My own personal hell…

I love my kids. I love most other people’s kids. I am the lady that actually wants to host the playdates at her house, because having a houseful of little people makes me happy. Sure, the noise level is increased and the messes are large, but I enjoy it. (A little secret for you new moms…having kids over to play at your house means that your little person is occupied and out of your hair. No one needs to know that instead of doing the laundry or making play-doh, you are relaxing with a latte and a magazine. As long as the latte is not wine and you don’t fall asleep, consider them supervised).

I’ve veered off track here. You know when I do not love kids? When I am volunteering at Kindergarten. Yup, I said it. Although I sign up to do it out of obligation guilt, it’s my own personal hell. I lack the patience required to teach 6-year-olds that I am not allowed to bribe or yell at. While I enjoy spending the time in the classroom with my own child and seeing her progress mastering the alphabet, I do not………..enjoy the other kids. I should note that there has been one exception to this. When Reese was in Kindergarten, there was one little boy in particular that I loved being around. He struggled with learning and I took great pride in watching this boy’s progress throughout the year. He tried so hard, and maybe that is why I had a soft spot for him. I’m sure he’s gone on to become a moody tween, just like the rest of them, so I’ll keep his memory pure in my mind.

It’s been this way with all three of my kids, but maybe my fuse is shorter this time around. I am WAY older than some of these other moms, and they haven’t yet been tarnished by the tween year attitudes. Or, maybe this particular group of Kindies knows how to push my buttons better than the ones before them. It’s like they can smell weakness and vulnerability. But, either way, last week I was at school for ONE HOUR and it went something like this….

**All names have been changed to protect little identities. Or to be sure their parents don’t post nasty comments on this blog.

“Ok, Ronald, Johnny and Amy let’s sit here at this table and do the worksheets that Mrs. X gave us.”

“No, seriously THIS table over here. Why are you all rolling around on the alphabet rug?”

“Ok, Amy what is the beginning letter in the word ‘queen’? No, not M. Does queen sound like mom? You know it’s a ‘Q’….as in QUIT messing with me.”

“OMG Ronald for the love of God, FOCUS. It’s just counting to 10, not quantum physics.”

“Johnny!!! Did you just wipe a booger on me?”

“Fine. Let’s just sit here and color until time is up. Ronald, quit glaring at me, you will not win that game. Just ask my kids.”

In all seriousness, I have the MOST SINCERE gratitude and admiration for preschool and Kindergarten teachers. They are either full of Xanax, hard of hearing, or are truly the most loving and patient persons on earth. I suspect it’s the latter. I sure know that I couldn’t do it. They have their own special door into heaven, where they’ll be greeted with unlimited Starbucks, frequent massages, and an eternity’s supply of earplugs.