Can't Get Her Out of my Mind

I loved kindergarten. I think it was one of only three years in school that I enjoyed. I had an amazing teacher who was part Cherokee Indian and her husband was an Indian as well. They would dress in full Indian-gear at different times of the year. Her name was Mrs. Reif. We had a piano in our classroom and just this year, I taught my music classes some of her songs. Her songs had that much of an effect - I still remember them and sing them. Kindergarten was a blast.

But there was a dark shadow over our classroom.

There was a child custody battle going on for little Flora, a girl in my classroom. She sat two tables away from me, on the very end of the row. She had jet black, silky hair with the darkest eyes I can remember. From time to time, one of her parents would come to class to watch. Mrs. Reif always handled it with grace, but even in our young minds, we knew something was unusual about this situation.

Then, one day, we were all sitting on the floor in a circle. Flora's mom, with the same jet-black hair and dark eyes, sat on the edge of one of the tables. I don't know what finally set her over the edge, but she snapped. Flora's mom jumped up, grabbed Flora, and ran out the door, screaming and crying, "SHE'S MY BABY, SHE'S MY BABY!"

Mrs. Reif, as well as a whole class of children, ran down the hallway after Flora and her mom. I remember so much screaming and chaos and tears and total pandemonium. Outside was a getaway car, but also a host of police cars. Flora and her mom never made it out of the parking lot.

We were quickly ushered back into the classroom, but we were never the same. We were five years old, and had been exposed to the pain of the outside world. Our safe haven had been invaded.

I don't know why Flora has been on my mind, but I've thought of her nearly everyday for quite some time. I pray for her. Maybe she is fine and had processed it all. Maybe everything turned out hunky-dory. I don't know. But I think of her. And I hate losing innocence, be it at five or thirty-five. I hate that in this world, we are broken, fallen, sick. I wish I could keep my children, all children, in a perfect little bubble. I wish I could shield them from pain, protect them forever. But, like the kindergartener I once was, they too see life at it's best and worst, it's most beautiful and most painful.

I think my role though, is to be the Mrs. Reif to my children. To pull them under my wings and lead them back to the safety of the classroom. To dole out lots of hugs and reassurances, to talk and pray together. To acknowledge their fears, not underestimate them, but to look them square in the eye and face them.

Together.