At Walmart, I see a girl, age 9 or 10, accompanied by her mother, filling a cart with school supplies. I’m immediately transported back to the fourth-grade classroom. “Mrs. Laundrie,” a nine-year-old boy says, rubbing his forehead, “I’ve been working so hard on this measurement problem, my brain hurts.”

I smile. “Everyone’s been working hard, Matthew. Let’s take a break. We can take the ducklings outside for a race and a swim.”

We had hatched four “Runner” ducks in the incubator ten days ago, and like my students, the ducklings would enjoy a few minutes outside in the beautiful weather. I grabbed two yardsticks, rags, and the baby bathtub.

“Can I bring the pail of water?” one student asked excitedly. 

“Can I get the door?”

“Can I be the line leader?”

“Yes, yes, and yes. Line up behind Matthew everyone.”

I take the ducklings out of the box, set them on the floor, and begin for the door. They follow me, and their cute penguin-waddle makes us smile. Once we’re out on the grass, a girl with fingernails bitten to the quick asks, “Can I race with them first?”

“You may.” I hand her the two yardsticks. “Measure so they’re seven yards apart.”

“Oh, Mrs. Laundrie,” she says with a smile, “I thought we were getting a break from math.” But she measures carefully.

“Who remembers a fact about Runner ducks?”

“They aren’t built for flying,” a boy who has delayed reading skills answers, “but they can run fast.” This student has exceptional auditory memory, and I have no doubt he’ll do fine in life.

The girl with chewed fingernails assumes a runner’s position, crouching behind the start line. I corral all four ducklings and try to keep them behind the line. Like trying to reach all 22 students in my classroom, this is not a simple task.

“On your marks,” I say quickly. “Get set, go!” The girl sprints off. Caught up with the excitement, the ducklings flap their wings and run along with her. 

The girl’s cumulative folder is filled with documentation of her emotional trauma, but at this moment, I’m delighted to see that she’s joyously flapping her own “wings” along with the ducklings. The class and I clap for all five winners.

A boy who just arrived from Mexico and doesn’t speak English points to himself and the racetrack. 

“Would you like to try?” I ask.

He nods.

This boy could easily run faster than the ducklings, but just before the finish line, he runs in place, beaming. Once they cross, he crosses. We give him a hearty round of applause. I suspect he has a great sense of humor, and I’m going to enjoy getting to know him better.

“Can they go for their swim now?” a boy hungry for attention asks. Both of his parents work long hours and I suspect he’s often lonely. 

“You pour the water,” I said, “and I’ll set them in.”

The boy draws back his shoulders pleased that I’m allowing him to do this important job.  I blow out a shaky breath realizing how much my words and actions mean to these students. 

The ducklings dunk, splash, and flap their wings in pleasure.

After they’ve nearly splashed all the water out of the tub, a girl asks if she can dry them off. Her mother is battling cancer, and she’s having to grow up way too fast.

I nod and hand her several rags.

She takes the task seriously. 

“It’s almost time for lunch,” a student reminds me. I suspect that the school lunch might be the only meal he’ll have today.

“And so it is. Let’s return to the classroom.”

I blink. The girl at Walmart has filled the cart with school supplies and she and her mom are leaving. I still linger, watching them head to the checkout. A lot has changed over the years since my classroom brought ducklings out to the playground, but one thing remains. We adults want our youth to have the best childhood we can give them. We wish them all the best.