Washing up

Billie the baby is six years old.
She is just finishing her diary entry.
"How do you spell Miss Mandy?"
She asks.
Her grip is correct and her writing deft and efficient.
As a teacher and her Mum,
I feel a bubble of pride warm my chest.
Now what to do?
Her earnest little face asks.
"Would you like to help me with the dishes?"
Her answer beams from her face,
And my chest again re-inflates.
Aprons donned and a small chair reversed acts as stool.
The rinse water, child's blood-warm.
She uses a bottle washer to help the rinsing process.
And carefully places each glass and utensil into the dish rack,
Up side down.
She is meticulous.
I watch the mid morning sun pick up the flecks in the rinse water.
I breath in and inwardly smile,
At this perfect Summer idyll.

Precious

Precious our mini-foxy is brave.
She runs at the pony's hooves yapping,
To show that she is on duty.
She chases the small birds,
That invade our territory.
And sounds her loud warning bark,
At the approach of any strange car,
Or human on foot.

Precious watches over my daughter,
Who gets fatigued,
By her nightmare induced insomnia,
And makes her feel safe.
She sleeps in her pink bean-bag at the foot of the bed,
With one ear open.
Sometimes, when it is too cold,
Or she can't be bothered,
She defecates inside the house.
We forgive her this small indiscretion,
Because she is brave...

At least when we are at home with her.

He's Crying

My infants class are restless on the carpet.
The maths lesson is going longer than their concetration span.
They fidget,
One picks furtively at the books on the shelf,
One has their socks in their mouth.
I know that it is time to wind it up,
Before the learning moment is lost.
Then it is his turn.
The child with too much going on at home.

His wide smile and over eagerness show,
That he is excited to be up next.
But he has not understood the question.
Before my eyes I watch him crumple.
His eyes look shocked and bewildered.
Everything droops like a flower deprived of rain.
Tears well in his eyes.

And I explain that it is all right.
(I want to hold him, but of course I can't.)
"We only learn from our mistakes," I say.
He tries to explain his confusion,
But he can't.
His eyes are leaking now,

And the other kids are ready to cut him, the weakest, down.
They have the blood lust.
I must save his face.
"Stop!"

All eyes are on me.
I have command of their attention.
I apologise for not phrasing the question better.
"It is just a misunderstanding.
I have confidence that you will get this 'perfectly right',
Now you understand," I say.
And he does.
" Sometimes we just can't choose when we will cry," I say.

Our philosophical discussion goes till lunchtime.

Billie-Grace Car Washing Service.

Her big blue eyes, that are mine,
Look at me through the windscreen.
On the bonnet, her five year old hands are rubbing at the glass.
She has a damp nappy, that was once hers.
I feign sleep so I can observe her without further engagement.
She is busy,
Making small smearing circles.
Her hard work is not effective,
Yet she persists.
Her tongue pushes about her mouth in the same circles.
She is concentrating hard.
As she returns the washcloth to the bucket.
I watch her lips form the shape of a song.
She is singing while she works.

Disneyfied

Don't get me wrong,
I weep and giggle like the rest of the theatregoers,
Yet I despair,
At the comprehension and vocabulary of my students.
When it becomes impossible to share classic children's literature.
They can only cope with the happily ever after, sanitised, super sized, sassy,
Disrespectful, consumerist, fast paced, product placed version of stories.
No thinking required.
And the baddy always gets their comeuppance.
Action every second.
Definitely no time for reflection.
Click and go gratification.
The little mermaid can't really sacrifice herself for the happiness of her prince.
Not if she's a curvy redhead called Ariel.
Cinderella has blonde hair and a blue dress,
Didn't you know?
And of course Robin Hood is a Fox.

Where does she go to?

My little student,
Where does she go to?
Her small cherubic body,
Clad in green and blue uniform and cowgirl boots,
Is here,
Hair clip in mouth, eyes skyward and body in constant motion.
Yet...
She is somewhere outside,
Running with a stick in her hand,
Down a dusty track.
Or on her pony,
Wearing a small circle
Around the perimeter of the paddock.
Picking a terrified skink out of the dirt,
Or herding chickens with her kelpie pup.
I speculate...
I cannot be sure where she is,
But I know this...
She is definitely not here in this mathematics lesson.

Overwhelming Chore of Cleaning One's Room

She just can't come to terms with the steps,
To her chest of drawers,
To her laundry basket,
To her desk and bookshelf.

Her bed is a repository for her life's detritus,
A dirty sock,
Numerous books,
Pencils, pens, a teddy or two.
And more than one pair of slept-in pyjamas.

She lies amidst the myriad of knick-knacks,
Torn and scrunched paper and discarded clothing.
The mental challenge of coming up with a plan,
Deciding just where to begin,
To tidy this mess,
Of her own making,
Is TOO much.

Morris on Gay Marriage.

He is eight.
A ponderous deep thinker,
With impressive deductive powers.
And memory.
Morris is articulately blunt,
Providing intelligent commentary on his observations.
A rationalist.
Morris likes:
Reading.
Morris dislikes:
Anything scary.
Lately Morris has been quoting:
"The Man from Snowy River,"
Extracts from " How to Train a Dragon",
"The Big Bang Theory" and,
"The Minion Movie Trailer"
After listening to another comment about,
Gay Marriage,
Morris observes,
" Minions must have Gay Marriage,
Because they are all boys."

Gratitude

Morris did not like the gift.
An expectation was not met.
His hopes were for something...
Different,
And better,
Than what he had received.
Disapointment was etched in the long lines of his face.
He could not look at his benefactor.
He was pressed.
He answered truthfully.
" It's just a stick."
So why is he chastised for not being thankful?
Gratitude cannot be demanded.
A gift ceases to be a gift,
If there is any expectation of gratitude.

Reality

Inescapable,
These truths.
My students,
With six or seven years life experience,
Discuss their choice,
If they could be granted one super power.
Amid the Ninjas, shape changers and flying fairies,
A sudden seriousness pervades the discussion.
And with this harbinger,
Comes a coldness that is palpable.
"I want to never get sick or die."
The momentary silence,
Is quickly filled.
"I am going to be a Ninja that can never die"
"Yes and I'm a shape changer that never dies as well."

Ants in their pants

They have:
Ants in their pants.
A fascination with the contents of their nose.
A strong desire to pull a loose thread from the t shirt nearest then.
An uncontrollable urge to scratch off, the scab on their knee,
And eat it.
To put the corner of their worksheet into their mouth,
And chew off tiny pieces like a mouse.
To suck their sock.
To rock back.
To rock forwards,
And back again.
To chew their sleeve, shoelace,
The end of their pencil,
And their own hair.
To roll around the floor,
Or flip periodically onto their tummies.
An innate desire to fiddle,
With something(whatever's in reach.)

They are children of six or seven.
Bless them.

The excitement of visitors

On the scale of naughtiness,
My kids are definitely on the mild side.
Yes, they are egocentric little beings,
And they get jealous and they bicker,
And sometimes even fight.
So I wouldn't say we have any behavioural issues;
Not that can't be dealt with by a few minutes,
Quietening down in the cot.
But when a visitor comes...
They become a whole new species:
Sometimes it's monkey,
Climbing up on the hapless visitor.
Cockatoo, Screeching and repeating themselves.
Possum, curling up close to the visitor,
Asking incessantly for another book to be read to them.
They can be a pack of playful lion-cubs,
Chasing each other and rough-housing.
Or even (at their most embarrassing),
Mountain goats, climbing onto the furniture,
And leaping off.
This metamorphosis only happens when we have visitors.
I blame it on the cake.

Little Pony Little Rider

Such a tiny pony.
Black as coal,
Shimmering and glossy,
His coat beckons my fingers to caress it.
Thick and warm.
He nuzzles my hand with his velvet nose.
On his back a tiny rug and saddle,
And proudly sitting tall,
Feet in stirrups,
Reins held confidently,
A small blonde boy.
They turn and take their leave,
And 'bob, bob, bobbing',
Trot away.

The visitor

We have a visitor today.
My children's madness begins subtly.
They actually help to tidy their rooms,
In anticipation.
Once everything is prepared they became fractious.
When is he coming?
Distraction comes in baking sugary offerings,
Drawing and colouring,
Or finding a quiet corner to continue reading.
Then at last ten minutes before expected,
The car comes up the drive.
Kisses and embraces and presents distributed.
The volume gets louder.
After a cup of tea and chattering conversations,
The visitor and mass of children retire to the lounge room.
Then the wild rumpus really begins.
The climbing, the dressing up, the dancing about to loud music.
Voices becoming more shrill as the excitement builds.
Then there are the minor squabbles, tears and retribution.
One returns to a quiet corner to continue reading.

We have a visitor and my children go crazy.

Bathing Babes

In the tub sat my fairy,
Amongst the soap suds light and airy,
with neither worry, nor 'carey'
Playing with her toys.

Along came her jealous brother,
Worried lest she might soon smother,
the bubbles before he could come over,
To join her in the tub.

His squeals came loud and raucous,
Her shrill shrieks joined the chorus
His intentions were looking grievous.
So I added some more soap