There are many moments during my day that allow for quiet reflection. Standing on the playground watching the Kindergartners cross the monkey bars, preparing eight trays of graham crackers and yogurt, and, last week, meticulously sharpening 200 colored pencils by hand. These are the times when I tend to drift off and get lost in my imagination, imagining, for better or worse, the adults these children will become. Like in Annie Hall, as the children in the classroom stand up one by one and profess to what they are as adults: the drug dealer, the depressed housewife, the thief, etc.
The elfin, mousy brown girl with braids reading in the corner an introspective librarian; the blond rough-and-tumble five year old running with the football past the fifth graders a quarterback prom king; the skirted girl splayed out in the tanbark an actress on Broadway; the withdrawn girl with tousled hair a single mother always searching for the wrong man; the pudgy, tired, lonely pale boy a pudgy, tired, lonely, pale man.
Though it is likely not beneficial to typecast these young children when they have not yet begun to blossom into adults with all their frailties, I find it almost impossible to keep from doing it. I know, though, that life is a winding road, and I hope for those who seem to be on an unfortunate path that the road leads toward unexpected happy endings.
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