A Pint-Sized Bully

“No, I won’t get down. You can’t make me. You can’t make me do nothing.”

 I stared into the blue eyes of the pint-sized bully who stood on the chair in front of me.

 Calmly I said, “You’re right kiddo. I can’t make you do anything.” I walked off.

Just another typical day with Stephen, I thought. For fifty days, the five year old occupied my attention through his mischievous behavior. Today, he continues to permeate my thoughts as a whiff of smoke that I can’t brush away.

Each morning, I went through the same ritual. Around 8:00, I held my breath. Thoughts flew through my mind. Perhaps he’ll be absent today. Maybe his mom decided to move him to another preschool. But like clockwork, he always appeared by 8:05 with Pop Tart or dry cereal in hand.

Prior to Stephen’s enrollment, I serenely spent my hours as a watcher, guider and instructor. After his arrival, I became a firefighter–constantly putting out his fires of contention across the room. Once, another student, Jesse, created an intricate train village using blocks for roads and houses. In this community, plastic tress and people abounded, and a train twisted though the center. Jesse busily talked to himself and to the people in his town. If the play people could talk back, they would have screamed in terror; for moments later, Stephen’s vicious foot squashed all Jesse had built. Jesse’s train village was derailed.

“He was in my way!” Stephen defiantly replied after my interrogation.

“Jesse, what do you need from Stephen?” I inquired.

“I need him to say, ’sorry,’” came the response.

A somber look crossed Stephen’s face as he mumbled, “I’m sorry.”

Perhaps we’re making progress, I remember thinking. My victory was short-lived; as soon as I turned my back, I heard Stephen’s voice add spitefully, “Not!”

Stephen did not discriminate among his victims. Even Ashley’s peaceful meditation in the puzzle center became the eye of his unrelenting storm. Across the room, I stood transfixed while I watched Stephen grab a puzzle piece, taunt it in front of her and slap Ashley across the back. With this action, my frustration, which started as a seed, grew. My repertoire of methods, so reliable in the past, failed me. Time out had no effect on him. Private talks proved fruitless. A truce occurred whenever I spent one-to-one time with him. However, these interludes were short and few between, since I had 17 other children to supervise. Thus, our days were still filled with disruption; my circle time chaotic; my nap time became unrestable.

The climax of the Stephen era happened at Sesame Street Live at the Frank Erwin Center. My parent volunteer and I took turns taking children to the bathroom. When it was her turn, she took Stephen and Alex.

I should have known better.

The parent returned frantic–Stephen had walked off. After a frenzied search, we found him watching a vendor. My frustration ripened.

“You will not leave my sight again,” was the only response I could muster. I took his hand, and to my horror, he started wailing. Oh great, I thought, now these people will think I’m trying to steal him.

“You’re causing a scene,” I hissed. “Why are you crying? You’re not hurt.”

To my relief, the racket stopped. Stephen regained his composure remarkably quickly and nonchalantly said, “I’m just a jerk.”

What possessed this child, I wondered. I felt like an archaeologist deciphering a code with few clues. Realizing that my frustration was rooted in helplessness, I rethought my approach.

After attending a workshop and reading relevant literature, I devised a plan which involved Stephen, his mother, the preschool director and myself. The other adults involved were doubtful; I was hopeful. Based on my observations, I divided Stephen’s day into small manageable sections. Some sections lasted thirty minutes, others an hour. The director, Stephen and I met and discussed what it means to “do the right thing.” For each period of time that he could behave appropriately, he received a star on his chart and a small treat. Stephen’s mom received the chart at the end of the day, and it became her job to praise him for any progress shown. My goal was for him to completely fill all ten slots and to gradually increase the time periods but decrease the treats.

It was bribery, but it was scientific.

The star chart showed promise. Unfortunately, the patience I exhibited did not extend to others around me. His ten weeks with me were over. The preschool headed the complaints it received from other parents. Thus our center became the third in the area to expel Stephen.

Stephen will be in first grade this year. I sometimes wonder what he is like now or who he will become in the future. The answer to these questions are not mine to own. I’ll never know what he thought of my attempts. I will never be certain if he knew that I tried so hard because I cared. I’ll never know if through it all, I reached him.

All I really know is that he reached me.