Everything you really need to know, you learnt when you were four.

Bite-size Philosophy Lesson four:

Everything you really need to know, you learnt when you were four.

Though children are seldom fair, they have a passion for fairness. In their need of certainty in an uncertain world, they demand all promises be kept. 
                                                                                        John Mcgahern.






All you really need to know about life, the good the bad and ugly, you learnt aged four: Share everything. Play fair. Don’t hit people. Put things back where you found them. Say sorry when you hurt somebody. Wash your hands before you eat. Flush. Milk and biscuits are good for you. Take naps. The Ugly duckling grows into a beautiful swan. Glitter doesn’t taste as good as it looks. Goldfish and hamsters and the little seeds we grow in the plastic cups- they all die. And so do we.

As life bundles you along to more important levels of learning and earning, sometimes you forget. So lucky me to have the opportunity to be re-learning the things I actually need to know to get me by, in between being covered in paint and glue and flour, and quite a lot of small children, (who cover you with not only the above, but with hugs and kisses. And snot.)

Time is not measured by a clock.

One of the big questions in life when you are four years old and in your first year of school is ‘When is home-time?’ When you’re two foot tall and can’t read a clock, home-time is a point of the day that isn’t necessarily fixed. Some days home-time arrives earlier than others; this depending on whether you’re having fun, if you’ve been told off, or if you just can’t write that damn number five and have decided to eat the pencil instead.

It takes a lot of reassuring this gang that no matter what, we always go home at 3pm, that 3pm really is the same time every day, and no, Miss Miller does not sleep at the school. Since the staff always seem to be here they find it hard to picture us living anywhere else, to the point when I bump into my tiny classmates outside the school gates, they tend to look at me almost blankly, perhaps a vague flutter of recognition at most, but appear shy and modest at this random stranger that definitely doesn’t spend 36 hours a week with them..

The other important thing to note about home-time, is it’s not a time for jokes, a lesson I learnt after Rosie’s mum was running late and I made the mistake of teasing my little friend saying; “hope you’ve got your panama’s Rosie.” This did not go down well.

Don’t stick your nose where it doesn’t belong.

“You awright Miss Miller?”               

“Hmph”

“Miss Miller?”

“Go and play over there for me Bertie for a minute will you?” I clutch my nose. It’s bleeding. The lesson learnt three seconds previously being don’t lean over small bouncy children if you are not part of the ‘frog’ game they’re playing.

Religion involves a big guy and lot of chocolate.

“So children, what is Easter all about?

“EASTER BUNNY”

“EGGS”

“CHOCOLATE!”

“Well, yes, but actually, Easter is about Jesus.” The kids are given a slightly less gory version of the crucifixion and resurrection, throwing in a few lines at the end about the child-friendly all-loving god that brought him back to life, and after having given them piles of chocolate on a particularly fun Easter egg hunt around the playground, (I enjoy these things a little too much) we then want them to sit still. For an hour. In church. The ever faithful wet wipes are whipped out to make them all look presentable and tucking in shirts we lead them in telling them they ‘need to be good.’

            “I’ve been this good today.” Nelson tells me, flinging his arms wide. “And I’ve been this bad.” He adds putting his hands slightly closer together. Honesty is a rather fluid concept when you’re under five. He looks over at the priest in his robes as we enter then up at me, eyes wide.

            “Is, is that God?” He whispers cautiously.

            “No Nelson, don’t worry, it’s not God. Not unless Father Andrew has been promoted.”

Do as Dad does.

One morning we are drawing along the theme of ‘what we did at the weekend with dad.’ You get a few T.Vs and a fair few footballs out of this exercise, but Bertie draws a surprisingly detailed picture of a lawn mover with an orange line sprawling off into the corner. “That the extenshun’ lead.” He informs me. “It goes in the sokit.” He points to the brown scribble where the orange lead ends. He then points to a purple scribble which explains are flowers. “We got them in the garden, dad didn’t fink they’d come up.” When I try to get him to expand on this, on what he means by them ‘coming up’ he shrugs and I smile at how he copies things his dad says until I overhear him calling one of the other kids a ‘silly old mare….’

Magic exists. Everywhere.

I dip one on of Raj’s little hands in yellow paint and the other in blue paint.

            “Now,” I say, “rub your hands together and see what happens.”

Any kind of painting that involves a lack of paint brushes goes down a treat round here- but learning about colours renders some of them speechless. His face is a sight I will never ever forget as the paint squishes between his little fingers, the colour miraculously changing before his eyes. He has made green.

My favourite topic has to be butterflies, frogs and seeds. The world looks like a place where anything is possible when you’re explaining to small people for the first time that caterpillars turn into butterflies, tadpoles turn into frogs, and tiny seeds turn into a 6 foot sunflowers. This without a doubt, is the best type of world to live in.

            It also does me a favour that it’s perfectly acceptable to get a bit over-excited about the story of the Hungry Caterpillar because when I’m in a room full of four year olds, I actually blend in.

            “And who can tell me what this is?” Mrs R says pointing to a photograph of some frogspawn.

            “Frog-is-born.” Says a little voice.

            “Frogspawn do you mean Helen?”

            “Yes she says. Frog-is-born. Frog-is-born.” When you say it fast enough, yep, the kid’s right. Genius.

Bears eat porridge

Mr Sand is everything a school keeper should be; hardworking, kind, often seen up ladders and down stairs, fixing things and generally making the world go round. An early riser, Mr Sand had made himself a bowl of porridge one morning and had put it in the microwave (the wonders of Oats So Simple) only to return to find the microwave empty and the porridge, gone.

“Sorry to interrupt Miss Miller,” He said, his head peeping round the door, “But has anyone seen my porridge? ”

I shake my head.

“Hmmm,” he sighs, scratching his head. “Well kids, somebody’s eaten my porridge.”

The children look first at Mr Sand and then at each other.

“GOLDILOCKS!” They squeak excitedly and little Joe, ever the democratic little leader, proceeds to interview everyone in the school over the course of the morning in light of the mystery of the missing porridge, determined to finds some evidence of a golden-haired porridge-eating thief. As it turns out, the culprit is one of the other teachers, which Joe finds to be a slightly disappointing ending to the tale.

Always ask why

Little Joe is our ‘why man.’ Every class has a ‘why man;’ the kid that add the words ‘but whyyyyy’ to every sentence you say, to every instruction you give, and if you happen to come across such a child, see it not as a hindrance, but an opportunity. I mean, how often do you really ask yourself questions such as ‘why does bread rise?’ ‘Why is glue sticky?’ ‘Why do carrots make you see in the dark?

The smaller the person, the sharper the sight.

The one thing you must learn with kids is that they may be small, but they sure as hell aren’t dumb. You can’t get away with stuff even if they do only come up to your knees. One morning I was running rather late and as I tried to scoot in the side gate I heard a small voice.

“See mum, I told you we weren’t late! Look, even the teachers aren’t here yet!”

 “I fink it needs new batteries.”

This is Bertie’s favourite sentence. Bertie is your boy when it comes to anything possibly electronic and has his own screw driver under the teacher’s desk ready for any toy-related battery emergency. He seems to sense which toys at the very bottom of boxes need new batteries and rescues them from the depths, bringing them proudly to us to proclaim it so. “Yep, I fink I’ll get the screwdriver Miss Miller.”

To cook is more fun than to eat.

You can bake anything with enough mixing bowls, an oven on wheels and lots of little hands..

Pancake day is a great day to be in a school with 24 little people and a frying pan. They had great fun making the batter but when it came to whipping out endless pancakes on plastic plates, they all licked the maple syrup and the sugar, but were apparently uninterested in the pancake itself. Or the washing up.

Change is a big deal.

We begin to introduce them to the idea of next year- moving up the school where a lot more will be expected of them, and try to make this sound as fun as possible-

So next year you’re going to be upstairs children.” Upstairs in the school is a mythical place that few have seen, older children disappearing up the banisters and since Zander still has trouble climbing stairs I’m not sure how this is going to go down.

“You’re going to have a new classroom and new school books and new teacher. Mrs Shane will be your teacher, won’t that be nice.”

Amy bursts in to tears and puts her hand up. “Will we still have the same mummy though??”

The golden rule.

“ Miss miller?”

“Yes Mandy?” I looked over at the face that had popped up round the door.

“I love you.”

The face disappears before I can reply, and instead I smile at the coat pegs reading all the names.

“I love you too.” I say looking at the tiny blazers.