[wo]manchild.

I work at a Montessori preschool. It is an absurdly gorgeous house for little children. Everything is small. Light spills everywhere. Shelves are full of baskets and boxes made of pine. The aprons are made for three year olds. Drawing with white chalk on black paper is an option. We serve fresh fruit everyday.
But the children are treated like adults.
The philosophy of Montessori is that the child is their own teacher. Grown-ups are guides. And there is only one way to do everything; there is only one use for everything.

When I was little I was taught how to make paper cranes. I fell in love with origami. An affinity for the art of paper folding bloomed inside of me. And I've never stopped. Sure, my love was dormant for a time. Somewhere between falling for Dickens and discovering the magic of tea, my origami was sacrificed and laid aside. But it was reborn. One night in the sheer desperation of nostalgia for youth, I resurrected cranes.
I sent them to my best friend.
I taught them in 1st grade.
I got an A on a final because of them.
I made the tiniest one possible for myself.
I used them in scavenger hunts.
I fell in love with them again.
This morning at the preschool I was helping a little girl make a paper airplane. We had been studying Asia together, and so I brought up the topic of origami as her small hands shook as she struggled to crease straight. I told her I could make cranes. Make me one please, she said. And so I did. Naturally, other children wanted one as well. And a single white bird grew into two white birds which then grew into a flock on the wooden table. Fascination ensued.
But then the head teacher came in the room.
Is that metal inset paper, she asked me. She looked aghast. She's really very sweet. She's also very Montessori. Then she scolded me lightly and gently explained that there are 'boundaries' on what we can use the tools for. This paper is provided for the metal inset work, she explained.
And that was it. All crane-making ceased. All wonder was silenced. All children engaged were forced into feigned disinterest. The cranes were confiscated.
Origami was banned in two seconds.

These days I think I am learning how to be a good mother. Which is odd. Not having children but feeling prepared and unprepared for motherhood is odd. I like it though. I like the plans I make. For forts and puppets and small paper theatres and gardens and stacks of books and baking together and late nights and early nights and milk and striped cloth rabbits stuffed with beans. I think mostly I've been learning how I won't be as a mother, what I won't be as a mother.
I want to be a good teacher when I'm a mother.
Also, 'boundaries' in my children's education will be shot.

Children are not adults. They are not men. They are not women. They're just children.
I have been in the early childhood program for two years now. I know a lot about best practices and development and children's brains and some about how to diagnose special needs and the rights of teachers and parents and kiddos.
I also know about children more simply than through academics. I know what they need.
They need fairytales and Maurice Sendak and shiny origami paper and small wool hats knitted by mom and clay and the ability to paint with each other not one at a time and canvases and bunting and wind chimes and tree houses and quilts and picnics.
Children need joy. And laughter. And love.

Children actually need you.