Soon To Be Forgotten Victories

Yesterday, I was walking down the Kindergarten hallway and happened upon a little friend of mine.  She has big blue eyes and the most cherubic face you've ever seen.  She likes to wear headbands with big, pastel bows on them.  She rarely just walks; she skips and dances wherever she goes.  Joy and delight are expressed with hand clapping and exuberant bounces.  Of course, for every yin there is a yang.  So it is with big feelings for this little girl.  Her frustration is expressed with as much energy as her joy.  Every challenge or point of adversity is enough to send her into a raging fit.

One of her greatest frustrations is her shoes.  In fact, I would say that shoes tend to be a source of frustration for just about every Kindergartener I know.  Velcro doesn't always stick, heels get stuck, and let's not even talk about actually tying shoelaces.  The subject of shoes has been an ongoing issue with this little friend of mine.  For most of the school year, she has been sure she just "can't do it."  If the shoes didn't easily slip on with the first try, she would throw them across the hallways, sprawl upon the floor, and cry loudly.  She would beg any adult who was within earshot to put her shoes on for her.  The easiest solution might have been to do just that, but schools are in the business of teaching.  We teach letter sounds, counting, the Pledge of Allegiance, and we also teach kids how to do things for themselves.  So, all year long, the struggle has been the realest of real for this little girl and her shoes.

As it happened, when I approached this little girl on Thursday morning, she was trying to put on her shoes.  From a distance, I watched her struggle to force the shoe over her heel and onto her foot.  I braced myself for the inevitable shrieks of frustration when she surprised me.  She looked up, made eye contact with me, and her face momentarily brightened.

"Ms. Wossow.  I can't get my shoe on."

I crouched down next to her and looked into her sweet blue eyes that were clouded with elementary school angst.  "Putting shoes on can be tricky. I see you're frustrated.  How can you help your body when you get frustrated?"

Her face brightened again as she smiled and then she drew a lazy figure 8 on her arm with her right index finger.  As she drew the figure 8, she breathed deeply.  Her body relaxed and her face softened into a smile.

"Yes.  That is a great way to take care of your body when you're frustrated.  Do you think you can try that shoe again?"

She took another breath and then worked hard to wriggle and squeeze and coax that shoe over her heel and onto her foot.  When it finally slid on, she jumped to her feet and started to skip toward her classroom.

"Wait!" I cried.  "You forgot something!"

She turned around to see me extending my palm forward for a high five.  With a grin, she bounded toward me and gave me a very energetic high five.

"You did a great job of taking care of your body," I said.  "Putting on that shoe was hard work for you and you didn't give up.  Nice job!"  Then, off she bounced, into her classroom to try and do more hard work.

Perhaps this story doesn't seem like a big deal.  We don't give out medals or trophies for putting on one's shoes.  However, after spending most of the year trying to convince this little fireball that she could do this hard thing, it was so gratifying to see her doing that hard thing and using the skills and tools we had been trying so hard to teach.

As I watched her take those steps into her classroom, I thought about how very lucky I am to be a part of this little girl's journey.  My heart burst with pride for her and for our work in that school. Then, I got a little sad.  I only get to walk alongside her for a few short years and it is very likely that she won't remember me later in her life.  Lots of caring adults will make an appearance in her lifetime and the little victories I had a small role in helping facilitate will be buried deep in her bank of memories.

Oh, ego.  You always get in the way, don't you?

I suppose I shouldn't admit that I like to see the fruits of my labors.  I suppose I should be altruistic and saintly and tell you that I do what I do solely because it's the right thing to do.  But, I'm all about being real.  Of course, my work is "for the kids."  Anyone who knows me well knows that my work is from the heart and that I genuinely just want to create a world in which every kid has the same chances and opportunities to learn.  However, I get something out of this transaction.  It feels good to do good work.  On top of that, I like to get credit for that good work.  So, it is a little heart breaking to know that these long months of practicing the figure 8 breathing and waiting out the long tantrums will not be remembered in the long run.

No, I won't be remembered, probably.  However, I like to think I will still leave a legacy.  My name won't be on any plaques and I will never win any awards, but someday this little girl might grow up to be a mama who has a little person in her care with the same big blue eyes and big, big feelings.  Maybe she will look deep into the those big blue eyes and tell that little person about their dinosaur brain and teach them how to breathe deep while drawing a figure 8 on their arm.  She might not remember where or when she learned that, but she will know it just the same.

I probably won't be remembered but I have to hope that the love and care I poured into this little girl made a difference.  She, just like all my other students throughout my career, will take a piece of my heart with her as she grows.  I've given out so many bits of my heart to so many students over the years, I've got to believe it will make difference someday, somewhere, somehow.  As I consider this possibility, the need to get "credit" for all of this work seems less important.  I don't need a monument with my name engraved upon it.  If I can leave behind a population of kiddos who can take deep breaths, work through hard things, and care about others, I've done all right.