object of memory

we must return to where it was lost / if we want to find it again

Tag: preschool

  • 525,600 minutes x 7

    525,600 minutes x 7

    One of my favorite people in all the universes—known and yet to be discovered—turned seven today. It feels strange to think I’ve only known him for three years. Perhaps they were light-years or some other measure of time yet to be documented. Perhaps this little guy, who isn’t so little anymore, will be the one to discover it.

    Time brought us together. Time, as in the hours of preschool. Time, as in the minutes left of play. Time, in its exactness: the space between now and next and then. Time as the locus of everything—comfort and discomfort, measurable yet boundless. Like empathy. Feeling. Love.

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  • catch up

    catch up

    Believe it or not, I have seven posts sitting idle in my draft folder, with a few for each month that this site has been silent. It’s a fitting metaphor for how I’ve been feeling—many thoughts but few words to express them. Those who know me in person understand that I’m not a big talker. I enjoy people and conversations, but I often hit a wall when the words suddenly stop. I think them, but they don’t come out.

    Sid returned home in May after eleven months away. The growth has been astounding—a mix of intensive work and natural maturity—and we’ve spent the past two months adjusting to being a family of four again. We left off with a ten- and thirteen-year-old. Now we have a tween and an almost fifteen-year-old, in sixth and tenth grades. That shift feels pivotal, as there’s no going back to early childhood. Young adulthood looms, which is both beautiful and frightening, leading to midnight musings about what comes next.

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  • unintentional poetry

    Poetry is, indeed, everywhere.

    Unintentional preschool poem:

    Numbers are letters

    but you don’t know that

    because you are sweet.

  • metal heart

    metal heart

    Ellie weeps. Something in her weekly journal entry has made her sad, but she cannot find the words to explain why. “My scooter wasn’t going in the direction I wanted it to,” she had said earlier as the class talked about their weekends, but I wonder if there is something deeper in the statement.

    She weeps intermittently through our morning project about the human body, though she pauses and joins the class in drawing the heart. As they work, I say to them softly, “Think about how your heart pumps. Think about how your heart nourishes your brain, your lungs. What shapes do you see? What movement?”

    A child lobs a loaded question at the group: “What is more important, your heart or brain?” “That depends,” I say, smiling slyly. “It really depends.” Ellie glares at her peer and says matter-of-factly, “If you don’t have a heart, you die.” My own heart pumps quickly in reaction to her words.

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  • (sub)conscious

    (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.

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