Biological Warfare in Early Childhood Education

Oh, Sean. My little friend. Bright and bright-eyed with the personality of a puppy dog. He's like my shadow, but closer, more like an enormous tumor on my hip. I usuall don't mind it, because he's a pleasant little tumor. He is often found wrapped around my leg, or trailing so close behind me that it's become a game that I stop short and he crashes into me.

This week, though, I am on playground duty. And it's hard enough to keep 50-something kids between the ages of three and six from breaking their limbs on mokey bars, slides and swings, skipping around the parking lot, and stealthily sneaking into the tetanus emporium (drill bit, chainsaw and rusty nail-infested tool shed), without having 35 extra pounds pasted on one side of my body.

Sean is also developing a bit of a bossy streak, not to mention very particular needs (the same spot to sit in every day on the rug, total control of the windows of the playhouse, and all of me all the time) that result in copious tears if they are not met.

So yesterday I told Sean what I tell the kids to say to each other if someone is getting too close to them: "I need some space." I told him he should go play so I can watch allllll of the children (not just you) and keep eeeeeeeeeeeeverybody safe (not just you). He wasn't particularly pleased with my assessment of the situation, but he did go off to play. To the playhouse in fact, where he wrestled another child away from the window and started swinging it open and closed.

Tactic #1: Negative attention seeking behavior. And I totally fell for it. Now I had to go over and remind him that we don't shove people out of the way to get something that we want, that the window is for allllllll the children (not just you), and to please stop swinging the window before it hits someone.

Tactic #2: Negative attention seeking behavior AND defiance. He gave the window one last shove and it swung back and hit him in the temple. He was a little stunned but not hurt. "I told you so" would have been an unneccesary yet personally satisfying response, but I refrained and turned back to the rest of the playground.

Tactic #3: Copious tears. I ignored.

Tactic #4: Biological warfare. Now he was really mad. He stomped around to the other side of the playhouse, squatted and burried his tear-streaked face in his hands, and defecated at me. Yes, at me. (And no, not on me). If he knew any derogatory gestures, or the phrase "f*** you," I'm sure he would have employed those, but he's three, and his weapons are pretty much limited to 1) biting and 2) pooping in pants.

The former would not have been funny at all, since last year when a child bit the assistant teacher, her arm swelled up and the school nurse sent her for a tetanus shot. The latter was only funny (in it's own disturbing way) because I was on playground duty, therefore, someone else had to go clean him up.

AND Sean just skipped into the room, smiling, gave me a big hug. The bell has't rung yet, so he's gone out to the playground where I hope he won't express any emotions in the form of bodily functions.