KiDs

A

I work with seven year-olds. The job is dangerous because after only a short amount of time I find that I, too, am becoming a seven year-old.

It's not the drastic loss of maturity I'm worried about. Not the disintegrating worldview or the perils of living on the constant brink of emotional breakdown. Not the fact that I crave Goldfish, juice boxes and icy pops, or that I have started to address my coworkers and friends as "Mister John" or "Miss Sally."

Mostly I'm worried about a downward trend in communication methods and skills that I might be experiencing. The things I talk about, laugh at, and brainstorm are changing. I am becoming simpler and goofier. I love a good nonsequitur as much as I love a quick sprint through the sprinkler or the promise of ice cream. If I tried to chronicle my demise I would get caught up in and confused by the timeline, so I will instead just give you a sampling of how and why this is happening.

B

"Let's tell jokes," a coworker announces during 5:00 snacktime. The day is nine hours ripe and nearly finished. Bleary-eyed I sit with thirty students on a mini-chair in the cafeteria drinking my juice. "What's black and white and red all over?"

"The flag," someone guesses. "A teapot." "A dead penguin." "My daddy's VCR with red paint on it." Finally my coworker divulges the answer. "Okay," she says, "does anyone else want to tell a joke?"

Hands fly up like a flock of wayward balloons in a gale. She calls on one child, the boy who has a different Boston Celtics jersey for each day of the week. "Okay, okay, who's the who's the the best player in the NBA?" "That's not a joke," someone shouts. Others offer answers. "LeBron James." "Michael Jackson." "The guy with the big hair." I should note that my name comes up in the discussion as well.

"Nope," the boy says, and then names his favorite Celtic.

"Okay, good one," my coworker says. "Who's next?" Back comes the sea of hands, and the next jester is chosen. She is a confident second-grader, maybe the most popular of all the girls.

"Knock knock."

"Who's there?" In chorus.

"Banana."

"Banana who?"

"Orange."

"Orange who?"

She pauses, looks around. She's forgotten the joke. "Nevermind, I don't want to tell it anymore."

Before my coworker even speaks the hands go up again, and she chooses a boy with legendary gas. He stands up, relishing the spotlight. "Why, why, why did the why the why did someone scratch their ear?"

There ensues a silence out of our collective puzzlement. Even the loudest boys and girls cannot think of the answer. "Just tell us," says the girl across from him.

"Because, because his ear was on fire."

C

First thing in the morning, playing the card game "War" with one girl, we both display the same card, which, as the rules state, means that it's time for a war. Each of us puts three cards face-down and then readies the fourth card for battle. "Wait," she says. A first-grader ambles over to our game to watch. His friend, also a first-grader, follows behind and says, "Mister Jer, guess what. My grandma and grandpa are at my house right now but they aren't even awake yet!"

"Really," I say.

"When my uncle comes," the other boy says, "he sleeps until the night time!"

Out of the corner of my eye I watch my opponent examining her deck for a high card with which to win our pending battle. I turn back toward the gallery so as to hide the fact that I'm watching her cheat guiltlessly.

"Well when my uncle comes," I say, but I get cut off.

"Mister Jer, my uncle has a big belly and he says it's cause he he needs to have, love handles." Covertly I check my deck and fish the ace of spades out onto the top. "He always walks around with his shirt off!"

"Mister Jer, let's GO!"

"Okay," I say, and we draw our top cards. My ace beats her king.

"Hee hee!!!" she squeals, overcome with laughter, tips over and falls off the couch.

D

At 6:00 the last parents are still coming in to pick up their children. One of my coworkers asks a parent if he might talk to her in private while her son is retrieving his lunchbox. They go into the hall to have a conversation about the child's behavior issues.

The boy re-enters the room swinging his lunchbox and immediately heads for the door, sensing that his mother is in the hall. Another coworker calls his name and diverts his progress, asking him to come over and talk to her for a minute. Reluctantly he comes over to the desk.

"So," my coworker says, "What are you uhhhh..."

He waits for the question, any moment liable to run off in impatience.

"What are you doing tonight?"

The boy shrugs. "I don't know."

"What did you do last night?" I say.

"I don't know."

My coworker: "What are you having for dinner?"

"I don't know."

"I had a hamburger last night," my coworker says.

"I had pizza," I say.

"I love pizza," my coworker replies.

"It had mushrooms and peppers and--"

"EWWW!!!" the boy shrieks. "You like MUSHROOMS?"

I nod happily. We've got him.

"I hate mushrooms. Mushrooms are so bad? Did you know? Did you know I, I had mushrooms once and... Ewww! I like pepperoni. Miss Sally, did you know my mommy said she's going to make a a a pie. I'm going home and I'm going to play video games and she's going to make a pie?" Right on cue he turns to make his exit just as his mother comes back in the room. "Bye!" we say as he grabs his mother by the wrist and tugs her out the door.