My substitute teaching had lately yielded to carpentry work. The latter paid twice as much and was half as tiring — this being a clear commentary on the state of education in California. My wife would laugh at me as I, returning from a day in the teaching trenches, collapsed on the couch. Eight hours of construction seldom induced such utter exhaustion. My throat would be sore from non-stop talking in a vain attempt to maintain the attention of 20 to 35 hyperactive students!

Still, I missed the kids. The young ones especially are pretty cute — something akin to a litter of foxes. So when the next call came, I pushed “1” to accept: Kindergarten.

I had just watched “Kindergarten Cop.” If Arnold could do it, so could I! I was inspired by his whistle and marching drills. I promptly bought myself a police whistle, harboring some reservations about young ears. In any case, I had taught kindergarten before. I knew the principal and some of the teachers. They would surely offer moral support. With images of the governor’s inaugural ball fresh in my mind, I was certain that politics was a short step ahead.

At 8:00AM I found the kindergarten room and proceeded to the teacher’s desk, hoping to find notes to help me through the day. Some teachers left only stock information sheets or nothing at all. Others wrote a helpful page of instructions and even commentary on the sequestered population. It was useful to know which kids would be trying to blind-side me and which I could enlist as helpers.

To my surprise, this teacher had three pages of standard information and and four on the anticipated course of the coming day. Such optimism is usually in direct contrast to the actual events of a day of teaching. I prefer to have flexibility — slack time if you will — to maintain some semblance of control. Halfway through the list of planned activities, I heard the bell ring.

On this cold morning, one of the furry little creatures had entered the room already. I called out to my little helper, “Let’s go get the kids!” When we opened the door, a torrent of children . poured into the room, parents in tow. Jackets and backpacks scattered in the general direction of cubbies. The gates were open; they were off!

There arises in this morning ritual a moment — a handoff if you will — when a parent pauses to check out the teacher. They look him over, as if he or she is deciding whether to entrust a child into the care of this stranger for a day. It’s a Norman Rockwell moment — at least it would be, had I time to savor it. For an orderly procession can digress into chaos within seconds, as I once again observed in amazement. “Okay, kids; everyone go to your desks,” I called in a vain attempt to quell the rising insurrection.

One mother explained that her daughter was “Student of the Week.” She had brought materials to share. Others handed me slips of mysterious paper and homework folders. Sure, just put it in the box over there; I’d figure it out later. The kids approached their desks and settled a bit.

“Hello everybody. I’m your Sub today. My name is Mr. Chandler. Chandler.” With older kids, I could refer to a popular TV show with a character by that name. I concluded this wouldn’t fly in the Sesame Street set, so I wrote it on the board. I was rewarded throughout the day by shouts of “Mister” and “Teacher.” Better than “hey you!” I concluded.

We gathered on the rug. Reading a story usually had a calming effect on the little tykes. I’d hold the book up so they could see the pictures of the little boy and his Uncle, the Plasterer. “All day long Peter carried plaster up the stairs for his uncle,” I read.

“I can’t see!” yelled kids on the left. I moved the book toward them.

“I can’t see!” yelled kids on the right. I moved the book toward them. The kids in front closed in.

“I can’t see!” yelled kids in the back. Apparently no one could see. This was starting to sound like a book of its own. Time to shift gears.

“OK kids, now it’s time for us to write a sentence about how we help at home. Let’s all get a piece of lined paper.” It’s funny how kids can move in what can only be described as a “flurry.” I swept them back toward their desks; they swirled around the room.

“Write like this,” I said in demonstration: “I help my mom cook.” I was amazed at the range of abilities. Some were right on. Others didn’t have the attention span to write a whole sentence.

“I’m done!” “I’m done!” Looking on one table, I pieced together words that said “I Mom my kook” and “I help dad grden.” “Good!” I encouraged. “Try to put an ‘a’ in there.”

The next child impressed me by saying all the things he had written. However, the strange markings on the page looked like the wanderings of a chicken who had just trampled an ink pad.

“I’m done!” This cry came from several directions now. They started to wander from their desks. One boy showed me his whistle. I was aghast: it was a police whistle just like mine! I hate it when they sell arms to both sides!

Another wave of children arrived, staggered as they were to allow for smaller reading groups. How many was I supposed to have? Was anybody missing? I started to recount.

“Let’s all go over to the rug again. We’re going to sing a song!” My instructions referred to an attached page. I began to chant the words. The kids joined in.

They did pretty well at this; the class seemed to be coming together. I looked at my notes, hoping vainly for a moment to scan ahead. Already the class was beginning to spontaneously combust. I reached in my pocket to grab my whistle; my hand emerged with Chapstick. In those few seconds of delay, all discipline evaporated.

“We want snacks!” chanted two little boys. Soon the whole class was chanting: “We want snacks!” I stood up and walked into the center of this cacophony. In my most indignant tone, I said, “Excuuuuse me!” This always worked; I awaited their acquiescence.

Nothing happened. “We want snacks” rolled on like an unstoppable freight train with 18 little cars. I dove again for my whistle, hands in my pockets.

“What is going on in here?” We all fell silent. “This is unacceptable,” said a young woman. Their teacher had entered the room, summoned from her day’s task of proposal writing by the unchecked bellowing of this heathen crowd.

I felt embarrassed, having failed to reign in this gang of five year olds. In walks a woman half my age and the barbarians become lambs. How does she do that?

As she restores order, she leaves Skittles for later. She asks me about the Harvest project. I haven’t read that far yet. How much more busted can I get?

Soon it is time for snack. I get helpers to put the Skittles in bowls; others pour water into cups. Skittles spill all over the table and onto the floor. The water somehow mixes with the Skittles in the bowls, becoming a colored soup. “Okay, snack time is over! Out to recess!” I holler.

Alone at last, I read about the Harvest project — something to do with coloring trees and removing fruit according to the roll of dice. The teacher enters, sees the mess and exclaims, “Oh! Did you use the Skittles for snack? They were the fruit for the Harvest project.” Busted again!

She found colored pasta and copied number strips for dice before leaving through the front door. The youthful tide returned through the back door and flowed onto the rug. “Today we have someone who is the Student of the Week,” I announced. She came up with her show and tell.

She went through the standard pages about herself, her family and her favorite things. Then she pulled out her mother’s material: a scrapbook of pictures four inches thick! There were pictures of every facet and time of her life. She must be an only child, I thought — until she showed us pictures of three or four siblings! Kudos to the parents!

The instructions allocated ten minutes, but it was going to take all week to go through this epic. “I can’t see!” came shouts from several directions. She held up the book and continued on, ready to take whatever time was required to explain the details of her existence to date.

“Okay, we have to get ready for lunch!” I said as we drew this show to a close.

The afternoon went in similar vein as the kids flowed in and spilled themselves on the carpet. Some of the kids had their hands in the leftover Skittles. I confiscated the sticky remains. We did the Harvest project. Each pair had a tree and twenty pasta fruit. They turned over numbers to see how many to take away.

“Teacher, we’re done!” cried a cooperative team. “Great!” I encouraged. “Let’s see. You have 8 and you have 9.” What happened to twenty? What should I be teaching here: math, art or project management? I could just see the results with twenty Skittles: “you have 3 and you have 5!”

“I won!” said a rather aggressive young boy paired with a quiet girl. As I watched him play the next round, he picked the highest number card every time. The paper was too translucent. I held my hand over his eyes. He squirmed, ducked his head and picked the highest number again — a con-man in the making. Where were the dice for this game?

“Okay, let’s clean up!” I declared. The early arrivals got ready to be picked up. After they left, I rounded up the strays and corralled them onto the rug. We read the morning story about the plasterer. With half a class, it was quieter. Maybe this would be better. Then I heard a familiar cry.

“I can’t see!” “I can’t see!”