On sunny days in the 70s, it should be a perk to have lunch recess duty. By the end of the year, the younger grades know how to run pell mell and scream without the fall epidemic of bumped heads, cut legs and friends who won’t play with you. For the teachers, the supervisors, it is a snap.
Yet, we teachers are not breezy or easy. It is June, after all. As we walk the playground, we bemoan the assessments, the deadlines, and the crawling days of the calendar. Summer seems too far away to be real.
A young student runs up to us. J’s voice emanates urgency. He is highly sensitive and often overwhelmed by everyday events. We prepare for the meltdown replete with tears and cries of unfairness. “I was playing and X kicked the ball right into my stomach!”.
We wait.
“And you know what?” J screams. “I handled it.” And he runs off. We are left looking at each other.
A moment of playground clarity for us. “I handled it.”
Yet, we teachers are not breezy or easy. It is June, after all. As we walk the playground, we bemoan the assessments, the deadlines, and the crawling days of the calendar. Summer seems too far away to be real.
A young student runs up to us. J’s voice emanates urgency. He is highly sensitive and often overwhelmed by everyday events. We prepare for the meltdown replete with tears and cries of unfairness. “I was playing and X kicked the ball right into my stomach!”.
We wait.
“And you know what?” J screams. “I handled it.” And he runs off. We are left looking at each other.
A moment of playground clarity for us. “I handled it.”
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