By Marcia Lynx Qualey
I was back at the International School of Choueifat this Monday, guest-hosting the kindergartners. Several of the kids had been in my pre-K class last year, and we were recapping some of the greatest hits. I had gotten through "We’re Going on a Bear Hunt," "The Very Hungry Caterpillar," a few songs and was halfway into Bill Martin’s "Brown Bear" when my baby started to cry.

"What do you suppose he wants?" I asked the class.

"He doesn’t like the story," Mohamed Tamer suggested.

"He wants to play with the toys," said Abdallah. When I walked in, Abdallah noticed my props—a caterpillar and a brown bear—and asked if he’d get to play with them.

"Maybe," I said, taking Isaac from the classroom assistant and holding him, bouncing. Isaac was quiet. "Or maybe he just wanted his mom."

"You’re not a mom," Abdallah said. "You’re a teacher!"

"I’m a mom and I’m a teacher," I told him. "You can be both. Ms. Hafez is a mom."

"I believe you," said Mariam.

Abdallah shook his head. "You’re a teacher."
"Remember there was a baby in my belly last year?" I asked. "My stomach was really big."
Most of the kids nodded. "No," Abdallah said.
"It was out to here," Mohamed Tamer offered, hands out as far as he could reach.

Ahmed’s face suddenly lit up. Ahmed's mind is full of interesting connections: last year he had a few boys convinced the baby got in my belly because I swallowed it. "How did you get the baby out of your belly?"

Oh boy, I thought. "The doctor took him out of my belly."

Now everyone was interested. Several kids asked, "How?"

"Well, he cut my belly open."

"With what?" they wanted to know.

"With a knife."

"And how did he close it back up again?"

Mariam asked, laughing. "With glue?"

"No, not with glue. With a needle and thread."

This seemed to exhaust their curiosity for a moment, and I quickly gave Isaac back to the assistant and picked up another book, glad I wasn’t a teacher there any more, glad I wouldn’t be sitting in the director’s office tomorrow. "You told them what?"