When planning
my spring break, the time I was going to have without students,
including my own children, my wife suggested I volunteer at the boys’
school. My first gut reaction was to say, “No”. Why in the world
would I want to volunteer at the boys’ school when I am being given
the ultimate gift of not being around kids for one whole week? But
then the other side of me kicked in. The side that remembered how
much I liked being with my boys, and the curiosity I felt in watching
them at their natural habitat, the one away from home.
I’ve heard
stories about the boys for months, like how good they were and how
they do all their work and pay attention to the teacher. I had a hard
time picturing the boys I knew, the ones who insisted on jumping each
other’s heads and tackling each other; the ones who yelled “I
need you” for mundane tasks like using the bathroom and getting
water. These are the boys that are exemplary?
Curiosity led
me to volunteer on my week off. I wanted to get a glimpse of the boys
in action, and besides, it was only one hour in an otherwise relaxing
week. Then the snow came. My first day of Spring Break was spent
watching my sons and keeping them occupied. My second day was spent
keeping them busy during their two-hour delay, then escorting them to
school and showing up early for my cafeteria duty. Fortunately, my
services were put to use in one of my son’s rooms and I got to see
first hand how his behavior was elevated to wonder child status, and
what I witnessed was remarkable.
My son did not
transform in school, but he was able to focus his attention. The
frantic energy he showed at home was harnessed and directed in his
classroom, where he was clearly a high performer. I didn’t see a
different child , just one that showed a different side of himself. I
would have liked to watch more of this but before I knew it, we had
to walk down to the lunch room where my real job began.
I was given an
apron, and told to just respond to hand-raisers. This sounded easy
enough, and the first thing I did was visit the table of my other son
and see how he was doing. I was struck by his comfort in a large
social situation, without my assistance. I wanted to just sit and
watch him, but before I knew it the social experiment that is
elementary school lunch time was under way. And the hands went up.
All over the place. I jumped from one child to the other, each
repeating the same phrase: “Can you open this?” “This” was
sometimes a yogurt tube, a yogurt cup, an apple sauce, fruit
guzzlers, thermos caps, chip bags…You name it, I opened it. The
elusive caps that initially confused me became simple. I moved
through the tables like a superhero with the sole mission of opening
things. It was stellar.
After a while
I moved from the kindergartners to the first graders. I thought the
older kids would be a challenge, surely they would only ask me for
the toughest of chores, but even these became simple. Kids from all
over were requesting me. I even had to use my problem solving skills
when on one occasion a boy was spitting food, to his friend’s
dismay. The friend wanted me to prosecute the spitter but after some
deliberation, we decided the boy should just get a warning rather
than turning him in to the proper authorities, his teacher, where he
would have faced serious consequences. All was going well.
As I was
passing my son, he called me over and held out his hand with
something in it. I looked down and realized he had a tooth. I didn’t
even realize he had a loose tooth but there it was. I asked his
friends what we should do and they all said he should go to the
nurse. As I later found out, this was a common occurrence. I assigned
a buddy to go with him. I wanted to bask in the moment for a bit
longer, but duty called. I had raised hands all around me that needed
attention.
Finally, my
shift was coming to a close. By the end, we had two teeth incidents,
numerous bag openings, some discipline/critical thinking tasks and
several clean-ups. This was not the day I had planned for my Spring
Break, but in Cool Father World, it was perfect.