Three months' work as an English teacher at a local kindergarten has offered me countless fascinating insights into the daily operations of a school, unfettered interaction with hundreds of Japanese youths (well, ages three to six), and only a few physical injuries to speak of: a bruised windpipe here, a poke in the eye there. It's all part of the job of coordinating the English "studies" of close to 300 kindergarteners across two schools several miles apart. It's the best job I've ever had.

I work at two private schools owned by the same company, Yamamoto Gakuen. The main school, Taketa Kindergarten, is only a ten minute walk from home, which I suspect will come in handy now that I can't bike thanks to today's blizzard. I was worried I wouldn't get hired back in September, seeing as how my fields of study in college and close to zero Japanese speaking ability did not exactly translate to a teaching position in my mind. But now I understand better: the kids' Japanese abilities about match mine, so although I can't ask a store clerk a simple question, I can hold entire conversations with the kindergarten students about such crucial matters as apples, snow, and zoo animals.

Especially fascinating was the Christmas pageant, complete with candle ceremony, an elaborately staged play, and a visit from Santa himself—but not until the kids had "defeated" a mysterious shadow demon (a 15-foot shadow on stage, thanks to a clever system of white curtains and rear spotlights) who showed up just when the kids were expecting Jolly St. Nick instead. The monster quizzed the students and presented them with challenges—in turn they would clap, cheer, stomp or sing to show their solidarity and enthusiasm. The demon at last yielded the stage, by which time the kids were in a frenzy with expectation. Loud Christmas carols filled the auditorium as Santa and a reindeer finally sauntered in, and the kids understandably went ape.

Earlier in the festivities, a mysterious figure garbed in white slinked up to stage, blessing students along the way with the holy cross. In broken Japanese, this priest accepted the microphone and explained the Christian origins of the Christmas holiday. Amazingly, some of the kids actually saw through my clever disguise: "Ku-ri-su sensei!" they exclaimed in wonder. But they had the good sense to not rush the stage and climb all over me, which is standard Ku-ri-su sensei operating procedure when I'm wandering about in the school hallways.

Unlike most of Angie's high school students in her English classes, my kindergarteners are definitely not shy. They ask me all sorts of questions ("How do you say 'cookie' in English?" "Is America far?" "Why are you so tall?" "Do you like my origami swan?"). Occasionally, two students will hold my hands and drag me off to their own classroom, where they show me off like a trophy to their teacher and classmates ("Look what we got!"). They are especially impressed with my jump rope skills, my running speed, and the window-shattering, skull-piercing volume of my two-fingered whistle.

And yes, they do climb on me like I'm a big tree. To trigger this, all I have to do is start jogging and looking back frightfully over my shoulder: all children in the vicinity immediately start shrieking and give chase. When I stop, they all pile on top of me. Over time, I have deduced that on average it takes ten of them to topple me over to the ground, Jack-and-the-Beanstalk style.

I'm not sure how much English they'll retain from my lessons—mostly songs, games, and dances—but I hope they'll wind up feeling more comfortable around foreigners, and maybe take happy memories with them into their later years of school and life.