Wednesdays are the days when the ice cream truck pulls up to the Day School and we get Rocket Pops. It always occurs during our afternoon snack time and right before our outside time. We take the popsicles, plates, bibs (we only use them for this), and wet rags to the picnic tables on the playground and set up shop. We talk about how the popsicles are cold, sticky, and have blue, white and red sections. We eat in the shade, have some water, and basically enjoy the outdoors without turning into sun-dried tomatoes. Yesterday there were a couple extra popsicles, so I ate that sucker up. The kids were so shocked that they forgot to eat their own and just stared at me, and we ended up with a lot of sticky hands and arms.
Note: I was wearing jeans and two long t-shirts that came down past my hips. Names have been changed to protect the guilty.
It was time for us to go inside and most of the children had finished eating. One little boy, an intelligent, high-energy problem-solver who I accidentally taught what "boobies" are (that's another story) was still sitting next to me. Let's call him Kyle. When he finished his popsicle I instructed him to go throw his trash away. Kyle said, "In Trash. Can," and climbed down from the bench. I turned away from him to wipe the hands of a little girl who had returned from disposing of her plate and popsicle stick. The girl dropped the bib she was wearing on the ground, and, still straddling the bench, I bent over to pick it up. A little hand pulled at the back of my shirt, and I started to reach for it when something shocking occurred.
A sticky popsicle stick went down the back of my jeans, right into my underwear.
My reaction was as follows: Leap up from the table, shrieking. Scare little girl in the process. Pull popsicle stick from pants and spastically toss it away.
Kyle's reaction: Jump back guiltily, wave his hand at the fallen stick and say, "No, no, no." Put plate and popsicle stick in trash.
The reaction of my coworker: Hysterical laughter.
Another teacher who was outside said, "You know, what he needs is a cardboard box with the slots in it. He will love to put the popsicle sticks in it. You know, for the small finger skills. Those kind of pants are horrible, you know. You need to get your kids inside. You are cooking their brains out here in this heat."
In my head, I was yelling, Just because the kid lifts my shirt and stuffs an object down my pants doesn't mean he needs a new toy. It means he needs a refresher in personal boundaries. And my pants weren't the problem, the popsicle stick was the problem. I didn't expose myself, Kyle yanked my shirt up. My mouth said, "Ha ha ha!" and instead of using what I learned from Ong-Bak to lay the smack down, I herded my cooked-brain children inside and made sure that Kyle walked in front of me.