“Is this egg cooked?”
My son stood in front of the open refrigerator, holding an egg he found there that was out of the carton.
“I don’t know. Check it,” I said, confident in the fact that he knew how to check to see if an egg is boiled or raw. I knew he knew because I taught him when he was a child, just like my dad taught me.
“OK.”
And he let go.
That wasn’t what I taught him.
“Oh!” he shouted as it splattered on the kitchen floor. He must have thought it incredibly funny, for he continued to cough back laughter as he cleaned up the egg.
Somehow I just didn’t see it quite like he did.
Since that morning, I’ve thought a lot about the egg incident. What did it hurt? Not a thing. What did it cost? Between 15 and 20 cents, depending on what I paid for that carton of eggs. What did it do? It created a moment of fun that my son will remember forever.
Just a silly, impulsive act that brought laughter to the morning.
I’m so glad I didn’t make an issue out of it. I’m so glad I laughed later with him about it. And I’m so glad he knows better than to pull a stunt like that again …
Summer is almost over. Laugh with your kids while you can.
And if you want to know how to tell if an egg is boiled or raw, drop me a line.
P.S. Today is my son’s birthday. If you know him, wish him a happy one.
www.davalynnspencer.com
Sunday, July 26, 2009
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
A favorite quote
I will not be posting this week due to a family member's upcoming surgery. But as a thank-you for stopping by my blog, I'd like to offer you one of my favorite quotes:
"Nothing you do for the children is ever wasted. They seem not to notice us, hovering, averting our eyes, and they seldom offer thanks, but what we do for them is never wasted."
Garrison Keillor
I couldn't agree more.
"Nothing you do for the children is ever wasted. They seem not to notice us, hovering, averting our eyes, and they seldom offer thanks, but what we do for them is never wasted."
Garrison Keillor
I couldn't agree more.
Thursday, July 2, 2009
If only for a moment
One of the great things about kids is their surprise factor: You never know what they’re going to say next. Like Mrs. Potamia. You know Mrs. Potamia, that woman in Iraq who lived between the Tigris and Euphrates rivers. She was one of the ancient aunt-sisters, according to some of my sixth-grade history students, a distant relative of the famous Egyptian lady, Rosetta Stone.
Maybe it’s a language barrier that sends youngsters into rhetorical contortions, or maybe it’s just a delightful little bonus for grownups who need a splash of humor in their lives.
Or maybe I just need to be reminded that I don’t have all the answers.
“If people didn’t exist, where would chickens live?”
I didn’t see that one coming, but the look on the boy’s face said he wasn’t kidding.
“I don’t know,” I offered. “The kitchen?”
Many of the students who pass through my classroom move out of my life altogether as their families follow the ebb and flow of a harvest tide. Parents find jobs elsewhere. Texas and Mexico really aren’t so far away, and so babies are bundled and furniture stored and friendships torn apart. It happens.
“Mrs. Spencer,” I heard one morning, “we’re moving.”
The boy’s dark eyes met mine, void of the usual excitement and anticipation. They merely confirmed an unavoidable fact. And in their old-too-soon gaze I read, “I don’t want to go.”
“Did your father get a new job?” I asked, ignorantly assuming the reason behind the departure of one of my brightest students.
“No.” He glanced away, quickly noting other students nearby. “I’ll tell you later.”
Again I jumped at a possible motive. Perhaps it was an immigration issue.
Later, as promised, I learned the reason. Through the painfully pure sentence structure of one too young to cloak his feelings, I learned.
“My dad left me.”
Not many statements have caught me by greater surprise. In four simple words, this young man revealed all the pain of a broken home, the self-imposed guilt of the guiltless, the bottom line loss of one left behind.
I will never know if he confused his pronouns and really meant to say, “My dad left us,” but somehow I doubt it. I think his heart spoke the words before his mind could interfere.
Teaching is often like parenting and grand-parenting: You want to protect those who suffer from that which causes them pain. If only you could.
If only I could capture the joy of innocent, misspoken discovery and save it for later. If only I could answer the unanswerable questions and dry the eyes that watch a hometown slip past the back window of a car.
If only I could assure them, that in spite of the surprises and the questions and the pain and the struggles, they will make it, the journey is worth it, and I was blessed to have them in my life.
If only for a moment.
Maybe it’s a language barrier that sends youngsters into rhetorical contortions, or maybe it’s just a delightful little bonus for grownups who need a splash of humor in their lives.
Or maybe I just need to be reminded that I don’t have all the answers.
“If people didn’t exist, where would chickens live?”
I didn’t see that one coming, but the look on the boy’s face said he wasn’t kidding.
“I don’t know,” I offered. “The kitchen?”
Many of the students who pass through my classroom move out of my life altogether as their families follow the ebb and flow of a harvest tide. Parents find jobs elsewhere. Texas and Mexico really aren’t so far away, and so babies are bundled and furniture stored and friendships torn apart. It happens.
“Mrs. Spencer,” I heard one morning, “we’re moving.”
The boy’s dark eyes met mine, void of the usual excitement and anticipation. They merely confirmed an unavoidable fact. And in their old-too-soon gaze I read, “I don’t want to go.”
“Did your father get a new job?” I asked, ignorantly assuming the reason behind the departure of one of my brightest students.
“No.” He glanced away, quickly noting other students nearby. “I’ll tell you later.”
Again I jumped at a possible motive. Perhaps it was an immigration issue.
Later, as promised, I learned the reason. Through the painfully pure sentence structure of one too young to cloak his feelings, I learned.
“My dad left me.”
Not many statements have caught me by greater surprise. In four simple words, this young man revealed all the pain of a broken home, the self-imposed guilt of the guiltless, the bottom line loss of one left behind.
I will never know if he confused his pronouns and really meant to say, “My dad left us,” but somehow I doubt it. I think his heart spoke the words before his mind could interfere.
Teaching is often like parenting and grand-parenting: You want to protect those who suffer from that which causes them pain. If only you could.
If only I could capture the joy of innocent, misspoken discovery and save it for later. If only I could answer the unanswerable questions and dry the eyes that watch a hometown slip past the back window of a car.
If only I could assure them, that in spite of the surprises and the questions and the pain and the struggles, they will make it, the journey is worth it, and I was blessed to have them in my life.
If only for a moment.
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