Crier

It's becoming a fall tradition - every October I find myself sitting on a rug littered with Duplo, holding a screaming toddler.

In October, we start our Family Literacy program, which meets in the mornings and so generally serves quite a few stay-at-home moms. We have childcare of course, but I have learned that people from different cultural backgrounds have different views about leaving their children, or even about putting their children down. Our childcare helpers, the long-suffering Leticia and her husband Francisco, get to spend quite a bit of October cooped up up with about 12 infants and toddlers who have scarcely ever been out of their mothers' sights.

After a while they get used to it, but the first couple weeks are...trying. It doesn't take us long to figure out who is going to be The Crier. This is the one with extraordinary endurance. And leadership skills: when The Crier cries, all the other kids start crying, too. Soon one shrill little "MAMAAAAAA!!! MAMAAAAAA!" turns into a wailing chorus. Last year, the honor went to a team effort by the three-year-old twins, A. and A. They reigned as champions because each supported of the other's effort. I'm sure that, without help from her twin, neither would have been able to sustain a two-hour crying jag. I suppose they napped well afterward...

This year, I think the laurels may go to 18 month-old M. The moment her mom lifted her out of the stroller and put her down, we knew the direction the morning was going to take. Who could guess that something so small could make that much noise? I hustled her mother out of the room to give her a placement test, but little M's screams shattered windows blocks away, I'm sure.

All you parents out there, do you know the spot in your occipital lobe that jolts you like a cattle prod at the sound of a crying child? That jangling, imperative (but not very articulate) voice: "HUH? BABY CRYING!! MUST! NURTURE! NOW!" The whole time I was testing the mother, neither of us could concentrate. Then, it was quiet. Ahhh... The mother and I smiled at each other. "She's stopped," I said. "Whew! Since she's being so good, do you want to go into the classroom and meet your teacher?" "Yes." We didn't realize that we couldn't hear her anymore because Leticia had taken her outside on the lawn. A few minutes later, she was back. The neighbors would have called the cops otherwise. Finished with my testing at this point, I went to the nursery, opened the door and walked into the original Wall of Sound. Baby M. had set off all the other babies - it was mayhem. She's smart, too. As soon as the door opened, she made for it, figuring she could make a mad dash for her mother between my legs. Nope. I have learned some tricks from being Nathan's mom. I snagged her - she punched me with her tiny fist. Sending up a little payer of gratitude that I teach adults, not kids, I sat down on the rug to wait her out.

She may be this year's Crier, but she can't go for the full two hours. She's smaller than the twins were and screaming requires a lot of energy. Finally, she was an exhausted blob of snot, and oozed her way onto my lap, snuffling and hiccuping. There is actually something very relaxing about holding a limp, gooey toddler. I am trapped. Pinned down, but mindlessly happy. Back in my office, the phone is ringing, people are wondering where I am. I am sitting there on the rug, grinding my stocking into someone's half-chewed animal cracker, rocking this kid. Note to self - the Family Literacy program needs a rocking chair.