"No treasure box today?" he inquires, eyes filling with tears.
I sigh, looking at the clock, seeing that we are 10 minutes late to the buses, and whisper my answer, knowing that my answer will bring on breakdown three of the day.
"No, honey, we don't have time. I'm sorry."
My predictions were correct, and he immediately melts to the floor, sobbing as if is heart is broken irreparably. For a 6 year old denied the treasure box, it probably is.
He lags behind, tugging at my nerves. I grab him by the hand, pulling him up to speed and accidentally hit him on the head with my clipboard. His mom will kill me for this. Unintentional in everyone's mind but hers.
Later, we look at his report card, and I see her tense as she figures out that his accomplishments are less than stellar. I tense, readying myself for the inevitable onslaught of anger that usually accompanies our interactions.
I intone that his deficit is emotional, ask what she does at home, knowing full well that today he wrapped his arms around me, and asked me if I would be his mommy. When I leaned down, put my face close to his and told him she would surely miss his sweet little face, he said, "Nah, she's mean. You nice." I'm a teacher. That's my job, making children feel safe.
I see her overloaded keychain and constantly ringing phone and know that she's a tired, young, single mom with 2 more at home. Sometimes all of one parent is not enough.
But having unrealistic expectations of a 6 year old is also too much. And I watch her with this.
"Why is you crying?" she scolds. "Sit up. Get yourself together. Tell your teacher goodbye."
And he waves, silently, as the tears roll down his face.
"Good bye honey. It'll be a better day tomorrow."
I hope he believes that as much as I do.