deus ex machina

I had my second interview today at a childcare center near my house. I desperately want to work there. From the moment I stepped foot in the building last week, it just felt right. The people are all young and fun and passionnate, the facility is bright and cheerful and evocative, the kids are intelligent and articulate, it’s perfect. It almost seemed too good to be true. (See 1B.) Of course, we still haven’t talked about pay rate, so that may still turn out to be the case. We’ll see.

For my “second interview”, I am told to bring in a project to do with the kidlets - preferably about half an hour, max. I decide to do a story drama type lesson revolving around the book “Froggy Gets Dressed”, which was suggested to me by Ida. (They’re doing a unit on Passover right now - and they’re discussing the plagues. I chose to deal with the rain of frogs one, since it lends itself more easily to curriculum for 3-4 year olds than some of the other ones.) In this book, a little frog wakes up in the middle of the winter. He wants to go play in the snow - his mom tells him that frogs are supposed to sleep through the winter, but he doesn’t care. He puts on his hat and boots and off he goes. Oops, but he forgot his pants. He puts them on and goes back outside. Oops, but he forgot his shirt. He puts them on, repeat ad nauseum. Finally, his mom reminds him that he’s forgotten to put on his underwear. By this time, he’s so tired from changing a hundred times that he just goes back to sleep. Sounds simplistic, but there are fun pictures and a lot of repetition, and it’s a great book for kids this age. So, this is the centerpiece of what I do.

First, I come in with a bunch of pieces of yarn. Each kid gets one - they are our scarves. We talk about winter. We talk about snow. I pass around pictures of snow (from MN during Christmas) and we talk about what snow looks like, tastes like, feels like, smells like. We talk about how in Seattle, we pretty much never get snow. Then, I pass around a couple of ice packs - the kids touch them, smell them, talk about what it’s like to feel cold. They pull their little yarn scarves around their little necks, and we read the book. Every time Froggy’s mom yells “Froooooogggyyyy!!!”, they all say it too. (It is freaking adorable.) I want to do some more role-playing type stuff, but by this point I am running out of time.

Then, I pull out the piece de resistance - I’ve made them all frog coloring books. Each one has a hole punched in the corner (with a hole-reinforcer-thingy) that has a brad through it. I take out the brad and use their scarf to tie the pages together. They are thrilled, and run off to color. I am congratulating myself on how well it went - the head of the center says it’s great, the woman who would be my co-teacher seems happy, I am feeling pretty good. We all go into the common area to play on the jungle-gym-stuff when I hear a gasp from the teacher. I hear “Everybody! Everybody! Come in here right now and look at this!” She is frantically waving the kids toward the window, all of the other teachers herd their kids in, and I bring up the rear. I look out at the street …

and it is snowing.

My jaw drops. For a moment, I forget to breathe. The assistant director glances over at me, and I manage to pull myself together enough to say “This is part of my project.” It turns out, of course, that it’s actually more akin to hail than snow, but it doesn’t matter. It’s good enough.

Before I leave, I am invited on two play dates. A little girl I’ve known half an hour snuggles up on my lap to hear the story of our friend Froggy a second time. I have a half-hour long heart-to-heart with the woman I would be co-teaching with. I call my mother, and she says “There are no coincidences, Freesia.” For the first time in many months, I am inclined to agree.