Even though actual classes don’t start for us until tomorrow, you can feel the cloud over this house today.
I don’t mind that my son doesn’t love school; I didn’t exactly love it myself at his age. Heck, for that matter I don’t exactly love it now, and I have direct experience to support my belief in the value of a good education!
Well . . . we made it. There was never any real doubt that we would, but it’s been a long year, and yesterday I was feeling every last second of it.
Still . . . any year you can walk away from is a good one, and all that.
School’s out for summer.
Today begins the second half of my son’s school year. Today’s lesson: Time spent figuring a problem out gives full credit, time spent fussing about the problem gives none.
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of school, I will fear no fussing . . .
The school year is coming to an end soon, and I think my son is going to miss his virtual school teacher, but he doesn’t want to admit it.
I came to this conclusion after leaving class briefly to get myself a glass of water, only to come back to hear his teacher saying, “Oh, L., I’m going to miss you guys too!”
Suspicious at the timing (He’d type his every thought into the chat box if I let him, so I usually ask him what he’s typing as soon as I hear the first keystrokes, and this wouldn’t be the first time he’d taken advantage of any lapse of my attention), I looked over his shoulder to see what he had typed in my brief absence:
“My dad is really going to miss you!”
Overheard in my son’s class today:
“Which word best completes this sentence? Let’s all play? Let’s please play? Or let’s for play?”
Doing homework is like paying bills . . . just without the money.
– My son L., six-years old at the time
Today my son was asked if he could explain something in his class. His explanation was so . . . thorough that not only did he cover all the bases, he scored a basket and a touchdown while he was at it.
Today in my son’s class they were talking about the “sh” sound in words in honor of George WaSHington, and if your first thought of an “sh” word was a less polite example, well . . . as much as I’d like to harass you about that, I don’t really have the right since that’s usually how my mind works too.
But in this particular case, my first thought was “warsh,” as in “It’s time to warsh the dishes.”
You see when I was about my son’s age, I was adamant that “wash” was spelled with an “r,” and nothing my teachers said would budge me on this. As I recall the way it was told to me, eventually they called my mother and asked her where I might have gotten this idea from.
Suffice it to say that from that day forward Mom always made a special point to say that she was going wash things around the house even though prior to that she had “warshed” things her entire life.
