_campaign=image&utm_content=6307424">Lee Murry</a> from <a href="https://pixabay.com//?utm_source=link-attribution&utm_medium=referral&utm_campaign=image&utm_content=6307424">Pixabay</a>

Text: Kristen Mastromarchi