Lincoln is DEAD!

I’m sorry to be the one to have to tell you, but he is.

So, it was the first day of class, and one of my three year-old students whom I hadn’t met until just that day (and who had not yet spoken to me) came up to me, looked up at me in horror, and said,

“Lincoln is DEAD!” (dramatic pause)

“He was one of our residents! (dramatic pause)

“They shot him right in the brains!”

Shocking news, indeed. The other children watched my face carefully, waiting for my response. Should they be concerned about this apparently recent and tragic development? How would this affect them?

“Oh yes,” I replied. “President Lincoln lived a long time ago, and it is very sad that he died,” I responded, dodging the topic of murder.

I spoke to his mother at the end of class; she gasped and held her hand to her mouth.

“I know,” she said. “We went on a tour in Washington D.C., and his older brother was talking about it the whole way home. I didn't think that he was listening so closely. I’m afraid that he got a bit too much information.”

Ah, the educational vacation…an oxy-moron in the minds of some, and an adventure for others. I don’t think that I was ever traumatized on any such outing, unless you count spending hours watching Holly Hobby-ish ladies dipping candles and mending lace on a lovely summer day that would’ve been perfect for swimming.

Liar, Liar, Pants on Fire

I’ve often wondered what goes through a young child’s mind when he is too young to express himself verbally, yet can understand and process a lot of information. Sometimes the memories compiled in the non-verbal years have ways of coming to the surface while the child is still young, but not old enough to have forgotten some of those experiences.

For example, when conducting a “firefighter” theme camp this past summer, we discussed fire safety, and the responsibilities of a firefighter (see my entry, “Fire-farter Frank”). During the course of our discussion, a three year-old boy said,

“When I was a baby, my bum was on fire…but the firetruck didn’t come. My Mommy fixed it.”

There was a general look of shock among the other children in the circle. There was no laughter. This was serious news. Who knew that your bum could catch on fire? Sheesh. One more thing to worry about in the world. Was it some sort of accident, or was it a spontaneous combustion thing?

Anyway, the likely cause of his flaming bum was diaper rash. Not being in a position to view the actual flames, or to articulate his fears, his five-alarm diaper rash got filed away in his memory, and the topic of firefighters brought it back to light. And we wonder why we as adults develop weird phobias and O.C.D. Who knows what we experienced back in the early years that got filed into the way-wrong folder? Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go throw away some fruit before it starts flying around.

EEE-ee, EEE-ee

...is the sound of the crickets hanging out in my blog.
@@@@@@@ tumbleweeds
********* spiderwebs

Looking for more stories? E-mail me at: kneebitersblog-email@yahoo.com

Fair Weather Friends

When preschoolers start criticizing your clothes, it’s time to go shopping.

One particularly freezing day (the kind where the insides of your nose stick together when you sniffle) I was dressed in my warmest wool pullover.

During snack time, one of the little boys in my preschool program said,

“Miss Angela, why are you wearing that shirt? That doesn’t look like you. Take that off. What do you have on under there?” (my t-shirt collar was visible at the neckline).

“Yeah. You look like a heater,” added another little boy.

(A heater?!?)

“A heater? What do you mean?”

“You’re all heated up,” he replied, munching on his granola bar.

Hmmm. A heater. A lot of critical comments have gone through my head while viewing myself in the mirror, but “you look like a heater” was never one of them.

“How was your day?” my husband asked later that evening.

“Well, somebody told me that I looked hot,” I yelled down the hall, grabbing my flannel p.j.s.

Magic Markers

My niece, Maggie, is an excellent artist. (In case any of my family members are reading this, I should say that they are ALL talented, wonderful people!)

One day, when Maggie was about four years old, she showed me one of her latest creations. I said,

"Wow, that's so colorful. Did you use magic markers to make your picture?"

She replied matter-of-factly,

"No. Just regular markers," and walked away.

So here goes this little girl, into the other room, into the world, accepting the existence of "magic" markers.

I always wondered if she walked away thinking about magic markers. Maybe she thought they worked like Harold's Purple Crayon. Or, perhaps she thought that magic markers created pictures without the guidance of the human hand.

In reality, she probably didn't give it much thought. In a world of fairies that pay for teeth, giant rabbits that hide colored eggs, and a man who sneaks presents to all of the children in the world, magic markers are small potatoes. The real magic is in the mind of a child.

Be Like Fosil!

So, I try my best to promote equality in my programs. Girls can be race car drivers, boys can be ballet dancers, and so on. I challenge my students' pre-conceived notions (which, sadly, already exist) of gender stereotypes.

For example, during a "construction" theme program, I shocked boys and girls alike by drilling a hole, and then attaching a piece of wood with a screw. I also told my students about how I built a doghouse when I was a little girl. (I left out the part about how my dog refused to go inside, probably because she recognized that the unstable dwelling was not up to code).

However, there have been times when I have not set the best example. During a "dinosaur" themed camp, I presented our pint-sized paleontologists with several boxes, each of which included the necessary bones to reconstruct a particular type of dinosaur.

"Be Like Fosil!" the box exclaimed. "Make Like Dinosaur!"

I don't think that I need to tell you that the cryptic "directions" were of no help whatsoever. I had imagined that each box would contain maybe four bones that would snap together. When the children poured out the contents of their boxes, we all stared in dismay at the great multitude of tiny bones scattered in front of us.

Shortly thereafter, my assistant and I were dashing from child to child responding to, "I need help!" and "I can't do this!"

My assistant and I looked at each other and shrugged. Sadly, we also needed help. My face got hot. I couldn't let the children see that I was incapable of putting these crappy little models together! I scoured the directions in an attempt to translate the jumble of words into meaningful sentences. No such luck.

Finally, one of the children said,

"Maybe you should get a boy."

I was defeated. He was right. I called my husband, and he had our little museum set up in no time.

In hindsight I, of course, should have reviewed the materials prior to presenting them. However, sometimes I get so buried (no pun intended) that I have to cut corners somewhere.

Think Fast

My hearing is not so great. I am not ready to resort to a hearing aid, but those old-fashioned cone-in-the-ear things look kind of appealing.

In spite of my condition, I have a superhuman ability to tune into any suspicious whispering. For example, one day I overheard a four-year-old girl saying to a classmate,

"You're fat."

I walked over to the child and said,

"What did you say?"

She immediately responded,

"I meant to say she smelled just like a flower."

Ah! I see. Well now, that would've been a nice thing to say. It's too bad it came out as "you're fat."

I had to give her points for her quick thinking. It was a bit frightening just how quick her thinking was though. Of course we had the discussion about feelings, kindness, being a good friend, and so on.

I'd like to write more on this topic, but I should really go take a shower. This perfume makes me feel so fat...