ownership, her own space, his own note card.
And donât forget to add some flowers.
Sandra H. Swindall
TOMMY WAS REAL
T om my Turtle had become a permanent part of my classroom during the years I taught preschool. I was never able to keep real pets alive, so I created Tommy. He was a small, green, squeaky turtle whose home had become a clear, plastic shoebox, complete with lid and plastic Easter grass. Each year, the children would take turns taking him home for the night. The children loved the thought of taking the class pet home with them! Since we didnât exactly explain the fact that he wasnât real before he was sent home, the parents always looked a bit frightened the first time their child carried Tommyâs box to the door to go home. That was just part of the fun!
Although Tommy wasnât a real turtle, the children all treated him as if he were, and always took good care of him on his visits. The children would feed him dinner, take him for walks and tuck him into his bed at night. When Tommy returned to school with the children each day, he always came accompanied by crayon drawings and photos of his adventures.
Tommy did everything from riding on a four-wheeler to wading in a birdbath. He ate macaroni-and-cheese and Froot Loops for dinner. He watched movies and ate popcorn, and watched as the children brushed their teeth before bed each night. He was there when the children laughed; he was there when they cried. Each year Tommy would soon be returning to school with gifts from the children. Over the years, Tommy received several new blankets, and beautiful, sparkly rocks always decorated his plastic home. One year, he even had a small bowl of plastic lettuce to munch on when he was hungry, and a âpetâ plastic fish to keep him company when he grew lonely. Every year, the children came to love Tommy, and every year, Tommy became a little more real .
While the children learned to take care of Tommy, I believe that Tommy took care of a lot of them, too. Several times the children did not have the words to tell me directly when something was wrong, but they were able to tell me through Tommy and his pictures. Even though I was not always able to know the exact reasons behind their behaviors, Tommy helped many of the children find the words to help me understand a little better.
The childrenâs pictures of Tommyâs visit to their homes helped me to see things I might not have known anything about. Sometimes, Tommy was kept awake all night by a crying baby. Sometimes, he went with a child to spend the night at a divorced parentâs house. Sometimes, he went to bed late and didnât want to get up in the morning. The âTommy Picturesâ were not always just drawings of him walking in the grass; sometimes they were windows into the homes of my students. Those windows occasionally helped me to see much more than I ever would have without Tommy.
Tommy was made of plastic, and he talked with a squeak when you squeezed him, but he was real to all my preschoolers. He was real to me, too.
R. Lynn Baker
SNOW ANGELS
T hey wiggled on the floor around my feet signaling the end of the lesson.
âNow letâs remember what weâve learned today,â I said vying for one more moment of their attention in hopes of proving to myself that I had indeed gotten their attention at all.
Five-year-olds never cease to amaze me. Each afternoon I teach religion in the back of my classroom. Me in a chair, and them around me on the âquiet carpet.â They wriggle and wriggle, fidgeting and squirming as I read to them and pray to them. And do anything else I can think of to educate their minds and nourish their souls. At a glance, you would never guess they were even hearing me, let alone comprehending or âfeelingâ my objective. But after a few years of doing this, I have finally realized that through an occasional somersault they are hearing, understanding and