Further Proof That I Have More To Learn In Life

Sometimes I can hear it. It's this little bell sound in my head, tling tling tling, which starts to ring every time I am near kids who are about 6 to 12 years old. The bell is always accompanied by this singular thought: I want one of these. Or four.

Is this a maternal clock? Maybe? Am I old enough to have one of those?

I was first stricken with symptoms of child-wanting on the day I moved in with my first host family in Naungan when, after leaving my room unattended for three whole minutes, my 11 and 12 year-old host sisters, their three cousins, and two neighbor children raided my room and found the standard-government-issued condoms in my medical kit. "What are theeeeeeese??" As I was thinking of ways to explain why Americans carried greasy balloons in their luggage, I was simultaneously planning what color I would paint their bedrooms when I took them home with me two years hence.

I used to think that I had a weakness for only Filipino children, because who wouldn't enjoy a fan club of 12 beautiful, doll-eyed followers who laugh at all of her jokes and wash the dishes? But as it turns out, I was wrong; I like all children, not just Filipino ones. All of them. Even naughty ones and bratty ones and ones who cry - though certainly less so. I like them for their humor, for their innocence, for their carefree look at the world, and also for the same reason that I like good apple pie: because they taste good. Har har, that was a joke.

But the part about me liking children, that is not a joke, and that is why the faculty of St. George must have thought I would make a good substitute teacher. Also not a joke. That's right, not only am I seal counter by day, but also Educator of America's Youth.

Okay class, how many syllables are in 'WorstJobEver?"

After playing gym teacher for the middle school students, science teacher/babysitter for the high schoolers, and a mere teacher's aid to the elementary school teacher, it is now obvious to me that the tling tling tling bell in my head was improperly wired. The correct sound should have been more like this: AH-WOOO-GA! AH-WOOOO-GA! Something akin to fire alarms, panic buttons, self-destruct warnings.

In the wake of this substitute teaching experiment – complete with missing children, constant tears, "so-and-so pushed me!", tattle tales, attention deficit disorder, angsty tweens, apathy, resentment toward structure, and, perhaps worst of all, Dora backpacks – I have come to one single conclusion:

Substitute teaching: the best birth control there is.