It began like any of our frequent forays into the outside world. This time our destination was the local bagel shop, which generously donates their leftover baked goods to us so that we can provide morning and afternoon snacks to our preschoolers.

My charges were five boys, ages three and four, and the formation of this particular troop was neither random nor particularly fair. All the kids love going on the bi-weekly bagel run. However, these little guys had come in bursting with energy and I decided that getting them out of the building to burn some of it off would be in the best interest of everyone’s well-being.

The boys were in no rush to reach our goal ten blocks away in the heart of the downtown business district. Most kids this age aren’t terribly goal-oriented. They live in the moment. Magic and mystery lurk around every corner. Today the half-block of old streetcar tracks that thankfully has never been removed were good for five or ten minutes of make believe that brought to life some of the train stories we have been reading back at school. After that the peninsula of sidewalk that juts out into the intersection of Van Zandt and Grand became for them the prow of a fishing boat, and the street a wide river, so they stopped to throw a few lines in the water. It was mid-morning by then, however. The fish traffic was slow. A few big ones rolled by but they just didn’t seem to be biting. And then there are always the trolls that live beneath the city’s sewer grates. Just because the kids rarely if ever see them doesn’t mean they aren’t there.

I was perfectly content with our leisurely pace because I have a number of goals in mind whenever we venture beyond the school doors. Hurrying would spoil everything. There are the practical ones, such as learning to find one’s way (I always let the kids lead) and to navigate safely across busy streets. But I also want them to gain experience in dealing with adults in the marketplace, and in chatting with the neighbors—which we make a point of doing whenever they are out sitting on their stoops. Mind you, these little visits aren’t only for the children’s sake. You should see the expressions on those old people’s faces as they bear witness to the youthful purity and exuberance gazing up at them. Ultimately, what I want is for the kids to feel like they belong in this mad world of ours, to know that they already have an important place in it. In an era of warehoused youth, any real sense of connectedness is fast disappearing.

Now to the heart of this tale, when the unexpected—which is always to be expected if one is working with children correctly—occurred. It all started with Carl. Just as we were about to cross our third or fourth street, he grabbed my hand, flashed me the most winsome smile you will ever see and asked, “Chris, will you be my daddy?”

Knowing Carl’s history all too well, how he was given up at birth and then spent two and a half years bouncing around the foster care system before his adoption by a woman without a male partner, I agreed without hesitation. “Being your dad will make my day,” I replied. I’m not sure if I’ve ever shared with him that I am the father of two grown daughters.

The others raced ahead while Carl and I walked hand in hand, talking quietly about the things that fathers and sons talk about. Then at the next corner it happened again. This time it was Matthew, a Native American boy whose father lives on a reservation out west and has a severe problem with alcohol. It’s been a long time since Matthew has seen or heard from him. Having already said yes to Carl, what choice did I have except agree to this second request?

Two blocks later Jose figured it was his turn: “Will you be my daddy too, Chris?” He visits his father on the weekends, but his mom and dad are in the middle of a bitter separation and divorce, and I think Jose’s loyalties are torn at the moment. When I told him I would love to be his dad he threw his arms around my legs and gave them a big squeeze.

As we meandered onward I suddenly flashed back to that old fifties’ sitcom I watched as a child. My Three Sons. I couldn’t keep from laughing aloud.

But not for long. Kavon, who spends the majority of our trips far out in front like an advance scout, finally caught on to what was happening. He is being raised by his grandmother and his father is in and out of jail, and so I suppose Kavon concluded that a spare dad might be a good idea.

And last but not least came sheepish little Brian, the youngest in the group. Brian’s mother and father were teenagers when he was born. Their relationship quickly fell apart after that, and since then his mother has remained single. Brian sees his dad every Saturday, but anyone who understands anything about children knows that a three-year-old boy desperately needs fathering more often than one day out of seven.

The moral of the story is that my five “sons” represent the millions of boys—and girls—across the nation whose childhoods are unfolding inside schools and daycare centers that fail to pay attention to the emotional reality of disintegrated families and absent parents, and to a child’s need to be touched and loved, and admired and appreciated.

Our conventional model of education virtually ignores the inner lives of children. Its primary preoccupation is with training the mind, and if the brain is too slow to respond, then it is the child that is deemed to have the attention deficit.

I beg to differ.

[click here to contact Chris]