Sunday School: Ashley

I sense that there will be considerable posts about my current Sunday School class. Never have I seen such a colorful conglomeration of children. They are not a unified class. They are an incredibly unique hodgepodge of individuals. Once again, for the sake of the little ones (whom I love) I have changed all the names.

To begin with, the copier jammed. I have trouble changing the batteries in my flashlight, so untangling sheets of paper from the bowels of a copier is hardly my forte. The little flashing screen on top of the printer kept telling me to grab the paper in "Tray 4b." But there was no way my hand was going to be able to convolute into the shape needed to rescue the internal shreds of paper. I knelt. I crammed. I wiggled. I pulled. All because I wanted to print a coloring page of Joseph and his amazing coat.

When I finally returned to the class room I was slightly late. And there, twirling around (with occasional trips on her soon to be infamous flip-flops) was "Ashley." Ashley never sits still. Ashley is usually medicated. And Ashley skipped her medication this Sunday. Of that I am sure. Thinking to be a brilliant, intelligent teacher, I decided to channel Ashley's rampant energy by giving her a task- she was quite proud of her crayon box responsibility.

When several other children arrived, I gave them jobs as well. But, finished with her crayon box assignment, Ashley decided that she didn't like other people having jobs. Growling (yes, literally growling) at me, she furrowed her brow, kicked off her flip-flops, stalked to the closet (which she had gotten the crayons out of), and shut herself in the closet.

I stalked right after her. I open the door to find her glaring up at me with obvious antipathy.

"Ashely. It's other people's turns to have jobs. I need you to come out, pick a desk, and sit down."

She says nary a word, and just continues to glare.

"Ashley. Come out of the closet." She doesn't budge.

"Come out of the closet, or there will be consequences. You know what the bad consequences of a bad choice are in Ms. Courtney's class. Come out." No change.

"Ashley, come out of the closet." (Unfortunately, at this point I realize that I'm telling a 7 year old to "come out of the closet" and that phrase, with all it's connotations, suddenly makes me want to laugh. Hence, I was unable to sound appropriately severe.) She sullenly complied.

She put her flip-flops back on. ("Yay!" I thought.) And then promptly kicked them off. ("Boo!" I thought.) And this pattern was repeated throughout all of Sunday School. She kicked off (and then replaced merely to kick off again) her flip-flops numerous times in the short 1 1/2 hour I spent with her. She refused to stay in her desk- preferring, instead, to pirouette around the room, tripping or falling over those same flip-flops. However, by the time we were 20 minutes into Sunday School she was very controlled. I had a very visible rewards system that she liked, and as a result she reduced her cavorting to a tolerably low amount.

But at one point of her goodness, she suddenly arose. Panic flashed across her face. She rushed up to me (while I was teaching about Joseph and Pharaoh), kicked off her flip flop, stuck her toe up in the air and wailed,

"I think it's dead! MY TOE IS DEAD!"

I did not laugh. Promise. Because her attention never stays on any one thing for a very long time, it was relatively easy to convince her that her toe was in fact not dead, and she went calmly back to her seat. I continued to contain my laughter, since I still maintain that if it's a big deal to a child, then it should not be treated as meaningless by me.

But if anyone had seen me, driving home from church, they would have wondered what on earth was so funny...