Advanced to Grade 4
She brought her report card home today. Along with a whole lot of other things. Students were asked to clear out their desks. After all, only two more days before school is over for the summer. One more day if she could have her way. Why did we think that Wednesday was a PD (Professional Development) day? Where ever did we get that idea? Did we forget to read the last school newsletter? Hmm, more likely, did she forget to give it to us to read? Much as she 'forgot' to give her mother notification of the school play she had rehearsed for, helped make sets for, then decided not to act in, as, after all, she only had a silent part - a tree, or something similar. She likely wanted to be a tree, as trees don't, after all, speak, and she too is reluctant to speak in public. She's not shy by any means, I mean a very public venue. She'd just rather not.When her grandfather picked her up at the bus stop today, though, he realized, when speaking with moms waiting there for their children, that Wednesday, not Tuesday was the last day of school. Sweet little Angelyne has been informed, firmly, that Wednesday is the last day. "No!" she implored, "Mommy said Wednesday was a PD day". Mommy said so, I told her, because you informed her it was. Then I dialled the number for her school, and was kindly informed that no PD day was planned for Wednesday, it was a regular school day, albeit the last. "Parties!" she shrieked, it'll only be stupid parties, why did she have to go? Because, her grandfather told her, she'd be with her classroom friends and enjoy herself. Her response? "Humph".
She revealed her report card, and her grandfather read it through, while I prepared her after-school snack. She gobbled the strawberries, drained the chocolate milk, and popped her little pizza into the microwave. Then she waved the latest edition of chickaDEE in my face, and immediately introduced me to the monkey joke: How can monkeys fly? why, on a hot-air Baboon!, ha-ha, tee-hee. Then she asked could she read for me some of the entries in her schoolyear's daily diary and she proceeded to read. Mostly little anecdotes about her stable of animal buddies at home. Her printing is meticulous; wish I could print like that and tell her so. She is so like her mother. She emulates everything about her mother, including her mother's careful script (her mother is, after all, an industrial designer, accustomed to working up technical plans, embellished by a print-script anyone could read).
She showed me the two new silver bracelets her mother had given her for her birthday. One is a continuous loop of tiny silver elephants, the other a wide silver loop with a large elephant centred on it. It matches the third silver bracelet on her arm, a wide clasp bracelet with an intaglio elephant. Why elephants? Beats me.
Upstairs we go (at 32 degrees Centigrade, high humidex it's too hot to be outside now) for a look at the photographs I downloaded into the computer last night. She wants to see the ones her grandfather took during her running competition at the school, and she's pleased with them. Then we look at a few others in a folder I've named "Angelyne" and she remarks how nice her hair looks in the photographs. I'm pleased to hear her say something nice about herself, as she is not a vain child, and is more likely to be hypercritical about herself.
Then I go to our emails and show her the one her uncle sent last week and ask her to read it. She reads it and a confused almost fearful look crosses her face. Well? I ask. She turns away without responding and I press her for an opinion. Finally, her face dark, she says she hates camping. And, she emphasizes her unhappiness at her uncle's offer to pay for her airfare to come and visit with him for a week in Vancouver so he can give her a camping experience for summer fun, by slowly articulating: "I would be homesick". Which is exactly what I expected her to say. Tomorrow, I tell her, tomorrow, you will respond, you'll write him a return email. Panic city. What'll I say? Just what you told me, I sooth her, just relax.
When she leaves with her mother for their homeward journey she seems pensive. She knows she can't leave before kissing me, and remembers before getting into her mother's vehicle, to do so. Her mother, watching her, sighs. How was her report card? her mother asks me. Pretty good, I tell her, and it was. She's a bright child, a happy little girl, an energetic and kind little girl, although she is no stranger to pouts and disclaimers. And lucky us - she's ours for the summer....
posted by Pieface @ Tuesday, June 28, 2005
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