(sub)conscious

Today I sat at our school “coffee table” – a very low table situated in our quiet area, next to a small couch and a bookcase. I listened to a child narrate a story while they drew, observing the art take shape as the world of words unfolded.

The classroom exuded a unique energy brought only by preschoolers: playful shrieks, hushed whispers in the cozy corner, the turning of book pages, and a small child nestled in a comforter reading along.

Resting my chin in my hands, I nodded as the child across from me spoke. Amidst their stream of thought, they suddenly said, “I love you, mom.” A brief pause followed – short enough for my ears to detect, but not fast enough for my brain to immediately process. Then, the child course-corrected.

“I mean Corie. I know you’re not my mom but I love you just as much.”

“Just as much but not the same,” I replied softly. Inside, secretly, I understood.

The bond between teachers and students evolves in different ways over the years. The beauty of preschool lies in the fact that the filters haven’t fully formed. Of course, I am not their mommy. I’m someone’s mommy but not theirs. Yet, for these five-year-olds, we fill that void from 8 am to 5 pm.

The child set down their crayon and reached a hand across the coffee table, gently rubbing the skin of my arm. I allowed them to trace the line of my tattoo, becoming, for the briefest moment, a human security blanket. Then, I lifted my eyes and met theirs. We smiled, and the child, recharged, ran off to play.