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It must be an hour before they’re done shouting around and laughing—and clearly very sleepy. The teacher, Elle, Miss Joly, and I help marshal the munchkins into the washroom to get the worst of the glitter, glue, and marker streaks off them.
As if this is common routine, as soon as they’re done in the washroom, they toddle out to blankets and folded mats taken from cubbies in the wall, claiming a spot on the floor and rolling their mats out to curl up.
As I help Sara scrub her fingers off, I glance at Elle. “Nap time?”
“Story time,” she answers, teasing a glob of glue out of a little boy’s hair. “And you’re going to read to them.”
I sigh, but without much exasperation this time. “You’re really grinding this in.”
“Mm-hmm.”
Smug little wretch.
“All clean!” Sara proclaims, and holds her hands out for me to dry.
I wipe her fingers off one at a time with a towel and lightly pat her shoulder. “Go get your mat and find a good spot.”
With a bobbleheaded little nod, she darts off, bouncing toward the wall cubbies. I wipe a little more glitter off my hands, watching her while Elle shoos off the little boy with clean hair.
“You’re better with them than I expected,” Elle says.
“I said I’m not good with children. I didn’t say I’m a complete imbecile with no common sense. It’s not that difficult to make them happy. Just be nice to them.”
Her lips curl.
“Seems like a good rule with just about anyone.” Her smile widens. “I thought you said being nice was pointless?”
“They’re children, Elle. What kind of monster do you think I am?” I toss the towel at her. “No, don’t answer that.”
Her grin says it all.
I just shake my head as I let her drag me out into the classroom to an actual adult-size plush chair.
The children have arranged their mats around it like sunflower petals. Elle pushes me down into the chair, then steals a book from the top of the stack the teacher offers her and slaps it into my hands.
“You’re up, Shakespeare.”
“You are enjoying this far too much,” I grumble, but then I look down to see what she’s given me.
It’s something about a puppy that pokes.
It’s a very ugly puppy.
Well, I suppose puppies don’t need to be show winners to poke things.
I crack the book open, looking inside at the illustrations, then at the sleepy faces watching me expectantly.
This suddenly feels strange—all these trusting little things looking up at me, fully believing that somehow I have the magic power to soothe them to sleep with just a few words.
I don’t think of myself as a calming presence, as someone safe enough for children to look at with such innocence.
But they clearly don’t see me like I see myself.
Sort of like Elle never has either.
The thought softens my voice as I begin reading slowly about the five little puppies digging under a fence. I’m careful not to let my tone jar the children out of their sleepiness.
The book’s longer than I expect.
