Tiny Tears

Last year, I had a little one in my Kindergarten class. And when I say little, I mean little. You know, the ones that weigh 30 lbs and wear the princess dresses in the same rotation each week, in tandem with their high tops and pink leggings underneath. Mussy light brown hair, big almond-shaped blue eyes, and a smile that would weaken the knees of any grown-up whose path she crosses. Oh, and she loves me more than the universe. Which is kind of cool now that my own kids are out of the house. I called her Annie Banannie, and she loved it.

Sometimes, it's hard to remember that the Annie's who come in excited and happy to be in school can get overwhelmed by everything expected of them. These are the ones who can slip through the cracks. The ones we don't worry about because they are o.k. Their parents love them; they aren't starving; they are obviously, developmentally, socially, and emotionally exactly where they should be, and they love drawing unicorns, rainbows, flowers and hearts all on the same page, even when it's clean-up time. They are as kind and respectful as the day is long.

Sometimes though, they remind us that we need to plug in. It's easy to get so lost in those obviously needy children, that we forget those silly and happy yet academically needy children like Annie.

The first time I noticed this about Annie Banannie was when we were all on the carpet and as a class, writing a book about apples. She held her paper and fat red pencil in her tiny hands, excited and ready to write anything, exactly like her teacher. Our class came up with the sentence, "Apples grow in trees." As a class, we began to stretch out the words, "A A A,-A p p p-l l l-zzz" ("finger space!"), "g g g- r r r - o o o", "in" ("you should know how to spell this word 'in'") "t-t-t-t-r-r-r-e-e-e-z-z-z-".

When I looked up from my paper to see how everyone was doing. In a voice that didn't sound like hers, I heard Annie say, "Wait. You're going too fast". Her little mouth had turned downward, one hand was holding up her head. She was white-knuckling her fat red pencil as if it was going to run away from her like the gingerbread man.

Then, she looked up at me, and I saw them. Tiny tears of discouragement fell from her little, oval-shaped, blue eyes. There was no sound coming from her, just tiny tears dribbling down her cheeks.

My heart sank, and my throat caved in on me.

Once again, I felt I had failed as a teacher. I had made someone think that they couldn't do hard things. That little one who came in every day full of love and ready to learn was now silently dripping tiny tears on her paper, smudging her attempts to write words. Her fat red pencil lying beside her.

I asked my instructional assistant to take over from there. I took Annie by the hand, Smudgy, wet paper and all, and we walked to the calm corner. As my own tears welled up in my eyes, I wiped hers and said, "I know things can feel really hard, especially writing, but you can do this." I slowed down, walking her step by step through each letter. Through each word and, of course, the finger space.

I just hadn't realized that things were so hard for her. At our nine-week conference, I told her mom she was doing great both academically and socially, because it looked like she was. Thinking back to that conversation, panic and guilt washed over me.

During lunch, I went through her writing, math, and science work that I had collected over the last couple of weeks, and there it was. Right in front of my eyes. Her independent work showed backward and crossed-off letters. Her one-to-one counting was not so one-to-one. The icing on the cake? Most of it was unfinished.

What.The.Actual.Hell.

How had I not seen this? How had I let this get away from me? Grad school? Five others needing so much academic and social/emotional help that my IA had to track them daily with sticker charts? Job overwhelm? Lack of sleep and emotional support? Every day was 24/7 crazy. And because of that, I hadn't noticed Annie holding in her tiny tears of frustration until she couldn't any more. I was too busy accepting her hugs, loving her art, listening to her funny words ,and watching her play so successfully with others, that her academic challenges fell off my radar.

You know how we, as teachers, find a problem and solve it as fast as possible. We know academic problems in kindergarten can haunt a child until they are so far behind they can't catch up.

So I rethought her instruction. I put her in a more appropriate small group; I sat her right in front of me on the carpet, and brought her up to our local screening committee to get her an IEP so she could get the help she needed. That IEP she should have had in October was now being written in January, but it was being done, and that was the most important thing.

As you know, there's nothing worse for a teacher than feeling like they have failed a student, tiny tears or not. Our job is to support and meet all students where they are at, academically, socially, and emotionally. To do the impossible. Twenty-one students from twenty-one different families, 6 different cultures, 3 different languages, and 4 IEPs all thrown together in one classroom, which is a lot like a box of chocolates.

It's too much. The responsibilities. Even with an IA whose instincts are the same as yours.

It's. Too. Much.

I was not a terrible teacher. I was and am a human being. I am caught up in my students' needs. I'm overworked, and I expect too much of myself.

I was caught up in Annie because I loved what she represented and how much she reminded me of myself when I was five. And because of all of that, my happy student fell through the cracks.

That is until I saw her tiny tears. I wish it hadn't taken so long, but sometimes it does. It's just the nature of the beast.