If I Can't See Him...

I was teaching a group of ten preschoolers how to play baseball. During our batting practice, a small tiff broke out between Tech and Sam. I quickly break them up and give them the friendly reminder that if we push our friends, someone may get hurt. I believed the issue to be resolved, but less than a minute later, Tech had his face pressed against my leg and was bawling.

"What is wrong?" I ask, stumped about what could have caused such a hysterical reaction. He looks up at me, his bottom lip quivering, and tries to explain. He manages to utter one word between each heavy sob and tells me, "I tried to tell Sam I didn't like what he said, but I can't see his eyes."

I look across the room to Sam, head tilted back, and both hands clasped tightly over his eyes. I ask Sam to let Tech talk to him, but with hands still in place, he gives his head a quick shake. And Tech continues to wail. 

I tell Tech, "though you can't see his eyes, I'm sure he can still hear you." Finding no solace in my statement, Tech once again buries his face into the side of my leg and cries.

For the remaining ten minutes of class, Sam kept his hands cupped tightly over his eyes, occasionally creating a small opening between his index and middle finger to see where he was walking.

I just might try this defense mechanism next time Troy gets snippy with me. :)