I'm Lindsay Ferrier, a Nashville writer with a passion for family travel, exploring Tennessee, and raising kids without losing my mind in the process. This is where I share my discoveries, along with occasional deep thoughts, pop culture tangents and a sprinkling of snark. Want to get in touch? Use the CONTACT form at the top of the page.
January 11, 2009
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Punky started a new preschool acting class yesterday (which is FREE! Like her ballet class! Oh, how I love Nashville!) and, unlike her ballet teacher, the acting teacher actually let parents remain in the room if they’d like. She even let Bruiser participate, when he wasn’t popping Goldfish like they were orange Valiums, I mean.
That’s how I discovered that it takes a very special person to teach four and five-year-olds.
The teacher would be talking, the kids all sitting quietly before her, and suddenly, without warning, one of them would spring into the air as if he’d been suddenly ejected from a secret platform built into the floor. Then he’d inexplicably start running around the room like a madman. Within seconds, every child in the circle was running and screaming and it was total chaos.
The teacher would calmly stand and hold up one finger. “One,” she said authoritatively. “Two. Three. You should all be seated before I get to five. Four.”
By the time she got to five, every child was again seated and quiet in front of her. It was very impressive.
Punky, as usual, was quite involved in the class, voicing her opinions on the plotline of the story being read and suggesting songs and games when she was asked. Suddenly, though, midway through class, her rapt face scrunched into one of intense loathing. She was so obviously bothered by something that the teacher stopped what she was doing.
“Punky, what’s wrong?” she asked with concern.
“Eeeeeyuh!” Punky moaned. She pointed at the boy next to her. “He’s…. picking his nose.” I, along with everyone else in the room, looked over at the kid. Sure enough, the boy beside her was digging deep inside his nose with one finger.
Sensing all eyes on him, he paused, finger still lodged in one nostril. “What?” he asked.
At this point, I started quietly laughing.
“Michael, do you need to go to the bathroom?” the teacher asked.
“No,” he said, continuing to work his finger around in his nose. “Why?”
“Well, some people don’t like what you are doing. Do you need a tissue?”
“Uh uh,” he said stoutly. More digging.
By this time, I was shaking with laughter. I looked around me at the other parents, trying, to find someone else who found this moment as funny as I did. They all sat, stonefaced. For some reason, that made me laugh even harder.
“And you don’t want to go to the bathroom?” the teacher asked again. “To pick your nose in there?”
Tears sprang to my eyes as I tried to hold back my giggles. I put Bruiser’s diaper bag in front of my face and tried to regain control. Those parents probably thought I was insane.
Faced with the prospect of leaving the room to pick his nose, Michael opted to stay put and forego his booger expedition. And Punky returned to her normal self.
But I have to admit, I’m disappointed that none of the parents passed my booger laughter litmus test. It’s always more fun when there’s a parent around who shares my warped sense of humor. But it’s probably not such a good example to set for the kids….
This post originally appeared on Parents.com.
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