Ego boost

So, there I was, sitting in a heavy-duty, high-tech, padded, folding soccer-mom chair with cup-holders, watching my son at soccer practice while the two girls squealed, raced around, and played. What are you doing? I asked, incredulous of my toddler who was running laps around me. "I'm wunning awound like a loooonatic!" She declared with a huge grin on her asymmetrically dimpled face.

I nearly fell out of my chair laughing.

She has been an absolute riot, lately. The child who was single-handedly responsible for the vast majority of my grey hairs has recently become the source of my laugh lines.

Last week we were watching big sister at her ballet class. The teacher came over and asked my baby, "Are you ready to take ballet classes?" My baby looked crestfallen as she responded, "I'm too wittle." I melted.

"Are you taking me to Gan? She asks me, as we head for her daycare.

Yes, I tell her, It's time to go to Gan.

"I wan' a go to kinde'garten." She knows what she wants. Whether it's her "tippy cup" or for her Mommy to "weed to me, please?", she always asks with a sweet smile and a lilting sing-songy voice. It's hard to say no.

The child my mother-in-law once lovingly referred to as my birth control has become the child I want to put in a box so she will never grow any bigger, and never stop saying the sweet and funny things that make every negative thought in my head disappear.

She's still hell-on-wheels, and just about the most destructive thing in a diaper, but it's hard to stay mad at a kid who hugs and kisses me and says, "I law joo, too, Mommy!", which I immediately recognize as her declaration of love.

Today a little girl hugged me at school. I found her crying during a game of footy cricket, and I asked her what was wrong. "I cheated" she whispered full of remorse. How? I asked, genuinely confused. "I threw the ball instead of rolling it."

I told her she did just fine and played the game beautifully, but she wouldn't hear of it. Her heart was heavy with remorse and shame over breaking a poorly defined rule in a silly game. Half astonished at the sincerity of her contrition, and half annoyed at the misplaced angst, I turned on her and demanded,

Who's the referee here, me or you?

"You," she conceded sheepishly.

Well, as the referee, I say it was a perfectly played pitch, you got her out fair and square, and I'm proud of you.

The eight year old turned to me with a look of relief, gave me a great big hug, and ran off to join her class. I was astonished. That was the most uplifting event in my first month back teaching elementary school physical education after an eight year reprieve.

And it's been a rough month. My attempts to be the sweet and cool P.E. teacher were met with ridicule and derision by these pint-sized, pig-tailed, religious girls who trampled me like fresh-mowed field turf. So, I followed the advice of all of the veteran teachers who told me to get tough and not put up with even the slightest bit of nonsense. Overnight, I turned into the grouchy P.E. teacher with a loud whistle and a bitter attitude. After days of coming home ready to cry at my inability to control even a small class of sweet little pipsqueaks, I finally decided to pay a visit to the principal with my tail between my legs, begging for help.

Help came in the guise of classroom teachers and the principals sticking around the class glowering at even the smallest infraction, lecturing the girls hardily on respect and cooperation. It was all I could do to keep myself from sticking out my tongue and saying, nyaa nyaa nyaa!

I have since received reams of beautiful, hand-decorated notes of apology with flowers and hearts and the words, "I'm so so so so so sorry!" plastered all over them. "Do you forgive me?" they've begun to ask, sweet as molasses. Of course I do, but remember, the apology is only the first step, dear! I'm not letting up, yet.

I learned a valuable lesson from all of my self-recrimination: praise helps. Small compliments to my girls produce better results than scowls. They work better for me, too. My principal kindly took me aside and said, "I know you're having a tough time, but I've gotten great feedback from the parents."

I must have walked a bit taller that afternoon, the deflated balloon that was my ego regained its buoyancy. Funnily, it was an unexpected comment from a surprising source that really lifted my spirits. This afternoon, the old Romanian maintenance man gave me a smile and told me I was a very good teacher.

If I were an eight year old, I might hug him.

Or maybe I'll just wun awound like a loooonatic!