Why girls should rule the world

As a former PK, I’ve no desire to get involved at my church. After countless years spent in service to Sunday School, YMS, NWMS, revivals, quizzing, lock-ins, Bible studies, nursery attendant, and other endless church-related activities, I’m happy to sit near the back, anonymous and quiet, while others rise to meet their religious obligations. I’ve put in my time, baby! I’m not volunteering for anything.

On the other hand, when asked for help, I’m unable to say no.

I was asked to sub as Pre-K teacher on Sunday. Squaring my shoulders, I marched into the classroom, glancing through the curriculum workbook, scrounging to find paint and color pages while cutting out cards for a Moses-themed memory game. Sport helped arrange chairs while LegoGuy distributed materials neatly on the tiny tables. I was ready to go. I eyeballed the clock. I had 45 minutes to spend with the 3- and 4-year-olds. No problem!

Seven smartly dressed Pre-K’s waltzed in; two boys immediately headed to the giant lego table. One boy hung onto his mother’s knee until she gently disengaged him and made a quick exit. Four little girls sat politely at the table and awaited instructions.

“Let’s color!” I said, passing around a container of paint and a basket of crayons.

They reached for the washable paints and started mixing colors with a terrible disregard for the color wheel. The two boys at the back of the room continued to remove toys from the toy box, tossing them on the floor. Mama’s Boy sat by himself at another table, confused.

Mini-people of this age only have an attention span of about 7 minutes. Coloring started to wear thin until I grabbed a paint stick and started adding decorations to their already overly-decorated creations. The girls started laughing. Mama’s Boy shrugged and abandoned his paper for the raucous activity near the toy box. Eventually, some of the girls grew tired of coloring and left me for the puzzle table. I glanced at the clock: 35 minutes to go. Good God!

Starting to sweat, I gathered them into a circle for snacks. I quickly read the Bible story. (Who on Earth wrote this lesson? What kid cares about the creation of the tabernacle curtain in Jerusalem?) I cut the story short and passed out Dixie cups half-filled with Cheerios. They each wanted a cup of water, then begged for seconds on the cereal. Only 30 minutes left!

I shuffled the deck of Moses cards and arranged them. All my girls and Mama’s Boy wanted to play. I even managed to interest Rowdy Boy #1, enticing him from a game of throwing cars at Rowdy Boy #2.

When you’re 4 years old, you don’t want to take turns. I felt like Kofi Annan, negotiating a particularly tricky treaty with North Korea, Iran and Venezuala. The boys eventually drifted away, frustrated by diplomacy. My girls remained polite and firm.

“We must learn how to share,” said a blue-eyed cutie, fingering her beret.

Another moppet, wearing a red jumper decorated with Scottie dogs, exercised her impeccable manners. “May I please see your cell phone? Thank you very much.”

Meanwhile, the noise at the back of the room was reaching the ear-piercing levels experienced at a Flaming Lips concert. I was certain the teacher next door was starting to seethe.

Glancing at the girls, we rolled our eyes. They shook their heads, clucking their tongues in disapproval. We dodged a flying tiger as it soared over our table.

“Boys,” said one bobbed-hair angel, her voice thick with disapproval.

“This is why girls should rule the world,” I whispered, and we all giggled.

Putting an end to the fracas, I gathered them around me -- three in my lap, one on each arm of the chair, two sitting at my feet -- and told them a story. Something about a giant boy who wore shoes made of pizza. It kept them quiet until their parents came to collect them.

I really hope their teacher isn’t sick next week. I need at least a year to recover.