.... Makes Gnomey a Dull Girl
All work + no play (well, you know how it goes) = No blogging. Sorry. Had to work several ten hour days this week and when you work with children, let me tell you, those extra two are the one-two punch to the massive headache. You could hold one in each arm, but they have the strength to make you feel like a Mack truck not only ran over you, but backed up a few times and then stopped for coffee.
Ah, trucks. Truck books. Truck toys--that make noises, that move, big sharp-edged metal ones and plastic jobbies with ergonomic handles, ones with tools in the back, dumptrucks, tractor trucks, trucks, trucks, trucks. I know a lot about trucks.
"My truck, my truck!" says one boy, pointing to the yellow dumptruck across the playground. Another child is filling it with sand--a cute sight but only if you are unaware that he is about to dump that load of sand on the sidewalk, in front of your classroom door. Oh, and the fact that he ripped it out of the first child's hands and then scratched him along the cheek with a ragged fingernail.
"Nana," says one boy (who calls all his teachers "Nana" for unknown reasons), "Truck! Truck!" He jumps in anticipation and pulls my hand over to the fence, where he can see the garbage truck hauling away this weeks leftover milk and chicken nuggets. I lift him up to my shoulder so he can see--little boys and their trucks, don't know what it is--and then we say, "Bye bye garbage man." Another teacher believes we should say 'Waste Disposal Man' but these are young children, some of whose vocabulary consists primarily (say, 20%) of the word 'truck.' PC or no PC, it's too big of a mouthful.
"Truck," says one girl, sitting in the cab of the iconic Playschool car. You know the one, round and red with black wheels and a horn that barely makes a squeak? You know it. "No, it's a car," I say. "Truck," she says. (Okay, I will just go along.) "Yes, it's a pretty truck," I say. "A cool truck." "TRUCK. TRUCK!" she says, growing frantic. Slapping my head, I remove the wheels of the truck from the deep sand where she was "stuck."
Ah, how The Boyfriend loved to be regaled with tales of my children at work--him, the free and easy, travel-happy, never say roots say "jumping off point" (as in, "We should move to Seattle. It could be a great jumping off point to so many adventures."). Kind of scares him, I think, what I do for a living. And though I like the job, he is always happy to know that I feel comfortable keeping it as a job, as opposed to a life choice. But, oh, the anecedotes I get to tell! Stay tuned.
Ah, trucks. Truck books. Truck toys--that make noises, that move, big sharp-edged metal ones and plastic jobbies with ergonomic handles, ones with tools in the back, dumptrucks, tractor trucks, trucks, trucks, trucks. I know a lot about trucks.
"My truck, my truck!" says one boy, pointing to the yellow dumptruck across the playground. Another child is filling it with sand--a cute sight but only if you are unaware that he is about to dump that load of sand on the sidewalk, in front of your classroom door. Oh, and the fact that he ripped it out of the first child's hands and then scratched him along the cheek with a ragged fingernail.
"Nana," says one boy (who calls all his teachers "Nana" for unknown reasons), "Truck! Truck!" He jumps in anticipation and pulls my hand over to the fence, where he can see the garbage truck hauling away this weeks leftover milk and chicken nuggets. I lift him up to my shoulder so he can see--little boys and their trucks, don't know what it is--and then we say, "Bye bye garbage man." Another teacher believes we should say 'Waste Disposal Man' but these are young children, some of whose vocabulary consists primarily (say, 20%) of the word 'truck.' PC or no PC, it's too big of a mouthful.
"Truck," says one girl, sitting in the cab of the iconic Playschool car. You know the one, round and red with black wheels and a horn that barely makes a squeak? You know it. "No, it's a car," I say. "Truck," she says. (Okay, I will just go along.) "Yes, it's a pretty truck," I say. "A cool truck." "TRUCK. TRUCK!" she says, growing frantic. Slapping my head, I remove the wheels of the truck from the deep sand where she was "stuck."
Ah, how The Boyfriend loved to be regaled with tales of my children at work--him, the free and easy, travel-happy, never say roots say "jumping off point" (as in, "We should move to Seattle. It could be a great jumping off point to so many adventures."). Kind of scares him, I think, what I do for a living. And though I like the job, he is always happy to know that I feel comfortable keeping it as a job, as opposed to a life choice. But, oh, the anecedotes I get to tell! Stay tuned.
posted by Gnomey G at 6:32 PM
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