expanding on this blurb bc I couldn’t stop thinking about it.
I strongly believe that, despite being great with kids, Steve isn’t a natural when it comes to teaching, or being around children in general. None of it’s instinctive for him.
Steve isn’t good with kids because it comes naturally to him. He’s good with kids because he decides to be. Decides that he will not be the kind of adult who dismisses their feelings, who dangles approval like a carrot and metes out praise like currency.
He grew up an only child. No little siblings tugging at his sleeve, nobody to teach him the kind of patience that only comes from sharing a room or waiting your turn. His house was always too big—plenty of space, no one to fill it.
So when all these kids swarm him during PE, when they climb and cling and squeal and ask and ask and ask, there’s a split second where his brain goes, what do I do with this?
It’s a learning curve. Figuring out the boundary between encouragement and discipline, between letting his students explore and keeping them safe.
He fumbles a lot; not even his time babysitting Dustin and the rest of the party could prep him for this. All these tiny, buzzing bodies, each with their own brains and moods and personalities... it's a lot to navigate.
But slowly, moment by moment, he figures it out.
Not without mistakes, he's far from perfect.
Still, he shows up everyday.
Because in the end, he chooses this.
He chooses to be kind. To be affectionate, patient. To let himself be soft, to let them climb and cling and squeal around him even when it makes his back ache and his head spin.
He chooses love, over control, every single time.
He’s not trying to relive his own childhood.
He’s unconsciously building the one he wishes he'd had.
The big brother he would’ve been, if only someone smaller had been in his orbit back then. The adult he needed when he was six, when nobody asked him how he was doing after he lost his dog, or when he scraped his knee, or when he couldn’t finish his english homework because all the letters looked wrong and he just didn't understand.
And it’s exhausting, sometimes.
He second-guesses himself constantly. Lying awake at night, wondering if he’s a bad teacher because he’s too soft, too lenient.
But then he comes back to school the next morning and sees his desk covered in glitter, with over a dozen crayola-smudged cards and handmade bracelets stacked on top—turns out yesterday’s art class activity was to write a thank-you letter to your favorite teacher—and he can't help but think:
Huh. Maybe I am doing something right.