Several years ago, during the first week of school, I was going over the classroom rules. The students listened with awe. So interested in what lay ahead. And, as they developed a sense of comfort, tons of questions began flowing. All kinds of questions. Will we have homework? Where will our field trip be this year? Do you remember my brother? He was in your class. And of course, the question that is always asked, year after year, is When is your birthday?
After all their questions had been exhausted, I held up the chapter book I would be reading to them, daily, and explained that throughout the year I would continue to read different stories, one after another.
I was ready to begin the day. Jump right in, and start reading.
Just as I turned to the first page of the book, a sweet-faced boy suddenly jerked his arm into the air, wriggling his hand to and fro, excitedly. I figured he must have remembered something important and needed to make a statement, or ask a question.
And there it was, the ultimate question. The one every kid seems to want to know. Every year.
"How old are you?" he inquired.
"46," I answered. Honestly.
"I didn't know you were that tall!" he exclaimed.
After all their questions had been exhausted, I held up the chapter book I would be reading to them, daily, and explained that throughout the year I would continue to read different stories, one after another.
I was ready to begin the day. Jump right in, and start reading.
Just as I turned to the first page of the book, a sweet-faced boy suddenly jerked his arm into the air, wriggling his hand to and fro, excitedly. I figured he must have remembered something important and needed to make a statement, or ask a question.
And there it was, the ultimate question. The one every kid seems to want to know. Every year.
"How old are you?" he inquired.
"46," I answered. Honestly.
"I didn't know you were that tall!" he exclaimed.
No comments:
Post a Comment