Who is this person standing here with straight face and stiff limbs? Whose voice is speaking? Who is this person that looks into Wyatt’s face and deeply speaks, “No, you will not be coming home with me, Yes, you will be staying at Kindergarten”?
Where did the mushball go? How deep is she buried? Down. Deep down. The voice of the terrified is railing:
“Run Wyatt! Run! Come with me, out the door, down the halls, to the grass!”
These children look like monsters, especially that big red-headed kid. And those girls hitting each other with blocks. Where is a friend Wyatt? Look. There. The quiet one that is calm. I know you can’t see him right now as you are screaming, crying, hanging on to my leg. He’ll be your friend. A desperate look to another parent, not really a look, no eye contact here, a glance at some spot over her shoulder. “I don’t know how to parent this” I admit. Her sympathetic smile.
“Any suggestions?” I ask the teacher. I am ready to bolt out the door, ready to hear her say, “you go, we’ll handle it” but I know that is not coming.
“You should stay awhile” she suggests.
Of course, no problem. I will stay. Violette, Renee, I, and the stroller. We will stay until he is ready.
Only 45 minutes…