Pigerick Saga
About a week ago, my wife and I attended a conference with my eight year-old son's Target teacher. Target is a one day a week class for the smart kids, theoretically. The teacher, Mrs. Robinson, is leading a semester long unit on money, budgeting, and related subjects. Last week, the children were asked to write a rough draft of a limerick having to do with pigs and money, to keep in the theme of piggy banks and such. Liam found the Pigerik quite difficult.
During the conference, (which was not about the Pigerik, just about Liam in general) Mrs. Robinson said that Liam had not started his rough draft in the 45 minutes she gave the children in class. Apparently, Liam told her that he could not think of anything to write. Because he did not get the draft done during school hours, the Pigerik became homework. I asked how they were taught to write the limericks, and she said they read examples and did some mad-lib style exercises. Sounded like good stuff to me. I liked hearing her say that she wanted to give them the tools to write, but not limit or stifle their creativity.
Liam and I were sitting at the kitchen table a few nights later, talking about limericks. He remembered the syllable counts and rhyming scheme from their lesson, so we practiced the rhythm of a limerick and then I wrote a sample limerick so he could see how I thought of rhyming words and such. He insisted I simply tell him a limerick to write, then he tried to copy my sample limerick, and then things went downhill fast.
He kept insisting that he could not think of anything, and that he hated writing and much preferred drawing. I told him that he could think of something to do with a pig, or piggy bank, or money, and then draw a picture to help him get an idea for the limerick. He refused. So I had him close his eyes and imagine something on one of those topics. Liam imagined a pig on a farm, so I asked him to write that down. Next he imagined a crook stealing money and then pennies falling on a floor. He wrote those images down as well, and I thought he had the makings of a great little story. Liam, however, thought differently.
Fast forward about 30 minutes. After sulking and whining and crying, Liam got himself in a bit of trouble and ended up throwing a tantrum during which he shouted himself hoarse. We took a break. After dinner I told Liam I had no other ways to help. He could sit and write a limerick to the best of his ability, or he could sit and stare at the page until bed time. If he handed in a blank page to Mrs. Robinson he would have to live with the consequences.
Ten minutes later he shouts that he is done, and walks into the living room to read us his limerick.
There once was a pig on a farm
Yet he stole money from the barn.
When he ran out the door
He dropped pennies on the floor,
and then to himself he said "darn"!
I whooped with laughter, my wife cheered, and Liam's proud smile lit the room. He exclaimed "I just had to believe in myself!" I was over-joyed. More than anything I wanted Liam to experience the rush when the creative juices start flowing and you can look back on what you wrote or drew or painted or whatever, and just feel good about expressing something into the world. I figured the lesson was learned.
Tuesday is Target day. We picked Liam up from school and asked him about his school day, especially keen to hear how Mrs. Robinson received our budding poet's limerick. He said that she liked his limerick, except the last part.
"She said 'darn' wasn't appropriate, and made me change it to 'no harm'," he told us.
And that, ladies and gentleman, is the gifted class at our lovely public school. I had no words for Liam. I didn't dare say what I was thinking for fear he might repeat it while in the classroom. I could only put my hands in front of my mouth, and then laugh in wonderment at the absurdity of it all.
During the conference, (which was not about the Pigerik, just about Liam in general) Mrs. Robinson said that Liam had not started his rough draft in the 45 minutes she gave the children in class. Apparently, Liam told her that he could not think of anything to write. Because he did not get the draft done during school hours, the Pigerik became homework. I asked how they were taught to write the limericks, and she said they read examples and did some mad-lib style exercises. Sounded like good stuff to me. I liked hearing her say that she wanted to give them the tools to write, but not limit or stifle their creativity.
Liam and I were sitting at the kitchen table a few nights later, talking about limericks. He remembered the syllable counts and rhyming scheme from their lesson, so we practiced the rhythm of a limerick and then I wrote a sample limerick so he could see how I thought of rhyming words and such. He insisted I simply tell him a limerick to write, then he tried to copy my sample limerick, and then things went downhill fast.
He kept insisting that he could not think of anything, and that he hated writing and much preferred drawing. I told him that he could think of something to do with a pig, or piggy bank, or money, and then draw a picture to help him get an idea for the limerick. He refused. So I had him close his eyes and imagine something on one of those topics. Liam imagined a pig on a farm, so I asked him to write that down. Next he imagined a crook stealing money and then pennies falling on a floor. He wrote those images down as well, and I thought he had the makings of a great little story. Liam, however, thought differently.
Fast forward about 30 minutes. After sulking and whining and crying, Liam got himself in a bit of trouble and ended up throwing a tantrum during which he shouted himself hoarse. We took a break. After dinner I told Liam I had no other ways to help. He could sit and write a limerick to the best of his ability, or he could sit and stare at the page until bed time. If he handed in a blank page to Mrs. Robinson he would have to live with the consequences.
Ten minutes later he shouts that he is done, and walks into the living room to read us his limerick.
There once was a pig on a farm
Yet he stole money from the barn.
When he ran out the door
He dropped pennies on the floor,
and then to himself he said "darn"!
I whooped with laughter, my wife cheered, and Liam's proud smile lit the room. He exclaimed "I just had to believe in myself!" I was over-joyed. More than anything I wanted Liam to experience the rush when the creative juices start flowing and you can look back on what you wrote or drew or painted or whatever, and just feel good about expressing something into the world. I figured the lesson was learned.
Tuesday is Target day. We picked Liam up from school and asked him about his school day, especially keen to hear how Mrs. Robinson received our budding poet's limerick. He said that she liked his limerick, except the last part.
"She said 'darn' wasn't appropriate, and made me change it to 'no harm'," he told us.
And that, ladies and gentleman, is the gifted class at our lovely public school. I had no words for Liam. I didn't dare say what I was thinking for fear he might repeat it while in the classroom. I could only put my hands in front of my mouth, and then laugh in wonderment at the absurdity of it all.