Small Comfort

"Would you like some coffee?" I asked the tiny student knocking at my classroom door, showing him my warm cup held with both hands. 

He grinned. It worked. Of course he didn't want coffee; he was only six.

I invited him in, although it was my prep time. 

"'Smell like coffee here," he stated bluntly, looking past me.

Henry was likely missing from his own classroom. He was a runner. My mind instantly calculated the likelihood that the smell of coffee was a trigger for him. Probably not, given the smile at the offer. Simultaneously running through my mind was how to inform the kindergarten teacher that he was safe with me, how to position myself so that he didn't bolt for the door (without him realizing he was being corralled), and how to keep him distracted until someone came to collect him before he had the impulse to destroy my room in the meantime. 

"What brings you to room 208, my fine young man?" I asked with genuine curiosity. Gauging his emotional level was more important than the aforementioned, as well as initiating a positive connection. I was okay with losing some prep time. This little person was more important.

He ignored me and started wandering around aimlessly. The coffee joke had faded already.

"I was just typing a report," I said with a feigned official tone, which was true, and took this as a chance to email the appropriate staff. His disengagement indicated time was of essence. "Have you ever seen an old-fashioned typewriter? Go over near the window and look at that cool thing."

He was instantly intrigued with the old-school non-electric noisy dirty old thing. My class was studying the differences between long ago and today and all children enjoy the chance to get their hands on anything mechanical. There was a moment available for emails as he studied the oddity. He stood there, frozen, body stiff, face intense. Perhaps he took the invitation to 'look' literally. I hit 'send' then went over to the window and carried the typewriter to the table I was working at, placing it next to my laptop. Henry followed behind like a shadow.

I fed a piece of paper into the roller part, almost pushing the advance page lever, but decided it was better for him to discover the return 'ding' on his own rather than startle him with it. "You can touch it," I said gently. I explained and demonstrated each part, the letters that swing upward, the roller ticking its way across the page slowly. Barely above a whisper, I echoed the sounds, clickety clack. I changed my mind and decided to introduce the 'ding,' inviting him to push the lever, which he refused. "Say 'ding!'" I said. No response.

"It is very old," I said. "It belonged to my grandmother when she was a teenager."

His shoulders softened. He gave me a quick side-eye, the first eye contact since the coffee offer.

I pulled a student chair over and said, "Here, you can help me write reports."

It worked. He sat down and reached a tentative finger to the letter G in the middle of the keyboard. "G is for grandma." he said.

"Yes, you are right!" I replied, "Are you going to write a letter to your grandma?" I asked. 

He didn't seem to hear me, but started typing letters, slowly, glancing my way after each key settled back into its place. 

I got the hint. Henry didn't want to be watched. I turned to my computer and vaguely recalled the report on the screen, typed a couple of words, took a sip of coffee. After a minute I realized that when I took a sip, he stopped typing. 

"Would you like some coffee?" I asked, "Pretend coffee?"

He nodded. I acted out getting a cup, pretended to pick up a kettle and pour, savoring the ceremonial movements. I set the cup next to the typewriter and said, "Be careful. It's hot."

He picked up his cup, blew on it, and took a sip. 

For another minute he typed when I typed, sipped when I sipped. clickety clack. sip.

As he echoed my movements I took a mental note about parallel play, a late toddler stage. Given his difficulties at school likely a developmental delay. I grabbed a sticky note and wrote 'find toy coffee set for the kindergarten room' then added 'and a typewriter.'

Suddenly Henry was narrating. "Grandma haf coffee. Her gone." clickety clack, "No no, don't touch." clickety clack, "Ding." he says, pushing the lever.

The guidance counselor arrived. Henry didn't notice, continuing to narrate. "Big grandpa goed too. No more coffee." clickety clack, "Ding."

I told her about Henry's letter. She sat next to him, asked if he wanted to go find an envelope. It worked. She released the paper and he took her hand. I winked a 'saw-what-you-did-there' for my friend. 

We teachers can pivot on the edge of a spinning dime while assessing the thoughts and emotions of small humans and the multi-faceted nuances of situations. The smallest of moments add up to years that go by in a blink. Hundreds of Henries loved, taught, all grown up.

I knew the report could wait, needed to wait, as I had a few minutes to warm up my coffee before gathering my own eighteen students from art class. A ten minute interaction can feel like you've run a marathon. I had a few of my own Henries whose trauma made it hard for them to move through the day on someone else's pace rather than their own. 

As I stepped into the hallway to go warm up my coffee in the teachers' room a former student exited the adjacent library. 

"Would you like some coffee?" I asked, showing her my cup half full of cold coffee.

She giggled. "Hey, Mrs. B.!" she exclaimed and wrapped her arms around my shoulders.

Cali was likely enjoying some special time reading to the little kids. She was very intuitive...and a hugger... and it worked.