Monday Memory: Miss Mag!!! This tastes like blood!

My educator education kind of went backwards. I did a lot of teaching before I actually went through a teaching program. Though at times that road proved to be a rocky one, I would do it all over again. I entered the university doors with a few scars [shaken confidence, banged up ankles from sprains, hard-earned money traded for bins and bins of preschool junk], but I was also armed with burning questions created by real-life situations and the knowledge that teaching really was what I wanted to do. The harsh blow of the price I paid for such artillery was softened by sweet memories of students who had loved their unseasoned teacher along her way.

One of these early teaching jobs was head teacher in a preschool program. I was in charge of a morning and afternoon class four days a week, as well as a staff. While I had emphatic votes of confidence from other teachers in the program, it was as terrifying as it was thrilling.

Jason and I got married at the beginning of the school year, and Jason always provided lots of love and confidence to send me off to school with in the mornings. But some days it was depleted before lunchtime.

But Ryan* was in the afternoon class. My break in the clouds. My quicker-picker-upper. He would grin his toothless grin at me and I could bear it all.

Almost every day, at some point, he would stop what he was doing and exclaim,

"Miss Mag!"

[so cute that he said my name like that] and then,

"I like you!"

And then he would go back to what he was doing. He wasn't expecting an answer or a hug or anything. Which was good, because I was usually busy trying to recover the puddle that was my heart.

But oh, he was a picky little eater! Lunchtime was the only time of day when we were sometimes at odds. Usually he didn't eat much and I was worried he would get hungry during school. And he was always uneasy about unfamiliar foods. Miracle of miracles: one day we had lasagna. When he saw it, he looked at me with pure joy on his face [and some surprise, too]. "Miss Mag! I like this! I like Zog-nuh!" I'm not sure if he was happy because he really loved lasagna or if he was just really glad to have a day without me nagging him to "just try" what was on his plate. Either way, I was suddenly humbled at the realization that, despite my daily prodding, he still wanted to please me. Childlike love has got to be the eighth wonder.

One day at snack they were serving tomato juice [which, granted, is nobody's favorite in preschool... I sure didn't choose it] Ryan sat down and bravely [or ignorantly] took a sip. His face twisted in disgust. "Miss Mag!" he cried out. "This tastes like blood!" I had to laugh. For one thing, the irony that one of the few times he tries something on his own it was terrible. And another thing: how on earth did he know what blood tastes like? Luckily, Ryan wasn't ruined forever. He was happy about trying new things [though not usually the edible kind] and previewed adventures, both new and old, wide-eyed with a great big grin. Watching him made me want to attack life that way, too.

One day Jason was visiting our classroom. Ryan approached Jason. "Mr. Jason?"

"Yes, sir?" Jason answered.

Ryan stopped, confused. "No--me! Ryan!"

Ryan's name was very important to him. Normally, Ryan could never seem to stand being at the writing center for any amount of time, except to use the boards [see photo] I had made for each child to practice writing their name. For some reason his name had the power to hold this busy little boy's attention.

Ryan seemed to have a sense that he was important, but not more so than anyone else. On another of Jason's visits he was helping at one of the centers where the kids were drawing. Ryan and his twin brother were busy with their crayons and paper. Ryan's brother Clinton* would create elaborate sketches while Ryan was content to keep his pictures simple.

"Ryan's not very good at drawing," Clinton explained to Jason.

Ryan shook his head. "No, I'm not." he agreed. Then added, "But my mom still likes it."


So you see, my first professors didn't have titles before their names and years under their belts. They were tiny teachers living their lessons out.

I had to be their student before I could truly be their teacher.

Ryan's Rules

Give love without expecting it in return.
Delight in making others happy.
Jump into life with a great big grin
[but don't give up when it leaves a bad taste in your mouth] [or blood, for that matter]
Know who you are, and make sure others know, too.
Names are important.
Accept your abilities and remember those who love you for them [or despite the lack thereof]

*Names changed to protect my future children, who could quite possibly be named after them. I have to keep my options open, don't I?