QUARANTINE LIFE: SATURDAY MORNING

I totally understand telling little kids to go outside and play. I do. At a time when devices rule, seeing kids playing and exploring outside is rare.

I recall being told to "Go outside and play" or "Go get some air" myself, many, many years ago. I learned how "outside" was a good thing (especially for the sanity and nerves of the adults in your life), but you still have to watch the kids, people…and not wait until someone else says something about the mischief they are sure to make, before you to spring into action…as if you forgot your kids existed after you sent them outside. 

I guess it was my turn today… or perhaps an unscheduled test to see if I still had the patience and temperament to teach children. I found that I do. I miss teaching. Every day, almost, I think about returning to the classroom. What I don’t miss about the profession, however, are oblivious parents and unruly kids. The pandemic, and how awfully teachers are treated these days, aren't exactly encouraging me to pick up my chalk and roll book again. 

Some kids are taught to be respectful. Others aren't. I wasn't sure what variety I would encounter this morning when I realized the mother and teacher in me couldn’t keep quiet.

The beautiful daffodils and lilacs outside managed to survive the wacky weather we’ve had. They withstood one day when it rained, snowed, and the winds were gusting up to 50 mph. This morning, the resilient flowers met two unsupervised kids who seemed to think my neighbors and I didn't need, want, or like their beauty. I did wonder if I was watching a future botanist or landscaper, but if I hadn’t said anything this morning, there wouldn’t be a single stem left. The flowers that were picked and assaulted will grow back. That rear window windshield wiper that one of them snapped off of their own car, after he was bored with accosting the flowers, won’t. 

I hope it doesn’t rain...or maybe I hope it does. Then, they could go back inside the house they were visiting, and I could stop feeling like The Village Fun Police.

All I wanted to do was sit by the window, feel the Sun on my face, and eat my oatmeal—and I hate oatmeal. I was really trying to mind my business. Then, little dude got hold of a gardening tool and was welding it like Excalibur. He was yanking the petals off of the daffodils and slinging mulch onto the driveway. All I could think was “He’s gonna annihilate the flowers that are left, and poke his sister’s eyes out.” 

Why me, Lord? 

Secondary, distance babysitting was not on my Saturday morning bingo card. I felt like Mrs. Kravitz. I wanted to close the blinds and just not see. Clearly, none of the adults they knew were paying attention to them. All of a sudden, little dude started throwing rocks he’d picked out of the flower bed. After the fifth rock, I went to my door and just stood there. I listened long enough to learn names. When I got one, I opened the door, and in my best, stern teacher voice, called out, and told them to stop. They both spun around as if they’d heard the voice of God. I had to hide my laughter. They had no idea who was calling them, or what direction the call was coming from. When they finally saw me, they dropped their rocks and froze. I’m not in the business of shocking children, but I kinda enjoy looking out seeing the flowers. I also don’t want to have to replace my windshield or smooth out dings. 

“________ please stop throwing rocks, and leave those flowers alone.”

"That wasn’t me! That was ________! Miss, how…How you know my name?" 

Funny how kids think you're a wizard or something. In a matter of seconds I’d learned both their names.

Kids know when they’re out of order. They also know what they can get away with. Even after I closed the door and resumed eating my oatmeal (I really hate cold oatmeal), they commenced balancing and teetering on the concrete edge of the flower bed, and periodically looking in the direction of my porch. 

All I know is, the flowers are safe, so are my neighbors' windows and cars. Their car, that they climbed and jumped on in their final outside activity? Not so much.

I understand the chance you take reprimanding or confronting other people’s kids. I was a teacher. I’ve been in public. I know. When you correct some people's kids, they appreciate it. Others don’t consider your intervention as an act of a caring, attentive villager. They take it personally, as an affront and criticism of their parenting. Shamed by their momentary neglect, they direct their anger—not at the mischief of their child— but at the village. 

The kids listened to me today, albeit reluctantly, and, thankfully, no irate parent knocked on my door.

Still, I wish any of the several adults they were with would have said something so I didn’t have to. Perhaps I didn't have to, but the thought of glass breaking wouldn't allow me to look away. The whole thing made me feel quite old, but I'm still a fan of being proactive.

At what point does the teacher turn off? Probably never.