I like the kids. They like me. All except the littlest boy.
He does not like big boys. He is fierce to them, like a lion.
I am the largest point on the Big Boy Spectrum. Our main interaction is when he quietly beckons me over. I squat down to hear his birdlike voice. He whispers,
“I. Don’t. Like. You!”
The littlest boy makes sure this happens twice a day.
It didn’t today though! I was playing football with some kids. Football ala Kindergarten. The game is simple. My team has a big goal. The other team has a tiny goal. Their team contains a dozen little ones. My team contains me. This pummelling continues till the second littlest decides that he wants to give me a hug on the knee.
The second littlest is obsessed with the toy police car. If that looses its appeal he will want to talk to me. Mainly about cars. Or building stuff. I am easy to spot, playing footy, so he toddles over for a knee hug. Sensing their opportunity, the other team swarms past, take up position behind me and increase their score exponentially. This thrashing was interrupted by screaming from the back door.
The littlest boy had been hit by a big girl. She had hit him so hard that he had fallen in one direction and his glasses had skittered off in another.
I detached my limpets and rushed over. Littlest was duly comforted and big girl repremanded. I passed the matter on to a native who could administer the appropriate moral input, and got back to outside supervising.
Later, at snack time, the littlest beckoned me to sit at his table. I sat on one of their tiny chairs, knees at kiddy shoulder height, expecting his normal declaration. He looked at me and said.
“I. Like. Cheese. Sandwiches.”
My place in the cosmos had been eclipsed by the greater threat of another child. I had been accepted.
Later we even played in the sandpit together and made a castle WITH moat.