Bubbles and Buckles
The waist-high miniature students move as a unit in a line like a snake. From the classroom to the library . . . the cafeteria to the music room . . . the playground back to the classroom, they miraculously slither in single file, mostly not disturbing the temptations they pass along the way. They have been taught how to travel.
“Assume the position . . .” announces the teacher in a sing-songy voice that floats through the air more like a lyrical invitation than an authoritative order. And in response, fifteen tiny humans interlock their fingers behind their backs in a “buckle” and “blow a bubble” with their cheeks.
This is the sage’s way of getting four-year-olds from A to B without creating chaos.
Brilliant, really.
Eyes and ears free for intake. Mouths and hands tied up with simple but specific things to do. Clearly, this seasoned pied piper understands how to handle the itchy spots.
The ones we are all, regardless of age, prone to scratching.
One man’s temptation is not necessarily another’s--the places where we’re porous are our own. Still, wagging tongues and idle hands seem to be pervasive tickles. So much slippery slope awaits behind those gateway drugs.
Who hasn’t said something they’d like to take back? Or reached into a cookie jar and wished they hadn’t? The answer to that question (no matter what you want it to be) is, “Zero among us.” Maybe “buckles and bubbles” could be a prevent plan for more than four-year-olds.
Just yesterday, I found myself saying, “It’s probably not my place to be telling you this . . .” as a preface, in conversation with a trusted friend, to a fact about another friend whom we both love. The truth wasn’t damaging. It wasn’t demeaning. I served it with neither judgement nor intent to harm and yet, the information wasn’t mine to share. And as quickly as the factoid left my lips, I craved to breathe it back.
We sometimes cannot help ourselves it seems. A cheek puff would have come in handy at the time.
One of my kids’ favorite books when they were young was a worn-out hardback called “Don’t Touch.” It’s now on my granddaughter, Austyn’s, top-ten list as well. Something about both the rhymes and the relatability of the scenarios make it read ever new. From “the pot that’s hot” to the “the scab that’s healing” to “grandpa’s tackle box that’s nice and neat,” Dan, a curious little boy, is warned not to touch. And so, in obedient fashion, he stays away from all his elders tell him to.
“So, I don’t touch anything!” he exclaims on page fourteen.
He then goes down to the basement and takes out his clay and goes crazy with his fingers. He punches and pokes and twirls and slings and smashes and pounds and flings and zings. In order to keep his hands out of things he shouldn’t be into, he has to give his discovery mitts something better to do. “Instead,” as the pre-k maestro knows, is often a far more effective option than “Don’t.”
Replace the impulse with another activity that achieves a better end.
The Bible tells us early-- and often-- that the mouth needs a guard and the tongue a constant keeper. And Jesus talks and talks and talks about making sure we have busy hands. It seems he knew from the get-go that two of our greatest gifts could easily be the culprits most likely to lead us astray.
Perhaps we really do learn at least a chunk of what we need to know in Kindergarten after all.
P.S. You Talk Too Much