The teacher who helps in the three year old classroom lost her mother this week. I stepped in to fill the gaps while she flew across the country to be with family.

I ate a pretend lunch with a brown eyed girl who was thrilled to be allowed to use a wooden knife. The dress ups were popular, with filmy skirts and silk capes. The project that morning was to rip red paper and glue it to an apple shape. When we went out to the playground, the weather was cool and breezy. Who gets paid to do this? I guess I do.

At circle time the teacher led songs about spiders and pumpkins, and the group's attention span did not expire. She sang three more. 

Some of these children were in my two year old program last year, and I recalled that their interest waned after four minutes. I did not take it personally, though singing with children is one of my favorite things and would happily have gone on much longer. But they are older now, and five or even six songs does not tax them.  

There is a couple who are helping to raise their grandchildren. They put in a chunk of hours every week, shuttling, cutting up sandwiches into triangles, answering more questions than fit on a job application. They did it twenty years before, when their own kids were small, but now they are at it again. Their bodies are less supple, but their patience has seasoned. Annoyances are scarce, and things that seemed Naughty before are simply impish now.

Their charges are blessed to be in the care of two people who have softened over time, traded in firm arms for flabby, lost a few dreams and replaced them with acceptance.

Sometimes it is not unwillingness, or rebellion that keeps us from being fully engaged. We are simply not ripe.