“Yes, Mr. Montgomery,” they all say, my name coming out slowly and in a sing-song tone. A few of them still can’t get it right.
“Great. Everyone, go wash your hands while I wipe down the tables.”
They scurry over to the two small sinks by the windows and wash their hands, shoving and pushing each other. It doesn’t get out of control, so I let them figure it out while I wipe the ketchup and milk spills off their tables with paper towels, then again with anti-bacterial wipes.
The kids hurry to their cubbies when they’re done cleaning their hands, pulling out their blankets and pillows for nap time, while others run to get their mats first. They’re good at figuring out what they need to do, it’s just a little chaotic. But it’s kindergarten. That’s how they are, and it’s important for them to learn how to handle things themselves.
I connect my phone to the Bluetooth speaker that’s colorful and shaped like a flower and open the app I told JJ about. I put on the beach sounds with waves for the kids to fall asleep to.
“I want the rain!” Callie shouts.
“No, I want the lamb song,” Asher whines.
“Today is beach day,” I say. “It’s on the schedule, remember? Rain is on Monday, and the lamb song isn’t even for nap time, Asher.”
The kids start to settle after a few moments, some of them covering their heads with their blankets, while others hug their stuffies. Some sprawl sideways, some lay on their stomachs, and others on their backs. They’re a great group of little humans. I love my job, I truly do. This is such a fun age for kids, when they’re learning and exploring, testing boundaries in a way that is adorable.
I pinch the bridge of my nose, wishing I had some pain relievers, but I know I don’t. I meant to pick some up a few weeks ago and forgot. Plus, we aren’t supposed to leave them in the desk because of the kids. I could go to the nurse. Maybe I’ll do that once they all fall asleep.
The room grows calm as kids start to fall asleep. My eyes fall closed, and my headache starts to ease just the slightest—until the fire alarms blare and all the kids start to scream and cry. My head pounds so hard I see spots.
“Okay, okay. It’s just a fire drill. What do we do during a fire drill?” I call out loud enough they can hear me over the blaring alarm and screams.
Pure chaos ensues, as it always does with a fire drill. The kids run around. Fall. Cry. Scream. Sort of like that scene fromKindergarten Cop. I look at the kids who are more put together—or more likely still half asleep—and ask them to take their partner’s hand and line up at the door.
Not that kids are responsible at the tender age of five and six, but some of these kids give off calm energy, and I paired them with those who can be a little more anxious with fire alarms. They work together, and eventually there are only three kids who aren’t lined up.
“Harrison, where is your partner?”
“I don’t know,” he cries, his face wet with tears.
“Come on, then.” I offer him my hand. “Brian and Samantha, you too. Come on.”
I walk them over to the line quickly, they find their partners already waiting, and out we go, with Tyler leading the way, his head held high. It feels like it took forever, but really, they handled this all very quickly.
The halls are filled with students, the alarms still going off. My headache has gone from a four to an eight. I’m getting nauseous. We make our way to the safe spot, which is the open grassy area beyond the parking lot in front, by the flagpole. The sunlight is doing me no favors with this headache.
We take our designated spot, and I watch out for Noah. He hasn’t built a great relationship with his teacher yet, so I still chat with him sometimes when he needs extra help. I try not to step on toes or stunt his relationship-building skills, but it’s hard not to when he’s my nephew.
There’s no doubt he’s thrilled he’s going to see fire trucks, and because of that, he’s probably buzzing with energy. Only if this is a drill, which I think it is, because I didn’t smell smoke, there won’t be any trucks. That may upset him a little. Usually, we know when the drills are scheduled, but now and then, there will be a surprise one to make sure the teachers are on their game.
The last of the students are filing out, Noah amongst them, and the fire truck sirens can be heard in the distance.
“I thought it was a drill,” Sheila, the kindergarten helper, says, standing between my line and the other kindergarten line.
“So did I,” I say. “I hope everything is okay—Asher, don’t eat grass.”
“Sorry, Mr. Montgomery,” he says, spitting it out.
“Maybe it’s just wiring. I didn’t see smoke,” Eloise, the other kindergarten teacher, says.
“Do you hear them, Uncle Miles? Do you hear the trucks?” Noah shouts, jumping up and down as his class takes up their safe spot behind us.
“I hear them, Noey. Make sure you stay safe, right?”
“I am being safe!” he says, his eyes wide as saucers as he watches the entrance, waiting for them to show.
Two trucks make their way in, causing most of the kids to get excited. The teachers and staff work together to make sure the kids stay where they belong. If there is an actual fire, and the trucks need to work, we may have to move to our other location, which is a small shopping plaza a few blocks away. Since I’ve been here, we’ve only had to go there once. It was before Noah started school. We do that only if necessary, because walking with all these kids across streets is a lot of work and can be dangerous.
