The problem with sticky hands

Today was Harvest Festival - one of my favourite times of year. My religious beliefs have a vague connection with those of the school I work for, and I feel I can join in Autumn assemblies without that feeling of being a total hypocrite. 

Our school celebrates Harvest at the local village church. We usually walk there, one class at a time, but this year there was a shortage of people to accompany the infants. Because they are less civilised than the rest of us, they need a lot of supervision to stop nose-picking, screaming and general misbehaviour in church. One teacher suggested the oldest class partnering up with the youngest. Because this teacher then had planning time at home, she scarpered and left us to the consequences. 

I explained to the year 5 and 6 children that they would need to be responsible for an infant each. Most thought it a great idea. 'They're so sweet,' and 'Infants are adorable,' were the two most popular misconceptions. Those with younger siblings were more realistic. 'What if they need the toilet?' and 'They always have sticky hands,' were problems raised. 'Yes, why do they always have sticky hands?' someone asked. Having worked in the reception class for two years (a long time ago, and never to be repeated), I knew there were many reasons for infants having sticky hands, very few of which I was prepared to repeat. 'If you can't deal with it,' I told them, 'I can always ask if Mr Chaos's class can take on this really important responsibility.' It worked, as it always does, and they repressed their shudders, sat up straighter, and tried to look like they could be trusted with anything. 

It was a success. The infants were overawed by the scary big people, and the big 'uns shouldered their responsibilities; noisy children were hushed (the older ones and the younger) and the church service went without a hitch. Having more infants than older children, I had to take on a rug-rat myself. A confident little American girl, she told me how she didn't live on the nearby air base ('like some kids do') and invited me to her birthday party. When asked her age, she told me she'd be five, then asked how old I was. When I told her, she paused and said, 'That's quite a big number, isn't it?' then hastily added, 'But that's okay, because you're a grown-up.' She was quite entertaining and full of questions: 'Where's all the big music coming from? Why is there food on the floor? Who's that guy hanging on the wall? Is it nearly home-time?'

The older children enjoyed the experience, and asked if they could repeat it next time we went to church (the Boss Lady said they could). Even the reluctant ones had liked having the responsibility, although one child asked if he could have a quieter infant next time because he couldn't think of answers to all their questions. 

Nobody complained about sticky hands, although having seen what my little partner was doing to while away the time in church, I was anxious to wash mine.