When I Grow Up

Cristiano is quiet , a rare moment. Earlier he was trying to punish his pal Dario, on my behalf, for fidgeting and distracting the whole left side of the room. He pushed Dario's head down onto the desk, to 'sleep'.

I say 'When you are a teacher, you can decide how to deal with noisy kids. Not now.' He nodded and frowned and frowned and frowned.
'Is this red or yellow' I ask the class pointing to my red pen. A red pen is to a teacher what a scalpel to a surgeon, or a ladle to a cook.
Cristiano's hand shoots up.
'Yees?' Chuffed he's finally paying attention to the lesson.

'I don't want to be a teacher' he says firmly.

Away with you, colours of the rainbow. This is too interesting.
'Why?'
'It's too hard, and too boring, and the kids never listen.' My life, summed up by a 5-year old. Not bad. He continues:
'I want to be a goalie.'
'But that's the same', I remark. 'Hard when they shoot at your goal, and boring when they don't.'
He doesn't believe me and doesn't dare contradict me, so he just sits frozen, trying to stare me down.
In the meantime, I'm still holding up my red pen, and there are 16 hands in the air.
'Yees?' Come what may.
'I want to be a cook.'
'Vet.'
'Hairdresser.'
'Person who tells the weather on TV.'
'Singer, singer, singer!'

I am spellbound. In this class of 17 we have: 2 bakers ('because bread is healthy'), 2 vets (one of whom is scared of large animals), 2 cooks, 2 hairdressers, 4 football players (the one with no teeth is the attacker), one goalie, then the surprises. A plump little girl is the singer. A quiet and minuscule boy is the weatherman. Both candidates to National Television are – truth be told – far from beauties. Ella wants to be a gynaecologist ('a doctor who takes out babies') – how I wish I were so sure and clear so early on.

Finally, little Tania peeps up:
'I want to be a teacher.'
Thank goodness for that. I can't keep doing this much longer. My hand still holds up the red pen, and it's beginning to hurt.