Kindergarten week is a time that comes but once a year. Everyone says that the kids are cute but I just don't see it. To me, playing with a room full of three year olds is the same as playing with a room full of dogs. No attention spans, wet noses, and massive homicidal temper tantrums. If you put a small child in a kindergarten/nursery school there are higher expectations for his/her/its behaviour. They may be expected to draw or write or sing but when you look closely it's obvious the teachers are forcing them to do everything or just doing it for them, because there's no chance of any of those three year olds doing anything by themselves. If they were left at home they would dribble, eat paste and smash toys together, and what's wrong with that? Still, I respect the women (and it is all women) who work at the nursery schools because they're basically babysitters who have to stop thirty babies from killing themselves and each other everyday. Whilst coming up with activities to make it look like kindergarten is more than a just holding facility, which it is.
Day One - Mercifully there are five other English teachers here so we can have a pow-wow in the staff-room. As usual everyone pretends the Japanese tea is good but I drink from my bottle of tap water instead, which I brought in anticipation of my mouth becoming dry due to anxiety and despair. The two of us that are teaching (dealing with?) the three years olds are told "If you speak to them in Japanese or English, they probably won't listen to either. They're only three." Which begs the question*, Why did I pass up all those chances at a quick and easy suicide?
Go into the classroom (pen?) to no reaction from the ten or so kids in there. Make a mouse out of play-dough, a boys smashes it. Make a butterfly out of play-dough, the same boy smashes it. Turn around and there's a really pale boy with dry skin and dead eyes and it's like looking into a mirror but he has so much snot under his nose that I actually feel physically sick. Grab a boy (not the snot boy) by the hands and let him walk up my body and he ends up upside down with his back to me and I'm still holding his hands and how can this possibly end well? If he flips over backward and I keep holding his hands I'm so sure that he will dislocate both his shoulders but I can't drop him either. I wrap my arms around him and lower him gently to the ground in a kind of mangled anti-climactic pile of human. Snot boy comes over with his hands raised toward me. No chance. Against any sense of logic or responsibility I let another boy climb up the same way and he steps right on my right testicle and it really really hurts, but I totally deserve it for the negative blog post I am already planning to write. Children's games, attention from the women, reading a picture book, anxiety descending.
Day Two - The plan is for me to dress as Santa while Sarah dresses as Santa Lady, we'll answer questions and give out presents and be merry. In the staff-room I ask for water, not tea, which I drink happily. We talk about starting businesses and going back to university and the future seems good but the conversation is cut short, it's time to put on our hats and take to the stage. This felt like a moment that summed up everything.
I give a pro-wrestling style promo about giving out presents "Right here, TONIGHT!" which I think is brilliant but it doesn't get a pop from the kids. Sarah laughs, sympathetically? About fifteen minutes in someone asks who our friends are, we list some children's characters like Mickey Mouse and Shrek but when I say "Doraemon" it pops the crowd huge. Next I say "Anpanman" and I try to remember "Rilakumma" but I can't and it stops the building momentum. Give out presents to everyone and shake hands - must remember to wash my hands later. The Santa beard covers my face which makes all this a lot easier. A professional looking photographer has been taking pictures of all this, where are the pictures going? No consent needed? We play outside for a while - in costume - and me and the kids chase each other around. I realise that I'm grateful for everything that has ever happened to me, that it's been another brilliant year, and that I'm being paid to do this so whatever I'll smile under the beard even though no-one can see it.
Day One - Mercifully there are five other English teachers here so we can have a pow-wow in the staff-room. As usual everyone pretends the Japanese tea is good but I drink from my bottle of tap water instead, which I brought in anticipation of my mouth becoming dry due to anxiety and despair. The two of us that are teaching (dealing with?) the three years olds are told "If you speak to them in Japanese or English, they probably won't listen to either. They're only three." Which begs the question*, Why did I pass up all those chances at a quick and easy suicide?Go into the classroom (pen?) to no reaction from the ten or so kids in there. Make a mouse out of play-dough, a boys smashes it. Make a butterfly out of play-dough, the same boy smashes it. Turn around and there's a really pale boy with dry skin and dead eyes and it's like looking into a mirror but he has so much snot under his nose that I actually feel physically sick. Grab a boy (not the snot boy) by the hands and let him walk up my body and he ends up upside down with his back to me and I'm still holding his hands and how can this possibly end well? If he flips over backward and I keep holding his hands I'm so sure that he will dislocate both his shoulders but I can't drop him either. I wrap my arms around him and lower him gently to the ground in a kind of mangled anti-climactic pile of human. Snot boy comes over with his hands raised toward me. No chance. Against any sense of logic or responsibility I let another boy climb up the same way and he steps right on my right testicle and it really really hurts, but I totally deserve it for the negative blog post I am already planning to write. Children's games, attention from the women, reading a picture book, anxiety descending.
Day Two - The plan is for me to dress as Santa while Sarah dresses as Santa Lady, we'll answer questions and give out presents and be merry. In the staff-room I ask for water, not tea, which I drink happily. We talk about starting businesses and going back to university and the future seems good but the conversation is cut short, it's time to put on our hats and take to the stage. This felt like a moment that summed up everything.
I give a pro-wrestling style promo about giving out presents "Right here, TONIGHT!" which I think is brilliant but it doesn't get a pop from the kids. Sarah laughs, sympathetically? About fifteen minutes in someone asks who our friends are, we list some children's characters like Mickey Mouse and Shrek but when I say "Doraemon" it pops the crowd huge. Next I say "Anpanman" and I try to remember "Rilakumma" but I can't and it stops the building momentum. Give out presents to everyone and shake hands - must remember to wash my hands later. The Santa beard covers my face which makes all this a lot easier. A professional looking photographer has been taking pictures of all this, where are the pictures going? No consent needed? We play outside for a while - in costume - and me and the kids chase each other around. I realise that I'm grateful for everything that has ever happened to me, that it's been another brilliant year, and that I'm being paid to do this so whatever I'll smile under the beard even though no-one can see it.
