What Did You Say?!

WARNING: For those with delicate ears (eyes), I must forewarn you that, to most effectively relay this (true) story, this post does contain----a "bad" word.

The three of us sat on their living room floor---me, a nine-year old boy, and seven-year old girl---absorbed in a competitive game of Uno.

The little boy drew a card from the pile and, it not being to his liking, exhaled emphatically while flinging his card to the floor, "Well, DAMN!"

"What did you say?!" I glanced up in surprise. He and his sister were always full of random, humorous outbursts. But this was a first.

True Compliments Needed

Post-performance week.
I love this time.

This is the week when students walk through my door after performing at Saturday's recital and, as their teacher, I get to celebrate their accomplishments or relate to their struggles.

I get to tell the girl who held the audience spellbound that her performance was wonderful. And, if she is a self-critical perfectionist, remind her that it would have still been wonderful, had it not turned out perfectly.

More Than Brown

She walked in with a conspiratorial smile on her face, holding a piece of paper closely to her chest, hiding it from me.
    
"Look what I made you," she beamed, unable to keep it a secret any longer. She handed me the crayon/colored pencil drawing of a colorfully dressed girl with a toothy grin and a pink bow on top of her head.

"Oh my gosh! Thank you!" I gushed. "This is so cute! You drew this all by yourself?"

"Yeah," she answered proudly. "It's YOU," she emphasized, pointing specifically to the picture of the girl on her handiwork.

"It's me?" I asked politely in surprise. A delighted smile slipped across my face, hiding my laughter as I looked at the blond-haired, blue-eyed cartoonish character she had drawn.

I have dark hair and dark eyes.

Lessons From A Broken Fingernail

"Your finger looks gross," my seven-year-old student remarked, wrinkling up his nose.

"I know," I laughed. My finger did look gross. After turning purple and black since being mashed, the fingernail had split, then fallen off. It was gradually growing back, not neatly or smoothly, but in jagged layers with a huge bulge in the center. Not even a fake nail would be able to adhere to its broken surface.

"You think it'll ever look normal again?" I asked, holding my poor finger out in front of us. My students' disturbed response to my unpleasant wound amused me.

"I don't think it will," he shook his head emphatically, then his face lightened up. "But maybe if you pray about it! Have you prayed about it?"