“What?” she shrugs. “You literally said he kissed you like he wanted to wreck your whole worldview. I’m just repeating your words.”
We’re met by a stampede of small limbs and enthusiastic shouts.
“MISS HART!”
“MISS HART, I MADE A TURTLE OUT OF CLAY!”
“LOOK AT MY SOCKS, THEY HAVE SPACESHIPS!”
“I ACCIDENTALLY ATE A CRAYON!”
I crouch down with a laugh as three kindergartners attach themselves to my legs like barnacles. “Whoa, whoa, whoa! Good morning! One at a time or I’m going to fall and flatten your turtle.”
Nina ducks into her own classroom across the hall, still smirking at me like she’s the devil in Target flats. “Wrecked. Your. Worldview,” she mouths dramatically before vanishing.
And of course—
Of course—
A small voice behind me says, “Miss Hart? What’s a worldview?”
I turn slowly.
It’s Clara. Sweet, precocious Clara with her purple glitter headband and a knack for absorbing adult conversations like a human sponge.
I freeze. “Uh—well. It’s like… how you see the world.”
“Oh.” She tilts her head. “So if someone wrecks it, do you fall down?”
“Emotionally? Yes,” I say before I can stop myself.
Another kid, James, pipes up. “My worldview got wrecked when I found out giraffes have black tongues.”
“That’s fair,” I say solemnly. “That is very upsetting.”
Clara nods. “Mine got wrecked when I saw Mr. Grayson at Target buying toilet paper.”
The whole class gasps. “WHAT?!”
“Teachers don’t use the bathroom!” one of them cries.
“I need to sit down,” another moans, clutching their chest dramatically.
“Okay, okay,” I laugh, herding them toward the rug like a cowboy wrangling very small, very dramatic cattle. “Let’s all take a deep breath and remember: today is Friday. And on Fridays, we do story time, we do counting bears, and wedo nottalk about giraffe tongues or emotional crises in the hallway.”
“But what if my worldview gets wrecked again?” James asks seriously.
“Then you can draw about it with crayons during free play,” I say, ruffling his hair.
He thinks for a second, then nods like I’ve said something deeply wise.
***
It’s during nap time—aka the sacred hour of silence when the lights are dimmed, lullabies hum through the speakers, and every adult in the building collectively exhales for the first time all day.
I’m crouched beside a cubby, trying to unjam a glitter-glued zipper from one of the kids’ backpacks without waking anyone, when my phone buzzes in my back pocket.
One buzz.
