Here's my dainty ballerina. About three-quarters of the way around our block while trick-or-treating, she decided that tennis shoes would be much more comfortable than her ballet slippers. Phoebe the lion did the rounds in her stroller, because when set free she ONLY wanted to walk in the middle of the street, and woe betide the adult who tried to hold her hand. She has developed quite the fondness for M&M's, so Chris and I have to be very secretive when we sneak things out of her bucket. (What, we should let a 1-year-old eat her own Halloween candy?)
Yesterday I accompanied Mallory's preschool class for an "educational tour" of a local pumpkin farm. The kids made butter and saw cows and chickens and ducks. At bedtime I asked Mallory what her favorite part about the farm was, and she said, "Well, at the farm, I didn't have to do any of those things I'm supposed to do at school."
"Like what?" I said.
"Like learn things," she explained.
Yes, heaven forbid we should learn things.
One of the features of the tour was "Milkshake," a month-old calf. He was being hand-raised because his mother had died. He was white with black spots and reminded me of Peanut, the third and last of the calves that Jana and I raised back on our farm. I remember that I was very excited when we got Blackie, our first calf, and that the excitement waned very quickly -- after about two days of getting up half-an-hour early, and mixing the vile-smelling formula, and then getting covered with calf slobber in the process of feeding, I told my dad, "I'm not going to feed Blackie anymore." He replied that it wasn't for me to decide. I was a bit shocked by that. Looking back, that's one of the defining moments of my childhood -- or, more specifically, one of the moments that define the end of my childhood (it was a long process, perhaps not even now fully complete).
By the way, I'm a bit relieved to find out that I'm not the only one who has problems with symbols. Maybe I'm not so deficient after all. Or if I am, at least I'm in good company!
ART for the Day
My mother-in-law just called and told me something that makes me so proud of my little girl. Mallory has a classmate who lives with her grandmother because both of her parents were killed in two separate car accidents about a year ago. (Is your heart broken already? All day yesterday at the field trip, I kept looking at this little girl and wanting to give her a big hug.) When Claudia went to pick Mallory up at school today, her teacher said that she overheard the little girl tell Mallory that she lived with her grandmother. "Where's your mommy?" Mallory asked, and the girl said that she died. "Well, where's your daddy?" Mallory asked, and the little girl said that he died, too. Mallory sat and thought about this for a minute, and then reached over and gave the girl and hug and said, "I am so sorry to hear that." The teacher said it brought tears to her eyes. I'm so proud of the way Mallory handled that; I couldn't have predicted that she'd behave so appropriately. I kind of hate that she now knows that it's possible to become an orphan at the age of four, but at least she responded in just the right way.
Comments
I don't remember Peanut. Maybe I was too young. I do remember Georgie, the calf that got out and died and made our brother just break down when the calf was found. I remember Tyrone, Rusty (the only calf that became a grown-up cow--oh dad would be so disappointed that I don't know the word for grown up cow), and my favorite Snickers. I just can't imagine now that I got up early to do that.
aimee
We had bottle calves too for a while. We did actually keep them till they were pretty well grown and in the pasture with Dad's "real" cows. We would go check on them and Mom would start talking baby talk to them and they would come running. Dad made her leave her window rolled up after one of them dented his fender!
Holly