The classroom cascaded with activity.

A pack of Disney princesses wrestled themselves into glittery dresses while debating whose turn it was to be Elsa. Dinosaur World roared to life as a tyrannosaurus came head-to-head with a flock of pterodactyls. A highway of building blocks ran through the centre of the room, past a table of huddled children squishing playdough and sploshing watercolour paint. Above them, a large banner declared ‘Yippee! We’re in kindy!’ in bright, playful font.

Surveying the scene with trepidation was me, Miss Erceg, the new kindergarten teacher.

While I’ve had some interesting jobs in my time – Antarctic tour guide and Kimberley cattle station worker spring to mind – I never saw this coming. Me, working in a kindergarten? How did that happen?

Here’s how:

I had a plan for 2020. I’d begin the year by writing the first draft of my book while working a casual job in hospitality. The first draft would be done by May, just in time for my ten-week trip to Finland, Italy and Croatia. When I got back, I’d revise my draft and continue bartending until the book was done.

Coronavirus had another plan for 2020. As a result, my hospitality work came to an abrupt and indefinite end and my ten-week trip was cancelled. While unemployment and a travel ban might have been the perfect excuse to keep writing, the book wasn’t going that well either. I was tired, unsure of how to revise my draft and really needed a break from writing.

All of this left me unsure of what to do with myself. I knew for certain that I didn’t want to mope around the house doing nothing, or to whittle away my savings, so I decided to get another job. When I turned to friends and family for suggestions, I got this swift and intriguing response:

‘My school is looking for a teacher’s aide. You should send in your CV.’

Two weeks later I was standing somewhere between Dinosaur World and Disneyland, surrounded by a sea of four-year-olds.

My first assignment as Miss Erceg, the teacher’s aide, was to get each of the 27 kindergarteners to paint a portrait. Unsure how hard that would be or how long it would take, I quickly set up my easel and paints and went to flag down my first volunteer.

‘Do you want to paint a picture?’ I called out sweetly to a boy passing by.

‘Nope,’ he fired back confidently as he walked straight past.

I brushed off the rejection with a smile (four-year-olds are insanely cute in case you didn’t know) and walked towards the Disney crowd with a new strategy.

‘What’s your name sweetie?’ I asked Cinderella, who looked the most approachable.

‘Bridget,’ she replied gently.

‘Well Bridget, you get to come paint your very own picture with me. Let’s go!’

To my relief she followed.

As soon as we arrived at the easel, and without waiting for instruction, Bridget grabbed a paintbrush overloaded with green paint and drove it into the centre of the page. With unflinching focus, she smeared paint from one corner of the page to another before returning the brush to its pot and launching for another. I watched on with wonder as she grabbed for yellow then blue then pink, drops of paint falling to the floor in the transfer, as she fearlessly filled the page. Then, after about 90 seconds, she stopped to study the mass of multi-coloured stripes and splotches before her.

‘Is it finished?’ I asked, genuinely unsure.

Bridget studied the painting for a moment longer before smiling and nodding her head. Then she scrawled her name unevenly across the top of the page and skipped back to her castle.

One down. 26 to go.

I managed to get through a dozen portraits that morning. And while I continued to marvel at the confidence of these budding artists, I took the liberty of giving Bridget’s successors some direction and critical feedback. Like maybe have a think about what you want to create before attacking the paper with paint.

My other duties that day included cleaning up, helping prepare the next day’s activities and supervising in the playground. The latter seemed to mostly involve policing hat-wearing, settling minor disputes and administering band aids and hugs. I went home that afternoon exhausted but with a huge smile on my face and a few drops of paint on my sleeve.

Over the next six months, I worked three days a week in kindergarten, my days filled with arts and crafts, literacy and numeracy, and teaching the science of putting shoes on the correct feet. I quickly got into groove of kindy, a world whose KPIs include learning to hop and skip, dancing the dinosaur stomp and writing the number 3 the right way around. I read the kindy kids stories, protected them from dragons and made them eat their carrots. Naturally, I told them about Antarctica too.

Every day I learned something new. How to teach kids to sound out the alphabet and say sorry when they’ve done wrong. What to do when they bump their head or drop their lunch all over the ground.

I took note as my colleagues navigated the trickier stuff too. When to save the day and when to let children solve their own problems. When to enforce strict structure and boundaries and when to let things flow. And how to manage undesirable behaviour without crushing anyone’s confidence or self-worth.  

I loved kindy so much that I began to wonder whether maybe I’d found the perfect day job for an aspiring writer. While the pay wasn’t great, it was fun and meaningful with little stress or responsibility. And working three days a week left me some time to write.

But I couldn’t deny that I also felt a familiar restlessness creeping in. The one I get in most jobs after a few months. When I constantly look at the clock as I count down the hours to home time. When I get that craving for autonomy and an intellectual and creative challenge. When I long to own my own time and be my own boss. No matter how much I try, I don’t seem to belong to a permanent job. Not even in a place as brimming with goodness as kindy.

A few weeks ago I said goodbye to my kindy kids, who have now all turned five and are ready to take on pre-primary, if not the world. Whenever I see a rainbow or a lizard, I’ll think of them and hear their squeals of delight. They reminded me to notice the magic in the everyday and that sometimes you have to stop thinking and just smear the damn page with paint.

As for Miss Erceg, she’s hatched a brilliant new plan for 2021. It mostly involves sitting at her desk, writing, and taking life a day at a time.

I’m sure this plan will be as bulletproof as the last.