Every year at Guadalupe, there is a hilarious week when the three-year-olds start Preschool. They wear microscopic school uniforms. They clamber down from the school buses, rubbing their eyes. Most of them have fallen asleep. They cry for their moms. They want a bottle.
The days of crying are almost over. They line up in the hall, singing their little song:
My arms are at my side;
I'm standing straight and tall;
My eyes are looking straight ahead;
I'm ready for the hall!
But my office and Iggy, my giant plastic Iguana, is a distraction.
"Is a lizar!'"
"No. Is a plastic one."
"Is head is moving!"
Now it's time for learning to use the restrooms. I went in there yesterday morning to find that only one stall was functional because the little girls had gone into stalls, latched the doors and been unable to unlatch them. They just crawled out under the doors and left the latches latched. This is why the doors on the stalls are short! I went down the line, reaching over the tops and unlatching the doors. As I was sitting in a stall, little faces kept appearing under the door.
"Lady, what's oo name?"
They stand at the sinks on little footstools, awed by the soap dispensers. I watched them squirt soap - squiiiiirt, squiiiiirt, squiiiirt, until their hands are full. They make hage balls of suds and roll their hands over and over, staring at the results with wide eyes.
They rinse and dry their hands on my skirt.