Coziness is about the only gospel I feel personally compelled to spread. I just think it's an important thing, is all. I'm not suggesting that we only ever curl up in cashmere, only that the joy of the mud-puddle is diminished if our feet stay cold and wet all day. It's the coming in, drying off, and being handed a steaming mug that's really crucial. I think in one way or another, we all sort of know this. I think children do especially.
I suppose that's why I was so nervous when my writing professor announced we'd be going to a preschool to teach tiny children how to write poems. Apparently, the tiny children were learning about autumn, and about forest animals, and their poems were to reflect these topics. What was also apparent was that despite my general reservations about dealing with poetry and dealing with children, I was the only one of my classmates that had heard the gospel. "Try and brainstorm some things to talk about with the preschoolers to get them thinking about fall, and about animals that live in the forest." my professor said to our class (this would, incidentally, be the only instruction we received in "How to Teach Babies, Practically, Poetry" ). The girls I was assigned to work with blinked several times, mouths slightly agape, before suggesting "We should probably ask them if they know what animals live in the forest? And like, stuff." Just imagine! Stuff! "Well, I'm no expert on poetry or children, but it seems like we should, um, get them on a longer train of thought where we can talk about slightly more...vivid images instead of one-word answers. I was just thinking, since the topics are autumn and forest animals, wouldn't it be great to talk about hibernation? We could talk about the squirrels gathering nuts for winter, or the fox and her cubs in their den, or big bears sleeping under the snow...do preschoolers know what hibernation is? Is that a good thing to talk about? Wouldn't it be fun to write a little poem about the busy animals in fall getting ready for sleeping all winter? I think they'd like to imagine how cozy the animals are in their dens..." I was interrupted. "Um, you can't use big words like that with kids." "Yeah," another girl said. "You have to like, simplify your language or else they can't understand you. Trust me, I worked in a daycare. They won't know what you're talking about." "Oh," I said. "So, no hibernation? Sure. We can just ask them where the animals live and oh! Let's talk about beaver dams! That's fun to imagine!" "Well, there's just one thing-- you probably shouldn't say 'dam' in a preschool."
On teaching day, there was another kind of accident. And, like the one back in the registrar's office, I think you could say it turned out fine. You see, I showed up to the building the preschool was supposed to be in, per my professor's instructions, but according to every map and direction, no such preschool existed. In a bit of a frenzy, I trekked all over campus, asking at every security desk I could find. Still, after twenty minutes of scurrying about (like a field mouse at Harvest-Moon), I was no better off than when I'd started. I decided that even if I found the dratted brats (who were probably not all wearing cable-knit knee-socks and sweaters), rushing in half an hour late just wouldn't do. I curled up on a bench with some coffee and watched it drizzle outside. I supposed it was just as well. I didn't know a thing about children, anyhow.
I was a bit sore about the whole thing for a while, but forgot about it soon enough-- Community College (reliably) presented me with far more pressing annoyances. It wasn't until Christmas Eve, when I encountered a real live preschooler, that I happened to give it any thought, and a passing one at that. My cousin's four-year-old daughter was running about, more wound-up and bouncy than usual (or so I was told), anxious for presents and sticky with icing. Despite my disappointment that she was dressed in neither taffeta nor plaid, I was charmed by her miniature bob, and so when she crawled under the table and began creating a ruckus near my lap, I was willing to have a go at entertaining her for a bit. She screeched! She howled! She attempted to crawl atop the piano! I was very quickly reminded why I choose not to deal with children, and about to "refer" her to dear Uncle Peter when she began tossing teddy-bears at me. I could have written a poem. I think you could say I was inspired.
"Oh, M.! Hurry! Gather up the bears! They have to hibernate for the winter in their den under the piano! Quickly, before it snows! Under the piano!" It was this astounding thing. The tiny child listened. Not only that, but she emitted this little screech of delight. Then, bear noises. "You've got to sleep all winter in your den! It will be nice and warm, don't you think?" She gathered the scattered teddy-bears, curling up in with them and hugging one to her chest. M. nodded. "Are you sure you're going to stay in your piano-den all winter?" I asked, crouching on the floor and adjusting the stole around my neck (perhaps I looked like a bear, myself). "YES!" M. shouted.
Eventually, the tiny bear-cub decided to emerge, and maul my leg, and received a subsequent scolding from her father. Head hung, she retreated to her den. It couldn't last-- there were more cookies to be eaten and packages that demanded attention. Still, it seems that even in the presence of Christmas trees and doting grandmothers and candy canes, to hibernate in a little bear's den is appealing after all. Of course, deep down you already knew.
