The Teacher's Hand

Bruce Howell

A SCHOOL TEACHER asked her first graders to draw a picture of something they were thankful for. She thought of how little these children from poor neighborhoods actually had to be thankful for. She reasoned that most of them would no doubt draw pictures of turkeys on tables with lots of other food.

She was surprised with the picture that Douglas handed in. It was the picture of a human hand, poorly drawn. But whose hand? The other children tried to guess. One said it was the hand of God because He brings the food to us. Another said it was the hand of a farmer because he raises and grows the food.

Finally, when the others were back at their work, the teacher bent over Douglas’ desk and asked whose hand it was. "Why, its your hand, teacher," he mumbled.

Invisible Moms

This is a story for all moms out there. And to the men reading this, it really shows what our mothers go through.

It all began to make sense, the blank stares, the lack of response, the way one of the kids will walk into the room while I'm on the phone and ask to be taken to the store. Inside I'm thinking, "Can't you see I'm on the phone?"

Obviously not; no one can see if I'm on the phone, or cooking, or sweeping the floor, or even standing on my head in the corner, because no one can see me at all. I'm invisible. The invisible Mom. Some days I am only a pair of hands, nothing more! Can you fix this? Can you tie this? Can you open this?

Some days I'm not a pair of hands; I'm not even a human being. I'm a clock to ask, "What time is it?" I'm a satellite guide to answer, "What number is the Disney Channel" ( Jersey Shore now:() I'm a car to order, "Right around 5:30, please."

Some days I'm a crystal ball; "Where's my other sock?, Where's my phone?, What's for dinner?"