Every day I tie a dozen shoes, I hug kids to my hips (their heads come up just that far), I smile often, I furrow my brows. Over and over I say, "sit criss-cross" or I say "make a good choice," or I say a hundred other things that remind, encourage, repremand, demand, console, inspire, complement, or direct.
Every day I get marker on my jeans, I write messages to my kids, I sing songs, I answer questions, I model, I redirect, often all at the same time. Every day I am filled with wonder that these children are all somebody's babies--their Beans--and I look into their eyes and try to create a wide open space in my heart for them, even when they push buttons, or tease each other or tattle on each other or do not finish their work.
Every day I feel like I am not good enough, that I do not do enough, see enough, say enough to be what I am to them: the person they see more than their moms and dads all week. Their teacher. Every day there is a stack of unfinished work, of things I need to do, of meetings, of lists, of books. Yet every day I am also greatful for this opportunity to always come up short; to be challenged to grow; to be filled with wonder.