Surprises in a Treasure Chest

caption lost in publishing.  Pinterest site.

This is the second day of school for Bright Eyes.  Already, she and her little clutch of friends are striving for good behavior, and most importantly, “table points”.

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Unless you are familiar with the discipline plans and rewards used in an elementary classroom, that means nothing to you. 

 “Table Points” are the points a cluster of six students called a ‘table group’ can earn by sitting up straight, paying attention, folding hands in front of them, and/or remaining silent when the world around them is wreaking wild havoc.

The table group who garners the most points throughout the whole week gets to choose prizes from the Treasure Chest.  

Lots of purchased stuff, not donated

“Oh. My. Goodness.  This is so big, like, you know, Grandma!  And, we were the first table group for the school year, too.”  Bright Eyes now sounds like every teeny girl in Disney™ television shows.  

It makes me sad, and a little cranky to be honest. Her young moral compass will be led by a Treasure Chest. When my daughter quietly informed me of this special day, it was impossible to squelch my reaction.

So, Bright Eyes hopped into the van, clutching her prize from the Treasure Chest.  It was a small zippered bag, like a girl would carry in her purse for lipstick and such. She had so much to tell about her day, and she had to buckle in before she could examine her treasured prize.

There was silence from Bright Eyes as my daughter drove, letting Sunshine fill in the news of her day.  Then, “Mommy, what is this?”

From the treasured prize, Bright Eyes pulled out three Tampons™, and held them up for her mother to view in the rear view mirror. She was told that they would talk about those things at home.  

But that was never enough for Bright Eyes, oh no. She knew a brush-off when she heard it. Bright Eyes tore them open, and speculated about their uses.  Not a flashlight…oh, look, here’s string…she swung the tampons around on their strings…No, this isn’t a telescope. Here, Sunshine!  You can play with this one…”

Both competed with fighting tampons, swinging in a white whirl.

This looks like a good book.

When they all arrived home and the front door closed, my daughter (God bless her.) gave Bright Eyes an abbreviated explanation; she took the Tampons away.  Then she called the teacher, who listened in silence.  The Teacher said, “Oh, dear.  I’d better called Bright Eyes’ best friend.  She picked the same thing.” 

Ahhh.  The joys of teaching. Joys of learning.

And joys of being a grandmother.

This is a re-post from August 17, 2011.

We are visiting family (two grandsons) in Switzerland, and blogging is highly unlikely.  

Random Acts of Kindness: Anniversaries of Tragedy

Random Acts of Kindness Blog Fest May 27-31

Anniversaries of personal tragedy are the hardest days for me.  The first year anniversary or the fifteenth year—time does not change the depth of grieving for the death of someone beloved.

 

Bill when he was in high school with his horse, Sonny

December 12, 1999 was the day my youngest brother Bill died, at age 44.  It was 11:30 at night, Sunday night.  His fiancée had phoned from Louisiana that afternoon at 2 PM to tell me that Bill was very ill and would be going into surgery to correct problems from surgery done earlier that week. 

Very ill.  May not make it.  Doctor says….

The rest of the day was spent in pacing around the house, calling the nurses’ station, pacing some more.  Until 11:30 that night.

On December 12, 2009, I sat, watching my granddaughters playing.  The oldest, five year-old Bright Eyes noticed how quiet I was and how sad my face seemed.  She climbed up on my lap and asked in her little sweet voice if I was sick. 

I told her about my brother and how he had “gone to heaven” ten years ago.  Bright Eyes listened solemnly and nodded.  She knew about heaven since their dog Shelby had recently gone there, too.

“Well then, Grandma.  I’ll hold you 'til you feel better.”  Then she settled into my arms, laid her head upon my shoulder, and soaked love into my very being. 

I have never been given such a kind gift like this before, or since.

Source: xymonau

I've Been Robbed!

Erin in one of her creations. All her costumes are accurate to the time period.  The skirt alone weighed nearly ten pounds!

Recently, my daughter Erin and family attended the Renaissance Faire near Pasadena, California.  In years past, Erin had been an active member of the Guild which provided an Elizabethan presence, complete with all degrees of nobility.  Normally, Erin and Brian would have been clothed in expensive and accurate costumes she has created over the years.

  

Sunshine's first Faire in her mother's arms

The problems were that Bright Eyes and Sunshine have outgrown their old costumes.

 

Erin, Sunshine, Brian, and Bright Eyes

They went to the Faire as tourists, in shorts and sandals and lathered in sunscreen.  The girls wore tattered fairy wings left over from Halloween, and they had a grand time, the best Erin could remember.  

Freedom from the heavy costumes and the burden of being in character allowed them to explore, experience, run, and play.  

Freedom—aaahhhh.

At the end of the day, they arrived home drenched in sweat and caked in dust-turned-mud.  Erin took the girls in through the garage, stripped them down, and threw the damp clothes straight into the washer.

Bright Eyes is a modest 8 ½ year-old.  She wrapped a large shirt around herself, and ran up to the bath tub. 

But Sunshine, oh 7 year-old Sunshine.  She was born nude and would live her entire life as a nudist, if given the chance.  She stripped down and streaked through the house.  She ran into Daddy at the foot of the stairs, only then realizing that she was naked.

Sunshine smiled big, threw her arms open wide, and exclaimed, “I’ve been robbed!”  Giggling, she raced up the stairs to join her sister in the tub.

Robbed, in deed.

Freedom: aaahhhhhh!

Brussel Sprouts Re-Defined

source

Children are brilliant in so many ways.  They literally burst into this world with all the right parts.  Then these little creatures manage to survive inept parents, grow, and start talking.

But one of the best ways in which they are brilliant is that they lack the EDIT button in their brains.  What they think is what they say.  Like it or not, the words come out of their mouths in honest certainty and sincerity.

I have written about my grandchild, Sunshine, many times before.  She is a delight and a frustration.  She looks at the world and picks up on clues that would escape most children.  At almost seven years old, Sunshine is a powerhouse.

per Wikipedia

Sunshine watched “Jumanji” recently with her mama and sister, Bright Eyes.  Early on in the movie, Alan (Robin Williams) and Sarah (Bonnie Hunter) were playing the game of Jumanji.  Alan was pulled into the game, disappearing for 26 years. 

At this very point, Sunshine started weeping uncontrollably.  She said that Alan would never see his mommy and daddy again, and they would miss him.  They would look and look for him, but never find him.  Then Alan would be somewhere without them, and all alone.  Then they would die….  She followed the train of events without seeing the movie. 

 When my daughter calmed her down, the movie started resolving all those issues.

Bright Eyes told Sunshine, “Hey, this is just a movie.  Get over it.”

Yesterday, my daughter served brussel sprouts in lemon and butter sauce.  Sunshine’s response?  “I’ve never tasted poop before, but it might taste like that.”

No edit button in her head, is there?

Home Schooling

Bear, Doll, Butterfly, and Penguin sat in a line before a chalkboard.  A book lay in each lap.  “What is Bright Eyes up to this time?” they whispered to each other.

The red ribbon around Bear’s neck slipped off.  “Thanks be to God!” he said.  Bear had always hated red.

Who Blinks First...

He who blinks first, loses.

This is what I learned as a child when facing down a brother or another aggressive boy on the playground. Hold your ground. Invade personal space. Close in for the kill. AND never blink first. 

This is important:  He who blinks first, loses.

courtesy of Bing.com

The skills honed in the fires of sibling conflict and playground battles have carried me through many rough situations. Okay—not necessarily rough, but definitely confrontational. 

As a young mother, I learned the importance of holding my position on naps (everyone takes one in the afternoon, including me) until my oldest child was almost 9 years old.  Having three stair-step children, I bent over and drew my eyes level with theirs.

 “You will take a nap today. A good long nap.” They blinked. I didn’t. The nap wars fought and won, because I didn’t blink first.

When teaching, the teacher must hold the line on so many discipline issues:  raising the hands to speak, asking permission, respecting another student’s right to exist, etc. Staring down thirty + children requires practice and experience. It must be done with firmness and, most of all, with kindness.

Do you understand???

There was always one student who challenged the blink contest “You will not steal anyone's pencils. Do you understand, mister?”  Blink, blink, “Yes’m.”

That was when all the skills in the first paragraph had to go into the game. The teacher has to win this—the rest of the class has to know that the standards of behavior are listed on the wall for a reason.

Yes'm.

When not playing poker for big bucks, or trying to convince a three-year old that he will stay out of the flour canister, blinking is fine. Blink away to your heart’s content. 

In your face.

But, when one absolutely must win a situation, keep those eyes open, piercing into the other eyes with deadly aim, and impose your will.  Good luck, soldier.

It's Gonna Happen!

“It’s gonna happen!”  Truer words have never been spoken, and certainly never by an 18 month old brilliant little girl. 

Bright Eyes started talking very early; in fact, she was barely ten months old when she turned to her parents and asked, “Where BAH go?”  BAH was her word for “pacifier” or “binky”.  They blinked a few times and told her that bah was by the TV.  She turned, saw it, and picked it up.

Since then, Bright Eyes has been a talking machine, able to hold her own with just about any adult. Her pediatrician says he’s never encountered such a verbally gifted child, I write with my ample chest inflated in humble pride.

It's gonna happen.

When Bright Eyes was 18 months old, her father was settled in the rocking chair, playing with my daughter's Game Boy ™  while watching Bright Eyes and the newborn Sunshine.  Bright Eyes looked up from putting all her stuffed animals down for naps, shook her head, and told him that “…Mama doesn’t like it when you play with her toys.  You’re gonna get in trouble.” 

Daddy was taken aback, and told her that Mama would not mind if he played with the Game Boy.  But Bright Eyes was not impressed.  She didn’t even look up at him.  “You’re gonna get in trouble,” and then she sighed.  “It’s gonna happen!”

Apparently, Bright Eyes had learned this lesson, and heard that phrase many times before.  She was simply sharing this bit of wisdom she had amassed in her one-and-a-half years of life.

One way, my way!

Now, whenever there is a possibility of negative outcome, that is our own catch phrase, “It’s gonna happen.”  When we need a good laugh after dropping a plate of spaghetti on the carpet, we say, “It’s gonna happen.”  When Sunshine and Bright Eyes are standing eye to eye, and there is blood in the air, I tell them, “It’s gonna happen” and the battle scales down. 

You can borrow this phrase if you want.