Little III

For Little III, I'll call her Daisy - like the flower.

I remember the first time she walked into Sunday School class. Eyes large with wonder, her step sure as the next. She had come with her sister, who might have been about three years older. Both were disciplined, participative, and wanted to learn.

Sunday school, I had imagined, would have God fearing kids. In other words, I thought I would find kids who had been told by their parents that they were in a sanctuary and needed to behave in a reverent manner. My assumptions were based on my own Christian background from my late teens, and maybe some scare stories about fire in hell that I had heard in childhood.

Instead, I found the most fascinating kids, of varying ages, and temperaments.

You had the boy who never wanted to pray when called upon but never failed to point out that Lucy had a boyfriend. How he knew this, remained a mystery to me. Also, what were children under ten doing having boyfriends?

You had the girl who imitated African American speak using “I aks her and she dun tell me this…” and I had to keep up. Aks was ask.

Then there was the one who loved to do 180-splits, and the boy who asked every few minutes, “is it time to go out and play?” and then the sneaky, “is it time for snacks?”

And so, I learned that play is probably the best way to teach children. As to what I was trying to teach them is not the subject of this post. Let’s focus on Daisy for now.

At the playground, there was plenty of running around, the slightly older boys tripping each other, some tomboys following suit, and the odd one or two who felt too old to play, stuck to tik-tok on their phones.

There was a small playhouse, like a large doll house in which three little kids could enter. Sometimes I successfully got them to take turns, most times we had more tears than I had bargained for. Other times, I left them to figure it out.

On one of the days that I left them to figure it out, there was plenty of crying. Daisy was not crying but her wonder-filled eyes seemed to say there was major trouble. The definition of trouble with kids can range from refusing to play, refusing to share a cracker or someone is bleeding or needing to use an EpiPen. Quite frankly, one can only hope for the former categories.

“Auntie…someone used a very, very, very bad word,” Daisy whispered loudly as she decidedly charged at me.

When she was close, I lowered myself down, fearing the worst while she held my gaze.

“Oh? What kind of bad word?”

Her eyes enlarged with horror. Her voice lowered to a quiet whisper as she said, “I cannot say it,” slightly turning her head left and then right in a negative motion.

“Okay…” I said, as I tried to think of what to say to her. I was curious to know the word but you know what they say about curiosity and cats.

“I am not allowed to say bad words that is why I cannot say it,” she offered, as if reading my mind.

I could appreciate that!

Daisy mentioned who had used the bad word and I thanked her for being good about not using bad words. She promptly turned and headed back to the playhouse.

“We have 15 minutes left,” I said loudly to the kids.

The screams continued, the shoving intensified, the Tik-Tok crew was busy trying out what looked like dances that I was sure would send their mamas reaching for the nearest flip flop, that, when set in flight in the direction of the dancing crew, would miraculously put an end to such a scene.