In my new capacity as childcare provider i have acquired a new facet to my identity: mealtime police. That's right, twice a day i hover over tender youths just trying to eat their ground beef with rice, scrutinizing, criticizing, providing strong reminders and meting out consequences to offenders.
My first shift in this position occurs at lunch time, just after the kids have finished their outdoor playtime and had 'circle time' where they sing a round of songs and have a story read/told to them. One by one they then file into the lunchroom where they sit in chairs with their names labeled in pastel handmade cards taped to the backs. Meanwhile i stand over them with hawk eyes, my hands clasped as a gesture to remind them of the desired, 'waiting for lunch and blessing' position. It is here that my jursidiction begins. Frequently a child will come marching in, waving his/her little arms in all directions, chanting, dancing, or otherwise acting childishly (appropriate as it may be). "No, that's not how we enter the lunchroom, go back and let's try it again...Carolina lets show the others how a big girl behaves...Ruben, feet under the table!" All this with the standard, semi-sing-songy voice under which any child with half a mind can sense agitation or unrest in a 'teacher' (which is what i am, when they can't remember my name). I then leave the room full of squriming tots to pray with the teacher whilst i put on oven mits and ready the food such that i can come bursting through the doors when i hear the last of the blessing. This is done with expediency to avoid any catastrophic deviations of attention between the time blessing commences and the time the food arrives (15-30 seconds). After delivering i end up at my own little table, my own little island where the 'big kids' (age 4) sit. Often times i will open with a comment regarding an individual child's behavior, citing it as a reason for being served first or last. Serving order is a very important distinction at the big kids table. After the food is served we must endure a sometimes hellish period known in the field as 'no talking time'. During this time i resort to any means necessary, icy stares, plate revocation, sanctions on seconds, anything. Amazingly, day after day it almost never fails that at least one of the children persist in gabbing through the dead zone and officer Derek must resort to penal measures. Meanwhile i must also monitor other variables: elbows, fingers on the plate, licking the plate, licking the fingers, bad posture, footsie...the list of offenses is long and uncompromising. Few people know what it feels like to be evil until they've taken food directly from the place of a child who looks genuinely sad about it. I toss in my bed at night.
After no talking time ends often the children will burst into general utterances in sheer relief and celebration of talking. This leads to a new stipulation: the 'no silliness' clause. While talking is permissible, if this talking does not involve words, sense, or restraint it just doesn't cut the mustard. This comprises roughly the last 10 minutes of the meal and is generally more enjoyable for all, despite the fact that it is most likely singularly responsible for doubling the amount of food that goes on the floor. Slowly, after i dish out seconds and we've managed to maintain an acceptable level of conversation the children will finish and must ask, "may i please be excused from the table?" Whereupon i reply, "Yes you may, and don't forget to push your chair in!"
It should be noted that with each citation i writhe a bit inside. This because i myself was every meal-manners enthusiasts' worst nightmare in my younger years. I recall slouching and slumping with my legs dangling every way but beneath the table, bits of food on my face and clothing from having dropped it from my hands on the way to my mouth. My plate was surrounded with crumbs and bits of sauce and any tablecloth was doomed. I recall being sufficiently nagged about this, to no avail. My messiness was my pride and no degree of parental intervention was going to change that...
At 3 i have to do it all over again with Oscar after he comes home from school. He alleges that he doesn't eat in school which means we've always got a little leftover plate set aside for him when he arrives. Methodically we sit down together at the kitchen table, say again another songy blessing and i hover heavily while he displays etiquette exemplary of any 3rd grader. Every now and again i have to push his legs back under or nudge his elbows down, but each day brings improvement.
At the end of the day when the badge comes off and the dishes are done i then find myself huddled in the kitchen eating peanut butter with a spoon at 11pm thinking to myself, 'do it again, and the plate goes bye-bye'.
My first shift in this position occurs at lunch time, just after the kids have finished their outdoor playtime and had 'circle time' where they sing a round of songs and have a story read/told to them. One by one they then file into the lunchroom where they sit in chairs with their names labeled in pastel handmade cards taped to the backs. Meanwhile i stand over them with hawk eyes, my hands clasped as a gesture to remind them of the desired, 'waiting for lunch and blessing' position. It is here that my jursidiction begins. Frequently a child will come marching in, waving his/her little arms in all directions, chanting, dancing, or otherwise acting childishly (appropriate as it may be). "No, that's not how we enter the lunchroom, go back and let's try it again...Carolina lets show the others how a big girl behaves...Ruben, feet under the table!" All this with the standard, semi-sing-songy voice under which any child with half a mind can sense agitation or unrest in a 'teacher' (which is what i am, when they can't remember my name). I then leave the room full of squriming tots to pray with the teacher whilst i put on oven mits and ready the food such that i can come bursting through the doors when i hear the last of the blessing. This is done with expediency to avoid any catastrophic deviations of attention between the time blessing commences and the time the food arrives (15-30 seconds). After delivering i end up at my own little table, my own little island where the 'big kids' (age 4) sit. Often times i will open with a comment regarding an individual child's behavior, citing it as a reason for being served first or last. Serving order is a very important distinction at the big kids table. After the food is served we must endure a sometimes hellish period known in the field as 'no talking time'. During this time i resort to any means necessary, icy stares, plate revocation, sanctions on seconds, anything. Amazingly, day after day it almost never fails that at least one of the children persist in gabbing through the dead zone and officer Derek must resort to penal measures. Meanwhile i must also monitor other variables: elbows, fingers on the plate, licking the plate, licking the fingers, bad posture, footsie...the list of offenses is long and uncompromising. Few people know what it feels like to be evil until they've taken food directly from the place of a child who looks genuinely sad about it. I toss in my bed at night.
After no talking time ends often the children will burst into general utterances in sheer relief and celebration of talking. This leads to a new stipulation: the 'no silliness' clause. While talking is permissible, if this talking does not involve words, sense, or restraint it just doesn't cut the mustard. This comprises roughly the last 10 minutes of the meal and is generally more enjoyable for all, despite the fact that it is most likely singularly responsible for doubling the amount of food that goes on the floor. Slowly, after i dish out seconds and we've managed to maintain an acceptable level of conversation the children will finish and must ask, "may i please be excused from the table?" Whereupon i reply, "Yes you may, and don't forget to push your chair in!"
It should be noted that with each citation i writhe a bit inside. This because i myself was every meal-manners enthusiasts' worst nightmare in my younger years. I recall slouching and slumping with my legs dangling every way but beneath the table, bits of food on my face and clothing from having dropped it from my hands on the way to my mouth. My plate was surrounded with crumbs and bits of sauce and any tablecloth was doomed. I recall being sufficiently nagged about this, to no avail. My messiness was my pride and no degree of parental intervention was going to change that...
At 3 i have to do it all over again with Oscar after he comes home from school. He alleges that he doesn't eat in school which means we've always got a little leftover plate set aside for him when he arrives. Methodically we sit down together at the kitchen table, say again another songy blessing and i hover heavily while he displays etiquette exemplary of any 3rd grader. Every now and again i have to push his legs back under or nudge his elbows down, but each day brings improvement.
At the end of the day when the badge comes off and the dishes are done i then find myself huddled in the kitchen eating peanut butter with a spoon at 11pm thinking to myself, 'do it again, and the plate goes bye-bye'.
posted by derek | 8:34 PM
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