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.
Beautifully said. I interned at a daycare for a while in college and it always bothered me that those children will never remember me. We shared precious moments together, yet they will not remember me. But then I realized they won't remember ME per se', but they'll remember how they felt at that time in their life. (also they may be less screwed up by having an enjoyable childhood that we contributed to!) Welcome to the blog world!
ReplyDeleteHello miss Kari! Yay...a new blog to follow. Great post!! Miss your face.
ReplyDeleteThank you ladies :) Both of you are beautiful examples of what I'm striving to be.
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