I was a student teacher, awaiting the arrival of my college supervisor. My day was carefully planned, because my final grade depended on this evaluation. Even recess time included a group game, designed to show how well I could c ontrol this group of kindergarteners. The game was “Duck, Duck, Goose”, a modified game of tag. The “goose” is “it”, and all the children eagerly vied for this opportunity, stretching and waving their hands to get my attention.
As luck would have it, when my supervisor arrived, an especially anxious child was screeching, “Goose me, teacher, oh, please, goose me! I haven’t been goosed in over a week!” Rendered speechless, I lamely pointed to the child and continued on with the game.
I got an A in student teaching, and I always wondering if it was because of my special motivational techniques.
Friday, October 5, 2007
Shoes
When the doctor first said, “You’re going to be a mother!” he never warned me how many pairs of shoes I’d be purchasing in that child’s lifetime! No wonder they bronze baby shoes as a keepsake. Actually, they are worth their weight in gold!
Pediatricians vary in their opinions of when babies should begin wearing shoes. Some say high top baby shoes as soon as they make their first step; other say sneakers are just fine, and still others recommend bare feet as long as possible. Since I have three children, I tend to support the latter theory. Do you think six years old is too late for a first pair of shoes?!
At any rate, the main problem is that kids GROW! Although those sparkling white baby shoes are far frm worn out…there’s just no way those fat, dimpled feet are going to fit into the shoes any longer than two months after you bought them.
If you are blessed with girls, and I have two...you will need a variety of styles of shoes …sneakers for playing, dressy shoes for Sunday, and school shoes for school days. Those are just the basics. Then add flip flops, or sandals in the summertime, boots for colder weather, ballet shoes or tap shoes if they are so inclined…and if they are interested in sports, girls and boys need, indeed can’t live without, soccer shoes, high top leather basketball shoes, track shoes, etc., etc. All these dadd up to a pretty sizeable investment every year, and their darn feet are STILL growing!
While Mom and Dad muck around in their comfortable, ten year old loafters left over from college; or mow the lawn wearing sneakers tinged a putrid green from glass clippings…baby dumpling is strutting around in $25.00 specials, that will very likely need to be replaced in three months. Where is the justice?
The way I figure it, in raising my three children to age eighteen, we will have purchased at leat 432 pairs of shoes! (Give or take a few dozen) Maybe the Japanese were onto something when they practiced foot binding from a very early age!!!?
Pediatricians vary in their opinions of when babies should begin wearing shoes. Some say high top baby shoes as soon as they make their first step; other say sneakers are just fine, and still others recommend bare feet as long as possible. Since I have three children, I tend to support the latter theory. Do you think six years old is too late for a first pair of shoes?!
At any rate, the main problem is that kids GROW! Although those sparkling white baby shoes are far frm worn out…there’s just no way those fat, dimpled feet are going to fit into the shoes any longer than two months after you bought them.
If you are blessed with girls, and I have two...you will need a variety of styles of shoes …sneakers for playing, dressy shoes for Sunday, and school shoes for school days. Those are just the basics. Then add flip flops, or sandals in the summertime, boots for colder weather, ballet shoes or tap shoes if they are so inclined…and if they are interested in sports, girls and boys need, indeed can’t live without, soccer shoes, high top leather basketball shoes, track shoes, etc., etc. All these dadd up to a pretty sizeable investment every year, and their darn feet are STILL growing!
While Mom and Dad muck around in their comfortable, ten year old loafters left over from college; or mow the lawn wearing sneakers tinged a putrid green from glass clippings…baby dumpling is strutting around in $25.00 specials, that will very likely need to be replaced in three months. Where is the justice?
The way I figure it, in raising my three children to age eighteen, we will have purchased at leat 432 pairs of shoes! (Give or take a few dozen) Maybe the Japanese were onto something when they practiced foot binding from a very early age!!!?
Scientific Phenomenon
My son was in the first grade, so we wanted his first science project to be a simple one. We wanted him to learn something that he didn’t know before, and to get a feel for the scientific method His old sister had participated the year before, so he was more than willing to give it a go.
We checked out a pile of books and eventually settled upon an experiment with static electricity. The project required propping a plane of glass between two books and putting little bits of paper or cork underneath the glass. When you rubbed the glass with a silk cloth, the particles beneath the glass would jump around. My son, the scientist, was delighted to see this in action. We couldn’t wait until Daddy came home to show him. He practiced rubbing the glass all afternoon.
Dad came home from work and we prepared to see the scientific discovery of the century. With all the fervor of Alladin and his magic lamp, my son rubbed the pane of glass in front of him. NOTHING happened. My husband rubbed…I rubbed…NOTHING happened. We tried remnants of fabric: wool, flannel, and others. NOTHING happened. Apparently, the particles had been so charged up during the afternoon’s practice, the became over-charged! (Much like my credit cards!)
My husband doesn’t give up easily, though. He whipped out his handkerchief, and began to rub it on the glass. Lo and behold, the particles beneath the glass began moving! He beamed with pride, having saved the day for his song.
Conscientious Mother, declared a fresh, clean hanky would be sent in to school for the science fair presentation. Just for safety’s sake, we brought out several clean hankies to test their effectiveness. We repeated the rubbing process with each hanky. Not one of them worked! Only the dirty hanky from my husband’s pocket could coax the particles to dance under the glass. He howled with laughter over this scientific phenomenon.
Mother was reluctant to allow this particular revelation to be made public. She voted to scrap the whole project entirely. ALAS, yet another stroke of genius from father, was the suggestion that an ordinary balloon might be substituted for the cloth, and would produce the desired result. We inflated several balloons, rubbed them in our hair, and then pressed them to the glass. It worked every time, without fail.
My son, the scientist, won the blue ribbon for that project. The kids at school had a wonderful time rubbing the balloons in their hair and then watching the particles dance under the glass. (As a matter of fact, my son’s hair was sticking straight out for several days, in honor of this scientific process.)
Ah, the wonders of modern science….
We checked out a pile of books and eventually settled upon an experiment with static electricity. The project required propping a plane of glass between two books and putting little bits of paper or cork underneath the glass. When you rubbed the glass with a silk cloth, the particles beneath the glass would jump around. My son, the scientist, was delighted to see this in action. We couldn’t wait until Daddy came home to show him. He practiced rubbing the glass all afternoon.
Dad came home from work and we prepared to see the scientific discovery of the century. With all the fervor of Alladin and his magic lamp, my son rubbed the pane of glass in front of him. NOTHING happened. My husband rubbed…I rubbed…NOTHING happened. We tried remnants of fabric: wool, flannel, and others. NOTHING happened. Apparently, the particles had been so charged up during the afternoon’s practice, the became over-charged! (Much like my credit cards!)
My husband doesn’t give up easily, though. He whipped out his handkerchief, and began to rub it on the glass. Lo and behold, the particles beneath the glass began moving! He beamed with pride, having saved the day for his song.
Conscientious Mother, declared a fresh, clean hanky would be sent in to school for the science fair presentation. Just for safety’s sake, we brought out several clean hankies to test their effectiveness. We repeated the rubbing process with each hanky. Not one of them worked! Only the dirty hanky from my husband’s pocket could coax the particles to dance under the glass. He howled with laughter over this scientific phenomenon.
Mother was reluctant to allow this particular revelation to be made public. She voted to scrap the whole project entirely. ALAS, yet another stroke of genius from father, was the suggestion that an ordinary balloon might be substituted for the cloth, and would produce the desired result. We inflated several balloons, rubbed them in our hair, and then pressed them to the glass. It worked every time, without fail.
My son, the scientist, won the blue ribbon for that project. The kids at school had a wonderful time rubbing the balloons in their hair and then watching the particles dance under the glass. (As a matter of fact, my son’s hair was sticking straight out for several days, in honor of this scientific process.)
Ah, the wonders of modern science….
Best Laid Plans
Now let me tell you this first, I am an organized person…not a fanatic, or anything, but I do set reasonable goals for myself. I take pride in usually accomplishing what I’ve set out to do. One reasonable goal for this particular day, was to clean the bathrooms in my house…not a real thrilling job, mind you, but certainly not an insurmountable task, either!
I guess I should mention, too, that I have three children: ages 2, 6, and 8. They’re basically good kids, but this was a rainy day, the day after Easter, and a day off from school as well, so who knew what could happen?
I heard the crashing of glass, so I ran downstairs to see what was going on. My older daughter was in the dining room teetering precariously on a chair, trying to reach her Easter basket on top of the hutch. Little sister was “helping” and lost her balance. A glass terrarium was in her path downward. Fortunately, no one was cut. I quickly banished everyone from the immediate vicinity, and set about cleaning up the disaster. “I’ll get to the bathrooms, eventually,” I thought.
After that was squared away, I specifically told the two older children I’d be upstairs cleaning the bathrooms, which translates roughly to “behave yourselves and keep an eye on your little sister,” in my mind. An air of peacefulness settled upon the house, but any mother knows this is not normal, so, I went back downstairs to find my old daughter quietly reading a book, my son, playing amicably with a friend, and my youngest child no where in sight!
I inquired, “Where’s Jessica?” My son nonchalantly replied, “Oh, she’s outside.” Now, although it is supposedly springtime, it is far from warm, and , as I mentioned before, it’s raining buckets outside! I looked out, and sure enough, my two year old was planted smack dab in the middle of a puddle having the time of her life! I scooped her up, glaring at my son, expecting him to feel at least a little guilty. He shrugged and said, “She was having fun, Mom!”
After Jessica was dried off and changed into a fresh set of clothes, I thought I’d try one more time to scrub the bathrooms. “Maybe I need to modify my original plan,” I thought. “If I can just get the master bath done now, I’ll worry about the kids’ bathroom after they’ve had their baths this evening.”
Well, my day began to get better. I was elbow deep in scouring powder, and finally making some progress. Of course, whenever this happens, the phone rings. True to form, the phone did ring, and I grabbed a towel to dry my hands. It was a wrong number. Back to work, the phone rang again. This time the caller hung up as soon as I answered. What did I do to deserve this aggravation?!
If you can believe it, I eventually succeeded in cleaning ALL the bathrooms. A feeling of accomplishment engulfed me, until I heard the water running upstairs. “I wonder what they’re up to now,” I though, as I raced up the steps, two at a time. My daughter said, “Our paste was dried up, so I’m trying to make it wet again.” I sighed, as I saw the white splotches of creative genius all over my clean handiwork.
WHO NEEDS CLEAN BATHROOMS, ANYWAY?
I guess I should mention, too, that I have three children: ages 2, 6, and 8. They’re basically good kids, but this was a rainy day, the day after Easter, and a day off from school as well, so who knew what could happen?
I heard the crashing of glass, so I ran downstairs to see what was going on. My older daughter was in the dining room teetering precariously on a chair, trying to reach her Easter basket on top of the hutch. Little sister was “helping” and lost her balance. A glass terrarium was in her path downward. Fortunately, no one was cut. I quickly banished everyone from the immediate vicinity, and set about cleaning up the disaster. “I’ll get to the bathrooms, eventually,” I thought.
After that was squared away, I specifically told the two older children I’d be upstairs cleaning the bathrooms, which translates roughly to “behave yourselves and keep an eye on your little sister,” in my mind. An air of peacefulness settled upon the house, but any mother knows this is not normal, so, I went back downstairs to find my old daughter quietly reading a book, my son, playing amicably with a friend, and my youngest child no where in sight!
I inquired, “Where’s Jessica?” My son nonchalantly replied, “Oh, she’s outside.” Now, although it is supposedly springtime, it is far from warm, and , as I mentioned before, it’s raining buckets outside! I looked out, and sure enough, my two year old was planted smack dab in the middle of a puddle having the time of her life! I scooped her up, glaring at my son, expecting him to feel at least a little guilty. He shrugged and said, “She was having fun, Mom!”
After Jessica was dried off and changed into a fresh set of clothes, I thought I’d try one more time to scrub the bathrooms. “Maybe I need to modify my original plan,” I thought. “If I can just get the master bath done now, I’ll worry about the kids’ bathroom after they’ve had their baths this evening.”
Well, my day began to get better. I was elbow deep in scouring powder, and finally making some progress. Of course, whenever this happens, the phone rings. True to form, the phone did ring, and I grabbed a towel to dry my hands. It was a wrong number. Back to work, the phone rang again. This time the caller hung up as soon as I answered. What did I do to deserve this aggravation?!
If you can believe it, I eventually succeeded in cleaning ALL the bathrooms. A feeling of accomplishment engulfed me, until I heard the water running upstairs. “I wonder what they’re up to now,” I though, as I raced up the steps, two at a time. My daughter said, “Our paste was dried up, so I’m trying to make it wet again.” I sighed, as I saw the white splotches of creative genius all over my clean handiwork.
WHO NEEDS CLEAN BATHROOMS, ANYWAY?
The Disappearing Act
The house was so peaceful and still. Jessica was an infant, and I had just finished her 2AM feeding. She drifted gently back to sleep, as I tucked her back into her crib.
Since I was up, anyway, I instinctively checked my two other children. Four year old, Kevin, was snoring blissfully in his trundle bed. I looked into Jeannine’s room, and was startled to find she was not there!
I checked the bathroom, but she was not there, either. Thinking maybe she had crawled into bed with my husband, in my absence, I checked there next. Finding only my husband in our bed, I began to get a little panicky. I raced downstairs and searched the basement, the family room, the living room and every other nook and cranny I could imagine a six year old might snuggle into. The front door was still double bolted, so I was relieved to think she was not out wandering the neighborhood. I re-traced my steps, and yet, I still could not find her!
Reluctantly, but frantically, I awakened my husband. He couldn’t imagine where she might be, but he joined me in my search.
When Jeannine was two, she sometimes curled up in her closet to sleep. We checked every closet in the entire house, and still we did not fid her. Could she have gone into the baby’s room without my noticing? No, again. Where could she be?
We gently shook our son, Kevin. He’s nearly impossible to wake up. Bewildered by our concern for Jeannine’s whereabouts, he had no idea where she was, either.
Softly, I heard the sound of breathing. I looked under Kevin’s bed, but Jeannine was not there. My husband began to laugh. Wedged in between my son’s trundle beds slept Jeannine, oblivious to the commotion surrounding her disappearance. How or when or why she got there is a mystery, but my heart was pounding with relief, as we returned her to her own bed.
All was well. The house was peaceful again. I was WIDE-EYED! Where does it tell you in the parenting books that you will not have an uninterrupted night of sleep for 20 years?! How did Rip Van Winkle get so lucky?
Since I was up, anyway, I instinctively checked my two other children. Four year old, Kevin, was snoring blissfully in his trundle bed. I looked into Jeannine’s room, and was startled to find she was not there!
I checked the bathroom, but she was not there, either. Thinking maybe she had crawled into bed with my husband, in my absence, I checked there next. Finding only my husband in our bed, I began to get a little panicky. I raced downstairs and searched the basement, the family room, the living room and every other nook and cranny I could imagine a six year old might snuggle into. The front door was still double bolted, so I was relieved to think she was not out wandering the neighborhood. I re-traced my steps, and yet, I still could not find her!
Reluctantly, but frantically, I awakened my husband. He couldn’t imagine where she might be, but he joined me in my search.
When Jeannine was two, she sometimes curled up in her closet to sleep. We checked every closet in the entire house, and still we did not fid her. Could she have gone into the baby’s room without my noticing? No, again. Where could she be?
We gently shook our son, Kevin. He’s nearly impossible to wake up. Bewildered by our concern for Jeannine’s whereabouts, he had no idea where she was, either.
Softly, I heard the sound of breathing. I looked under Kevin’s bed, but Jeannine was not there. My husband began to laugh. Wedged in between my son’s trundle beds slept Jeannine, oblivious to the commotion surrounding her disappearance. How or when or why she got there is a mystery, but my heart was pounding with relief, as we returned her to her own bed.
All was well. The house was peaceful again. I was WIDE-EYED! Where does it tell you in the parenting books that you will not have an uninterrupted night of sleep for 20 years?! How did Rip Van Winkle get so lucky?
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