28. (eight) : "I Miss My Ant."

F., at naptime, spoken low to me with the air of imparting a universal truth: “Did you know what the number of the day is? The number of the day is 18.” I assume he is talking about the date, since we talk about that frequently in Kindergarten. The date is, in fact, not the 18th, but I’m interested in his thought process. “Really?” I say. “And the letter of the day is B.” “How do you know?” I ask. “It’s on the Sesame Street,” says he. Of course it is. First it takes me three days to hear about the swine flu, and now I’m out of the loop on this too. So in case you were wondering: 18. B. Now you know.

I take them outside this morning for a little fresh air, and after a few races back and forth in the street, I discover that their latest obsession is ant-finding. It’s surprisingly difficult. This is New York City. I must confess, it’s a little pathetic to see them clustered around the slimmest sliver of semi-earth, just a line of dust between the sidewalk and the side of the school building, really, peering down in an intense search for the tiniest sign of life. For any living thing. Five heads clustered around one black dot that may or may not be an actual ant. J.-girl is the ant-hunt champion, with a grand total of two today. She lets her ant crawl along her arm as other girls run and scream in mock terror. “Wait for it, wait for it,” she says.

I go ant-hunting but have no success. I tell them that when I was little I made a twiddlebug house out of a milk carton. I want them to do it too. I want to do that with my own children someday. O. finds an ant and clutches it in his fist. “It’s his house,” he says in his sweet little voice. “He likes it.” I make them find a new outdoor home for their ants before they can come back inside. “I miss my ant,” says O. back in the classroom. He says it about seven times. It tickles me to hear it.

This morning, they each made a second windsock, this time as a gift for a friend or family member who needs to hear about Jesus. I asked who they’d give it to, and so many instantly knew. “My dad. Because he doesn’t believe in God, and he needs to hear about Jesus, and I haven’t told him about Jesus.” “My sister, because she doesn’t know about God.” “My brother, because he comes to church, but after the singing, he leaves early.” “My brother, because he doesn’t know nothing about God.” “My mom.” One writes “Papi” on his windsock. I’ve met most of the people they’re speaking of. And I know some of the stories behind it all. These kids are perceptive. We pray for those who will receive our gifts. We pray for boldness, for the Holy Spirit’s help in telling His story. Oh how I pray that all this really sinks into them. That it’s not just pious activity or empty words. How I need help to learn to surrender and trust in the Lord’s redeeming power.

Market Day 2. Notable additions today include artificial flowers, bananas, (uncooked) rice by the cup, and little green votive candles from Ikea. “I brought candles,” J. said to me earlier in the day. He pointed to the various warnings in multiple languages on the bag. You’ve seen stuff from Ikea. You know what I mean. “You have to listen to the rules,” he said. “This is from Europe?” he asks me. “Yes!” I reply. “Actually, they are!” “My mom said that,” he affirms. I love the resourcefulness of that mom. The letter says your child has to bring something from Europe (at least in spirit), and you think Ikea! Delightful.

My floppy, funny F. has a very loose tooth. He thinks he should go home because of it. “Can I go to the office?” “Nope. But I can try to pull it out for you.” He agrees. I try. He tries. It’s not quite ready. It’s at that can-be-twisted-almost-all-the-way-around stage, but has a strong root. I remember the feeling of loose teeth so vividly. On our way out the classroom door to go downstairs for market day, F. calls to me in his special, spacey way: “If my teeth fall out, can we sell them?” “Sure,” I reply before I really know what I’m saying (this happens frequently, me speaking before I really know what I’m saying. Teachers have to speak a lot.) “Yessss!” he exults. I can’t wait till he brings ‘em in.

As a closing activity for market week, I bring up the idea once more of thinking about where things we buy come from. I start checking shirt labels again and announcing their places of manufacture. I can’t see my own shirt label, so I decide to check my shoes. (China.) Wouldn’t you know it, before long, every Kindergartener in both Kindergarten classes (the other class has by this time come out to sit with us in the afterschool waiting area) is crowding around me with a musky black sneaker in hand. “What about mine?” “What about mine?” “Where do mine come from?” All but one pair are China-made. (The exception is Indonesia.) I can only imagine how tired parents will be by the end of the weekend of having every label in their houses checked by their Kinder-consumer-reporters. Whatever message got across about ethical trade practices, I can at least be sure that curiosity about where stuff comes from has been firmly instilled.
And I
have smelled
a lot of Kindergarten feet.