Wednesday, April 11, 2007

Back to the old grind

All the kids went back to school yesterday, hence the lack of a post. I wasn't prepared. I wasn't ready to give up my "don't have anywhere to go" attitude. I actually WANTED another day of Spring Break. Can you believe it? Neither can I.

We have one more practice for our Kinder Choir kids tonight, and then a performance on Sunday that should prove to be the best entertainment in town. Literally. These kids are so far from prepared for this presentation. I think there are too many words in the songs for these little ones. They like the songs where they have cute little moves. Other than that, they are lost most the time, or going to the bathroom. This group of kids (mine included, mind you) are the most regular group of kids you will EVER meet. We have this one little boy who poops at 6:20. On the dot. No joke. The only time he hasn't was when he wasn't there.

Then there are the kids who haven't been there for ... oh .... the entire spring season who just show up. Hello.... you are either in or you're out.

We have these two girls who could pass as twins who are thick as thieves. They love to sit next to one another, even if they aren't supposed to. They have these blonde curls and cute little smiles that have apparently gotten them far in their four years here on earth.

Then we have a brother and sister duo. Man alive ... they are only one year apart, and they are slick as snot. The little girl can get her pout on in about .00000000001 seconds flat, and it has worked for others before so she keeps doing it. It doesn't work with me, however and she knows it. The brother .... wow. Just wow. He throws a mini fit every time he doesn't get what he wants. He has gum in his mouth about 75 percent of the time, and I WISH his mother would be a responsible parent and have him throw it out before he comes in. Because I always have to be the one to have him deposit it in the trashcan upon his arrival. And then he throws his fit. And then he is a grump. And then he gets over it, until someone else pi**es him off, starting the cycle all over again. And don't get me started on when he can't go with his sister to her little kid's club (they can't handle them together, but WE have to ....)

And then there is this little girl who looks a LOT like the Monkey ... she just gets all pouty when she doesn't want to sing. She only wants to do what she wants to do when she wants to do it. She must get that from her father. I must talk to her mother ...

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4 Comments:

Anonymous Jacque said...

Can you believe the end of the school year is quickly approaching? Where did March go anyway? Yeah the kinder choir leaders should be paid about a 100.00 a practice. That is a hard age to get anything accomplished...you are soo under appreciated! But I appreciate you :o) Are you bowing out next year? Little J will be old enough so I could possibly help some??? Because you know I have to work on over commiting myself for next year 6 months in advance!!!

8:49 AM  
Blogger Knitting Maniac said...

Jacque... if you are willing to help, I will be willing to keep at it. Kendra....? Robin? I think it would be a blast if it was all four of us!!! Come on over....

9:56 AM  
Blogger The "Mind" said...

Oh man, sounds like you have your hands full! Anyone who doesn't respect people who work with kids like that is crazy. Thank you, I'll stick with the old people.

10:07 AM  
Anonymous kailani said...

If you ask me, those two little girls sound like trouble. LOL!

2:12 AM  

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The Lovely She, that is me!

I'm a mom of three peeps ... Queen Bee, The Door Man, and the Chandelier Monkey, and wife to Ace, the Helpful Hardware Man. I created this space to get away from the people known as my inlaws, and because life with three kids and a hubby is all Unexplored Territory.

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The nine-year-old who seems to be growing older every minute, has an opinion and a comment for everything, and has a true servant's heart.
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The man of the house, the fixer of things, the winner of prizes, and the only person in his family to escape the South.

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