To be greeted every morning by four year olds rushing towards you like speed racers (as they refer to themselves) is a powerful start to a day. You feel calm and patient, for a moment. Then the whirlwind that is preschool flings you face first into finger painting and singsong. You become young again, teaching malleable minds things of your past. Influencing while striving to be on your best behavior. Hoping these memories will be cherished as long as they can be remembered. Memories. Their stories. Who else is making memories with them, I wonder? Who else is writing their stories? I'm sure their parents are thinking the same things of me. I love these children who are not mine. I want to borrow them away and smother them with the abundance of love I have for them. They are teaching me so much, I cannot be grateful enough.
