On my fridge is a picture of my friend Jenine surrounded by five or six little kids. I’m not related to any of the children, but I claim them as “mine” anyway.
See, I teach a class of five year olds at church and, though they don’t know it, I’m learning a lot more from them than they ever will from me.
I started teaching them last year, when they were four. When they moved up to the kindergarten class, I did too. I can’t let go of my little guys.
They’re funny: (Amber, for example, can make up songs on the spot. She did a song about snowflakes for me the other day and had a grin on her face the entire time.)
They’re smart: (Josh told me that two divided by eighteen is nine. They are teaching me to go by what someone means, not what they say.)
They’re compassionate: The aforementioned Jenine was my co teacher last year. This year, she is expecting Baby Miles and having some bonding time with her bed. When I told my class that Jenine and Miles were out of the hospital and getting better, they spontaneously broke into cheers and applause.
They are unforgettable: I’m already complaining to Jennifer that I have to let my kids go to the first grade class in a few months.
They’ve wormed their way into my heart. When I grow up, I want to be just like them.