Mack Attack

Anyone who has a child, or has worked in the child care field, knows that when a child finds something that they like, they can't get enough of it. I'm the victim of that particular situation.

One of my darling girls is infatuated with "Miss Mary Mack", which she insists that we do every day. As soon as I walked into the room yesterday, she grabbed my hand and dragged me and her raggedy stuffed elephant to a chair. I obediently sat and put her and Ellie the elephant on my lap, and we began to sing the monotonous rhyme. Well, I did. She piped in with the words she could remember.

Soon, we had a few of our other pint-sized friends surrounding us, singing along about Miss Mary Mack with her fancy silver buttons bribing the fence-jumping elephant with "hay and peanut tea" so that he would "come and stay with me". Yeah, and take up her back yard and cause her mother all sorts of problems with the city officials, because who knows how much a permit for hosting a wild animal of those proportions would cost. Is it even legal?

But in the end, who cares? Elephant ends ups with "shiny rows, rows, rows, of silver buttons, buttons, buttons, down his nose, nose, nose " and gets to jump the fence whenever he darn well pleases. Non-domestic animal permits be damned! Oh, bummer. I've gone and ruined the ending for you now.

Truth be told, my first reaction when the bright-eyed cutie grabbed my hand and demanded the repetitious ditty, was a heart-felt groan. Oh, no, not again, was my burdened thought. But as I sat there surrounded by the kids, every one sing-songing along, something happened. I realized how blessed I am.

With minimal effort from me, I got to see five tiny faces light up with joy as they remembered more and more of the words, did their own dances and giggle over the crazy antics of Mary and her pet elephant. I felt privileged to be a part of their experience, to be able to remember what real innocence is. To remember what fun is all about and how easy it is to have it.

Its true what they say. Children are miracles. And sometimes, they work miracles too.

Happy Cow Day

Every Thursday at the Center has been dubbed "Happy Cow Day". What it means is that at lunch if a child drinks all of their milk, he or she will get a hand stamp. Sounds cheesy, cute, interesting. Whatever. The adult interest in Happy Cow Day is unimportant. Its a HUGE deal to the kids.

When I took over in the kitchen a couple of years back, every single day the kids would ask, "Is it Happy Cow Day today?" And four days out of five days I would be forced to answer, "No, today is not Happy Cow Day. Happy Cow Day is Thursday. Today is (insert any day but Thursday here)." After a few weeks of the incessant inquiries from one hundred children on a daily basis, I was starting to get a little annoyed with the question. I came up with a plan.

Every day, we put our lunch and snack menu on a dry erase board that hangs beside our cafeteria door. It's the perfect place to draw pictures and fun little things for the kids. So every Thursday I began to draw a "happy cow" face on the board. The children slowly started to realize that unless there was a cow on the board, it was not Happy Cow Day. Brilliant, isn't it? It worked like a charm.

Recently, Happy Cow was upgraded to a construction paper face, complete with sappy brown eyes and a markered-on smile. We decorate her on holidays and special occasions. We hang her a little lower on the wall so the kids can see her better, pet her, give her "hoof"-fives, whatever. On Thursdays, she reigns supreme.

So, to honor our beloved Happy Cow, I wrote her a poem. I'd like to share it with you....

Ode to Happy Cow

Ode to thee, dear Happy Cow.

Thy dainty ears, thy horn-ed brow,

thy face of paper upon my wall.

The children love thee,

one and all.

Thursdays art thy day of choice.

"Its Happy Cow Day!" the children rejoice.

At tables they sit, thier hearts all a-flutter

chugging and gulping the fruits of thy udder.

Thy presence to them; a beacon, a lamp,

a chance to win a coveted hand stamp.

I watch from the door as thy milk they inbibe,

thinking how easy a child is to bribe.

Ode to thee, dear Happy Cow.

Because of thee, they drink their milk now.

My Life as a Spatula

Spatulas are known best for three types of service. Flipping, scraping and smoothing. I do all three.

I'm not your normal run of the mill lunch lady. I'm a Daycare Lunch Lady. I don't have a mole on my face, I don't wear orthopedic shoes and to hell with hairnets. I wear a ball cap, sneakers and a smile. There is no mystery meat in my kitchen. Me and my girl Bernice, we run a tight and tidy kitchen.

My days are average and predictable. I work in the kitchen in the morning (hence the flipping and occasional scraping) and in the 2-year-old classroom in the afternoon (hence the scraping of boogers and poo and smoothing things over, usually feelings and ruffled feathers). Every day I leave my workplace covered in any number of food stains and kid germs.

I sing and dance in the kitchen, in the classroom, on the playground, wherever. I'm not good at doing either, but the kids don't care and it is so much fun. I get paid to color, play with PlayDoh and beat on drums. I get to learn how to be a great parent before I ever have my own. And I get as many hugs as one person could want every day.

I love my job. Its too funny and emotionally exhausting not to share. After all, sharing is a good thing. It's what good friends do. We use our words and we share.