David’s class apparently had a fund-raising campaign that started in April to raise money for their Deep Portage trip to the Boundary Waters in November. I found the brochures for cookie dough in the depths of his backpack a week after it was supposed to be turned in. So he’ll be finding other ways to raise money for this trip apparently.
I’m not a fan of school fund-raisers. I know it enables the Parent-Teacher Organization to do some extra things for the classroom, but honestly I’d rather them just ask for a check outright. I had some success with it when David was the only one in school, and I could throw the catalogs for wrapping paper and chocolates on the table in my office. Some people like that stuff and are eager to page through. Others maybe just wanted to suck up to the boss and put in an order to get on my good side. I’m kidding, of course. Sort of.
One particular year, I believe David was in second grade, he (ahem, I) sold enough to win several prizes. One of which was a stupid stuffed chicken that squawked, and played the music for The Chicken Dance, and shuffled around the floor. Justin, who was two at that time, was fascinated with it. He’d stare at it and smile, and as it moved he’d keep backing up and backing up and backing up. Then he’d laugh and smile, but still keep moving as far away from it as possible.
Cameron, who was five, discovered that if you grabbed the chicken by the neck, it would make a very distressed squawking sound. So of course he did it over and over again. And he couldn’t hide his enthusiasm for what he was doing.
“Mom, look! I’m chokin’ the chicken!”
“What? Oh…that’s…yeah. You are,” I said.
“Daddy! I’m chokin’ the chicken! See? I’m chokin’ the chicken!”
Barry deadpanned back, “Don’t choke the chicken, Cameron.”
Fatherly words applicable to a multitude of situations.
© Jennifer Alys Windholz, 2011