This morning I played hooky from my son’s weekly kindergarten reading group.
After a tough week I just couldn’t bear another morning of chaos so I made an excuse about work and said that I would be back next week.
It was a relief to be honest, as while my son just loves me helping out in the classroom, I leave feeling like I have just run a marathon.
A noisy marathon.
It did make me think though about the one person who can’t play hooky. The one person who runs that marathon every day – and actually does a fair amount of that time wearing heels.
I don’t know how you do it.
As I sigh with relief when the bell goes after a morning of put-your-shoes-on and find-your-homework and brush-your-teeth there are days when I gladly hand my children over to their teachers.
It doesn’t cross my mind once the day’s rush of work, and chores and smaller children takes over to pause to think about the teachers who are happily dealing with a group of twenty or more students - happily dealing with my own precious kids.
But this morning as I raced out the gate I looked back and what I saw made me pause for a second and think.
One teacher – a man in his 50’s - a rare age for a man to be teaching these days surrounded by small boys as he taught them to juggle.
Another, a younger woman holding the hands of anxious two twins, weepy after leaving their mother making them smile with a silly game.
And a third plastering a band-aid on the knee of a freckle faced eight-year old, face smudged with tears.