Number two’s…

As I got off the train this morning for another day at school in Chai Wan, I heard this squeaky little voice “Hello, Miss E, my name is…” I swung around to see who the hell was talking to me. It’s a tiny little human in the same uniform as the Kindy that I work at…I’m famous!

It sounds lame, but I was actually a touch flattered that this little man remembered my name. Three weeks ago, he stared at me blankly when I said “Good morning” to him, and now he is greeting me, saying my name AND in the process of telling me his name (we will just call him Bobby). Unbelievable. I looked at his grandpa, who is obviously walking him to school, he just shrugged at me and we both look down at the pint size individual and have a laugh.

After being told a few days ago, by another teacher (who will remain nameless), that my class was ‘too boring’ and that I shouldn’t read them story books ‘because they don’t understand’ (well, who’s fault is that?!), I went home and did some research. This time around I came prepared with so many games, that these kids are going to be A.D.H.D once ‘Miss E’ finishes with them. Or so I thought.

The games were a hit (albeit taking a bit longer that I first anticipated, explaining and interpreting the instructions), the kids were laughing and thoroughly enjoying themselves…perhaps a little too much. It resulted in my first shitty pants incident. Yummo!

Having many younger sisters, I should have been able to read the warning signs…the sweet smell of kidlet fluff, the red rings around the watering eyes, the intense level of concentration and lastly…the pinkish nose. They were all there for the taking, but I was too busy enjoying myself as well to notice that a bomb was about to drop…literally.

The greatest thing about being the part-time English teacher (lets call me ‘fluff’…because I’m sure the full time local teachers do) is the lack of responsibility when it comes to snotty noses, urine, vomit and my personal favorite…poop. I popped my head into the classroom next door, and waived the teacher into my classroom. There I placed her on the olfaction trail and without having to even exchange a word, she swept the child away to be hosed down (or whatever the ‘poo removal protocol’ involves…god knows they have one for EVERYTHING).

The English skills of the teachers at Kindy are not that much better than the kids, so sometimes it proves to be an issue trying to teach children that cannot speak English either when there is no one around to translate. On the other hand, it’s quite entertaining when the teachers take the lessons on themselves and join in. I even had one young female teacher get really excited when she knew the work on the flashcard before the other kids… “OCTOPUS!”.. I just gave her wink instead of a gold star sticker. She loved it.


2 thoughts on “Number two’s…

  1. Oh dear…I used to tutor maths to a kid in Yr 12 and I’d do what that teacher does. She’s try to work out the problem and I’d race her to it on a scrap piece of paper while covering my working. It’s a sick symptom of being overly competitive. It was also a worry when the mum paying me could see me silently fist pumping the air when I beat the willing pupil to the answer (of course rounded to 3 sig.fig).

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