Our children were sad going to bed last night and sad getting up this morning. I know this because they told me so, using the blunt English that fifth graders wield like a sword. I can hardly blame them, though, because today is the first day back to school after Spring Break. I asked them if sad was really the right word. Wasn’t disappointed a better choice? Or frustrated?
“Sad is the right word, Mom,” my daughter reiterated.
To try to cheer them up, my husband and I used all our reliable tools—hot breakfast, upbeat music, Dad’s morning humor, and the reminder of Grandpa’s impending arrival today and tonight’s spaghetti dinner with their cousins. But we couldn’t get a smile out of the girls.
When I dropped them at school, it was snowing.
Snow has lost its luster. Hot cocoa has lost its luster.
School has definitely lost its luster.
Showing posts with label school life. Show all posts
Showing posts with label school life. Show all posts
Monday, April 9, 2007
Tuesday, April 3, 2007
Spring Break at Home
It's Spring Break at last, and our family isn’t traveling this time around. Instead, we’re hanging out in Chicago, hosting Easter dinner on Sunday, and then heading back to work and school on Monday.
It’s kind of nice sleeping in, eating out, reading, playing a long game of Monopoly. (And I still have all week to buy new gym shoes for my daughters!) Nevertheless, I do have to parcel out my requests for help from the girls, because they are in full vacation mode. So I just now asked them to clean out their backpacks and bring me their lunchboxes to fumigate. One child came to me with her lunchbox, and nothing else.
“No important papers?” I asked.
“Nope!” she said, hurrying back to what she was doing.
Hmm. . . .
My other daughter handed me the lunchbox and a two-inch-high pile of graded papers going back to early January. Homework assignments, tests, essays. It took me 15 minutes to unfold, de-wrinkle, and stack them right side up before I could even look at them closely. Also buried in the pile— four “Notices of Strep Throat”.
Is it any wonder parents rarely know what’s going on at school?
It’s kind of nice sleeping in, eating out, reading, playing a long game of Monopoly. (And I still have all week to buy new gym shoes for my daughters!) Nevertheless, I do have to parcel out my requests for help from the girls, because they are in full vacation mode. So I just now asked them to clean out their backpacks and bring me their lunchboxes to fumigate. One child came to me with her lunchbox, and nothing else.
“No important papers?” I asked.
“Nope!” she said, hurrying back to what she was doing.
Hmm. . . .
My other daughter handed me the lunchbox and a two-inch-high pile of graded papers going back to early January. Homework assignments, tests, essays. It took me 15 minutes to unfold, de-wrinkle, and stack them right side up before I could even look at them closely. Also buried in the pile— four “Notices of Strep Throat”.
Is it any wonder parents rarely know what’s going on at school?
Thursday, March 1, 2007
Oh, to be a teenager. . .
Last Friday, our family attended and volunteered at a fundraiser for my daughter’s school. Conceived to raise money to pay for an art teacher, the school’s first Fine Arts Festival was a hit. It was well attended by parents wanting to see their children perform as well as students wanting to see their friends perform. I worked the front line selling tickets.
This is not something I normally do. (Usually I like to chat with people, and there’s no time for chatting when people are trying to get a good seat in a school auditorium.)
But eventually the line slowed down. My volunteer buddy left to see her son perform, and I sat there in the vicinity of a huddle of teenage girls. My attention was drawn to them because there wasn’t really anything else going on.
It was slightly awkward, but I continued organizing the moneybox as discreetly as I could, trying to blend into the background while the teenagers did their thing. Which included using the F-word.
I looked over at them, and they looked over at me, guiltily. I remembered myself as a teenage girl—stretching the boundaries and all that—and chose not to come down too hard on them.
“I know. I was a kid once,” I said to them.
They looked at me, and then moved away. As they walked up the stairs, one of them muttered under her breath, “You were never a kid.”
Ouch. That was worse than the swearing.
This is not something I normally do. (Usually I like to chat with people, and there’s no time for chatting when people are trying to get a good seat in a school auditorium.)
But eventually the line slowed down. My volunteer buddy left to see her son perform, and I sat there in the vicinity of a huddle of teenage girls. My attention was drawn to them because there wasn’t really anything else going on.
It was slightly awkward, but I continued organizing the moneybox as discreetly as I could, trying to blend into the background while the teenagers did their thing. Which included using the F-word.
I looked over at them, and they looked over at me, guiltily. I remembered myself as a teenage girl—stretching the boundaries and all that—and chose not to come down too hard on them.
“I know. I was a kid once,” I said to them.
They looked at me, and then moved away. As they walked up the stairs, one of them muttered under her breath, “You were never a kid.”
Ouch. That was worse than the swearing.
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