To My Amaya’s Kindergarten Teacher:
Right now, my daughter is just another student to you. One more name on the attendance roster, one more body in a chair, one more blurry face. That’s okay.
You’ll learn her. You’ll learn that she is insanely intelligent - almost to the point that it can be frightening, and definitely to the point that it is intimidating. She has a creative mind and a penchant for weaving far-fetched stories. (Question everything she says to you! She is not a liar, but truth and fiction get woven together in her world.) If something is put together, she will break it apart just to see the way it fits, and if the separation was too easy, she will leave the pieces where they came to rest; only complicated discoveries are worth her time.
She has a sweet disposition, and she loves to cuddle. If she comes for a hug, it’s usually several minutes past when she first needed it. She is the quintessential baby of the family, only she isn’t - she is the middle child. She is sandwiched between an older sister and a younger brother, both of whom have very demanding personalities and both who are fraught with medical issues. She does not.
You will learn that Amaya is sunshine. She is everyone’s friend, and everyone is her friend. She is brave. Do not tell her what she cannot do, for that is a challenge, and she will prove you wrong. Listen carefully when she stutters, because that is when her heart is heavily invested. Her excitement is stronger than her ability, and her emotions usually win. Be patient with her.
You will learn to repeat yourself. She does not mean to ignore you; it is difficult for her to allow mere mortals to share the space in her head. She is vindictive and calculating. If her feelings are hurt, her heart is broken. Disappointment, in her world, is permanent. Promises are, too. Justice is to be delivered, but never received, by her. She cannot conceive of a world where she is not the most important person in it.
She has dreams and aspirations that she has yet to identify, and you are and will forever be the first step to her success. She will frustrate you; she will amuse you; she will never forget you. She will love you, and I can only pray that you will learn to love her, too.
Thank you. Thank you for the late nights, early mornings, nose wiping, jeans buttoning (and unbuttoning!), shoe-tying, and hand-holding. Thank you for the hugs. Thank you for the pushing, the encouraging. Thank you for your presence in our absence. From now until May, she will be in your care for more waking hours than she is in ours. Thank you for helping us raise her.
Thank you for being her kindergarten teacher.
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