The art teacher needed a sub while she attended a funeral. I went to chat with her the day before, about what she had prepared and it seemed straightforward enough. 

 

In this school the first graders perform the play Peter Rabbit. It is something of a legacy, and each child makes a clay figure of themselves to commemorate the event. Students have been crafting these for ages, and parents display them prominently. I have several on a shelf in the kitchen where I put my favorite things. No refrigerator magnet fare here, destined for the recycling bin when the kids turn their backs.

 

This renowned rite of passage just happened to be the project for me to guide them through. No pressure.

 

Whenever I help children make things I try to find the balance between supporting them and doing it for them. I err on the side of letting them struggle a bit, so that they don't take it home and remember that the teacher actually made it. But this time it was a high stakes event and some of the kids felt overwhelmed. 

 

"Mrs. Lori, the arm fell off."

 

"Mrs. Lori, I can't do it."

 

"Mrs. Lori, it doesn't look like a bunny."

 

I have nine children of my very own but even they have the decency to not all need me at the same nanosecond. I scrambled around the room reattaching limbs, and trying to squeeze ears out of lumpy heads. I tried not to obsess about the boy whose mother is a professional potter. He probably learned to throw bowls before he could walk.

 

Then they all finished at once, as if being led by a conductor. I rushed to carve their names on the skimpy space afforded on the bottom, so the teacher would know who the rightful owners were. Clay rabbits change considerably after a hot flash in the kiln. I tried to write hurriedly yet legibly and silently thrashed the parents who blessed their precious darlings with names of eight or nine letters. I was relieved to get to Ian and Ava. 

 

I had a few minutes between the two halves of first grade and was finishing up the inscribing process when another teacher came in looking for paint. I explained what I was doing.

 

"Oh, I still have mine from when I was in first grade," she reminisced. 

 

Great. Maybe I better do a little damage control to make sure these artifacts of childhood last a quarter of a century. One can only expect so much from Elmer or Gorilla.

 

I believe that there is a Teacher who works behind the scenes to pretty up my marriage. Yet His fingers work fastest when I am looking the other way. I amble along as if the actions and conversations that materialize under my roof are entirely my own making. But sometimes I feel a gush of words and embraces that are more lovely and durable than I could expect from a wife as young as me.

 

 

 

 

 

Photo by Jenny Stein

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