Until last Friday, I had not volunteered in a first grade classroom for thirty-two years. Things have changed.
For starters, my six-year-old grandson, Leo's first grade class learns in Spanish. The only English spoken in his classroom the day I visited was between the teacher and the visiting grandmother.
In addition, the elementary school has a computer lab, and the kids behave as if they were born with "mice" in their hands. On the downside, however, there are signs in every corridor about how bad it is to bully others.
My touristy Spanish helped me to understand some of what was going on, but Señora Cunningham soon sent me to the office to punch holes in piles of Spanish vocabulary word cards.
Toward the end of the morning, I joined Leo's class in the library for a story. The children gathered on a rug, and I sat in a child's chair to the side. When the story ended, a bespectacled, freckle-faced boy turned to me and asked, "Whose mother are you?"
That hasn't changed.