The Aide

The Aide

Julianne Munich

…

My waterproof boots encased my feet, keeping them warm in the shallow snow. I lingered close to the boy on the playground, yet not so close as to alarm him. I was his shadow, as he played in his solitary world, turning his body on his favorite swing. Dozens of other second-graders ran, laughed and shouted.

I stood in sentry-guard at the side of the swing set, my mittened hands digging inside my coat pockets, fidgeting with the set of building keys on a lanyard.

Jayden gave a grunt and a laugh. His brown eyes remained fixed on his thrift-shop boots, his toes pushing chunks of snow in a circle pattern as he turned, slowly, in the swing. The chains above him squeaked in the chill February air. Jayden was eight, but big for his age and physically strong.

I chuckled in response to his laughter, adding conversation to let him know I was still there. Safe, but not threatening. “Silly snow. Are you having fun?” My tone was cheery and singsong.

He didn’t look at me, but he laughed a second time.

The school bell rang. Clusters of children stopped what they were doing and rushed from the slides, the monkey bars, and the grassy soccer field to form lines like young soldiers.

Mrs. Anderson, the other paraprofessional at this recess hour, joined the line. She pushed Isabella in her wheelchair. Isabella was a tiny girl and nonverbal, as Jayden was. Earlier in the morning, I’d changed her diaper and fed her bits of lunchroom tater-tots in Miss. Thompson’s classroom. She had a huge, infectious smile, with curious blue eyes behind a pair of thick little glasses.

She came to school every morning clutching her stuffed Peppa Pig. I let her hold it during circle time. Afterward, Miss Thompson directed me to place the piggy in Izzy’s cubby for the rest of the morning. The little girl wouldn’t notice or protest with tears, the way Jayden often would.

It was time to let Jayden know that his swing set time was over and he needed to walk with me to Miss Thompson’s class. My nerves tightened in the hope he would be compliant today.

I slipped the lanyard with its dangling keys out of my pocket. Attached to the lanyard and keys was the laminated paper photo of Miss Thompson’s classroom; the table, chairs, and art board. The beaming, early-thirties Jessica Thompson posed in the photo, a Dr. Seuss book in her hands.

I approached Jayden and gently stooped down, holding out the photo in his line of vision, a prompt and reminder.

“Jayden, it’s time to go inside to Miss Thompson’s,” I said in a buoyant but direct tone.

He gave a small groan as if to say, ‘Already?’ keeping his gaze from mine. I took a step back, clasping my hands in patience as his teacher and guide. After fifteen seconds, he stood with eager energy, hopping to his feet and holding out his black-gloved hand for me to take.

I smiled with relief. He wouldn’t fight with me today or try to punch me when I directed him in this transition. Yesterday, he had. When his small fists had punched my chest, I’d made the sign for ‘Stop’, blocking his arm with mine and using my ‘firm teacher’ voice until he’d finally let me guide him into the school.

He’d been ten minutes late for class. I’d felt responsible, ineffective in maintaining the routine. Miss Thompson had given Jayden a stern frown and my lunch break was cut in half.

But today was better, golden as the sunshine. Warm rays of noon sun melted the blacktop where the boy’s feet had carved a divot in the snow.

I stuffed the key lanyard in my pocket and took hold of his mittened hand, giving it a comforting little squeeze. “Good job, Jayden!” I praised him. “Let’s walk back in.”

We walked, together, past the jungle gym and snow-covered blacktop. The eight lines of second-grade classes had already filed inside a minute before. When Jayden and I reached the south-wing doors, I dug out my key and turned it in the lock while still monitoring my student from the corner of my eye.

If it took too long to unlock the door, he would be sure to wander back to the play equipment. The ritual with the photograph would need to start again.

…

Three minutes later, I’d escorted Jayden down the hallway and to the coat rack next to our classroom. I stood with him, monitoring, multitasking, as I changed my own boots into my indoor sneakers. He pulled off his own boots and took off his own coat.

Grasping the blue jacket, he finally locked eyes with me, giving me his daily, pleading ‘Do it for me, Mrs. Jorgenson!’ look.

It was clockwork; the same scene every day. From twelve-thirty to around twelve-thirty-five or forty, give or take, my after-recess dance of wills with young Jayden.

I smiled, as always, and gave a small shake of my head. “Hang up your coat,” I directed, hanging up my black, fur-hooded winter coat on the teacher’s side of the rack. He struggled; hanging it a few times, but it dropped in a heap next to his boots. He tried again. And again.

After the fourth attempt, I guided his hands and gave the blue fabric a discreet, quick tug over the metal hook. It stayed secure.

“Awesome job, Jayden!” I praised him.

At twelve-forty, I strode into the teacher’s lounge with my thermos bag and my cell phone. I had already used up ten minutes of my half-hour lunch break.

“State testing next week!” chirped Jen Greyson, a first-grade teacher to the other staff gathered around the table. A chorus of exasperated sighs swelled the staff room. I hurried to fill up my tea mug with water and put it in the microwave.

Thank goodness there’s a microwave open! My sore throat screamed for a warm cup of Chai tea, and my stomach ached with hunger.

“Shark week,” laughed Mrs. Wilson.

“Baby Shark-doo-doo-doo-doo-doo,” sang Miss Herrmann.

“Omigod, puh-leeze,” said Mrs. Wilson. “I hear that song one more time…”

The teachers burst into laughter. I chuckled as well, but my attention was more focused on the one-minute countdown of the microwave, in anticipation of my hot tea and the chicken sandwich I’d made from leftovers.

The clock read twelve-forty-five. Fifteen minutes.

Two and a half hours, and I can go home, take off my work pants and bra, put on comfy slippers, and work on my future best-selling novel. A steampunk fantasy set in 1866 with a dashing former Union soldier and a feisty heiress.

In the morning at nine, I’d pushed Isabella in her wheelchair as I helped monitor a third-grade gym class—my favorite and most ‘chill’ part of my daily schedule. Mr. Schultz, the gym teacher, was a take-charge leader. Izzy was my easiest student, so I could dream up the ‘shootout’ scene for my novel in my brain while steering the small girl away from flying foam dodgeballs.

None of the third graders had been hurt or needed to be escorted to the nurse today. As a result, Izzy had great fun in gym class—and so did I.

Wait! I remembered my teenage daughter’s meds as I steeped a tea bag in my cup. I need to stop at Walmart and get Olivia her prescription refill. And groceries. I won’t get home until four.

The clock read twelve-fifty as I took the empty seat at the staffroom table next to Mrs. Wilson, enjoying a sip of the comforting tea.

“Hi, Amy,” Judy Anderson greeted me. “How’s your day been, hon?”

“Good afternoon, Judy! It’s been pretty good so far. Jayden was a chill dude at recess.”

“Way to go, Mrs. Jorgenson!” She gave me a thumbs-up.

I opened my zipped thermos bag and pulled out my chicken sandwich, taking small bites and sipping my tea while it was still hot. Nine minutes to eat lunch.

Judy, too, was ‘just an aide.’ A warmhearted, jovial lady in her sixties with two grown sons. A proud grandma to one of the first-grade girls, she had worked in this field, at this same school district, for the last quarter-century.

She was content in her position as a twelve-dollar-an-hour paraprofessional, while I still held a bachelor’s degree in English from the state college. Back in my twenties, I’d put my career plan to be a freelance journalist or literary agent aside in order to stay home full-time with Olivia, who, like my students, had been born under the label of ‘special needs’ with epileptic seizures and a slight speech delay.

Olivia was my oldest at fifteen, followed by thirteen-year-old Noah and eleven-year-old Alexander. Last year, I saw Alex at lunch every day, but now he’d now moved on to the middle school building. My kiddos were growing up, from children to adolescents.

At forty-four, my life was decent and stable. Loving husband, three kids, two dogs, my dream of being a published fiction writer, and a day job working with children to help save for the kids’ college. And, perhaps, a fund to attend college classes of my own to get a degree as a special education teacher.

But did I truly want it? Miss Thompson, my colleague and lead teacher, had a schedule from Hell, a shoestring budget from cuts, and the patience of Job.

I’m lucky to get this job. Crappy pay, but lower stress and better hours than retail in this town.

While I scarfed down my lunch and listened to Judy’s day, the other teachers chatted and rushed through their lunches. I nodded at Judy’s talk of the bus line monitor schedules, unable to talk or else I’d likely choke trying to finish my sandwich, tea, a Clementine orange, and Andes chocolate mint in the next six minutes.

“Well, back to the zoo in Mrs. Carlson’s!” Judy zipped her bag and stood to leave.

I laughed, sipping my tea and nibbling my orange. Three minutes left on the clock until my next modified-academics lesson with Jayden and two other nonverbal second-graders.

I savored those three minutes while checking my phone email and cleaning up my orange peels.

All was right with my day, so far.

…