I choose to interpret her placement in the split grade 3/4 class as an endorsement by the administration of my daughter’s ability to work independently in the assumed context of the teacher’s divided attention.
Karin discovered that there just happens to be a bookstore that deals exclusively in French books hiding over near the Campus Saint-Jean near Bonnie Doon. We took the detour there on Saturday afternoon and she spent a good hour poking through the selection of children’s books and picking out a small arm-load to take home with us. We’ve found that the actual French immersion classwork has been good, but the resource library at Claire’s school is a little bit lacking. She comes home with books that may seem fun, but are chock full of complex grammar or made-up vocabulary that we don’t understand, and goes right over her head. The trick is to find something both that we can read and that is geared at clear language — not clever stories or marketing toys. I also nabbed a collection of (translated) Roald Dahl to try reading aloud; Amazingly enough, I actually think I may be able to.
I keep winning the French-speaking contest for my class. I’m under a lot of pressure, Dad.
This is a post from my (new) “Daddy Daze” series, an anecdotal exploration of my odd little adventures in parenting in bite-sized chunks (for your reading enjoyment) and because the last thing this world needs is yet another doting parent blog.
A week ago (give or take) we were in the mood for sushi. It’s one of those few dishes we just don’t bother preparing at home, so one of the few (non-we’re-feeling-lazy) excuses we use to duck out of cooking and go out to eat. But it was Monday, and our regular sushi haunt was closed (we discovered as we pulled up in front.) Plan B was another sushi place — a different sushi place — and apparently a sushi place with a kids menu (unlike our regular spot.) Claire was shortly thereafter presented with a rice bowl dressed with a bit of chicken, some shredded carrots, and… a vegetable spring roll. Of course it’s new food so choruses of “I don’t like this!” ring throughout the restaurant, followed by insistent “EAT!” from Team Parent. And in a twist with which almost any parent is sure to empathize, after a grueling half hour long nibble-fest (otherwise known as Claire Eats a Spring Roll) we were casually informed on the way home in the car that “the rolled-up-thing is my favorite, mom and dad…” *sigh*
Un Deux Trois
I don’t think I’ve mentioned it previously, but Claire is officially in French Immersion. It’s preschool… playschool. Whatever you call it. But it’s in French. And while our French skills are somewhat lacking, if the past couple weeks is any indication, they will be improving daily over the coming years. Or, at least until Claire becomes a grumpy teenager and broodingly refuses to discuss what she’s learning at school each night. Until then, we’ll be participating in the French-ification of our household, as every colour and number (so far) is translated and recited. It’s not unwelcome, just very weird…
Skizzors de ‘Zooka
My little artist has coupled her sketching and other artsy-ness (thanks to prolific viewing of CBC’s Artzooka, of course) with the abundant use of her brand new crinkle-cut scissors. You know the kind: they are scissors, but they cut with a design, in waves, ripples, or jags. I seem to remember that they arrived in the slew of birthday gifts a few weeks back, and since then have become an essential tool in the Art-Box-de-Claire, nearly every since project ending with a sawtooth-styled chop-job border, and the subsequent snowstorm of paper-bits littering the living room (or whatever-room) floor. Picture it, a four-year-old intently drawing a detailed picture of a house or a dog or a person or an ice cream cone, and then — kabam! — out come the scissors and that boring old letter-sized paper becomes a an abstract shape of wonder. It’s pretty crazy.